What We Had

Authors notes: Wow! Thanks so much for the encouraging PMs and favourite ads. Great so see such positive reviews after only the first chapter. This one is a little longer, and hopefully, sheds some more light on the contrasts of then and now. I wrote half of this in past tense to help with the change. Hope it's not too confusing! :D

--Dagny.

Warnings: Language.

'As King of Ferelden, I command you to sit still and—'

'Oh, you can sod off with your regal horseshit before I stab you with this sword—'

'That's a kitchen carving knife!'

'What does that have to do with the price of eggs? One step closer and I'll—did you not hear what I—I swear by The Maker I'll—ahhh!'

His hands quivered as he restrained her, the metal scales around his wrists rattling melodically around her waist and flailing arms. Under the candlelight, his golden ceremonial armour gave the grey walls of the bedroom a gilded glow, moulded to his substantial build in a manner that befitted his rank and recently anointed position. However, the ornate chainmail's beauty paled in light of its weight, which had been bearing down on his shoulders since his inauguration today morning. Yet despite this notion, it failed to ground him to the floor he shimmied across like an inept dancer—with the woman in his grasp orchestrating the entire comedic scene with her erratic movements. Their first time alone since the Blight had been defeated and the fine porcelain on the table had been smashed, a suit of armour pulled from its stand, and the curtains torn from their banisters—all with their clothes on, much to his infinite annoyance.

His silver lining of the evening: he finally managed to get her to drop the knife.

'You're as stubborn as a Mabari, Dorcas—I'm trying to help you!' Alistair grumbled into her hair, closing his mouth to the wisps that curled out from her two plaited buns as she fidgeted. 'So if you would just wait a moment, I can put you out of your misery!'

'You'll put me out of my misery all right: you'll kill me!'

'It's a dislocated shoulder! Andraste's buck teeth, if the adoring public could see their fearless hero now!'

'Well it hurts.'

'And yet you've been trying to hide your injuries ever since you slew The Archdemon!'

Her movements stilled as she paused for consideration, head cocked curiously to the side. 'Do you think anyone noticed?'

'They'd have to be, well, thicker than me not to have done—and believe me, that's quite a rarity! I half expected you to fall down every set of stairs you were so lopsided—reminded me a bit of Flemmeth now that I think about it.'

'Why, you good for nothing—' The cry was a mixture of pain and surprise, a sound that Alistair was prepared for as he curled her bent form towards him, letting her head sag into the crook of his arm as she sobbed out her agony, drowning out the crack of her bone as it slid back into its socket.

'I know, I know, I'm a royal bastard who isn't fit to wipe the dirt from your shoes,' he consoled her with a smile, responding to the muffled curses and calls for blasphemy that reverberated against his breast plate. When she was ready, Dorcas steadied herself in his arms, raising a tear-stained face to eye her betrothed who was relatively smug despite the pain he had put her through. Nonetheless, it was easy for her to mellow under his amber gaze and playful simper—so much so, that she had grown oblivious to the stomp of angry footsteps hurrying against the stone floor outside their room. That was until Wynne slammed open the door, one hand glowing possessively with ancient magics, while a few curious handmaids peaked over her shoulder with impish grins. The grooves on her face were highlighted by the shadows, though her eyes maintained their ethereal glow. She examined the scene with a stern gaze. It was clear from her pursed lips that she had already analysed the situation by the time Ferelden's hero turned her misty eyes to the door. From the way she gathered herself, Alistair feared the worse and promptly raised his arms in defeat.

'I know what you're thinking, Wynne.'

'Do you, now?' she replied in an even tone, arching her fine brows in a way that made the grown man shudder. 'Then that should save me a lot of time when explaining to the Ferelden court why their new King is now a frog.'

'Wynneeee, it's not what it looks like—tell her, Dory!'

Looking sheepishly towards her comrade, Dorcas was quick to hobble over to the mage's side, clasping onto her robes like a child.

'He hurt me, Wynne! Look,' she complained, pointing to her newly rearranged shoulder as if the elderly woman could see through the layers of her battle gear. 'Meany Alistair was so rough.'

The look of disdain Wynne threw him should have convinced him to back down, yet it was Dorcas who fuelled his bravery with a demure leer, caught on her lips for the briefest of moments.

'You malicious, manipulative wench,' he breathed through a strained smile; half bemused by his trickster companion while the rest of him smouldered with contempt for the mage's half arsed assessment of the circumstance. Honestly, Wynne was practically omnipresent in her judgements, and yet come the theatrics of a dear friend (whom she coddled like one of her own) her logic crumbled under her caring nature.

Alistair tempted conversation once more.

'I promise I'll be gentler with her.' Deciding it was safer to make amends, he held out a hand, hoping that Dorcas would end the charade and accept this declaration of peace. After watching the slow shake of her head, (the quarter smile pulling the corner of her lip) it was clear the young king was stripped of his rights—all of them.

'I think the Princess-consort shall return to her lodgings for the day, Your Majesty.'

'But—'

The couple (whom Wynne decidedly directed towards the door) turned around.

'Hmm—is there some pressing matter with your betrothed that cannot wait until morning?' the woman said apathetically, her telling eyes burrowing so deep into Alistair's subconscious that a blush crawled along his neck.

Well, there is the pressing matter of my erection, he thought (and knew Wynne was well aware of his expectations for the night) but passed over the question with a brusque cough. A wave of his hand signalled his permission to leave.

The sordid minx was well versed in making him wait.

When he enters the room, her face is dull, lifeless—thinks she's staring beyond him.

'My love,' he begins as always, with a term that drags limply on his tongue. It's hard to stomach.

'I said I wasn't accepting visitors.'

She's hunched over the edge of the bed, staring into opening of her window. The fire's almost out now and the auburn of her hair is black in the gloom. Enveloped by covers, he can't tell what she's wearing. He expects the tone (guttural, monotone; she doesn't even to turn to face him when she says it) and straightens to attention.

'I know, but I'm not a visitor—I'm your husband.'

She doesn't reply (doesn't do anything) and it spurs him to continue.

'I want to know,' words, stick to his throat, and he swallows, 'if you're alright.'

'You want to know if I'm still fit to pop out a child, you mean?' she corrects, in a voice that has him reeling with sadness (and contempt). For a moment, Alistair is sure she's going to vomit out more insults—perhaps to him, perhaps to the window she's so fond of—and yet, he sees her shoulders shake with the heave of a sigh. Emotion flits back into her voice—quiet, but there. It lifts him—lifts him like hope.

'I-I don't know anymore.'

Taking a few hesitant steps forward, Alistair tries to get a glimpse of her face.

'Can I do something—anything, to make it better?'

She turns to him (and in the dark, he sees her pale lips, puffy eyes, swollen) and stares into the bottomless pits of her eyes; cold, dead. He thinks of Morrigan before he can stop himself.

'Yes, yes you can. Zevran—I need him.'

He licks his lips. Disappointment is riddled in every pore.

'Zevran.' His voice barely carries in the stagnant air.

For a moment, he thinks she will reconsider (her lips quivered with uncertainty.) He considers it idly thinking, and turns to leave the room. Zevran is lurking outside the halls (was always there, he muses) and leans against the stone wall as he passes. Alistair fails to acknowledge him and quickens his pace until he turns the corner of the ingress, out of sight.

Long after he's reached the cervices of his own room, Alistair's thoughts are still bloody, his fists still clenched.

'Why are you doing this, my lady?' he asks. His handsome face holds the semblance of confusion—but in this light, Dorcas cannot be sure. She's crying silently (it is something Zevran is accustomed to, doesn't query) and holding her stomach, (once converse, now curling towards her spine.)

The queen brings a hand to her face.

'I'm losing him, Zevran,' she moans.

'And you are pushing him away,' he says simply. As she shakes her head, the elf catches the glint of metal on her ear. His face ruptures into an angry scowl as he recognises the design. 'I want you to have this—' His jaw tightens at the memory, yet he moves to her side when a waxy arm reaches out towards him. He takes it, and holds it close, squeezing the limp fingers he cradles in his. When she presses her face into his flank (the cloth growing damp with her tears) he's holding his breath.

'Stay with me tonight,' she whispers through a sniffle.

Dorcas is sure he hasn't heard her. He's too stiff—unmoving, his hands suddenly as cold and dead as her own. She repeats the request and listens to the rich bells of laughter which rumble in his chest.

'I heard you the first time, Grey Warden,' he tells her, his hands sliding to her face, holding them pensively. When he leans in, she shuts her eyes, purses her lips and waits like a young virgin. They flutter open when he feels the gentle kiss to her forehead (the hands once so certain and strong, now trembling under her jaw.)

'You're not ready to break his heart,' he breathes into her ear, forcing her into tears once more.

'Even when he is, you are still, not ready.'