With most grateful thanks to bergamot29 - without your solitary review I should have given up anyone wanting to read this further, and not bothered to continue posting it. So thank you for taking the time to comment, I truly appreciate it!

King Without a Castle

By: Syntyche

Two: Only the Lonely

The water was hot, almost scalding on her naked skin, and Anora wondered for a moment if she shouldn't ask one of the servants to add some cold water to bring the temperature down. Already her skin was reddening as the heat lapped against her, covering her almost to her shoulders as she sank deeper into the bathing pool. It had taken many servants quite a long time to fill the pool to her liking, but Anora had been Ferelden's queen for many years, and the servants of Denerim palace had long grown accustomed to her preferences.

The bath was large enough to accommodate two. Anora was not surprised to find that she missed her late husband; it felt so empty without Cailan here, laughing, teasing, his blonde hair plastered against his skin in an innocent halo even as he snuck a wicked hand over to tweak her breast playfully.

Even remembering his phantom touch sent a thrill of desire through her, a desperate and gasping breathlessness that she would never again feel his hand, that the hands of her lovers - for they both had plenty - would never match up to his hand caressing her, his hand sliding over her thigh …

Anora gasped sharply and sat up, unsurprised to see that she was crying, silent tears that dripped down her face in a most unseemly way while doing absolutely nothing to ease the agonizing clenching of her heart at the loss of her husband. She wrenched her emotions in fiercely; she needed to remain in control, she could not afford to fall apart.

Not while that usurper continued to stay in the palace. Not while Eamon and others loyal to Maric still contested that the throne belonged to him:

Her husband's bastard half-brother.

And her father's murderer.

Emotions firmly in grip now, Anora trailed her hand lightly over the water, flicking the drops from her fingertips and watching idly as the widening rings spread across the surface. Her husband gone, her father gone, and Alistair had gratefully absconded the throne - so weak - content to remain simply a Grey Warden and staying discreetly with the other Warden and the ragtag they had somehow cobbled together to defeat the Archdemon.

Content for now. But she would not allow him to rest in peace when he had caused her so much pain.

Anora herself had conversed occasionally with the female Warden - a Cousland, she had learned from the old mage Wynne, and she'd known instantly she would have to watch out for that one, too. Anora was not so foolish as to dismiss the idea of a union between Alistair and the Lady Cousland and a resulting coup; Ishmael Cousland and Alistair both had supported Anora at the Landsmeet, but the queen knew that Arl Eamon still had aspirations of putting Alistair on the throne and the Arl also had the ear of the Lady Cousland.

Fortunately for the queen, many of their small group had dispersed, off on their own personal quests. Of the odd group that had stumbled into Denerim, other than the Wardens only Wynne and the elf remained and for that the queen was grateful, for that small group had somehow proven that they could defeat the seemingly insurmountable, and she had no doubts that if Alistair had had a mind to take the throne for himself, their bedraggled party would have seen it done.

And she wasn't yet convinced he wouldn't change his mind. Perhaps it was a little of her late father's paranoia rubbing off on her, but she preferred to think of it as tying up loose ends.

And the Lady Cousland was a loose end that needed to be taken care of.

Anora had found that although she seldom appreciated other females as company, she actually liked Ishmael Cousland - brave, determined, and damned if she didn't get things done; which was exactly why she needed to be taken out of the picture. That, and the fact that Anora knew the two Wardens were intimately close, and she would not allow Alistair a single pleasure that she herself was now denied. A situation was arising in the northeast that demanded attention, and tactically and personally Anora had already decided the Cousland was the best choice to send.

Which just left Alistair as the final loose end.

Voices floated in through the barely open doorway of the dressing room adjoining her personal bathing chamber, two maids scurrying about their business, readying the queen's clothing.

"… told the Warden that I was only too happy to tend to anything he might need … "

A light trill of laughter followed from the younger of the two. "You'll have to let me know if there's anything I can help with … "

Anora's mood darkened further.

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She didn't know where he was - probably out for one of his walks. Alistair had started taking long forays into the night, disappearing for hours at a time, and she knew this because she continually kept tabs on where he was and who he was with.

The important thing now was that he was not in his room, because that was where she was. Anora did not know what she was looking for, she only held on to a certainty that she would find something because he had to be guilty of something.

His room was sparsely furnished and there weren't many places to search. Anora rifled through the desk drawers and found nothing of interest, though she did find a book on the Theirin royal history on the night table that only increased her suspicion that Alistair had not permanently given up his aspirations for the throne.

She espied his pack in the corner, well taken care of but clearly very used. She pushed back the flap and peered inside, pushing things around as necessary as she surveyed the contents: an amulet, very old; a few battered journals that she discovered detailed in several different hands the party's historic trek across Ferelden; a couple of pairs of tattered socks with Alistair's initials neatly stitched near the top; and a curled sheath of papers upon which she recognized her husband's name.

Anora glanced around surreptitiously, immediately feeling very foolish for doing so. She was the queen, for Andraste's sake, and didn't need the permission of anyone to be here, least of all a weak-willed bastard prince. She immediately brushed aside her hesitation and pulled the papers from the satchel, unfurling the crumpled missives with precipitously nervous hands.

Anora scanned the papers. The first letter was in a foreign script, seemingly innocent, from Empress Celene of Orlais offering aid to Ferelden. The second letter brought first a pained smile as she realized that she and Eamon had shared the same concern for her husband's presence on the battlefield - predictably ignored by Cailan - but as she read further a fury ignited behind her eyes that would not abate.

… And yes, perhaps when this is over you will allow me to bring up the subject of your heir. While a son from both the Theirin and Mac Tir lines would unite Ferelden like no other, we must accept that perhaps this can never be. The queen approaches her thirtieth year and her ability to give you a child lessens with each passing month. I submit to you again that it might be time to put Anora aside. We parted harshly the last time I spoke of this, but it has been a full year since then and nothing has changed.

Please, nephew, consider my words, and Andraste's grace be with you.

Humiliation flamed across her cheeks that Cailan had dared to utter a word of her sorrow to his uncle. Eamon would pay for this, she vowed. This was the second instance of him wanting to put her aside - he would not have the opportunity to try again.

The final missive had been crumpled at one point but laboriously smoothed out, and still smelled faintly of flowery perfume (she thought; if she imagined hard enough she could indeed smell the light fragrance) Though this letter was signed with the same royal name as the first she had read, this was printed in a woman's delicately looping hand.

Cailan,

The visit to Ferelden will be postponed indefinitely, due to the darkspawn problem. You understand, of course? The darkspawn have odd timing, don't they? Let us deal with them first. Once that is done we can further discuss a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden.

The floor seemed to drop out from beneath her small feet as blood rushed to her head, roaring in her ears and her father's warnings about the Orlesians suddenly didn't seem so far-fetched - indeed, they had even reached her husband. She had no illusions that the "permanent alliance" Celene had sought with Cailan involved a joint heir - indeed, why else would these three letters be bound together? A common thread united them, and Anora's breath left her in a rush as she realized how tenuously close she had come to losing her throne had her foolish husband survived to continue his increasingly treacherous relationship with that woman.

The papers crackled in Anora's clenched fist. Her earlier lust for her husband disappeared within the blaze of her wrath, hate swiftly replacing the love she had felt scarcely an hour before.

That these papers should have fallen into Alistair's hands could not have been simple coincidence. Anora's shrewd gaze narrowed as she considered the very plausible possibility that Cailan had met with Alistair at Ostagar and given him the documents, revealing the queen's barrenness but the need to keep Maric's line on the throne. Could her husband have planned for the possibility that he would fall at Ostagar and sought to ensure some assurance his father's line would not falter, even if it had to be continued by a bastard prince and an Orlesian whore?

Blasphemy.

Even worse …

"Treason," she whispered, her nails digging crescents into her palms.

She needed to be rid of Alistair permanently; it was the only way to halt Cailan's deceitful plans. But he was too well-known now to simply disappear: a hero of Ferelden, a Warden who had stood against the Archdemon …

The Warden who had killed the Archdemon.

Killed the Archdemon…

There was something about that, she realized, something that triggered old, awed words of Cailan's trickling persistently through the red haze in her mind. A slow smile spread across her face. She had always been annoyed by her husband's fascination with an order of relics, but Cailan's hobby may well become the catalyst for tying up the last loose end.

She would need to check her husband's painstakingly detailed journals, but Anora was already planning out her strategy. She couldn't accuse Alistair of treason without dragging her own delicate situation out for the public to gossip over. But if she was right, if her memory served her correctly …

She knew exactly what do. And Alistair would be gone within the week.

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"I'm being sent to Amaranthine."

Ishmael said it flatly, striving to sound unemotional, but Alistair could see that she had been rocked by her queen's orders - she didn't want to leave Denerim yet. She didn't want to leave him.

Dirty, unclean, shame-filled him.

And that gave him hope.

He held out a hand. "Come here, you," he said quietly.

She launched herself at him desperately, throwing her slim arms around his back, fitting perfectly against him now that they had shed their armor in the privacy of his room. By mutual design they were rarely alone together of late, but she had come to him in the library - where he was studying governance, of all things, for the simple reason that it had struck his fancy after the Landsmeet to do so; to think on the life he hadn't wanted but that, for the grace of the Maker, could have been forced upon him. She had found him, anxiously asked to speak with him, and so here they were.

It was awkward between them now but he gave her a warm hug as she shared the news that so deeply troubled her, and she laid her auburn head against his shoulder; for just a moment he could believe they were back on the plains, camped outside Orzammar where he had first shyly asked her to spend the night with him …

Yes, he reflected wryly, surrounded by darkspawn, working toward a hopeless goal - hopeless, or so they had secretly thought, a fear they never voiced aloud in the light of day but was ever hiding at the back of their minds, preying on them in their weaker moments.

Hopeless odds. Bloodthirsty enemies. So poor at times they couldn't afford to replace socks that could no longer even be mended.

Back when things were easy.

But this felt good, her body pressed into his; it felt sweetly natural.

"I am going to miss you so much," he murmured into her hair, and as he spoke the words he knew the truth of them. They'd been nearly inseparable since Cailan had first assigned them to the Tower of Ishal, and even now in their discomfort they had still taken refuge in knowing the other was near, sometimes only a room away; at times, he had lain awake at night, wanting to go to her, to touch and hold her, but so checked by his shame he couldn't bring himself to drag his tired body the few short steps to her room.

"Oh, Alistair," she sighed, regret heavy in her voice, husky with unshed tears. "I'm going to miss you, too."

The moment of her weakness passed swiftly; Ishmael brought herself firmly under control and backed out of his embrace reluctantly. Her pert nose wrinkled, disgust written clearly across her features as she plunked herself down on the chair by the bed.

"I don't want to go," the Lady Cousland sniffed petulantly, swinging her feet under the chair idly. It was moments like these, free of fear and sweat and blood, rare moments when she let a little of her childlike nature shine through, that he found himself thinking less of their duty, and more of a home, a family …

To distract his unrealistic thoughts, Alistair tore his eyes from his lover and knelt to fiddle with his boots, easing them off with a sigh and lobbing the stressed footwear into a corner with a dull thud.

"Hey," she said softly, and he slowly dragged himself away from his ruminations and busywork to glance at her inquisitively. "It's strange, isn't it, to have them gone?"

He knew what she meant. After being together continuously day after day, the splitting of their small group had left fractures in their lives that couldn't be filled until those missing returned. It had been an unusual and occasionally uncomfortable experience at first for the self-confessed utterly naïve ex-Templar to be so surrounded by such varied people after having been cloistered first within the Chantry and then sequestered even within the Wardens because Duncan had known of his royal parentage, but he had soon grown to rely on the other members of their small group. It had come as somewhat of a surprise to the shy Warden that their companions counted on him as well, and not merely for his impressive skill in battle, but for moral support, for amusement, for a smile when the stress of their quest nearly overwhelmed them.

"It is," he agreed solemnly, but proffered a small smile as he added, "I was getting so close at beating Oghren at his drinking game."

She laughed a little, swinging her booted feet, and acknowledged his statement with a nod. "He needed to go back to Felsi. I hope it works out for them."

"I don't know," Alistair said with a shrug, still kneeling a little awkwardly near the door but finding his unease fading as he watched his Warden tenderly, her short red hair bobbing as the chair she sat upon wobbled perilously with the unceasing movement of her swinging legs. "I have a hard time picturing him settling down."

"You know who I really miss, is Leliana," Ishmael sighed regretfully. "It was so nice to have someone who could talk about something other than killing darkspawn."

Alistair smiled, extending a bare foot for her perusal, wiggling his toes. "True. I guess I'm not much good talking about shoes and hair - but give me a good darkspawn-killing story and I'm all ears. But Lelli will be back soon, and maybe she'll have some fashion news for you."

Maker, this felt good, and it was so easy to talk to her, so easy to forget …

She stilled her fidgeting suddenly, a heaviness darkening her features. "Do you … miss Morrigan?" she asked hesitantly, and his relaxed mood slid away like darkness falling as the sun set.

"Do I … " he started faintly, searching desperately for a quick subject change, but she had already started down the path they'd been skirting and she wasn't quite ready to give it up now.

"Alistair, about the Morrigan thing … "

Dread licked at his stomach, filling his insides with twitching nausea. That's what they were calling it now? The "Morrigan thing"? Ishmael no longer appeared like a child to him and iciness washed over his body, chilling from his head to his feet, leaving him numb and trembling.

She easily saw his distress. "I'm sor … "

"It's fine," he said thickly.

"Alistair … " She didn't want to let it go, but nor did she want to pursue it. They both, desperately, just wanted everything to be the way it was ... before.

"It's fine," Alistair repeated gently; he was the strong one now because he had to be. He should have been the strong one all along, he knew.

He held out a hand to Ishmael which she took with a strangled sort of gasp, back in his arms, frustrated tears long held at bay spilling from her eyes and soaking into the thin shirt he wore.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his chest. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Hush, hush," Alistair soothed, stroking her back lightly. "Listen." He waited until she lifted watery eyes to him, and he thought he might be drowning in them when he saw his own pain reflected there so clearly. He drifted callused fingers through her hair, a sudden overwhelming tenderness pulling his taut lips into a gentle smile.

"My indestructible goddess," he said fondly, and closing her eyes, she leaned into his hand, the damp tear tracks on her cheek pressing against his palm.

"Ishmael," he said firmly, and her eyes reluctantly fluttered open, fixed on him apprehensively. "You're here. I'm here. We're both alive; we did what we had to do."

She closed her eyes again. "I know," she whispered. "But it feels so wrong."

He couldn't form an answer that didn't sound trite, didn't sound like he was dismissing her anguish that resonated so clearly with him, so he said nothing; he simply held her as though he would never be given the chance again, trying to convey with his body what his mouth refused to say.

After a few moments that seemed to last an eternity, her green gaze flicked open, settled on him again, striving for the lighter tone they needed to pull them back from the edge of the precipice of despair upon which they were perched.

"Listen, I'll be back as soon as I can," she informed him with a small, tremulous grin, their masks settling firmly back into place: they had work to do. Their grief could wait. "Try not to get into too much trouble while I'm gone."

Alistair sighed expressively, rolling his eyes and spreading his arms helplessly while she giggled at his theatrics and tucked herself more firmly against him. He gave her a cagey smile and replied,

"I suppose it depends on what our illustrious queen has planned for me."

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