Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age. If I did we would all know where the hell our Wardens had run off to and Hawke wouldn't have gone to Weisshaupt.
Of all expectations laid before Alistair for this particular milestone, no one had mentioned how he would feel after, not really. Father had made an attempt or two to properly explain things, as had Wynne. Though between father flustering himself and Wynne flustering Alistair, the conversations that they had tried to initiate regarding sex and the emotions following had been rather stilted.
All Cailan, Zevran, and Lyna were good for were stories of conquest. Well, all right, Lyna had had advice sprinkled in there too, though Alistair doesn't know how intentional that was. As he gazes over at Elissa's flushed face, he doesn't really care. He just needs to buy Lyna a pint for that long-winded, red-faced demonstration she's shouted at all of her "idiot lads" in taverns of why crooking your fingers and making use of one's thumb is a must with a lady.
Elissa catches his gaze and smirks, leaning in to press a trail of close-lipped kisses down along his throat. Alistair all but purrs.
Yep, Lyna is getting a pint every time they go out together for the next forever.
A proper description for everything that he's feeling is beyond Alistair. Satisfied. Yearning. Happy. Jelly-boned. Tense. Apprehensive. Carefree So many contradictory things and not one good solid word to wrap it all up in. Though, he reckons as Elissa's mouth moves up to his, that wrapping his feelings up all neat isn't a necessity. Or probably even something that should be possible.
He would like to say it was perfect. But the memory of his first climax hitting before Elissa had gotten him out of his trousers is still fresh. Burning fresh, hotter than a brand. Maker, even thinking of it now makes him want to bury his head back against her collarbone and die. Luckily, there's the memory of Elissa explaining what a refractory period is, distracting him with her teeth against his Adam's apple and guiding his hand between her thighs, that comes quick to temper his embarrassment.
Kissing her back, Alistair can't stop himself from grinning. So maybe perfect could be a little closer than he thought...
And as if she's read his thoughts, Elissa, once they've parted to breath, cards the unruly front of his hair. "Not bad at all for a virgin," she says with both fondness and just a hint of amusement. "Get some more practice in and you might even be able to give me a lesson."
Sweet Andraste, how he wants that to be true. More the hint that they might share a bed again than the giving her a lesson part. Not that that doesn't have its appeal. Alistair doesn't let that fantasy carry too far though; he doesn't hate himself that much. Instead he plays along.
"I don't know," he says, returning the attentions to her own hair. It slides like tendrils of ink through his fingers, soft and warm and thick. Alistair very nearly abandons the conversation to bury is face in it. He swallows, pushing back the urge, and attempts a smirk. "I rather liked taking orders. Could just be you though."
Elissa laughs. "Ooh, now. Let's add pillow talk to the list of satisfactory things about you."
It might be a joke but it still makes him glow. "Well, I aim to please."
"I could tell," she giggles with a simmering sort of glint to her eye. It's a look that sends pangs shooting through his chest straight down to his groin. He wants to be inside of her again with a kind of desperation that he thinks he ought to be ashamed of. But they've gone at it twice (three times if he were to count that first mishap) over the course of several hours and he is sapped.
The air between them hangs heavy. Alistair can't stop touching her hair and there are terrifying-but-unnamable thoughts and feelings clawing at his chest like madness. Across from him, Elissa only smiles, eyes half closed as she leans into the touch of his hand, oblivious to his dilemma.
Barking and the pounding of hooves against underbrush offer him an escape. At the noise, Elissa wriggles out of his embrace and sits up. Alistair follows suit, though he scrabbles to find something to cover himself with.
A Mabari along with a very large horse enter upon the clearing. The Mabari has a light brown coat with a black muzzle and feet. The horse is dappled silver on black, with a bright white mane, tail, and feathered stockings on each leg. Both go straight to Elissa who stands to great them with a smile.
"Oh, dear, Morrigan's gotten impatient and sent the cavalry to fetch me," she tells him with a laugh. The Mabari barks, as if to confirm this as Elissa scratches his ears. "Hey, whose side are you on now?" she asks the hound. "If remember correctly it was Morrigan and Velanna who detoured us through here in the first place so they could look for ruins. It's only fair that I'm allowed my own fun." She turns to wink at him when she says that and Alistair's stomach somersaults against the rest of his innards. Another bark comes from the Mabari and Elissa sighs. "All right, all right. Go back to camp and let her infernal highness know I'll be there shortly. Go on, Ruff, good boy."
"Ruff?" Alistair finds himself asking as the dog trots back from whence it came.
Elissa laughs and shrugs a touch of color lighting up her face. "I was eight when he chose me," she offers as explanation. "At the time, it made perfect sense."
"Not disagreeing," he says. For a moment, he struggles, trying to refrain from what next leaves his mouth. "So is the horse 'Whinny' then?"
She groans covering her face with both hands; she's chuckling though and nods at him. "All right, I can see how I deserved that."
"That's not answering the question."
Elissa sticks out her tongue. "No. Her name is Eyseld." The corner of her mouth quirks. "I was seventeen when we were paired up. And also the breeders named her."
"What a fortuitous event for you, Eyseld," Alistair can't help but continue to tease. Elissa takes his jabs with such easy humor; he has to wonder what exactly it is that she is bad at.
Other than naming pets, of course.
Courage to ask that is lost however, when he finds his clothes being tossed to him. Elissa grins down at him, hands on her hips.
"Not that I don't just adore the view and all." She winks when she says that and by Andraste, he could not echo that sentiment more perfectly.
Sadness swells in Alistair's chest as he heeds her, replacing that bubbly-contentedness that their activities had given him. He tries not to watch her dress even though he can feel her doing exactly that. It makes him rush to cover himself, as if Elissa hadn't already seen every inch of him.
Stop it, he tells himself, tucking his tunic into his breeches and then lacing them. His hands shake. You knew exactly what was going to happen. You lay together and you leave, that's how trysts work.
But what if I don't want a tryst?
Bit late for that.
In the midst of his self-loathing, Elissa's voice breaks through. He raises his head toward her. She's mostly dressed, boots, shirt, and breeches, her tunic is resting over her should like she means for it to be next with her jerkin waiting attention just at her feet. Her head cants to the side a moment, as if regarding him, and Alistair has to wonder if all of his thoughts were spoken aloud.
Or maybe they're just plain on his face.
Either or, a softness glimmers in her eyes and after a brief moment to snatch something from Eyseld's saddle horn, she's rushed the distance between them. Her hands are cupping his jaw and neck again, gently urging for his face to tilt up to her own. Alistair follows; because when, in the short span of their acquaintance has he had the power to resist her? Her tongue is still warm and sweet as it finds his but now it's also familiar and that in of itself is more thrilling than anything. He returns the kiss ardently, molding his arms around her waist, pressing in as close as physically possible.
"I have to go," she whispers once they part for want of air. Her words are whispered against his cheek. "I wish I didn't but…"
The sadness he's feeling does not fade, not exactly. But it does get…lighter. Just the knowledge that she'd like to linger with him, that he isn't alone in that want for her company. It makes a wonderful balm for…whatever it is he's feeling in this post-coital haze.
"I know," he says. He relinquishes his grip on her hip to card a hand through her hair one last time. Maker, does he adore her hair, it's nearly as perfect as her eyes. "Me too. I have…things to attend to."
She smiles at that, sad but not watery or weak. One last kiss, quick and soft is pressed upon his lips before she's breaking away, grabbing up her jerkin on the way to her horse. Alistair looks down and sees a rather weighty pouch in his hand, that upon investigation he discovers is packed with poultices.
"You're sure she wouldn't slip poison in here?" he asks, taking out what appears to him to be a stamina draught.
Elissa, who now has both tunic and jerkin on and is swinging herself into the saddle, laughs. "I like you," she says, as if such has been common knowledge for a millennia. Some of those happy bubbles fizzle back up into Alistair's chest. "She might not care for you, but my sister wouldn't upset me for anything."
A very small part of him almost mentions how he can't really remember what it's like to have that kind of relationship with a sibling. The bitterness centered upon Cailan however, is washed away under Elissa's smile. So instead, he says, "Aren't I lucky for your protection then?"
Her response is a wink. There is another moment condensing itself into eternity after that wink, after Elissa grasps the reigns, preparing to urge her horse back to her camp and leave him behind. With her lower lip worried between her teeth, Alistair can see her struggling with the words for a proper goodbye while he does his best not to beg her to go. Finally, though, she smiles again.
"We'll see each other again," she says, nodding as if she has just made a choice. "Yes. We will. Very soon too I think. Safe travels until then." And then she shouts a word that he doesn't understand but that makes her horse gallop off into the words.
A wild impulse shoots through Alistair, one that urges for him to chase after her and demand just how she could possibly know that they'll meet again. It also craves to know just when that will be (because it hopes that soon is very, very, soon). It dwarfs the voice of common sense in him, trying in vain to remind him that she doesn't even really know who he is or where his from so his hopes should not rise even an inch.
He does none of that though. Alistair watches Elissa ride of with a smile that almost hurts his face for quite some time. He might have stood there until the sun went down then came back up if Drust didn't reappear and start nibbling the sleeve of his shirt, announcing that their ride to Denerim must resume.
#
Alistair's return is uneventful and quick. Taking the main roads now that there is no urgency (not that there really was to begin with), he stops at an inn that night, taking to the saddle again after the sun rises. Elissa and their afternoon in the grass slide to the forefront of his thoughts with every other hoof-beat, and his face aches from smiling by the time that the capital's great gates come into view early in the evening.
Just before the gates, two familiar riders come into view. They see him at the same time that he sees them, and he hears a cheerful whoop before they're galloping out. Because he isn't as impatient as Lyna and Zevran (especially, considering Lyna will most likely be yelling), he doesn't urge Drust to go any faster.
"Dirthara-ma!" Yep, Lyna is shouting as she pulls her hart to a stop. Perhaps to offset Nehn's shrill bellow as his reigns are tugged at first, but her voice doesn't lower when her mount quiets. Nor do her green-gold eyes soften up as she steers Nehn to flank Alistair's right and punch his arm. Lyna isn't any sweeter sober than she is drunk. "You idiot! Why didn't you tell us what you were going to do!? We would have helped! We would have asked around to see where Cailan went before just traipsing off after him!"
On his right, Zevran has much more gently slowed his horse, Rialto, and leans with an elbow propped upon the saddlehorn, chin upon his fist, to grin over at Alistair. "What my sweet cousin means to say is that we're very glad you've returned in one piece."
Alistair chuckles, rubbing his arm. "I appreciate the concern. Truly. Could do without the punching, but it's still appreciated."
Lyna rolls her eyes. "Ugh. Infants the both of you." With a little less disgust she tilts her head at Alistair, arms crossed over her chest like a pouting child. "You all right?"
"Andraste's sake," Alistair laughs. "Did you actually start believing there are werewolves lurking in the Brecilian like my twit of a brother?"
"Werewolves maybe not," Zevran interjects as Lyna's umber skin gets a very dangerous scarlet undertone about the neck and ears. "But a bear or two or a pack of wolves, well…"
"Also, the Brecilian is ancient," Lyna bites her words out, again looking like a child with her face puffed and arms crossed. "It is chalk full of wild magic and rot from before the Imperium collapsed in the south, maybe even before Arlathan. Not a place you go for a picnic with your sweetheart."
Well, he technically did not have a picnic there. No. And Elissa isn't his sweetheart, not exactly. Though, Alistair has thought about her fairly constantly since they parted and those thoughts make every inch of him tingle.
"What on earth is on with you?" Lyna's voice cuts through burgeoning reflections of the way Elissa's mouth turned up so perfectly at the corners. Alistair almost jumps out of his saddle.
"What?" he demands; he feels a blush begin its creep along his jaw. Both Zevran and Lyna stare at him with raised brows. "What?"
"You were smiling," Zevran supplies.
Alistair does his very best not to panic. "And I'm not allowed to smile?"
"Not when I'm being cross with you, you aren't," Lyna says, ears twitching in annoyance.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mother Mahariel," he drawls. "Shall I go to my room without supper for backsassing you?"
"You might go without teeth if you aren't careful." The threat is an empty one and they both know it. As prickly and hotheaded as Lyna will act, she's also the daughter of diplomats and a shrewd diplomat in the making herself. More importantly, she is one of his dearest friends for going over ten years; she can think of much more horrible things to do to him than simply rendering him toothless.
So, Alistair placates her with a laugh, and nudges Drust with his knees. They can chat and ride back into the city, after all. "Fine, fine, point taken. I shouldn't run off on hapless quests without my trusty Dalish allies. Can you ever forgive me?"
Lyna growls while Zevran chuckles and they both follow him at a leisurely trot back to the gates.
"Honestly," he says after some distance has been covered, "I'm only really mad about the fact that I've gone and missed Father's reaction to it all. What was it he told Cailan the last time he snuck off to the Red Lantern district? That he would be locked and barred in his rooms like a damsel until the Progress began? Would've like to have seen that."
"Good news awaits you then, my friend," Zevran says. "You'll still get to see that."
"What?!" He very nearly jerks Drust to a halt as he looks over at his friend. "I've been gone three days! Almost four! How has father let Cailan stay at the Pearl for going on four days?"
"Lady Gyllianne's tried to pull him out quietly," Lyna says. "But that so-called Prince's Guard of his keeps chasing away all of her people." In her disdain, she spits at the gravel beneath their feet.
Zevran, eternally cheerful as he is, has a somber look about him when Alistair turns. The other man shrugs. "The king does not want to risk public embarrassment of the crown prince being dragged home from a brothel. Sanga, her people, and the district as a whole are as discreet as can be, but the citizens who would see him being carted off…"
It would be humiliating and not just for Cailan. Gossip would tear at Anora, the betrothed that his brother is to formally present over the Grand Progress that their father, Lady Gyllianne, and the Mac Tirs have been planning for the last five years. Teyrna Rowan is a reasonable and good-sensed woman with a hold on her husband that Andraste would envy, but there are limits to what her rationality can muster. Even when coupled with the king's orders and Anora's pleas.
It's as if Lyna reads his mind. "Erlina has talked Anora out of going to fetch him twice now," she says, a note or two of pity in her voice. "And Mother forbade me from going; she said that the Dalish Ambassador's daughter showing up would only fan flames."
"And also the Kendalls fool is there," Zevran adds. "You know she'll murder him if the doors close."
"Vaughn?" Alistair feels ill even saying it. "Cailan can't stand to be in the same room with that toad!" Or at least he hadn't back when he still told his little brother what he was going to get up to.
Powerful as the Dalish Empire is in the southwest, as revered as the Canticle of Shartan is, and even as much as Fereldan owes them for their assistance back during the Rebellion years, there will always be human folk who can't get on with Elves. Malcontent arseholes, as Father or Teyrn Loghain would call them. The Kendalls of Denerim have always been amongst the more obvious of their kind and Vaughn is just nasty to boot. He crossed Lyna once, about three years back, calling her a knife-eared whore and she had understandably responded by doing her best to see that he ate mush until he did the world a favor and died. She had almost been sent back to the Dales and Vaughn was on a still active banishment from court.
Cailan is many things that aren't exactly respectable, but he's never been the sort to carry on with a racist mongrels. Least of all one who had bad blood with a friend as good to them as Lyna was.
Zevran, ever the pacifier, gives him a kind look. "Thomas, that new boy in Cailan's guard, is friends with Vaughn. Cailan is probably too drunk and deep pretty girls to notice anyone crashing his party."
That does help. Just a little, but it's enough that Alistair can fret over Cailan ruining his betrothal rather than him having of turned into an irredeemable human being. Zevran is going to get several pints later too.
"Lovely, so saving Cailan from himself is still on my to-do list." Alistair sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. If the gates and the gilded signs didn't already proclaim that he had made it home, then the headache certainly would.
Lyna reaches over to pat his shoulder, the look on her tattooed face almost kind. For her it's tantamount to dewy eyes and a bear hug. Like Zevran's words though, it bolsters him quite a bit.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Closing his eyes, a plan tumbles together in the space between inhalation and exhalation.
"Zevran, does Kallian still owe you a favor?"
His friend shrugs, biting his lower lip. "I…think so? After the last card game I am not so sure…"
"She owes you two," Lyna tells her cousin and shrugs when their eyes turn to her. "What? One of us needs to keep from being drunk off their arse when we play cards with the Tabrises."
"Yes, but when is that you?" Zevran demands, looking mildly insulted.
"When can that be you?" she retorts.
Alistair waves a hand between the Elves as they attempt to glare holes through one another. "Can we focus, please? I need a cart with a false bottom and Kallian is the only person that I can think of who owns one and might lend it to us."
Lyna stops scowling at Zevran to raise an eyebrow at Alistair. "What are you going to do with a smuggler's cart?" she asks.
"What I'm best at," he replies as the shadow of the city gates falls over them. "Saving Cailan from himself."
#
"You sure you're going to be able to do this?" he asks Lyna for the thousandth or so time since they've gone over the plan.
From where she sits across from him in the wagon, comes a frown along with a very rude gesture. "We go in, grab Cailan, and we leave. I don't think I can ruin even that simple of a plan."
"Even with that Kendalls rat in there?" the point swimming on the back of Alistair's tongue comes from the head of the wagon. Kallian Tabris, both the provider and the driver of their loaned mode of transport—and very shortly getaway—looks back over her shoulder, giving Lyna a questioning look. At the deepening of Lyna's frown and narrowing of her eyes, the other Elven woman shrugs, turning back to the reigns and steering them along the narrow back alleys toward the Pearl. "What? I'm not disagreeing; there's a reason we barred him from the Vhenadahl, after all. Just you know, with your temper…"
Lyna's ears are twitching and her nostrils have flared. "Give me another minute and I'll have all of my temper used up on—"
"Ladies," Alistair does not raise his voice but his tone is clear. "Save it for the next game of Wicked Grace, please."
He gets the expected grumbling and sour look from Lyna and Kallian as gracious as she usually is, returns her attentions to the road. Alistair breathes a small sigh because at least the first leg of this scheme hasn't fallen to shit. Yet.
Of course, just getting to the Pearl is the easy part. Getting, grabbing Cailan, and stuffing him into the wagon's false bottom, well… Legs two, three, four, and five are going to be more taxing. That much he was certain of before they came within sight of the brothel and he hadn't seen Hugh and Martin Yevalle positioned down the same alley that would take them to the Pearl's back gate. Watchmen, Cailan set up watchmen to guard his carousing.
"Fantastic," Alistair mutters, rubbing the space between his eyes.
"We could run them over," Lyna says, resting her arm over his shoulder. He knows she's joking, if only by half. Why couldn't Zevran be the slower rider with a conspicuous mount? Then Lyna could be off letting Lady Gyllianne know of the situation while he and Zevran snapped up his brother. But Zevran isn't as strong as his cousin is, and he's always so easily distracted by pleasures of the flesh that they'd never make it past the first winking prostitute. Plus aside from Alistair, he's the only person that Drust will follow. Lyna is whom he has and Alistair is grateful for her.
"They're minor nobility and youngest sons to boot. Who'd miss them?"
Most of the time, he's grateful for her.
He rolls his eyes back at her. "I don't know, Lyna, their parents?"
She snorts. "Clearly someone hasn't been paying attention to how familial affection actually works at court."
"I think I'm a firsthand expert actually. And Cailan will be too, once I get my hands on him."
"Ooh, you're almost cute when you're angry," his friend jokes, giving his scruffy cheek a quick pinch. "Careful though, that's my role in this association."
Alistair wants to point out that apparently she's also the greedy one. He refrains however, and makes a decision in regards to their blockade.
"Kallian, stay here, we'll signal you to bring the wagon in," he tells her as he climbs out and onto the cobblestones. Without bein prompted, Lyna follows.
"What's the signal going to be?" Kallian asks.
"Me or Lyna or both of us shouting your name and waving our arms."
The innkeeper nods as if this were the usual routine for a Tuesday night. Given some of the things that Cailan has roped them all into over the years, that might be a factually accurate reaction. Maker's Breath, does that thought hit like a slap…
"We're just going to waltz in through the front doors, are we?" Lyna asks, keeping stride with him as they cross through the alleys to the main road.
"Remigold if you prefer," he tells her with a shrug. "Just promise me that you won't lose your temper and make this situation worse than it already is."
"That's insulting."
"Lyna."
"Fine." She sounds like he asked her to pretend to be an Andrastian or cover her ears. "I won't maim anything without your go-ahead. Is that sufficient?"
"Do you promise not to maim anything without my go-ahead?"
"Dirthara-ma, yes," she hisses as they approach the Pearl's ornate red doors. "I promise."
"S'all I ask for," he says, far more cheerfully than he actually feels in this moment. Another deep breath and he pushes the door open.
The Pearl is the oldest brothel in Denerim and the best, or so people say. Alistair has never been one for...that sort of thing but he knows a well-kept and welcoming building when he sees it. Sanga and her people keep the place tidy, even the bar, fresh flowers sit on every table, embers glitter on the hearth, and there's no awkward musky tang to the air, simply the faint aroma of the flowers and food being cooked in the kitchens. It's not unlike the feel of Vhenadahl on an evening. Except Shianni, Soris, and Kallian would never allow half-naked ladies/men to be sitting in the laps of their patrons. Not even on card night.
Or that is how the Pearl usually is whenever Alistair has to drop by and tell his brother that playtime is over. Tonight, Sanga's usually quite orderly house of flesh is in disarray. Furniture has been overturned, the smell of stale ale is abundant, and all of the prostitutes present look far less than amused with the patrons they're entertaining. All men (idiots) from the Prince's Guard, of course, and all drunk, loud, and insufferable. Except for Vaughn, Vaughn is just an arsehole who managed to weasel in.
Vaughn is also unfortunately the first to notice them.
"Ugh-oh, boys, look who it is!" the arl's son exclaims pointing towards the two of them and slopping half of his tankard on him in the process. The lady sitting with him looks disgusted but also afraid to move and that gnaws at Alistair more than he can say. And if it bothers him that much he can only imagine the storm brewing up in Lyna.
"A promise is a promise, remember that," he whispers to his friend as the nostril flaring, ear twitching, tells of her rage resurface with gusto.
"Oh, dear," Thomas Howe, the one responsible for the previous arsehole being there, chimes in. "The king's bastard-baby-brother-babysitter. We're in trouble."
"And the Dalish cavalry, delightful," Vaughn agrees, with a look at Lyna that makes Alistair's skin crawl.
The rest of the bunch howls, as if it was the funniest thing ever said. Drunken, no good, high-born sots, every single one.
Before he can make a retort, Sanga, looking harried but covering it masterfully, appears with two of the Pearl's big burly guards. She smiles, though the edges of it are a bit frayed. He understands; putting up with his brother for four days will do that to a person. The fact that everyone at the palace doesn't have gray hair by now is nothing short of a miracle.
"Your Highness," she bows, as do her men, to the appropriate depth that his station calls for. "You have come to fetch your brother no doubt, allow me to show—"
"Not so fast!"
For a fool as big as is, Landry moves faster than a snake. It's a despicable quality for someone who is already so obnoxious to have. He looks like a beefier version of Cailan, Alistair often thinks. Blonde hair always in a copy of Cailan's preferred style, his dark eyes have never held the kindness that Cailan's can, and his brother has never been able to grow the type of beard that Landry wears. Often, Alistair has the inkling that Landry has fancied himself Cailan's real brother and that's where all of the resentment comes from.
Or he's simply an giant arsehole. That's a very strong possibility as well.
"His Royal Highness," the 'royal' part comes out with a bite that Alistair cannot mistake, which is surely Landry's intent, "hasn't given word that he's ready to leave. We're his guard, once he's had his fun we'll guard him back to the palace, as is our duty." His dark eyes narrow on Alistair, as if he's dirt; no there are worse things than dirt to be in those eyes. For example a bastard.
It should not sting. Not after all of these years. From birth all of the background noise at court has been about him. The scandal of the king bringing his shame to court and even blessing it with a title. Words whispered without a care when he's outside of the presence of people who it would be dangerous to anger with such talk, Father, Teyrna Rowan and Teyrn Loghain, and once upon a time, Cailan.
Sting it does though, if only for the fact that his brother chose to keep a dog like this at his feet.
Lyna growls in that way that tells him that her temper is near the break. Flattered though Alistair is that she's but a hair's breath away from leaping upon Landry and putting of her fancy Dalish Dar'Misu through his tongue, he also knows that doing so won't help anything. Turning toward her, he holds up a hand and frowns. She frowns back with the kind of glare that should be able to melt the skin straight off of bone. Alistair has become acclimated to the fearsomeness of Lyna's scowls, though so he only raises an eyebrow to her, wordlessly reminding her that she had promised this wouldn't become an episode. The glare continues for a few seconds before she turns it toward their onlookers, who unlike Alistair, are not conditioned, and they backpedal yards at once.
He would laugh, only when he turns back to Landry, the knight has pulled over a pretty blonde whose dress leaves little to the imagination. Landry grins. "Come on, Your Highness, maybe if you could spare a moment to be a man you wouldn't begrudge your big brother his own fun." And then he pushes her, none-too-gently toward Alistair. The lady yelps, wholly as unprepared to be pushed as Alistair is to see it and the choice is to catch her or watch her fall. Because Alistair isn't Landry and he catches her.
They all expect him to turn red, back away stammering, and run, Alistair knows that. It's always the way he's acted when having to come to the Pearl and gather up Cailan. Shy, stupid, virginal Alistair, abnormal in his refusal to leer at women or pay them to warm his bed. Really, it's almost shameful.
But he does not feel ashamed. Not today. Perhaps never again even.
"What is wrong with you?!" He surprises everyone with those words, so fierce, hard, and coming from his lips without pause as he steadies the woman shoved at him, which he does without any awkwardness for her revealing clothes. His eyes remain on Landry the entire time, even when he gently ushers her behind him.
Something strange has crawled up Alistair's spine, something that is absolutely done with being cowed before these buffoons for one instant longer. He steps forward, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and Landry is so baffled that he steps back.
"The king—your king—wants the crown prince back in the palace." Alistair can scarce recognize his own voice. It's cold but the kind of cold that sears and withers flesh, like the snap of Wynne's stave when it casts frost. "The Royal Spymaster has been sending people to fetch you for days but you ignore them or chase them away. So, that leaves your duty in the hands of the ambassador's daughter and myself. Now either you step aside, sober up, and allow me to carry on with that duty or pull your sword out and let's have this done."
Landry's jaw tics, as if he can barely keep it from dropping. It's more than their watchers-on can do, he hears plenty of gasping, and even a "Shivah'Dahl" whispered by Lyna. Alistair can't fault them, he's equally surprised to have said it, what's more is that he means it.
Alistair steps forward again, back straight and shoulders squared, directly into Landry's personal space. A bold move and perhaps not a bright one but he does not care. He is sick of this game and wants the cards out of his hands to end the match.
"Just keep in mind," he says in a voice that's only loud enough for the head of the Prince's Guard to hear, "that bastard I may be but I am still the king's son, and I know my father loves me enough that should your blade come out, he certainly won't be minding the bastard part when he strips you of title, lands, and position in his court. Now move."
The words come out with a force that make the other man's eyes blow wide, if only for a scant moment. In a blink, Landry's face has gone purple and not unlike Lyna, his nostrils are flaring, albeit he looks more like a bull. Several tense seconds pass in which Alistair is certain that he will actually need to parry an incoming slash of Landry's steel. Those meaty fists curl and uncurl and his scowl has deepened to Lyna-proportions. Blood is going to be spilled here.
Landry moves. He mutters a few hundred, hot, horrible things beneath his breath and keeps his chin out, but Maker, he moves. The stalemate is Alistair's and he is so shocked by this that he very nearly forgets why it happened in the first place. Lucky for him, Sanga, proficient as always, is there and she clears her throat. There is a bit of a bewildered cast to her face as she smiles on him, as well as one of gratitude.
She bows again, deeper than before in fact, and her men follow suit. "This way, Your Highness."
They get to the threshold of the hall that leads to the more personal back rooms of the Pearl when a very disbelieving voice exclaims, "So that's it? The bastard and the knife-ear win?"
It's Vaughn. Of course it is.
Alistair sighs so heavily that his whole body sags with the exhale and he stops. So far. They had gotten so far. He turns to find that Lyna has already pulled her dagger and all of the men, Vaughn's idiot friend, Thomas, included, have backed away as if he carried the wasting sickness. Lyna looks up at Alistair with large eyes that dance with sparks of rage. It's really the closest that Lyna Mahariel will ever come to begging and Alistair supposes he can only be flattered that she would consider acknowledging him first.
"Fine," he tells her. "But nothing permanent!" Alistair stops her before she can make her dive at Vaughn. She frowns at him but he frowns right back. "I mean it. Keep it the kind of rough that'll heal within a few weeks and doesn't leave a scar. You aren't being shipped back to Halamshiral and leaving me and Zevran on our own."
Lyna scoffs. "Pft. Leave you and Zevran on your own? Creators no. How would you lads survive?"
"Yes, yes, Mother Mahariel, please make sure we don't find out." He turns back to Sanga who watches with a single brow raised but says nothing. She is an incredibly sensible woman, Sanga. Down the hall she leads him, followed by the shrieks of Vaughn and the whump of Lyna's fists connecting with his flesh.
Cailan took the largest room for himself of course, and Alistair is not even a little bit surprised to find his elder brother sprawled across the bed, snoring, with three ladies-of-the-evening draped around him. Sometimes he thinks that his brother would be far better suited to Orlais, what with his penchant for excess. And bad decisions; can't forget that.
At the sound of the door opening the women are alert and sitting up. Cailan keeps drooling into his pillow. Sanga makes no move to rouse him and with a finger to her lips motions for her girls to leave. They obey her at once, a little surprised and a little relieved by the looks that they wear as they gather their things and tiptoe out. Once they've gone Alistair steps into the room and inspects Cailan's clothes, pulling the heavy coin purse from his belt, and placing it in Sanga's hands along with his own.
"For the trouble and damage," he tells her not bothering to lower his voice overmuch. The room—and Cailan—smell like elderflower wine. Drunk Cailan is almost impossible to rouse; Zevran has jumped on his brother's chest after he'd passed out drunk more than once and that never even got a whine. "And I'm sure if more is required all you need do is send a letter about it to the king. Discreetly, of course."
"Of course," Sanga agrees with a smile that seems almost genuine. She nods to his brother. "Will Your Highness require any assistance?"
Alistair shakes his head. "He's all that I came for, my lady. I'd appreciate you telling Ser Landry to gather his armor though, and I might be stealing a sheet and going out your back door."
"As you wish, Your Highness." And she bows one last time before she and her men disappear, probably back to the main parlor to watch the mess Lyna's making of Vaughn.
Alistair looks at Cailan and sighs. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, untroubled—not being troublesome. It doesn't say anything good about things between them he thinks, if unconscious is how he prefers his brother. That can be dissected later, for now there is an escape finish off.
With little trouble and few movements or murmurs from Cailan, Alistair has him rolled up in the sheets. It's considerably more effort to move him out of the room. A weak lay-about Alistair is not but his brother is the same size and weight as he is, so it's not exactly easy to hoist him about. He manages though, getting Cailan's snoring dead weight over his shoulder. Going back out into the hall he finds Lyna awaiting him, picking her nails with her boot knife.
"He's not dead or crippled?" he asks as they walk towards the back exit.
"I promised didn't I?" she retorts, sounding rather cheerful.
"That you did," he agrees. "Sorry for doubting you."
"S'all right, nothing a few rounds won't soothe," she tells him and Alistair chuckles.
In the alley behind the Pearl, they find Kallian already waiting with her wagon. Against the building itself sit the Yevalle brothers, eyes closed. Alistair looks between the innkeeper, the guards, and Lyna. Kallian shrugs.
"Relax, I didn't run them over," she says, hopping from her perch to pop the wagon's false bottom. "They just had a nip of some wine with a touch of Crystal Grace in it. A few hours and they'll be up bothering folk again. One hell of a headache too but definitely mostly fine."
"You know what? I don't even care," Alistair says. With Lyna's help he eases Cailan into the false bottom, arranging him so that he won't suffocate himself or hit his head on the paneling should he come to on the ride back to the palace. "Our job was him. Now let's get him home and go to bed. Rescue missions are exhausting."
"I hear that," Lyna says, clapping him on the shoulder as they close the wagon up and take their earlier seats.
#
Getting back to the palace goes without a single hitch, which is a surprise and a relief. With their knowledge of the Royal Palace's numerous secret passages and spots that are usually left empty in the night, Alistair and Lyna manage to navigate all the way to Cailan's bedroom without seeing a single soul. They dump him on his bed without pause.
"We should p-probably tell his manservant to—to c-come take care of him," Alistair pants after they've gotten him on the bed. Carrying his brother up several flights of stairs and through so many back corridors was not a light task.
Lyna, who is sweating and breathing just as hard as he is, nods. "Or we could let him vomit all over himself like the selfish piglet he is so he wakes up feeling half of what we went through."
"That does sound tempting, doesn't it?"
Both of them jump at the sound of a new voice, familiar as it is. In the doorway stands Lady Gyllianne in her dressing gown, a bemused smile on her face. His father's Spymaster and Royal Mistress is a lovely woman going into her late forties though she appears much younger than that. Only a few pearly streaks run through her rose-gold hair and they show elegance rather than age. Her wrinkles are few and her gray-green eyes only grow sharper with each day.
"Considering it's you, Alistair, I'm almost ashamed to ask but the extraction was discreet, yes?" She turns from frowning at Cailan's lumpy, sheet-rolled form, to smiling at him.
He nods. "Yes, ma'am."
"Wonderful," she closes the distance between them just enough to lay a fond hand on his cheek. He wouldn't call the bond that he shares with Lady Gyllianne motherly; she's never been the mothering type. She is a fair teacher however, and never leaves him undefended or unpraised when he's deserving. And she definitely likes him more than Cailan, if only for the fact that he gives her fewer headaches.
"I will let your father know the mess is tidied up and have Cailan's servants tend to him," she says patting his cheek once more. To Lyna she offers an equally grateful smile. "And start spinning a story. I think it will have to be bandits lurking about the red lantern district. Andraste help me, I'm going to have to convince the gossips that Cailan fended something off other than responsibility. I should just retire now."
"The kingdom would certainly fall apart, my lady," he tells her.
Lady Gyllianne laughs. "There is some truth in that jest, my dear. Get some rest, both of you; you've more than earned it."
Neither of them need to be told twice, without pause or a look back at his brother, Alistair and Lyna make their way out of his quarters. They find Zevran waiting in the foyer of the royal wing, arms crossed and grinning as he leans against a statue of King Calanhad.
"Disappointed that bandits will get all the credit for all of your favorite nobleman's bruises, cousin?" he asks of Lyna.
She scowls. "How did you...?"
Zevran snorts. "Lyna, sweet, Lyna, have you met you? I am only surprised that he is not dead. Alistair's doing I am sure."
"Oh Alistair did some things," Lyna says, her usual temper is sidetracked and she grins up at him. "He told Landry to duel or sod off. And the big bastard sodded off."
The other elf's eyes widen, and he claps Alistair's shoulder. "You didn't! You did! Ha-ha!"
"He turned the same color as that awful beet soup they served at the Anders Ambassador's state dinner," Lyna tells him, almost giggling. "I thought for sure that all of his blood would start spraying out of those big ears."
"I expected to be stabbed," Alistair says.
She shrugs. "That was a possibility I was prepared for too. Would have preferred the blood-out-of-the-ears scenario though."
"Wouldn't we all?" Zevran laughs. He grins up at Alistair and pats his shoulder yet again. "We should celebrate this you know."
Up go Alistair's hands. He loves Zevran; really and truly, he's one of the best friends that a body could ask for. However, he never seems to know when a time is unripe for revelry. Not always a bad thing but Alistair's been riding for days and all he wants is a bath and his own bed.
"Drink a pint for me, I'm going to sleep," he announces.
Zevran's nose wrinkles, though in an affectionate sort of way. "Braska! Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Passed out drunk in his bed and hopefully not going to be riled up any time soon," Alistair answers with ease. "Or at least until tomorrow afternoon because I don't intend to roll out from under my blankets until then at the very latest. My saddle sores insist."
"Ah well then, tomorrow we drink to your supremacy and Lyna's power of will," Zevran says. "Sleep well, my friend."
"Goodnight, Zev." Alistair smiles and waves already heading across the hall to his own quarters. "Goodnight, Lyna."
"Goodnight, Alistair." And they too make their way back to their rooms in the embassy wing, or so he assumes. Unlike his brother, Alistair honestly never worries much about what his Dalish friends get up to when he isn't about, even Zevran.
A bath has been drawn, he finds, once he makes it through the outer foyer of his rooms. Both because one of the maids scurries past him and because there's a slight camphor scent to air, telltale of his favorite oil. Without pause or care, he peels his clothes away, dropping them as he goes, like a trail into his private bath and it's large, sunken-stone tub. The water is hot, almost too hot, but still very welcome to his body that's been hard on the road for nearly four days. It's the Maker's side really and truly.
Heavenly as a soak is, Alistair doesn't let himself linger; water cools and his bed is much softer. He scrubs, he stands, rubs a towel over his body, and fights his already too-heavy eyelids while pulling on the sleeping clothes laid out for him. Stumbling back into his bedroom, he has his pants on and the shirt halfway over his head when he notices company is sitting at the chair by the window.
"Father!" He tries not to yelp, really he does. But these last few days have been long and he's just barely awake. Also, he assumed that his father would be locked in his chambers by Lady Gyllianne under the explanation that he can't actually yell at Cailan until his heir has sobered up enough to hear him.
Father smiles with apology. "Goodness, Gyllianne was right; you're about to fall over."
Alistair shrugs but doesn't deny it. Instead he asks, "Is something wrong? Please do not tell me that he was faking that drunken stupor and has run off again." After all of that hauling up all of those stairs, Alistair will commit fratricide and regicide in one fell swoop.
As if he reads his mind, Father grunts, blue eyes darkening just a shade or two. "If that has in fact happened, dear boy, I'm afraid you're going to have to be the next king because I'll be strangling the life out of your brother."
Joking as he knows Father is and as tired as he is, a part of Alistair's stomach still bottoms right out at the mere thought of the crown actually passing to him. He shivers. "Whoa. Let's not get crazy shall we? Have we considered chains? Some nice gold ones, maybe?"
Father actually laughs. "That's called the crown, Alistair. And I'm afraid of shackling him to it just yet."
"Mmm, fair point."
Another laugh, softer, and followed by a sigh. For a man in his fifties, Father has aged well, or so the court is always saying. And they aren't wrong, he is still strong-shouldered and able to wield a sword with precision, the crown still sits regally atop his white-gold head, and the nation is strong in his grasp. But then few courtiers ever see Maric Theirin as he is now, crownless and unkempt in his dressing gown, frazzled with dark circles beneath his eyes from putting up with the antics of a twenty-five year old son who behaves as if he were fifteen.
While Alistair struggles to say something that isn't a bad joke—Lady Gyllianne has always said that if anyone doubted Alistair's jaw, nose, and smile as marking him for Maric's son, then his sarcasm would surely convince them—Father sighs again and stands. He crosses over, reaching out to cup Alistair's head in his hands. Twenty years old and of an equal height and Alistair still feels like small boy when Father smiles and cards his fingers through the cropped strands atop his head. He never feels more loved either.
"Chasing after him isn't your responsibility, you know," Father says after a few moments. "Getting him in line and molding him into a man worth wearing the crown is mine. I don't want you burdened with my responsibilities, son."
Alistair shrugs, trying not to glow overmuch with pride. "Well, according to Teyrn Loghain and Teyrna Rowan, you need help sometimes."
"Hah," Father chuckles. "What friends they are. Fine, you're an excellent help, but put yourself first a bit more, yes? A day will come when Cailan doesn't have either of us, best he learn to pick himself up sooner rather than later."
"Yes, Father," he says.
"Good." One last ruffle of his hair with a quick kiss to his forehead and Father takes his leave. "To bed with you, son of mine, lest you collapse and bring shame upon the house."
"More than falling off a horse three times sober?" he calls after him.
"Maker's breath, Loghain...Goodnight, Alistair."
Chuckling to himself, Alistair obeys the command and drops onto his bed. In the thin moments between shutting his eyes and total unconsciousness, the warmth of his blankets brings to mind the last time he felt so content. He grins against his pillow while blue eyes and soft lips follow him into his dreams.