A shield bash knocked a cluster of the ghoulish enemies away, followed by a sword swing that exterminated the opponent closest to him. Alistair trudged forward, rotating between the use of his shield and short sword to eradicate the foes. It was simple work, and the team cooperated. Arrows flew overhead, shot by Nathaniel Howe and Hale, slowing the speediest of the ghouls before they could reach Alistair and Bridgette. Garrett Hawke supplemented the attack with magic, offering a unique arrangement of elemental and spirit magic as both offense and defense.

Their mission to take down as many ghouls they could find came soon after they gave the news to Llewellyn. To their surprise, he had received the information with concern and offered to support their trip into the moors with added forces. They had declined, with a proposition to survey the land and undead, agreeing to return to the Keep if the numbers surpassed their abilities.

They hadn't. An estimated twenty ghouls crawled through the land, centralizing near the water. They were weak and easy to eliminate among the balance of well-trained fighters.

When the group completed their work, they returned to the Keep. The armory provided Alistair a place to remove his armor and padding, damp from sweat and the marsh. Others chatted in the room as they removed their own weapons and apparel. Nathaniel and Bridgette debriefing the mission while Hawke and Hale added commentary from the side. With no useful additions to contribute, Alistair hung his last piece of armor then muttered a goodbye.

His muscles hummed with a faint soreness that was sure to strengthen by the next day, so he stopped at his bedroom in the Revas wing to gather cleaner clothes before setting off to the nearest washroom. He arrived to find buckets of hot water sitting beside the tub and noticed bottles of oils filling a cabinet on an adjacent wall.

Curious, Alistair put his clean clothing down on a counter before browsing through the cabinet. Never one to invest in bath oils or unnecessary toiletries, Alistair knew little about the luxurious side of bathing, but he found himself interested. He uncorked bottles, sniffing them to determine their contents. A few of the mixtures made his nose wrinkle and he put them back immediately, but one seemed soothing.

He glanced at the tub and the steam rising from the buckets of water, then to the bottle in his hands. He hadn't planned on taking a bath when he set off for the washroom, but the smell of cedarwood and lavender and the idea of stretching in hot water promised to ease his muscles and his mind.

Talking only to himself, he gave himself the needed encouragement, "I deserve a chance to pamper myself, don't I? Yes, I deserve this." He nodded in agreement with himself and picked up a bucket. Water gushed into the stone basin as he poured water into the tub and prepared the bath by adding a few drops of oil.

He made sure the door was locked before stripping his clothes and crawling in. A groan escaped him as he lowered into the stone tub just as much from relaxation as pain, gratified by the water surrounding his lower half and tickling his leg hairs. From the base of his spine, Alistair's nerves awoke to the temperature, tingling as they traveled lines down his limbs and over the back of his head.

The water to rose to a curve at this chest as he reclined. Slightly bent knees rose above the water, bonier than they had been when the mission began. The conditions of the journey had not only tanned his skin and permitted him time to grow his beard, but the cushy layer of body fat he had acquired while he tended to his responsibilities as the king had nearly vanished. The muscles of his barreled chest had become more pronounced than they had been in years, even with training for the battle in the Arbor Wilds.

After weeks of continuous walking and riding through Navarra, Tevinter, and the Free Marches— sometimes in full armor— his body thanked him for this break. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with scented steam while he massaged a shoulder with one hand.

This is what I needed. The sweaty layer of grime dissolved from his body along with his pessimism. He felt his mood lift from the dark places it had been since Caoilainn revealed her secret, and especially the last week of this trek where his longing had worsened. Donning armor and slaying enemies that morning had allowed him to spend pent and angry energy; this bath helped him wash away the final remnants of his sour disposition. Rarely one to treat himself to such lavish indulgence, Alistair thought he finally understood what appealed to Caoilainn about soaking in her tub.

She had supplied shelves with products to make her bath water smell sweet or floral, powders that made the water bubbly, and others that made her skin extremely soft. The private form of indulgence had been a guilty pleasure of the militaristic woman as long as he had known her, and he adapted. Bathing her had become a game since their reunion; he enjoyed providing her with this source of comfort, the sounds of gratitude she made as he washed her hair, the pleased look on her face as she closed her eyes and trusted him.

Like she had when they first met. Willful and unrelenting, the young woman who found him at Ostagar surprised him with her tenacity. Back then, she wore her anger and sadness on her sleeve, even when she thought they were hidden. Their roles were reversed, Alistair remembered. The effort he spent to stay casual and cool when they talked belied the nervous rattling of his insides. He, a bastard son so many had easily forgotten, desired to impress the educated and headstrong woman. And somehow, he did.

Dragon 9:31

"Trust me," he whispered in Caoilainn's ear. They wore only their small clothes as they took slow steps through the forest in the foggy evening. His hands covered her eyes as he walked behind her, guiding her.

"But where are we going, Alistair? What are we doing?" Gooseflesh rose across her shoulders and arms, cold from the temperature. He would have loved to warm her if not for keeping his hands over her eyes.

I have no idea what I'm doing. He admitted to himself, unsure if this method of wooing would succeed as he hoped. Out loud, he only restated, "Such an impatient one. You will just have to trust me."

The thermal shift of the air reached his toes before his face, and he was certain Caoilainn felt it too. She confirmed his thoughts, "It's warmer here. Oh!" Her toes touched the water, and his feet followed. The hot spring rose to their shins before he released his hands.

"I found the spring when I did not almost fall in looking for camp supplies. You'll notice that bundle of elfroot right over there." He pointed to a patch of land overlooking the spring. "And I thought, who better to bring here than you, my love?"

She put her finger to his lips and then craned her neck to kiss him. Alistair lowered his head to make it easier for her.

The memory blurred from that point. The water flowed around them as they waded, joined. He remembered distinctly the sound of liquid moving with their bodies, and the feel of her thigh in his hand as her leg hooked over his hip as he used his weightlessness in the water to propel his motion. Their activities suggested a level of maturity far beyond their age.

Yet somehow it worked.

His body responded to the thoughts of her, strengthened by the memory. Images of her in their more recent forays, naked, satisfied and receptive to his directions and touch awakened something inside him that he hadn't felt in months, since before he even left for this journey. He was hard.

With a smirk, he opened an eye to look down his midsection only to find within the clear water, past his abdomen and at the base of his pelvic region, an obvious erection. A laugh escaped him, and as it did, he glanced to the door to make sure it was locked.

Upon the confirmation of privacy, with his eyes closed, he submerged his hand into the water to find himself.

A clean linen shirt and pants felt different on a washed body. The bath was well-needed both physically and mentally, and Alistair carried his new perspective with him through the Keep. He heard his steps echo in the hallway of the ground floor as he headed to the dining room. The figure standing in the hall didn't seem to notice him.

He felt a surge of his annoyance return, and he blurted "Fiona?" before he could stop himself.

She looked confused and apologetic. Typical, he thought, judging her demeanor, until she made a request. "Alistair, I— Can we talk?"

Recollections of his newfound goal to maintain this positive outlook flickered between his frustration with Fiona, but he obliged her, surprised and satisfied with the level of cordiality he managed to maintain.

She led him to a set of doors, taking them to the atrium where he had met with the other Warden leaders the day prior. It was just as green and overgrown in tonight's evening light. The courtyard was lit with braziers and the sun almost setting somewhere beyond the walls of the keep provided a diminishing source of natural light. This time he noticed more vines along the walls and posts, and the birdbath full to the brim from rain.

Alistair sat on a bench as Fiona followed, her eyes averted. This is what you wanted, Fiona. It took minimal effort not to slip back into the acrimony he had toward her that morning. He had released himself from the hold her duplicity held over him. It seemed to have faded, and he preferred to keep it that way.

"It was selfish of me to disappear. I was scared." She didn't meet his eyes.

He felt a mixture of doubt and concern for Fiona. Despite his disdain, she had been an ally through this cure and early on in this expedition; the wellbeing of the mage worried him. But he did not humor her and asked for more information. "Scared of what?"

Fiona provided a half-assed confession. She elaborated, fabricating an excuse for her misdirection he could hear plain as day and eventually he called her on it. Losing his empathy yet again, he asked her about her inconsistencies. And when her answers remained vague, only doing more to avoid the subject, Alistair elected to end to the conversation, disinterested in providing any more energy to this woman's intent to deceive him. I don't understand why she is so determined to lie to me.

"I swear it, Alistair." She gave a fixed stare. Her profession insisted the truth of the origin of her fear, demanding it appease him.

But the comment only offended him. For whatever reason, Fiona cared for his approval, and yet she remained committed to lying, contradicting herself with half-truths that suggested she hid something that could only be significant. It bothered him equally that her deception managed to hurt something deep inside him.

Alistair lost his efforts to keep himself composed. "On what, Fiona? Do you swear it on the Maker? The Beloved Andraste herself? This explains nothing, and you know it. Tell me what you're hiding from me!" He found himself standing as he yelled at her, his fist balled at his side.

Aware of the extent of his anger, he inhaled and released his fist. His hand ran it through his damp hair as he released an exasperated breath.

She tightened her lips and swallowed. "I knew your father, Alistair. Very well."

The information meant nothing. Alistair shook his head. "Congratulations. That makes one of us. This has what to do with your disappearance yesterday?"

Picking at a loose thread on her clothes, she sighed. Alistair translated her delay as a decision whether to return to lies.

"I don't know how to say this." Her cheeks reddened and she snapped the thread she had pulled.

Whatever news she needed to share did not come easily; he recognized her struggle. All the times Caoilainn had withheld information in an attempt not to hurt him were highlighted, and even Caoilainn wasn't the first. Eamon had invented enough stories to mislead him throughout the years, and even Duncan omitted details to Alistair when he thought they might cause pain. He knew what to look for— the delayed speech, the avoidant glances, and the soft voices paired with sympathetic smiles.

Alistair was unwilling to mollify Fiona's anguish.

"We traveled together when I was a Warden and when I returned, I had been cured." Her pale blue eyes glistened as she glanced at him; a furrowed brow formed a reluctant plea. "This has taken me too long to tell you."

"It has taken quite a while," he agreed with a snicker. But he found himself curious and cognizant of the intensity of her tone. The anger subsided as he waited for what she was about to say. He returned to a seat, this time straddling the bench and watched her with a raised brow. "In fact, I'm still not sure what you're telling me."

"It's incredibly complicated, Alistair." Her head leaned in his direction, but her body remained planted. "And so simple at the same time. When I returned from the mission in the Deep Roads, I was cured… and with-child. I had no reasonable explanation for either."

Alistair's lips pursed, and he squinted his eyes. "I thought I followed until the miraculous cure and conception by the Deep Roads."

She wrung her hands in her lap, and her face contorted, pained by whatever she couldn't convey. "I cannot explain the cure, Alistair. In the end, I was a Warden without the bond with a child she couldn't care for." A tear welled in her eye and she pushed it away with her knuckle.

"That's horrible, Fiona. I'm so sorry." Alistair's voice softened. But he was still confused. Her incomplete story made it difficult for him to understand her sadness. He extended a hand but stopped mid-motion, unsure if he should touch her hand or shoulder, he opted for none and simply asked, "What did you do then?"

"I abandoned them both." Her chin trembled and tucked into her chest. She didn't look at his face. "I no longer had a place in the Wardens and once the child was born, I knew my existence as his mother could only ruin his life."

The confession stung his heart and he was grateful she wasn't looking as he grimaced. All the empathy he could muster couldn't comprehend abandoning a child. The subject was too close to home.

"That must have been difficult for you and the boy." A breeze found its way into the courtyard, adding to the intensity of the drawn out and uncomfortable conversation. The coolness against Alistair's face reminded him of an earlier detail of her story. "Forgive me, I'm not sure I understand what this has to do with Maric— oh." His face wrinkled as the pieces added together. "Ew."

"I'm so sorry, Alistair." She shielded her eyes with her hand and looked up to him from under the shadow of her palm. "I should have told you sooner."

It took a moment, but he tried to let the news roll off by shrugging it away. "So, I have a brother somewhere. It's not that much of a surprise." Chuckling to himself, he swung his leg over the bench, so his legs faced the same direction as Fiona's. "This might bewilder you, but I never had a strong connection with my father. Once Eamon told me Goldanna was never actually my sister, I decided nothing could shock me regarding Maric Theirin. In fact, it's been harder to believe I'm his only bastard child in the kingdom. I guess Eamon didn't know you two you were so uh, close." A tiny cringe crept up his spine.

"Alistair," she murmured, pausing to breathe. Apparently, she expected a stronger response from him and let the heavy seconds drag as she decided what to say. She scooted closer and cupped her hand under his. "You are Maric's only illegitimate child."

His brow creased and the confusion returned. The heartfelt stare Fiona gave said more than her words, but the clarification didn't help. Whatever meaning the sentence applied seemed to meet a wall in his mind somewhere past his ears. His head shook in misunderstanding.

Fiona added, "Duncan helped me with the baby. He promised to keep you safe."

Her hand was petite; wrinkled and slender fingers capped with pointed nails and marked with narrow scars carrying an essence of experience so opposite of his. He was aware of how monstrous his digits looked in hers. Palms mottled with calluses and healed wounds, the tops of his hands were freckled and weather-beaten. As he studied their differences, his mind caught up to what she said.

He pulled his hand away. "So you knew Duncan?"

Fiona confirmed, "He went with us to the Deep Roads as a new recruit. He became a good friend to both Maric and I."

"And you're telling me that you're my…" he lowered his voice to a whisper, "mother, with Maric and that Duncan was in on this too?"

The revelation tinged the gratitude Alistair held for Duncan's consistency, the most reliable aspect of Alistair's otherwise lonely life. In all the time they spent together, Duncan had known Goldanna wasn't his sister, who his mother was, and that she was still alive.

Fiona mumbled agreement, expanding in a soft tone that requested him to agree with her perspective. "We had few options and Duncan's help was immeasurable. He kept your father discreetly informed of your well-being and insured your safety. He cared for you when we couldn't."

"And why couldn't you?" He narrowed his eyes at her before looking into the courtyard. He kept his voice low, aware of the confidential nature of this information. "At least Maric wasn't too ashamed to let me know I was his son. He wanted to remain 'informed of my well-being.' What about you?"

Hurt and anger rose to the back of Alistair's throat risking words he didn't want Fiona to hear and a burning in his eyes threatened tears he didn't want her to see. The information she delivered only made his emotions more complicated, striking on a feeling of betrayal so old he couldn't remember a time without it and compounded by a weight that seemed to lift from his shoulders. She provided an explanation for his utter frustration with her; she informed him he was not, nor had he ever been an orphan.

"I was never ashamed of you, not even in the slightest." Fiona's hand came to her heart as she poured her reasoning. "Your father was the king, I was young, and we were not married. He was still grieving the loss of his wife. I'm an elf and a mage, Alistair. My existence could only make your life more difficult, so I thought it best for everyone if I removed myself from it." Eyes fixed downward, she studied her lap.

"You know, as selfless as that sounds, it doesn't seem to make any of this better," Alistair hissed through a sneer and stood up again. The sensation of his heart pounding against his ribcage told him he needed to leave before he lost his temper.

Before Alistair could take a step, she rushed to add to her justification, "If anyone knew about me you would have been outcast and ridiculed. You would never have been made King."

"I never wanted to be King!" He halted and spun around. No longer concerned with the volume of his voice, he didn't bother to whisper. He made sure she heard him. "Did you know that, Fiona? Sweet Maker! If only it had never been an option. But no. Instead, I was not involved in just about any decision about my life, complete with sizable portions of outcast and ridicule." Alistair paused to take a breath. His hand covered his mouth before pulling at his beard. "I need to leave, Fiona. Excuse me."

He took large, hurried steps toward the double doors back into the Keep.

"Alistair." Her tone was low, but it resonated through the courtyard, reaching his heartache. Though he considered ignoring her and leaving anyway, he stopped in his tracks.

Fiona said, "I thought I did what was best for you at the time, and I'm so sorry."

Alistair closed his eyes. The heat on his face made the remnants of the breeze even colder.

Beneath his resentment, he knew the validity of her position. The precarious situation in which Fiona and Maric must have found themselves had no easy solution. But it did not abate his pain. It did not make this better. He needed time to sift through the convoluted mixture of emotions this interaction had wrought.

With an exhale, Alistair pushed open the doors and vacated the atrium, leaving Fiona to sit alone in the dusky shadows.