Fresh from her bath, the scent of his wife always permeated the dining hall; a sensory experience he missed in her absence from the dinner table. Her chair remained vacant, along with her reserved and meager attempts at conversation.
The reliable heat exuded when she stretched alongside him in bed compensated for emotional distance. Knowing touch would betray his need for introspective silence; he stubbornly avoided intimacy for the sake of quiet contemplation. The void beside him lacked her warmth when he fell asleep, and only wrought questions of her whereabouts.
Alistair had secrets too. All kept from her attention: Nathaniel's letter, summoning Garrett Hawke, and planning a meeting with the Champion, the Warden Commander, and the Warden mage to occur the next day.
He had rushed to organize the meeting; the guests invited due to proximity and time to occur before Garrett Hawke left Denerim. His plans to invite Fiona and Morrigan had temporarily fallen to the wayside, their locations unknown. Fereldan relations with the Inquisition made writing to Skyhold problematic.
Dreading the circumstances, feigning diplomacy with Nathaniel Howe made Alistair's skin crawl. Taunted by the shame around his own hypocrisy, and though not proud of his actions, he clung to the right to omit the truth from Caoilainn.
He had planned to invite her to the meeting at dinner, but the empty spaces at the dinner table and in their bed occupied his thoughts.
Nathaniel would arrive in town the next day. Vague notions of clandestine communication, he concocted visions of Caoilainn planning a liaison with Howe the night before the meeting. Groaning, he shook his head. Am I ridiculous enough to believe that?
Besides her tendency to withdraw, putting up her notorious wall to avoid vulnerability, she had proven her loyalty since they returned. Ashamed of his behavior, his doubt and anger seeping through and corrupting any steps toward resolution, he couldn't blame her for the distance, and not telling him about whatever ailed her. Her company in spite of his obstinacy showed her faith in him. Whatever she's been hiding isn't about Howe.
She had arrived in the night, long after he fell asleep. Sounds of her rising from bed and readying for the day rang painfully through his ears the next morning. Alistair awoke with a headache. A sensation he recognized from the countless mornings he had woken up sick and aching after drinking himself into oblivion the night prior, grieving Caoilainn's betrayal when she returned to Vigil's Keep. After enough nights in self-pity and mornings in pain, he had given up alcohol. His life had been better for it, recovering his sense of self and his determination to live. Her return to Denerim, something he had once pursued with vigilance, now shattered his self-awareness.
Hung over from resentment, shame for his inflexibility and lies made worse by the bitter taste her secrecy left in his mouth. The headache throbbed behind his eyes, crawling inward from each temple to his eye sockets. Stabbing pain blurred his vision, making him dizzy, as waves of nausea twisted his stomach. The desire for food battled his body's warnings not to eat. But if this hangover was anything like the others, food would help.
He ventured to the kitchen, expecting to have missed her; her change in eating habits was as flighty and unpredictable as her recent mood swings. Hearing of multiple incidents of her snapping at his army, he suspected she missed the loyalty of her Wardens or even Nathaniel Howe. Not wanting the potential answer to his questions, he avoided confronting her on the subject.
"Good morning." A timid voice spoke from the dining hall. Caoilainn sat at the table, a plate of bacon and a mug of hot tea in front of her. "Are you hungry?"
A curious twitch and his eyes glanced from the bacon-filled plate to Caoilainn. He shook his head. "Not as much as you, apparently." He walked to the kitchen, closing one eye to lessen the pain from light shining through the palace windows affecting his headache.
He called for a bowl of porridge, drank a large glass of water, and returned to the table while he waited for his food. Caoilainn wolfed down strips of cured meat faster than he had seen her eat in weeks. Slow down, Caoilainn. He thought he had noticed a small change in her figure over the last month and attributed it to excess bacon.
"Where were you last night?" The inquiry fell from his mouth before he could refrain. Her appearance at the table presented too easy an opportunity.
Caoilainn's chewing ceased; she took a deep breath and swallowed. "I… needed fresh air. I went for a walk around the market."
His eyes squinted, from his headache and skepticism of her reply.
Both did not speak as an attendant brought Alistair's food out and placed it in front of him. He pressed the ridge of his hand to his forehead, his thumb massaging his temple until the attendant left. "You didn't think to tell anyone? None of the guards knew where you were. It's not safe."
Her timidity vanished. Caoilainn wore a smug frown as she cleaned her hands on a cloth. "I met with Morrig-."
He looked up from under his palm. "You snuck out. What are you hiding?"
"What am I hiding?" She tossed the napkin onto the table. Holding her reserved demeanor, Caoilainn's voice stayed low. "Morrigan's here for whatever assembly you've organized without my knowledge. Did you plan to tell me about Weisshaupt?"
Alistair's lips bunched, displeased with her calling him out. "That doesn't concern you, and don't change the subject, Caoilainn." While he planned to tell her, he resisted obligation of anything, in particular since she used it as a method to control the conversation.
She scoffed, "Really, Alistair? It doesn't concern me?" Grinding her teeth, Caoilainn refrained from disputing her right as the former Warden Commander to be included in any matters concerning the Wardens. She maintained her anger and rose from her seat; flat palms pushed the air down in front of her, ridding herself of the subject. "Fine. You attend to your business and I'll attend to mine. Enjoy your meeting."
Damn it. He pushed his chair from the table and stood. "That's not what I meant-" But before he could explain, she had walked from the dining hall. His opportunity to ask her to join the discussion about Weisshaupt and the Wardens dissolved.
"You're an idiot." The familiar patronizing lilt came from outside the room. Poignant footsteps echoed the remark. Alistair turned to see Morrigan walking into the dining hall.
Whether the result of Alistair's migraine or the witch's consistent ability to revolt him- her sight a reminder of the night they slept together, his stomach turned.
"I got that, thanks." Sighing, he sat back down; his elbow propped on the table supported his aching head. Distracted by the discomfort and the failed conversation with Caoilainn, he didn't think to ask of Kieran. "Hearing someone else say it is just what I needed."
Graceful steps carried Morrigan to the table; she stood adjacent from Alistair and stole a piece of bacon from Caoilainn's plate. Alistair stirred his porridge absent-mindedly. "She's trying, you know." Morrigan took a bite.
"Is that what she told you? You don't understand-" His eyes shot to the witch, but as they landed on the woman's condescending gaze, he realized the source of the information. "Wait, how did you get in here? Why are you even here?"
Morrigan shrugged, wiping her hand on the cloth napkin. "Philippa wrote to me of the Wardens and requested I attend your meeting. Your door was open." With a curious glance to Alistair, she stated an observation. "It seems your guards know more of the function you ordered than your wife."
"Maker, I'm an idiot." Alistair released his spoon and pushed both palms into his forehead.
"There is freedom in admittance." With a disinterested sigh, the witch flourished her hand in inquiry. "Do you wish her at the meeting?"
Grimacing, Alistair nodded. Caoilainn's attendance would add an experienced voice to the table, and her presence at his side would offer support. Shuddering at the thought of sitting across the table from Nathaniel Howe, he needed her encouragement.
"Finish your breakfast. It will help your headache," Morrigan ordered. "I'll talk to her." The witch turned on her heels and went to find Caoilainn, leaving Alistair to eat his meal alone.
4 days prior
"D'you really need all these sodding books?" Arms full of thick compendiums on magic, Hale escorted the sorceress Philippa from the library of Vigil's Keep.
"They're tomes, child, and yes." Philippa waved her hand to hurry the elf. "I've consolidated down to the most necessary texts. Send Nathaniel to fetch a cart from the stable."
"Warden Commander," a man's gruff voice corrected from the hallway, "and no," Nathaniel concluded. "We won't be there long enough for you to need all those."
At least he hoped their visit to Denerim would be brief. Not looking forward to spending hours in a meeting room with both the King of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall, Nathaniel planned not to linger once the group determined a solution to the Wardens' ailments. Wary of the risk the mutual dislike between himself and the King to sabotage the success of the summit; Hawke would only instigate tempers.
Philippa's eyes narrowed and her hands found her hips; Hale stopped dead in her tracks between them. "You asked me to join you, yet you limit me of my most viable resource. Surely you don't believe yourself and the King will simply put your heads together and devise a remedy to this whole fiasco." She patted Hale's rear, ushering her to keep walking.
"Oy! Hands off," Hale looked over her shoulder, glaring at the sorceress, "I ain't cattle or some bar wench." She looked to Nate. "What am I doing with all these books?
Not missing a breath, Nathaniel and Philippa answered in unison.
"Leave them."
"Take them."
The sorceress made a derisive laugh, her head tilting to the side. She stared at him with amused exasperation. "Come now, Nathaniel. Do you intend to save the Wardens, or has his majesty merely called us to Denerim for noble festivities?"
"Warden Commander," he corrected, shaking his head, he lifted his hands to surrender, "take what you can fit in a saddlebag."
"Four bags," the sorceress bargained and Nathaniel rolled his eyes.
"One, and whatever you can fit in your pack. We still need supplies for camp. If any of our party will sacrifice room in their bags for your tomes that is between you and them." The offer was final, Nathaniel walked out of the building to the tied and waiting horses out front before she could retort.
He intended the late departure. The King had scheduled the meeting for late afternoon in four days. Leaving later assured less chance of awkward interaction. The unexpected reply from King Alistair had arrived in his office a few days after Nathaniel sent his initial correspondence to his majesty. The summons, not personalized, did not address Nathaniel's apology and instead called for the presence of Nathaniel Howe, Garret Hawke, and Philippa to the Denerim Palace to determine the cause and solution of the Grey Wardens recent suffering. The draining ailments continued to spread through the army, soldiers kept to their beds, leached of their life force by an undefined cause.
"Thank you again for joining us, Fiona. Do you need any help?" Nathaniel bowed his head to the nervous elven woman who stood near her horse. Shifting on her feet as she waited, she wrung her hands.
Fiona's serendipitous arrival occurred a week prior. In Nathaniel's conversation with Hawke, the mage mentioned her name and advised he seeks her guidance, the reason unclear in their heavy conversation about his findings at Weisshaupt. But before he sent a letter, she had shown up at the Keep, forcing Nathaniel to assume Philippa had already invited her. The two women had spent nights toiling over texts in the Warden library since she appeared. In his duties as Warden Commander, Nathaniel had not entertained a longer conversation with their guest.
"I'm fine." Fiona nodded to him and Nathaniel took a step toward his own horse to load the last of his items. "Wait," she added.
Brows furrowing, the Warden Commander turned. Fiona glanced to the ground, her lips bunching before her eyes met his. "Did the invitation from the King include my name?"
"Invitation is not the word I would use to describe what I received." Nathaniel snorted and made a tired smirk. "That would suggest the option to decline. But no, your name was not listed. Philippa insisted your attendance is crucial. Have you changed your mind?"
"No," her voice rose, and she stood straighter, but the temporary lapse in her timidity ended and her wringing hands resumed. "I've been banished from the Kingdom. I shouldn't even be here, let alone Denerim."
"Oh." The confession caught Nathaniel off guard. Fiona stood in silence, waiting for him to give a more comprehensive reply. "Under any other circumstances, I doubt the King would welcome me to his court. He understands our desperation. Are you willing to find out what he says?"
He had heard of the mishap in Redcliffe and its connections to the Grand Enchanter, but did not pursue details in respect for her privacy, trusting she would do the same. The royal couple's confidence in the mage to help with their cure surpassed whatever secrets she carried. Diffidence suggested regret, and he empathized.
The mage took a deep breath and closed her eyes, wringing hands ceased; she nodded. "Just let me know how else I can help."
"Talk to Philippa," he dipped his head toward the mage, joined by Hale, both attempting to cram tomes into her saddlebag.
The mage nodded in agreement and made her way to her colleague.
"Hale," Nate called to the lanky redheaded elf. She ignored him. Forehead creased, lip-bitten, Hale tried to shove a book into Philippa's overfull storage. "Huntress," he called for her again.
"Bollocks, Nate! What?!" Her eyes shot up from her task and she glared at him.
Lips pressed, Nate refrained from snapping back at her exclamation; he raised an eyebrow.
Hale looked upward, and she huffed. Another deep breath calmed her down. "Sorry, yeah. Commander." She released her hands from the leather and Philippa took over. The Huntress walked to Nathaniel.
"Hale, I'm still Commander. I can't treat you differently than I would any other Warden." A struggle for balance, the two were learning: having an intimate relationship, challenged by her role as his soldier.
The young woman had only returned a few weeks prior. Love professed, something each failed to admit in their previous months together. Hale accepted his apology for mistakenly ending their relationship and he acknowledged her apprehension- fear of disapproval from fellow Wardens.
"'Cept we plough." The Huntress stated a difference between herself and other Grey Wardens in Nate's charge.
"That is true," he confirmed, smirking at the lovely creature in front of him, "and I love you."
She blushed and rolled her eyes. "I love you." Sad notes seeped through the sentiment.
Neither knowledgeable of the customs of couples in temporary goodbyes, he gave assurance. "We should be back in a week."
Glancing around the entryway to the Keep for potential onlookers, Nate observed only the mages, still struggling to secure Philippa's books to the horses. His gaze returned to Hale, and his hand slid along her jaw line; extended digits framed her ear, brushing through her hair. The Huntress closed her eyes; the sight of the woman contented by his touch did not cease to amaze. He offered gentle direction and bowed his head to kiss her.
Bittersweet, Nathaniel replayed the memory as encouragement to settle the growing pit in his stomach. He waited at the end of a long table in the Denerim Palace, having arrived at the palace shortly before the scheduled meeting. They all entered with no challenges from guards. Philippa and Fiona sat on one side; Philippa's tomes spread out in front of them. The mages occupied their time discussing the information they would present from the texts.
The door opened at the other end of the room; the mages discussion stopped. Holding his breath, Nate waited to identify the next attendant to the meeting. He exhaled, shifting in his seat. The grinning Garrett Hawke made large strides to a chair opposite the sorceresses and winked to the women. The door creaking back open stopped Nathaniel's attempts to hide his annoyance. Alistair entered the room.
The tan and muscular King walked with confidence. His crown and royal attire conveyed his higher nobility. Avoiding eye contact with anyone until he took his seat at the other end of the table, his eyes registered first with Nathaniel. In response to the King's sober gaze and imperceptible frown, Nathaniel cleared his throat and looked away to a bare wall.
A naked arm pushing the door open caught his attention. It belonged to a woman with a revealing top escorting Caoilainn into the meeting room. He recognized the witch from Skyhold: Morrigan, a friend of Caoilainn's and assistant to the Inquisitor.
With the final attendees at the table, King Alistair forced a smile. "Shall we begin?"