Chapter 9: The Truth
Things did not get better.
A week passed and Solona gave no sign of forgiving Alistair. If anything, she grew more spiteful by the hour, stewing day and night in the dark dungeon shadows.
For all that Solona remained struck in the void of the Fade-locked cell, the rest of the world continued to spin on without her. The rebuilding of Denerim trudged on at a maddenly slow pace. Refugees left their broken homes in the capital to seek a better life away from the carnage in the countryside. Meanwhile, even more refugees flooded back into the city, claiming there was no such refuge to be found. At least trade was quick to resume, as caravans and ships began to fill the ravaged warehouses.
The coronation came and went without much incident. With the nobility anxious to return to their homes, Eamon had managed to rush the proceedings along with remarkable efficiently. For his part, Alistair had dressed in the ridiculous attire that Eamon selected for him without any snide comments. He had smiled and waved and graciously acknowledged the throngs of nobles that would have shunned him as a bastard only a few months ago.
On a day where he stood before hundreds of loyal Fereldans, Alistair had never felt more alone. Reciting his oaths to Maker and Ferelden, he had scanned the crowd, hoping against all odds or reason that Solona might be there, smiling proudly back at him.
Instead, Solona had spent the coronation retching into a bucket.
Her withdrawal symptoms had arrived with a vengeance. First, the headaches worsened. Then came the dizziness, restlessness, pounding heart, nausea, tremors, and now, depression. To add to her wretchedness, without her usual web of magic to keep her just precisely comfortable, Solona was constantly chilled in the dank dungeon air.
She was cold, miserable, and refused to see him.
In a bout of stir-crazy ambition, Solona had attempted a repeat performance of their escape from Fort Draken. Moaning and thrashing about on the floor, she had managed to lure the guards into her cell, before bolting out past the curtains and through the open iron gate. She had made it all the way down the darkened corridor before discovering that the heavy wooden door that blocked the exit was barred from the other side.
The guards were supposed to be more or less just for show - someone to make sure Solona was, relatively, well at all hours, and to keep the public (and Zevran) out. Officially, they were men of the Royal Guard: the King's own personal bodyguards, chosen for loyalty and discretion. They did not question why the Hero of Ferelden was being locked away.
As Solona had beat upon the hard oak door, begging for release, desperate for so much as a taste of lyrium or even just to feel the slightest brush of the Veil, an overzealous guard had sped after her down the corridor and tackled her to the floor.
She was fine - Wynne had made sure of that before the incident had even been reported to Alistair - but a little bruised. Without magic, that left only healing potions to mend her- healing potions without the usual pinch of lyrium. They worked, just not very well. Solona now sported a blackened eye and a renewed fury.
But time carried on. Alistair trotted down the stone steps and into the cold bowels of the palace's dungeons. Wynne had reported that Solona was faring reasonable well that day - so well, in fact, that she might be receptive to a visit.
To his disappointment, Alistair arrived to find that Leliana had beaten him to it; the guard had already been dismissed back beyond the wooden door. Balancing a crate of gifts at his side, Alistair tread quietly down the empty corridor to wait just beyond the iron grate, hiding in the shadows of the heavy curtains that concealed it from both sides.
A soft, steady scratching sound filtered through to him: Leliana was fussing over his lover's hair yet again.
"Revered Mother Dorothea has asked me to lead an expedition to the Urn of Sacred Ashes," he heard Leliana say.
Alistair raised his brow in surprise. That explained a few things - the Chantry envoy, the bard's guilty looks.
"The Chantry is worried that the Ashes will be pillaged now that they have been found," she lamented. "But of course, I have declined. They left this morning. I could not leave you, ma chérie."
There was a heavy silence.
"You should go," Solona said eventually.
"I could not. You need me here."
There was a scoff. "I need you? You won't help me now. What good are you supposed to be?"
Alistair cringed. Wynne had warned that this ordeal could bring out some of his lover's uglier traits. Spite seemed to be the current forerunner.
"I see," Leliana hummed. The curtains did nothing to filter her sorrowful tone. "If that is how you feel, perhaps I will go after them."
There was a faint shuffling as Leliana rose to depart. By the patter of her footsteps, she made it nearly to the curtain before Solona stopped her.
"Wait, Leliana," she called after her friend. She sighed. "While I slept, you sang to me. You braided my hair, told me stories," she said. "I'm not sure how I know that, but it helped." She cleared her throat. "In the Fade, somehow, it helped. Thank you."
There was a pause as Solona sniffed. "I'm sorry. I keep saying awful things. I'm not myself," she apologized, suddenly sounding on the verge of tears. "You've been a good friend. Forgive me."
Alistair heard the rustle of fabric, signally what he could only assume to be their embrace.
"Of course, ma chérie. I understand. All is forgiven," Leliana promised. "When I return, you will be free of this place. We will travel the Maker's Thedas as free women together."
Alistair winced at the sound of a kiss. A simple peck on the cheek, he told himself. Surely.
They spoke a while longer, until Leliana was forced to depart if she had any hope of catching up with the envoy. She showed no surprise when she drew back the curtains and found him standing there.
"You will be good to her," Leliana warned as she passed.
Alistair gave a dumb nod in reply. Of course he would - if she would let him.
He waited for Leliana to tread down the long corridor and out through the wooden door. Then, with a deep breath, and a forced smile, Alistair pushed back the curtains and entered Solona's cell.
His lover sat up in her bed, her back against the padded headboard. She looked wretched; her pale skin was stretched tight against hollowed cheeks. The plum and yellow ring about her left eye was kept company by the dark bags beneath her right. Her hair, although freshly brushed and braided, sagged limp and lifeless against her brow.
She wore at least two layers of heavy robes that he could see. A brilliant red scarf encircled her neck, looking out of place against her ashen skin. Her fingers, gloved in brown doeskin, adjusted the massive stack of blankets covering her lower half. Alistair frowned. The air was cool, but certainly not as icy as her dress suggested; it seemed they could add 'chills' to her long list of symptoms.
"How are you feeling today, my love?" he asked.
She sniffed delicately, flipping the page of the book that lay across her lap.
Ah, it was to be the silent treatment again today. Solona had quickly learned that shouting at him got her nothing but exhausted. Now she either slung insults or ignored him until he left.
Alistair settled the crate onto her desk. "Some more letters for you," he began, drawing out the tight-bound stack of papers and placing it on her nightstand. It was but a small sampling of the considerable amount of correspondence that Solona received each day. Most were letters of gratitude from common folk, thanking her for saving their family or their farm or their cat. There were a few official commendations and congratulations from nobility across the Thedas for ending the Blight. There was also an ever increasing number of pleas for aid or offers of employment. Alistair took the liberty of filtering those out for now.
Solona's gaze did not lift from her book.
"I've brought gifts," he tried instead.
She turned a page.
"Fresh oranges," he said, trying to entice her as he pulled a small sack from the crate. "Or at least, fresh from the dock this morning - and fresh from a tree in Antiva a month or so ago... probably."
At her indifference, he tried presenting a few more items: a couple books on Tevinter scrounged from the palace's holdings, a silken dressing gown, and yet another bouquet of fresh flowers. None garnered any attention.
"And..." He held up the final package - the coup de grace - wrapped carefully in deep burgundy velvet. Peeling back the cloth, he revealed her sword, the Spellweaver.
"I had to bribe your dog to hunt it down," Alistair admitted. "Took him all of ten minutes once he could be bothered - in a gutter just outside Fort Drakon. Lucky for us none of the scrap traders had found it yet."
He caught the flicker in her eye as she glanced quickly to her sword. She had loved that damn sword from the moment she pried it from the dead hands of a cultist. They sold almost all of their spoils to Bodahn, but the Spellweaver she insisted upon keeping. On a quiet evening, they had once passed it around camp; all save the three magi expressed extreme distaste for it. Wynne and Morrigan were indifferent, but Solona treasured it. She claimed that the hum the others felt was a sweet song to her.
She loved the sword almost as much as Alistair hated it. The enchanted blade made his hand itch and arm ache to even hold it through the velvet; perhaps it sensed his disdain. As a blade, it was too fine and delicate looking to possibly be of any use. He was always certain the damn thing would bend or even shatter against a strong blow from a real weapon. But she loved it, so he had had it found after its long fall from atop Fort Draken. He then hired the only Knight-Enchanter in Denerim to inspect and polish the blade, before laying it to rest in a new sheath.
Holding up the shining blade, it suddenly occurred to Alistair that he was rather an idiot; leaving a sharp, pointing object with Solona right now was likely a horrible idea.
"It will, ah, be waiting in your rooms when you're better," he amended.
He rewrapped the sword, and placed it carefully back into the crate. Then, he sat down at the chair next to her bed and began peeling an orange. Her silence did not dissuade him; Alistair had become strangely accustomed to her stonewalling.
"I want to see Zevran," she suddenly spoke.
Alistair snorted. "Not happening."
"I know he's still in Denerim."
In a unanimous decision (at least by himself, Wynne and Leliana), Zevran had been banned from seeing Solona. Unlike his new sort-of wife, the three were well aware of the elf's affection for her; they had no doubt he would either smuggle her lyrium or even break her out of the cell at her first request.
"Still, not happening," Alistair remarked dryly, holding out a segment of the orange for her.
She wrinkled her nose at it, turning away.
Alistair glanced over to the small table where a dinner tray sat untouched. It had become a constant struggle to convince Solona to eat. Aside from the fact that after many weeks of nothing but broths, her stomach was no longer used to solid foods, the lyrium withdraw left her in an unending bout of nausea. What food she did manage was, more often than not, quickly retched into the bucket at her bedside.
They had tried any number of foods to tempt her into eating, all of which failed. From fancy, finicky, court cuisine, to the horrible gruel they served each morning in the Circle, Solona refused them all. Ironically, trapped in a dungeon, the only food she had requested was stale, dried-out, bread.
He lifted the fruit nearer. "Just try a piece, Sol."
She shifted further away from the food. "Why are you even here?" she asked, shaking her head.
"Ah, well, they say sunlight is bad for your complexion, so I figured if I'm going to stay so damn pretty, a few hours each day out of the light ..." he trailed off at her responded obscenity. "Right. No jokes. Humour-free zone," he lamented.
He placed the orange upon the bedside table, next to the forgotten pile of letters.
A new tactic then. "Believe it or not, my dear, I'm rather desperately in love with you."
She scoffed, pulling the mass of blankets tighter about her.
"It's true, my love," he continued. "And, as shocking as this may be, I don't like the thought of you being alone and miserable down here."
"Then let me out," she answered as though it was the most obvious solution in all the Thedas.
He shook his head. "Can't."
"Then go away." She placed the book aside, and turning on her side away from him, slid beneath the sea of blankets.
"Won't," he shrugged.
Settling back into the chair, Alistair stretched out his legs before him. "So, Bann Franderel threw a fit in court this morning ..." he began relaying his rather unexceptional day to her. It seemed only fair that if Alistair was forced to live it, she could at least suffer through the abridged version. "... and Lady Asbethe sent this awful painting of your dog for you. I mean, it's hideous, Sol. And then I had to thank her and compliment the thing and kingly-gesture this and kingly-gesture that. Ha, I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing - you should have seen the look Eamon gave me. I mean, Oghren could paint a better portrait of your dog. Your dog could paint a better a portrait of your dog. And, ..." he trailed off.
Before him, the blankets trembled.
Alistair stood to look over Solona's shoulder. She was curled into a small ball beneath the covers, shivering steadily in the tight grip of a chill. She had removed her gloves and now scrubbed at her hands to regain some warmth.
When the chattering of her teeth reached him, Alistair came to a quick decision he knew he would likely later regret. Dropping back down to the chair, he pulled off his boots, and shrugged out of his coat.
Before Solona could protest, he lifted the edge of blankets and slid into the bed behind her. Snaking an arm beneath her neck, he wrapped his other over her shoulders, and pull her back tight against his chest.
She elbowed him, hissing insults.
"Look, for all that I'm a big useless idiot who tramples poor little mages' hearts, I'm a big, warm useless idiot." He rubbed her cold hands between his own.
She stilled, as if debating for a moment, and then finally settled into his embrace.
"This doesn't mean anything," she said, voice muffled in the soft folds of the blankets.
"Sure, my dear," he sighed against her hair. "Whatever you say."
Breathing in the scent of her, it did not take long for the memories to come flooding back. As his eyes fell closed, Alistair found it all too easy to pretend that they were back in Redcliffe. He remembered how he had snuck into Solona's chambers the night after they had returned triumphant with the Sacred Ashes. With Eamon awake in the next room, they had hushed, joyful love and then collapsed asleep in each other's arms.
After a few minutes, Alistair stifled a groan as the front of his pants grew tight. Surprisingly, he did not feel half so ashamed as he would have anticipated. He missed his lover. Desperately. That hardly made him a bad person. It had been months since they last ... fraternized, and now that he finally held her once more, the rush of longing was suddenly overwhelming.
Carefully, as to not disturb her, he shifted his hips back and away from Solona. With a deep breath, he tried to think of something else. Cold baths. Oghren. That mabari painting. Porridge. The Grad Cleric.
Alistair held Solona long after her teeth stopped chattering, and her shivering subsided. Eventually, he felt her relax and even drift into sleep. She dozed for nearly an hour, and then, for the briefest moment before she fully awoke, she turned in his arms and nuzzled against his chest. It felt like heaven.
Too soon, she came to her senses and pushed him away. This time, he gave in to her demands that he leave, but he did so with a half-hidden smile. The memory of that short moment when she pulled him nearer and sighed against his chest could sustain him for days.
The next morning brought new trials.
Alistair closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep, careful breath. He had thought long and hard about this all night, Solona's words echoing in his sleep.
"Look," he began. "I know you want to see Solona, and I know, that you know, that she's been asking for you. I know you love her, and I know we will never see eye-to-eye in spite of that."
Bathed in the white morning light that streamed into his office, Alistair tried his best to look Kingly and Decisive and Definitely-Not-Making-This-Up-As-He-Went.
His audience remained incredulous.
He swallowed hard. "She doesn't want to see me," he admitted at last. "Leliana is gone, and Wynne can't spend all day with her. She'll be lonely." He drew a deep breath, not believing he was saying this.
Before him, Solona's mabari, Daro, scratched impatiently at his ear.
"Maker's breath," Alistair lamented. "I can't believe I'm trying to reason with a blasted dog..."
"Look," he tried again. "Solona is pregnant; she's having a puppy - a baby, Blessed Maker, I mean, a baby," Alistair stumbled, his palm against his forehead. "And the lyrium will hurt them both. So you have to swear that if I let you see her, you will not fetch her lyrium and you will not help her escape."
The dog glared silently back at him.
"She might beg you - plead with you," Alistair explained. "But you must not give in. Please, for her sake, if you love her, you can't give in."
The dog gave him a long stare in contemplation. Alistair began to wonder if this was a mistake; the mabari was too clever for its own good.
Finally, the dog gave a single bark of acceptance.
"And..." Alistair braced himself for what would surely be the deal-breaker. "You'll have to bathe before you go. Thoroughly. You smell awful."
Daro growled.
"Nope - no arguing. That's the deal," asserted Alistair. "You can either go find the Hounds Master for a bath right now, or you can keep feeling sorry for yourself."
The mabari whined all the way to the kennel.
The rest of the day passed in a dull blur. Alistair spent the remainder of the morning sitting in court, listening to nobles bicker about petty slights. He took lunch with Eamon and some Nevarran ambassador whose name he had already forgotten, and then, wasted away the remainder of the afternoon in private meetings with various officials. He tried. He really did. But today, like too many other days, his heart was not in it. He found himself quick to tire of the squabbles. They had just ended a Blight - could everyone not get along for ten minutes and just rebuild the damn country?
The smear of the day came to a sudden halt in the Royal Offices as Alistair found himself staring at his own signature.
Alistair Theirin
He had finished signing a dozen documents, and yet now, the words gave him pause; it still looked strange to see it written. For twenty years, he had been "Alistair" or "just Alistair", "Squire Alistair", "Warden Alistair" or "that bastard, Alistair". He'd never had a surname before, and now, all too suddenly, that surname had become a defining part of himself.
His contemplations and self-pity were disrupted as Eamon pulled the vellum away. Quickly adding his own signature as Witness, he then passed the document to a waiting page, to be spirited off to some circle or another of bureaucratic hell.
With that, Eamon dismissed the remaining pages, leaving only himself and Alistair in the room.
"Hmm, we've finished a bit early today," the Arl observed. "Perhaps we could spare a few minutes to discuss the matter of the landholdings?"
Alistair shrugged. Why not? It sounded just as thrilling as the rest of the matters of state he had sat through today.
"There are a number of titles and landholdings left vacant by the Blight," Eamon began. "Some, like Amaranthine, we will need to fill immediately. Others, Denerim and the such, can wait." He passed Alistair a short list.
Alistair tried not to cringe at the mention of Denerim, remembering the how Zevran had twisted his knife into Vaughan Kendells' gut. Even now, he was surprised that Solona had allowed it. Perhaps it was his training with the Crows or maybe just his deference for sparing his life, but Zevran made few requests of them during the Blight. When he asked to kill Kendells, filthy and simpering in his own dungeons, Solona had assented without a second thought - no trial, no evidence, just the wretched testimony of the half-starved elf two cells over. Kendells could have been another voice of support at the Landsmeet; instead, he bled-out slowly in his cell, writhing in a smear of filth.
"Why not Denerim?" Alistair asked, offhand.
"The Arling of Denerim is all title and no responsibility," Eamon gibed. "The Crown manages most of the capital, and it has no bannorn to oversee. It was once a grand teyrnir in Calenhad's day - now its responsibilities are so diminished even fools like the Kendells could manage it."
With a nod, Alistair stared at the list of holdings - a handful of bannorns, the two arlings and, of course, the teyrnir of Gwaren, remained opened.
"I don't know. What if you took Gwaren, Teagan got Redcliffe and we made Ser Perth the Bann of Rainesfere?"
Eamon laughed. "I admire your initiative, my boy, but it takes a bit more political manoeuvring than that. All of those can wait a little while - only Amaranthine is in dire straits."
Rubbing at his brow, Alistair tried to recall the various communique that had passed across his desk on the northern arling. Peculiarly, Vigil's Keep was still reporting darkspawn skirmishes, even after the Blight. Since sending the Orlesian Wardens north, the reports had slowed but not stopped.
The growing stack of correspondence from the arling also suggested the bannorn was divided and bickering following Howe's death. Rendon Howe apparently still had some living heirs, but his actions were more than enough to tarnish the entire family name. Whoever was awarded the arling would have to quell the darkspawn, stand strong against the bannorn and, of course, be deserving of the spoils of such a rich holding.
"I want to give Amaranthine to the Wardens," he concluded.
The Arl blinked for a moment. "We can look into that, certainly," he conceded. "I can compile a list of suggestions for the remaining titles for a later date."
Alistair held back his surprise at how quickly Eamon had accepted his suggestion; he had expected at least a little resistance. Perhaps the Arl saw it as a way to create some distance between himself and Solona.
"And how is the Warden Amell today?" asked Eamon, deepening Alistair's suspicions.
Alistair frowned, suddenly feeling quite guilty. "I haven't been to see her today," he admitted.
"I do wish you would tell me why exactly she is down there," the Arl lamented. "If news of it were to spread, it could be ... poorly interpreted."
"Oh, ah, secret Warden things - you know how it is," Alistair lied.
"I see. And do many 'secret Warden things' involve locking one of their own in a dungeon?"
Alistair shrugged. "Only the ones that kill Archdemons." He rubbed at his brow. "She'll be out soon," he explained. "Another week at most."
"And have you thought about what will come after?"
"Oh, she'll probably burn down the palace, incite a mage revolt, summon a legion of demons and overthrow Orlais - the usual." He gave a wistful sigh. "Maybe if we make her dog the Teyrn of Gwaren now, she'll spare us her wraith later. Two birds, one stone - that sort of thing."
Ignoring his sovereign's jests, the Arl rose to stand by the wide windows. The evening sun was just disappearing below Denerim's fractured skyline, casting long golden rays into the chamber.
"I have spoken with Teagan," he began. "He was quite taken with the Warden after the events at Redcliffe."
Alistair suppressed a groan. More of this? Truly?
"He has offered to marry the Warden," Eamon continued. "He would claim the child as his own." He turned back to Alistair. "You've said you want to grant mages more freedoms. She would be Lady of Rainesfere, and maybe someday, Redcliffe. It would be a good steppingstone." He tried to rationalize it.
Before he could stop himself, Alistair broke down into laughter. "Ha, Eamon, I'm sorry," he snorted. "But this gets more ridiculous each time. And now you're dragging poor Teagan into it? What's next? Are you going to get her appointed Archon and ship her off to Tevinter? Maybe marry her off to the Arishok in Seheron?" He shook his head. "I'll tell you what Eamon, it's her choice in the end, right?"
The Arl nodded.
"You think you can convince Solona to get married and be shipped off to Rainesfere, and not have any of your vital bits burned off? Go for it."
A knock at the door interrupted their discussion.
At their summons, a guardsman entered the office. He marched into the centre of the room and bowed low to Alistair. From his seat at the desk, Alistair recognized him as one of the Royal Guard tasked with watching Solona. Sergeant Carvin? Carven? Cardrin?
"Beg pardon, your Majesty," the guard apologized.
Alistair waved off the formality. "Go on."
The guard gave a cautious glance to Eamon. "There is a, uhh, incident downstairs, sire, and the Senior Enchanter has gone into the city. We haven't been able to locate her yet."
Alistair shot to his feet and was halfway to the door before he remembered Eamon. He called a hasty apology back to the arl, before speeding down towards the dungeons. He leapt down the jagged stone steps two and three at a time, the guardsman right behind him.
Once they wound their way to the heavy wooden door and beyond, the guard began to explain. "She's trying to escape, your Majesty. And doing a rather bullocks job of it."
When they arrived at the end of the corridor, a second guard bowed to Alistair, and then reached out to lift the outer curtain.
Before them, Solona sat collapsed against the iron bars of the gate, her knees drawn up to her chest. In the cool dungeon air, she wore only a thin shift; her feet were bare. A sheen of cold sweat covered her as she sobbed silently into her forearms.
"Solona!" Alistair dropped to kneel upon the hard stone. He reached through the bars to grab her arm, forcing her attention. She turned for a moment to look at him, her lips a pale blue. Dropping her head back to her arms, she began to sobbed with twice the vigour.
"She's been trying to pick the lock for maybe an hour now, sire. We thought she'd give up -nowhere to go really."
It seemed Solona was well into the final stages of the withdrawal: panic, desperation, and irrationality.
"Burning Andraste," Alistair swore, as the guard fumbled with the keys. "Why didn't you do anything?!" he shouted at them now.
"Beg pardon, your Majesty. We were told not to touch her unless she made it out past the curtain. We did send for the Enchanter."
Alistair cursed. "Both of you, go find Wynne," he ordered, jumping back to his feet.
"Your Majesty?"
"GO!" he shouted, wrenching open the door.
A makeshift wire pick fell from the lock as he pulled at the iron bars. Absently, he kicked it far down the darkened corridor as he stooped to lift Solona into his arms. To his shock, she reached for him.
As he carried her back to the bed, she held tight to him, crying into the crook of his neck. She trembled. Shivered. Sobbed. When he placed her upon the bed, she would not release him, forcing Alistair to kneel at the bedside. Through the mess of limbs, he managed to grab a blanket and wrap it haphazardly around her.
Solona took no notice, pleading and rambling incoherently against him. Her hands clutched at his collar, drawing him nearer.
At a loss, Alistair held her close and whispered words of love against her temple.
Her tears streamed from red eyes down ashen cheeks. "Let me go," she sobbed. She begged. "Just let me go."
And he almost did. He would have done nearly anything to stop her tears, to end her suffering. Alistair shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered, rocking her. "I'm so sorry."
"I'll disappear. I'll leave Ferelden. You'll never hear from me again, I swear," Solona pleaded. "You don't need to keep me here. I'm just trouble."
She turned to stare up at him, and Alistair crumbled into the soft grey of her eyes.
His heart broke. "I can't."
Solona panted with shaking breaths. "What right do you have to keep me here?" she sobbed. "I'm a Grey Warden. I don't answer to kings."
At his silence, she carried on. "I'm the Warden-Commander, right?" she began to shout against his chest. She reached to push feebly at his shoulders. "Warden, I command you let me go."
"Solona, I..." Alistair paused. She was right. He had absolutely no right to keep her locked up. He was breaking both his own and Ferelden's oaths to the Wardens by denying her.
"Why?!" she demanded suddenly. "Why are you doing this?"
"The lyrium is - "
"You love me?" she interrupted.
"Yes. Maker, yes."
"Then how can you let me suffer?"
Alistair opened his mouth, but no words came. He was staggered. They had persisted with lies to no avail. There was really nothing left but the truth.
And the truth was hard.
"Solona," he tried to smile. A thousand miles and another lifetime away, this would have been joyous news. "You're pregnant." The words felt thick and sticky within his throat.
At once, Solona's small form stopped shaking. Alistair cringed as he felt her steel herself.
"What?"
He forced a wider smile, "We're going to have a child."
Alistair had never truly been sold on the notion of hiding her pregnancy. Surely Solona of all people would be rational enough to not try to harm herself or the child.
A thick silence filled the dungeon. Alistair had feared this moment since Wynne had first struck him across the cheek a fortnight ago. Of course, he had hoped that he would tell her after she had recovered from her addiction, preferably in a moonlit garden or held close to one another in a soft bed. He would hold his beloved close, kiss her and tell her how he had taken care of everything - that they could live happily ever after together.
Alistair stroked at her cheek. "That's why you're here - that's why you have to stop the lyrium - for the child. And for yourself."
"Liar," she whispered.
Fumbling with the buttons of his cuff, he pulled up one sleeve to reveal the white ribbon tied there. Before he could stop himself, the entirety of the truth came rushing out from Alistair. He told Solona of Eamon's scheme to send her and the child away, and his own acts of desperation to keep them at his side. He revealed his conspiracy with Leliana and her demands that he undertake the rite at her bedside.
While he spoke, he removed the ribbon from his wrist, and grasping her hand, tied it around her own. When the band was secured, he brushed a kiss against her pulse.
He swallowed. "It's true, love. I swear." His throat caught at the words. "Have you heard of a mortalisk vindalae?" He spoke with caution.
Solona jaw dropped. "No." She shook her head in disbelief, her eyes wide in shock. "You could not..."
"I swear, Sol, I won't let Eamon or the Chantry or anyone else take our child from us. We'll be together - they can take us all or they can throw me off the blasted throne. Either way, I won't lose you again," he vowed.
Solona stared back at him, brow furled and lips slightly parted, seemingly lost for words. Glancing down to the ribbon around her wrist, and then back to him, she opened her mouth as if to speak.
As he waited for some sort of reaction, Alistair reached into his pocket and drew out the ironbark band. Already kneeling at her bedside, he held the ring up to her.
" 'We stay together, no matter what happens', right?" his voice was hopeful as he echoed her old words back to her.
Her face darkened in anger. She shoved his hand away, her rage a sudden cure for her panic.
"You ... bastard." She spat the word, knowing well it would stab cruelest at his heart. "I begged to stay with you. I grovelled before you."
Alistair flinched. "Sol, I-"
"A fecund womb and suddenly I'm worthy?" she threw at him.
"It's not like that."
"It is exactly like that," she cried. "You swore love eternal and then cast me aside as soon as you needed an heir. And now, now that I'm...breeding -" they both cringed at the word - "you love me again?"
He shook his head. It was all falling apart so much faster than he planned. "I never stopped loving you."
She looked as though she would resume crying or begin scream or throttle him. Likely all three.
"I'm sorry, Sol. I've been a fool. I've hurt you. I'm so sorry," he chanted, begging that she might listen. "But we can be together," he vowed.
In answer, she ripped the ribbon from her thin wrist, and clutched it tight in the palm of one hand. It took Alistair a moment to recognize the hard glare in her eyes as she stared at her fist, teeth clenched and hands shaking: she was trying to summon the Veil.
"Burning Andraste, stop it. It's Fade-locked down here - you know that." He reached out to grab her hand. "You're going to hurt yourself."
She pulled back, tearing her fist out of his reach. Her nails dug into her palm as she wailed in frustration.
And then, somehow, impossibly, smoke.
Ugly, oily, black smoke began to curl up from the ends of the ribbon. An acrid, bitter smell filled the room. Alistair's teeth itched at it.
Panting, she sneered triumphant and exhausted back at him. Blood began to drip red and angry from her nose, trailing down past her parted lips. With a sniff, she dropped the ribbon, letting it fall as though forgotten and worthless over the side of the bed and onto the floor.
Far down the corridor, Alistair heard the wooden door creak open, followed by Wynne's quick shuffle of footsteps.
"Leave," Solona ordered with a hard stare, eyes unforgiving. "Go away. Never return."
Defeated, he picked up the blacked ribbon, and then left without another word.
AN: And yet again, this chapter had to be split in two. The upside: Chapter 10 is 80% written. The downside: we still haven't gotten to the main bloody huge plot point. Oh well - next time, definitely... probably.