Universe Two: Arl Howe died before he could betray the Couslands. Nathaniel took his place as the Arl of Amarathine, and Elissa Cousland married him out of friendship between their families and to help him govern the arling. Alistair is a Templar in Amarathine hunting down the apostate, Anders. The Blight and all its misfortunes still occurred, but didn't really affect Alistair or Elissa. Loghain is the King-Regent of Ferelden given the end of the Theirin bloodline with Calian's death, Alistair notwithstanding as a Templar.

(also, slight bump up in the ratings. Not NSFW, but, uh, steamier.)

The Arl's Wife

Sometimes, she regrets marrying him.

When Arl Rendon Howe died suddenly of a heart attack, Nathaniel rushed home from the Free Marshes. As the eldest, the arling of Amarathine now belonged to him now. It was his duty—neigh, his responsibility—to oversee the governing of Amarathine, to take care of the land his forefather's founded.

He hadn't the foggiest idea what he was doing.

So when he asked her, on bended knees, to marry him, how could she have said no? The Howes had long since been the dearest of friends to the Couslands: to decline would have been insulting, especially considering Nathaniel didn't need a wife so much as he needed a friend and an ally, someone who could stand beside him and help him govern.

So here she was, one year later, Elissa Howe, Arlessa of Amarathine, wife to the good Arl.

Sometimes, she regretted it.

Not that Nathaniel was a bad husband, or mean, or ugly. He treated her with great kindness, showering her with gifts and affection. Their lovemaking was pleasant, if not the most exciting thing in the world. Truly, he was a great friend to her.

And there in lied the problem.

Maker's blood, how selfish could she really be? Here she was, married to a high-standing lord, with all the power and pleasures a woman of her standing could expect to have, and all she could do was complain! It wasn't Nathaniel's fault she didn't love him.

It's not like he didn't try, either. When they first married, it was all flowers and sweet nothings and compliments. He tried to love her, and—who knows?—maybe he still feels genuine affection for her. All she knows is, for her part, she does not love him.

It would be nice though, to be loved. To have a man look at you like you were the sun in his sky, his very reason for living.

Mostly, she's tired of being alone. Nathaniel is distant even on good days, and that's just when he's in the Keep. Most days he spends travelling the countryside, leaving her alone in Amarathine to govern while he's out adventuring.

In a crowded castle full of people, Elissa has never felt more alone.

He is not what she expects a Templar to be.

She remembers the Templars from her childhood as being very serious, unsmiling men in full plate armor. She remembers pious, armored knights with scowls on their faces as they searched Highever high and low for the hidden apostate.

This Ser Alistair isn't what she's used to a Templar being.

And that may be why she feels so attracted to him.

He's handsome, sure, but Elissa is use to handsome men. They're a dime a dozen in the Keep. His attractiveness shouldn't affect her this much. Maybe it's the way he smiles at her, wide-eyed and honest, or maybe it's the way she catches his gaze following her as she waltzes in front of him, the perfect noble hostess.

Despite her rather estranged relationship with her husband, she's never felt the need to take on another lover before. She's thinking about it now, though: thinking how nice it must be to wake up to his smile, how warm his arms must feel, how lonely she's been in Amarathine—

She has no excuse when she invites him to dine with her in private, away from the prying eyes of his fellows and her servants. All she knows is that her husband is away to Denerim, advising King Loghain on matters of the state, and won't be back for days—plenty of time for her and the knight to get to know one another—

Ser Alistair, for his part, accepts her offer.

And it's wonderful fun, just dining and laughing and smiling. For a Templar, Ser Alistair has a remarkable sense of humor and an adorable smile. She hasn't laughed this hard in a long time.

She had no explanation for why she leans forward and kisses him. Maybe it's the wine, making her tipsy and impairing her judgment. Maybe it's the way he keeps looking at her, like he thinks she's beautiful or something. Either way, one minute they are giggling like schoolgirls over a silly innuendo (she will never think of lampposts the same way again) and the next she is in his lap, hands tangled in his hair while she kisses him, moaning and gasping and—oh.

He's not the best at this, but that doesn't really matter at this point. Some dark part of her mind reminds her that Templars take vows of chastity, that she's a married woman, that they really shouldn't be doing this, but he hasn't pulled away from her yet, and seems to be enjoying this as much as she is.

Which makes it all the more difficult when he finally pulls away from her, gasping for breath.

"I don't—" he whispers, his breath ragged and uneven, and she bites her lips in fear of rejection. She barely notices his hand still caressing her neck, tracing her collarbone. "I mean, I want—I want you."

He blushes adorably. "I want you. Do you—I mean, are you sure? I've never done this, I just—" his hand keeps tracing down her neck until he reaches the edge of her dress where breast and cloth meet. "Maker's breath, I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I?"

It's okay, though. She understands. He's thirty years old, and this is his first time being with a woman. Personally, she's rather flattered that he thinks she's worth breaking his vows for.

She kisses him tenderly on the lips. "It's okay. Follow me."

She takes him by the hand and guides him down the hall to her bedroom. She realizes—a little too late, really—that anyone could have seen them—but it's late at night and the halls are empty, and as the door to the bedchambers are closed she finds herself kissing him again, pressed tightly against a wall. His hands are braver than they were in the kitchens, grazing her arse and grasping at her neck, holding her as close to him as she dares. She comes to the frustrating conclusion that she doesn't really know how to remove heavy plate armor—she and Nathaniel both prefer light leathers—but it's in the way of progress and she wants it gone now.

He laughs, and shows her the strings holding the armor closed. Together, they remove the heavy plate until he's standing there in nothing but his padding, undershirt, and smallclothes.

She's surprised at how bulky he still seems, how his arms are nothing but muscle, or how in the soft candlelight his skin seems darker, or—

He must have noticed her staring, because soon his face turns red again. "I think, my lady, that you are overdressed."

She smiles at him. "Why, I do think you are right, good ser."

It's a wonderful thing, watching his reaction as she slides off the dress. For every inch of pale skin revealed, his eyes follow with reverence. Their lovemaking is beautiful—she can't get over this feeling of adoration that follows his every kiss, every tiny touch enchanting, like she was some rare and wonderful thing amidst all the darkness in his life.

This must be what Andraste felt when she was visited by the Maker. She thinks, heresy and sin forgotten as Alistair worships her body with his mouth. Like she was the last good thing in this world, and He wanted to savor it.


When she wakes up the next morning, he's already dressed, and in his hand there is a single red rose.

"Here," he whispers, placing the rose on her chest directly between her breasts. "You know what this is?"

She smiles up at him, fondling the rose gently. "You're new weapon of choice?"

He laughs. "Oh yes, I can see it now. Fear me, apostates! Watch as I overpower you with my rosy sent! …They'll never see it coming, you know. I bet they're shaking in their boots."

She giggles, and leans forward to capture his lips with her own. It's a sweet kiss, soft and loving, unlike the mad passion they shared last night.

It doesn't last, however, and as he pulls away a thought occurs to her. "You're leaving." She whispers in disbelief, even though the fact should be obvious. Of course he's leaving. What, does she expect him to stay? Abandon his duty to the Chantry? Not to mention how her husband would react when he finally came home—Never mind the Templar, darling: I've decided I like him better than you.

It doesn't seem fair, though, regardless. Here she's finally found a man worth loving, and he's leaving her.

"I am," he whispers, brushing a hair off her face. "It's my duty—there is still an apostate I need to capture, and I—I can't stay." He kisses her forehead. "I want to, but I can't. We both knew it wouldn't last forever."

"And—and the rose?" She holds the flower close to her heart, as if it's the most treasured jewel in Ferelden.

He brushes her cheek with his thumb. "I wanted you to have something to remember me by. And to say thank you, for last night. It—it meant everything to me."

She smiles at him sadly. "Me too."

They kiss one more time, and then Ser Alistair walks out of her life for good.

Nine months later, she gives birth to his son, unknowing bringing into the world the last illegitimate heir of the Theirin bloodline.

If Nathaniel ever realizes that her son is not his own, he doesn't say anything about it, and Elissa counts that as a small victory. Every time she looks at her son's nose or gentle smile, she is reminded of her Templar, and wonders where he is, what he's doing, if he's thinking about her, if he ever found that silly apostate he came to Amarathine looking for.

It's a good memory, after all; one that gave her a son.

She would not trade it for the world.