Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age. I weep about this fact constantly. Enjoy the read!
"Where's your head, boy?! Keep the shield up!"
Duncan, the Royal Armsmaster, is usually a quiet sort of man. He smiles, demonstrates, and explains the mechanics of the maneuvers that he's attempting to impart with endless patience. Alistair has always liked him if only for the last part; questions are something that he's quite never run out of, especially during the beginning of his training.
When sparring begins though, Duncan turns into a bear, roaring with orders. For most pages and squires that train at the palace, this second Duncan is the bane of their existence. His methods work though; no one can argue that, and Alistair for one has never minded bear-Duncan. Hence, he continues to meet and spar with his former teacher over two years since his formal training was at an end.
Though on mornings like this one, where bear-Duncan is particularly growly, he does question that impulse. He still listens however, and brings his shield up to angle and block both the sword coming down and the dagger going for his ribs. Growly or no, the man has sensible advice to impart. And Alistair has been reaping that advice for years.
Keeping the shield up, he puts his shoulder into it, sending Duncan stumbling back. Alistair holds the momentum of the charge and slices at his trainer in a downward arc. Duncan parries that with ease but his dagger doesn't do much to fend off the press of his shield, especially now that Alistair is thinking of covering his side, so he follows the parry with a kick, aimed to knock him back a pace or two. Familiar as he is with Duncan's style and the intense speed with which he executes his moves, Alistair is prepared for this. Barely, because, Maker, Duncan is fast.
The kick is pushed back with the shield and Alistair charges again, knocking the dagger from Duncan's grasp with a hard upward thrust. The armsmaster ducks and rolls to retrieve it—the man is like an eel—and he rushes to stay on top of him, hacking down. Duncan meets Alistair's swing with crossed blades while on bended knee. He pushes, Alistair bears down, and the blunted edges of their practice weapons spark beneath the pressure. In the end, Alistair's weight is more than Duncan's can hold against and he has to yield. Without pause, Alistair presses in and puts his sword to the armsmaster's throat.
"Yield?" he asks.
Duncan releases his own blades, putting up his hands, "I yield. This match is yours, lad."
"Why'd you warn him about the shield?" their audience, which consists only of Jenna Mac Tir this morning, asks as Alistair offers Duncan an arm up. She cocks her head to the side, gray eyes bright. "You would have had him then."
With their parents spending just as much time in Denerim as they do in Gwaren, the Mac Tir girls have all been like sisters to him to some degree. Anora is the guarded, disapproving, elder sister, of course, Mairyn is the quiet, bookish one (until you ask her about something she's interested in, then you might as well just cut your ears off and hand them over), and Jenna is the little sister who always has a comment or question. So many comments or questions.
But Alistair knows well he's had plenty of chatty moments, especially with Duncan. And Duncan, just as he always has with Alistair, answers her with infinite patience.
"I am a teacher, it is my duty to teach," Duncan tells her as her sets his practice weapons away and pulls off his round, padded sparring helmet. "Though," his sharp amber eyes flick over to Alistair, "there may be something to say about a student being too old for that sort of beginner's mistake and not deserving the warning, my lady."
Alistair, who has been drinking/dousing himself with water from a nearby bucket—Cloudreach's final days are on hand and they are positively hot and promise an even warmer summer—grins back sheepishly. "Sorry, Duncan," he says, wiping his brow clean of sweat and water. "I've been...preoccupied as of late."
A rueful chuckle is Duncan's response. "Yes, I imagine so, what with the Grand Progress being underway in just a few more days."
He nods but the Progress has very little to do with being preoccupied, in all honesty. It's important and a whole big to-do of course, but Alistair's part will be small. The people will be focused on his father, brother, Anora, Teyrna Rowan, and Teyrn Loghain; the important members of the court.
It also isn't even because Cailan has not spoken to him since he and Lyna carted him out of the Pearl. Alistair is used to his brother pouting after he's been thwarted, it's simply par for the course.
No, what keeps taking up Alistair's spare thoughts, his not-so-spare thoughts, and all of his dreams is that balmy afternoon spent in the grass beneath the Brecilian's dappled shade. Bright blue eyes and soft black hair have been haunting him without relent. In particular, her parting words often come to mind and Alistair is half-mad between wondering when he'll see her again and trying to convince himself that she didn't mean it.
"Can we please talk about anything but that stupid parade?" Jenna asks with a low, piteous whine that makes both Alistair and Duncan laugh. Her nose wrinkles. "Bad enough they're dragging us to march along like dandied up toy soldiers."
Out of the Mac Tirs' three children, Jenna is the youngest and the least like her parents. Not to say that her parents' cleverness didn't pass along because 'dunce' is the last description that Alistair believes anyone would ever peg her with. At barely sixteen, she knows a bit of everything; sewing, knife-fighting, history, and even a fair amount of carpentry. But where Anora thrives on political politesse and Mairyn is out to reinvent the wheel, Jenna is content to hole herself in the library. Nothing has ever held her attentions long enough for it to become a passion, and her parents have recently begun to take note of this aimlessness. Note and dislike. Coupled with her disdain for court and the mounting pressure from Teyrna Rowan and Teyrn Loghain to settle upon a path, the Progress is Jenna's nightmare.
"Don't worry about it so much, Scrapper," he tells her, going over to the balustrade that Jenna's perched herself on and tugging at one of her pigtails. "Folk will be too busy fawning over your big sister and my big brother to give us pause."
It's been often said that Jenna is the spitting image of her mother when she was young; confident and calm with kind gray eyes and thick waves of brown hair always trying to escape braids and ties. Most of the time, Alistair thinks that the comparison is fair, even if 'calm' is a stretch for the youngest Mac Tir, but it all goes out the window when she pouts. It is impossible for him to conceive of Teyrna Rowan, with her strong sword arm and constant grace, ever sticking out her bottom lip while she glares down at her shoes as her youngest child is so often want to do and does at this moment.
"Folk won't, no," Jenna says. "Mother and Father though…"
He chuckles. "I suggest sticking to Mairyn's side like a burr then and asking her to explain whatever she's working on. They'll either be preoccupied with listening to her prattle and forcing themselves to stay awake, or they'll excuse themselves and make a break for it."
"Yeah, but the down side to that is I'll have to listen to Mairyn prattle," she points out.
Chuckling, Alistair gives a shrug as he tugs on the other pigtail. "Sorry, Scrapper, you can't have it all. Which is worse though; listening to Mairyn or being berated by your parents?"
Those already big gray eyes grow even wider. "That's—that's like asking a Chanter if they revile Hessarian more than Maferath."
He can't stop from laughing despite all of the sympathy that he feels for her plight. Really, he can't, so he stands still while Jenna's face grows red and she slaps his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Duncan shake his head with a rueful sort of smile.
"Maker guide you, Your Highness," the armsmaster says with bow. "I hope to see you in a few of the tournaments on the road at the very least—provided you remember what your shield is for." Alistair sighs knowing he deserved that and Duncan's beard twitches with a suppressed laugh. He nods to Jenna who is still half-heartedly batting at Alistair's arm like she were a cat and it were a twine ball. "And you as well, my lady."
"And you, Armsmaster," Alistair says as his teacher takes his leave. Jenna echoes him as she gives up her vendetta and moves to stand.
She looks positively mournful as she says, "Speaking of Mairyn, she'll be arriving soon. And the Couslands. There's that silly dinner tonight." She sighs and then a glimmer of excitement pops into her eyes as she looks up at him, "Do you think that I could get out of it if I said I had stomach cramps? Ooh, what if I vomited at the table? They might think I had the plague. That would get me out of the Progress!"
Entertaining as Jenna's flights of fancy (mania) can be, Alistair is still full up on all of the excitement Cailan caused him at the month's start. With a gentle hand atop her head, he both braces her and takes her attention.
"Jenna, please stop channeling Cailan," he begs. "You're not a good enough actress to fake a sneeze let alone life-threatening illness. Also vomiting at the dinner will make other people vomit and just..." He shudders. "No. Also, if you do that I will tattle."
"Traitor," she grouses.
"For Cook's Redcliffe rarebit and roast lamb with mint sauce I will sell you to Tevinter," he tells her with his straightest face. "Don't test me."
For a moment he thinks that he's convinced her that he would in fact do that, Jenna's eyes get so wide again, but then she giggles and loops an arm around his waist.
"Mother probably wouldn't fall for it anyway," she says with a wistful sigh as they make their way from the outdoor practice area. "Then Father would be cross. Worse, Anora would be cross."
Alistair shudders again. "Yep. And she's already on edge with the Progress, wedding plans, and dealing with Cailan. I would not touch that lever."
"You'd never find the pieces of me."
"I wouldn't even dare to look."
Another sigh shakes Jenna's slight frame. "I better go start reading up on water-clocks or big hammers or whatever Mairyn's been studying with the Dwarves, then." Her other arm slips around Alistair as she gives him a quick hug and then starts for the library. He catches the contemptable face she's making along with the gagging noise as she goes. "Ugh. Andraste, please don't let her try to teach me calculus again."
Alistair watches her go and, laughing quietly to himself. Maybe it's a tad cruel, but it is always heartwarming for him to know that he isn't the only "baby" getting guff in one way or another thanks to the shadow of an older sibling. Out of his love for his little-sort-of-sister, he sends his own prayer to Andraste that Mairyn will indeed keep her mathematical journals within storage. Poor Jenna needs all the help that she can get.
#
Before the Orlesian occupation, the Tabris family, like most of the very few and far between Elves to be found outside of the Dales, were merchants. Alistair doesn't know the full story, he's actually heard quite a few, but the tale he likes best involves Kallian, Soris, and Shianni's Great-Great-Something beating the-then Arl of Denerim at a card game and getting a good block of the city as her winnings. The Arl had tried to renege on his part of the deal but then King Vanedrin had insisted that he pay up and formally gifted the Great-Great-Something with the land. From there, that Great-Great-Something used her mercantile connections to set up an inn, several, shops, and hence, the Vhenadahl district, the most thriving market in all of Ferelden, and the only place outside of the Dales where groups Elves ever made a permanent settlement, was born.
During the rebellion, the Tabris' had not forgotten what King Vanedrin had done, even under the strain of Orlais' occupation; Orlesians are ever skirmishing with the Dalish, so there was a special disdain for the Vhenadahl during those years. The Tabrises had run smuggling for the rebel army, and Adaia Tabris, Kallian's mother, had even spearheaded a guerrilla movement to hamstring the Orlesian forces within the capital's gates. She'd done a fine job of it too; none of the humans and Elves that she had lead were ever caught. Father had offered Adaia a Teyrnir in exchange for all of her service but she'd apparently laughed off that offer and asked him only to spend most of his gold at the market she and her new husband were rebuilding.
And that's the long and short of how Alistair always drinks at the Vhenadahl. Duty and the fact that he is fascinated by the large, painted tree that the Tabrises built their inn around. It is both soothing and lovely, in his humble opinion.
"So Cailan's still tower bound, I take it?" Kallian asks as she sets down the tray of ale she's brought over to the table that he, Zevran, and Lyna occupy. That night the King and his inner circle—which consists of Lady Gyllianne, his sons, the Mac Tirs—will be welcoming Teyrn Cousland to Denerim for the beginning of the Grand Progress. With no need to be present until very early in the evening, Zevran had cajoled Alistair and Lyna that they needed to unwind. It hadn't taken much; the atmosphere in the palace has been a bit sour, what with Father still ready to flay Cailan alive, Cailan sulking, and Anora cold shouldering everyone because she's so (understandably) incensed, Alistair would rather be anywhere but home right now. Especially if it has drinks.
"Sort of," he tells her. "He's allowed to go where he wants in the palace now, but leaving it until the Progress begins...I do not see that happening."
Kallian passes the mugs out and then joins them, taking the chair next to across from Alistair and next to Zevran, wincing with his story. "Ooh." She clucks her tongue. "Bet that has Goldilocks chaffing something fierce."
"If looks could sour milk, the palace would be well underway to being a fine cheese dairy," Alistair says before taking a long drink. Lyna pats his back.
"I still can't believe that the King dismissed the Prince's Guard," Kallian says. "I mean, I'm not complaining, even though, I suppose, the business woman in me should since they won't be wasting their coin in my fine establishment. But..."
"The polite thing to say is that they were returned to their families," Zevran points out. The smirk that he wears is positively wicked. "To 'enjoy the Grand Progress with their loved ones' as it were. The letters that Lady Gyllianne sent to their parents though..." He shrugs. "They are well aware that the king will not be welcoming them back to court well into the foreseeable future."
"I like that future," Lyna says. "We need to keep it. All costs, Blood Magic, and virgin sacrifices included."
"Good luck finding one of those in this city," Kallian says. Then she grins and nods to Alistair. "Present company excluded, of course."
He rolls his eyes but says nothing. His mind however, wanders yet again to way Elissa sighed when he was inside of her. Maker, that sound was sweeter than any music he's ever heard, and the feel of her around him...
There's a telltale twitch in his trousers and Alistair has to make himself think of Wynne reciting nursery rhymes because he is going to need to walk away from this table relatively soon.
"So are you excited for the Grand Progress?" Kallian is asking Zevran. Well, he supposes that she's asking all of them, considering her emerald gaze shifts around the table.
Lyna snorts. "Considering that it's going to have all of the fun of court wrapped in riding for days plus commoners alternating between grousing about the nobility and clamoring to see them...I think I might rather try bedding a man."
"Same," Alistair says while Kallian laughs.
"So cynical the both of you," Zevran says, shaking his head. "I for one will be glad for the change in scenery. It will be a marvelous thing, I'm sure, to see the wide bounty and beauty of Ferelden."
A thin auburn brow rises. "You've got a list ready for all of the places you want to fuck someone, don't you?" Kallian asks.
Zevran grins back at her. "And one with a few faces I've had in mind for some time too." He wriggles his eyebrows in a way that Alistair supposes that his friend thinks is alluring. "We could start with the farewell to Denerim, yes?"
"No," Kallian says with a saccharine smile, one of her hands reaching up to push Zevran out of her personal space via his forehead. "We've been through this, Zev; you need to be shorter, stockier, and much, much, much beardier to get yourself up my skirt."
"You're cruel," Zevran tells her, playfully of course. Or at least Alistair hopes. Sometimes with Zevran, given the unfortunately abundant knowledge that he has of the Elf's preferences in the bedroom, it can be hard to tell when he's joking about sex or he's genuinely flirting. That line is a blurry one. "Tell me, Kallian, what can a Dwarf do for you that I cannot?"
She does not miss even a beat. "Make the space between my thighs burn for days just by putting his face there."
"And on that note, it's time for us to go." Lyna circumvents the Dwarves vs. Elves argument that's about to take place, as always happens when sex is brought up around Kallian and Zevran. She downs the rest of her ale and stands. "Can't be late for the Couslands' welcome dinner."
Alistair follows her example and lays the coin for their rounds down upon the table's center. "We really can't." It isn't a lie; Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland are arriving at the palace that evening and he at least, needs to be present to greet them. Preferably not dressed in the plain, somewhat dusty clothes that they use to blend in outside of the palace.
Highever is set to hold the Grand Progress for two weeks at the peak of Midsummer, to honor the service that both the Couslands gave to the crown during the war and after. As an another honor Father requested that they be part of his personal entourage during the Progress itself, along with the Mac Tirs. Both Teyrnirs flanking the crown will show solidarity to the nation. Plus, according to castle gossip, it will allow the Teyrn and Teyrna the opportunity to test their heir, who has remained in Highever, and see how well that he prepares for the Progress' landing.
"Fine, fine, run off on me," Kallian jokes. "I need to get back to work anyway, before Shianni gets cranky."
"There is a time when she is not cranky, your cousin?" Zevran smirks again as he too finishes up and gets to his feet. Kallian looks pointedly at Lyna then back at Zevran cocking her head. He laughs and shrugs. "Hmm, fair point."
"Thought so," she says, gathering the coin and putting it into her belt purse. She waves, already heading back down the stairs to the main floor. "Be safe while you're out there hobnobbing in the countryside."
Alistair laughs. "Careful, you're starting to sound as if you like us, Kallian."
"'Course I do," she calls over her shoulder. "You lot might be idiot nobles but you're my idiot nobles. Plus you tip good and I know where you sleep."
Zevran and Lyna laugh at that too, and still chuckling they make their way home.
"I can't believe you actually want to go on Progress," Lyna says to Zevran once they're out onto the street. "You're the only one of us who could get out of it."
Even with his back to them, Alistair can feel her sharp nose wrinkling. He can feel Zevran shrug in response too.
"You never look on the bright side of things, Cousin," he tells her. "It could be the most thrilling event if you allowed it to be."
"That's like saying be happy that all your sheep ran off because now you can get druffalo."
"Not really—"
This conversation (argument) is not a new one, and as he has learned to do over the years, Alistair simply tunes his friends out. It's easy enough to do in the market, with everyone and everything bustling about. Call it foolish but Alistair does genuinely love this city. Birthplace of Andraste or no, Denerim is alive, the people here work hard, work together, and they for the most part seem quite happy. Part of that is due to the legacy that his father has solidified since driving Orlais from the borders, but it's more than that. It's all the Elves who have made the Vhenadahl and therefore Ferelden their home, the Surface Dwarves who keep things between Ferelden and the Thaigs fresh, the Antivan merchants who've nestled in from when Cailan's mother, Queen Giuliana, arrived with her country's trade orders, and the Ferelden natives who could be spiteful about it but have not. That is Denerim, the true heart and soul, and Alistair will miss it while he is away.
In his moment of indulgent patriotism, Alistair's eye is caught by a flash of black as he surveys the specialty stalls to the east. Waves of black. And Maker, he does not understand how he knows but his heart is certainly lurching up into his chest, before the shock of black revolves and he sees her face.
Elissa is smiling, just like in all of his dreams, wide, beautiful, perfection, as she speaks to someone that he can't see through the crowd, because she towers above so many it. Probably that sister of hers which is one part of seeing her again that he hadn't bargained for but he doesn't care. Alistair would gladly deal with five Morrigans if it only meant that he might kiss Elissa again.
Andraste preserve, even for him that's a sad...
But Alistair ignores the voice in him that's telling him this, as well as the startled exclamations of Lyna and Zevran, and runs toward Elissa. It's a task much easier thought of than accomplished; he didn't count on the crowds being so thick and even less of the wagon line that blocks his path. In one swoop, he downright loathes Denerim's bustling center, and with a few vicious words that have passersby staring, he attempts a shortcut that curves back into the east and the specialty stalls. He sprints through puddles, leaps over a dog and elbows past a surely looking washer-woman who might have spit after him but he doesn't care because he's so close to seeing Elissa again, just like she promised. He just has to get to the mouth of the alley and she'll be—
Not there. Not a trace of her dark hair or strong figure in the crowd. Nothing. Alistair's heart sinks clear to the bottom of his stomach; she's not here, she was never here, he's simply going mad.
"Alistair! Alistair!" Zevran's worried shout brings him back to himself. He turns to find the two Elves sprinting after him and his disappointment is now coated with guilt.
"What's wrong?!" Lyna demands looking about with her hand on her Dar'Misaan. "Creators, you were running like you'd seen a horde of Chevaliers."
"I—it's nothing." He shakes his head, feeling acutely pathetic. "I thought I saw something but I didn't. There's...there's nothing." He says those words and feels like he's been slapped. "Let's just get back to the palace, please." And he ducks into the street before either of his companions can say anything.
Maker what a mad fool he's becoming, thinking he would have the luck to see her again.
#
"Are you all right, Alistair?"
For a woman who has helped to lead a rebellion, been a cornerstone of a nation's reconstruction, and most importantly can make Loghain Mac Tir fall to attention with the merest twitch of dissatisfaction in her jawline, Teyrna Rowan has the kindest eyes of anyone he's ever known. They've always looked upon him with warmth and understanding, a thing that Alistair has found incredibly rare as gotten old enough to notice how the world works. He wouldn't say that he thinks of her as a mother, that's Wynne's niche if only because Teyrna Rowan has never scolded him for slouching as the Royal Enchanter has, but a doting aunt? Yes, she fits that mold quite well.
Much as he does appreciate the care and consideration that Teyrna Rowan offers however, Alistair would much prefer to be an overlooked shadow right now. Gathered in the Blue Room, one of the chambers attached to the Throne Room where the King greets guests informally, with the Mac Tirs, Lady Gyllianne, and his father and Brother, Alistair would honestly rather be in his rooms. Away from family, friends, and even the Teyrna's soft gaze.
He isn't simply being bitter about hallucinating a certain someone in the market. He doesn't want to lie on his bed with a bottle of rum and drink away those happy memories and the taste of Elissa's mouth since they're now tormenting him like a curse. No, that is not it at all.
All right, that is half of it. The loss of his virginity though, and the hallucination of the woman who took it Alistair is keeping too himself. Instead, he flicks his eyes toward his brother and father. Cailan is speaking to Teyrn Loghain and Lady Gyllianne, asking on about the tournaments scheduled during the Grand Progress. Or rather trying to wheedle a few more into the already cursedly long-looking jaunt. Father on the room's opposite side, is speaking to with Teyrna Rowan's daughter, specifically Mairyn on her time in Orzammar, where she has been living for the last six months to study Dwarven engineering. Both of them have their backs to one another and have not spoken one word since entering the room. In fact, Alistair believes they haven't spoken more than a handful of words since the day after Cailan was retrieved from the Pearl.
Teyrna Rowan sighs, blowing an errant silver-chestnut curl that's escaped its pins from her forehead in the process. A second is spared to frown and tuck the curl back, before she returns her attentions to him and lays a hand on Alistair' wrist.
"They'll work it out, dear," she assures him, voice just loud enough for him to hear. "It's just strain from all of the preparation from this Progress and the realization of what it's about setting in for them." Her fingers give a gentle squeeze. "The weight of the Crown is a burden, whether you're already wearing it or not." As she says the last part, her eyes flick toward her eldest daughter.
Alistair has always got on well-enough with Anora. When they were younger, she would teach him card games and help him with his lessons; he remembers very keenly how her jaw would tick but she never yelled, whenever he'd get angry with figures and demand what letters had to do with mathematics. Kind might not be the best word for it, but most of his life he has seen an Anora who was considerate, patient, and good-hearted, even if her demeanor is almost too forthright with a touch of surly (she has always been her father's daughter). Over the last few years though, she has become distant, with barely enough time to spare so much as a "hello" in the hallways let alone a game of cards. She's striving in the opposite direction of Cailan, it seems, whether it's because of him or simply her own conquering nature, Alistair cannot say. What he can say—or rather think—as he looks at her dark-haired figure, standing as straight-backed as she would in court, is that he rather misses the sort-of-sister who'd curse like a dockworker when she lost a hand.
Teyrna Rowan's thoughts are similar surely, as she smiles and pats his shoulder. While Alistair's mood is still on the hard side of forlorn and he wishes to be anywhere else, he does find himself comforted if only a little. Maker, if the night were to only consist of speaking with and Jenna, he might find it passable.
Right as that thought crosses his mind, the Blue Room's main doors are opened for Seneschal Arden to sweep in. A thin man with long white hair that is always kept in a braid that looks to be painful in its tightness, he bows deep and springs back up in one fluid motion. His voice is reedy but not gratingly so. "Teyrn Cousland, Teyrna Cousland, and their family are to enter presently, Your Majesty."
Father nods, already moving to take point at the center of the room. "Good, please show them in, Arden."
Another deep bow and Arden is on his feet; the man has the type of reflexes and joints that cats might envy. "At once, Your Majesty."
With one last look to Teyrna Rowan and a sigh of his own, Alistair moves to take his place at Father and Lady Gyllianne's left. She chuckles, patting his back on her way to take Teyrn Loghain's arm. The Mac Tirs cluster to Father's right with the exception of Anora, who takes Cailan's arm and a place closer to the center, as is proper for the Crown Prince's betrothed. Both of them look stiff and pointedly away from one another; Cailan's face has even gone a bit red. It would be a fair bet that that they have not spoken since the incident at the Pearl either.
Is wrong to be a just the tiniest bit glad that Cailan will be uncomfortable this even too? Maybe. Probably. Alistair remembers carrying his brother up all of those flights of stairs just a few weeks past and decides that he can live with that. He finds himself grinning at the thought just as the Seneschal returns, trailed by two people.
"Announcing Teyrn Bryce and Teyrna Eleanor Cousland of Highever, Keepers of the Coast and loyal subjects to the True Sovereign of the land."
He has only met the Couslands a few times; as the sentinels of the northern coast which also has a fork of the Imperial Highway running through it, connect Ferelden with trade from the Dales, Nevarra, and Orlais, they seldom leave Highever. They have always been amiable people during those limited visits though.
Teyrn Cousland is a man of average height and solid build with shocking blue eyes and silver hair that now only has a few flecks of sable-brown still in it. His face still has the telltale signs of chiseling to it that say he was quite handsome in his youth. His wife's features are longer, a bit sharper, but still elegant, and played upon by the many braided coils of her dark gray hair that must have once been blacker than ink. The Teyrna stands a good half head above her husband, and her build is willowy without being waifish, as a natural archer's should be. Alistair doesn't doubt that if a cadre of assassins came out of the walls that her sharp, crystal-green eyes would bat even a lash, she'd simply pull a bow from the wall and dispose of them.
Perhaps that's simply Alistair fantasizing over the many tales of the "Seawolf" that he's heard all through his childhood. Either way they both smile with warmth and grace as they take a knee before Father.
"Your Majesty, Your Highnesses," they say in perfect unison, as if they had practiced for it. Perhaps they did, but the words do not have the artificial primness to them like Arden's announcement. The Teyrn and Teyrna mean their words, and they are proud to say them. Or at least they appear to. Alistair is of the opinion that they are sincere. As is Father.
"Bryce, Eleanor," Father says waving his hands, urging them to stand. "Enough of that, Maker Bless. That's why we decided to do the dinner after court, let's spare the formalities until we absolutely have to bring them out. Andraste knows the months ahead will be full of nothing but."
Teyrn Cousland laughs while his wife smiles deeply. "Pardon, Maric. We had to at least attempt some decorum. Eleanor insisted."
"Eleanor did," the Teyrna confirms as she holds her hand out to Father.
He takes it, placing a kiss upon the back and smiles at her fondly. "Ah, Eleanor, how did a scoundrel like Bryce win the Maker's favor and land you as a bride?"
"Her own good taste," Lady Gyllianne interjects with a sylphish smile.
"And good sense," Teyrna Rowan adds.
The room bursts into laughter, most of it genuine with even Teyrn Loghain looking at ease. Lady Gyllianne embraces Teyrna Cousland, kissing the air on each side of her cheek while Father clasps Teyrn Cousland's hand and claps his back. The same respect is shown to Anora and Cailan and finally Teyrn and Teyrna Mac Tir.
"My goodness, look at all of these younglings," Teyrn Cousland says after the greetings. He smiles at Jenna. "The youngest is already sixteen. Maker preserve, you're all doing this growing up thing far too fast. You should stop it at once."
Teyrn Loghain chuckles, a hand coming to rest upon his youngest's head. Most who meet the Hero of Riverdane, Alistair knows, are put off by his no-nonsense and sometimes dour approach to things. Most who meet him though, never get to see him earnest and in the company of his children. "I say the same thing."
"Yes," Jenna deadpans. Her nose wrinkles at her father but she doesn't shrug him off. "Often. So very, very, very often, Father."
He says that and Alistair feels a touch to the nape of his neck. Through the corner of his eye, Father catches his gaze and smiles softly as he combs the fine hairs at the base of Alistair's skull. The Teyrn of Gwaren is not the only father in the room with a soft spot for his youngest. In the second between Father's hand falling away and the next conversation, Alistair thinks that he sees Cailan looking at them. He must be imagining it, since when he blinks Cailan is speaking to Teyrn Cousland.
"How is Fergus?" his brother asks. Fergus Cousland, if Alistair's memory serves right, is about four years Cailan's senior and was his brother's mentor during page training. A nice fellow, Fergus, a bit on the loud side and full of raunchy jokes but he was never a troublemaker.
The teyrn nods to him. "He is doing quite well, your Royal Highness, as you'll see once we've made it to Highever. His wife is currently expecting their third child."
Cailan nods as if he accepts that, but then adds, with just a hint of a whine, "I'll admit I was a bit disappointed to hear he wouldn't be accompanying us."
Teyrna Eleanor answers and she answers with an undertone that has just the barest hint of a lecture to it. Clearly, she's aware of the kind of man-child she's dealing with. "Someone must be in charge of the Teyrnir while we're away, and as the eldest son of our house that responsibility falls upon Fergus. I'm sure that Your Royal Highness is very familiar with answering the call of lineage and duty as well." A smile flashes on her lips, white and red, and Alistair knows without a doubt why folk dubbed this woman "Seawolf": fangs. Alistair might love her.
The sentiment seems to be shared by the rest of the room, into their collars or sleeves, everyone smiles, even the corners of Anora's mouth twitch, while Cailan's face goes a little pink.
"Speaking of your children," Lady Gyllianne interjects with a delicate nod. "I thought you had brought the youngest three with you?"
Teyrna Eleanor sighs. "We—"
"They did! We're here!"
Alistair's heart stops. That voice. He knows that voice. He doesn't want to look even though every inch of him is screaming that he knows that voice and there can be no mistake.
When he does turn his head toward the doors, he first sees a lissome young man. Around Cailan's age, he favors Teyrna Cousland, particularly with his green eyes and pitch-dark hair. There's an apologetic smile on his long face.
Right behind him is Morrigan, her eyes still sharp and lovely, walking on the arm of everything that Alistair has been dreaming of for weeks on end.
Everything about her is the same. The soft curve of her mouth and its soft red hue, her strong shoulders and swaying hips, her inky hair has been detained by a braid, but it leaves her bluer than blue eyes clear.
This is either a hallucination or he has died. Or he very possibly died via that rock-fist back at the beginning of the month and that perpetual torment in his own awkwardness was not at all a wrong idea. Maker, how do you test to see if you are dead and walking the afterlife without killing yourself in the process?
While Alistair's head spins, he vaguely catches the conversation.
"My apologies, Your Majesty," the young man, Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland's son, is saying as he drops to one knee. "I had gotten myself lost in your wonderful library and my little sisters had to fetch me."
"Not a problem at all," Father says motioning him to stand. "I trust you enjoyed yourself then, Aeden, isn't it?"
Aeden nods. "Yes. It's quite grand, Majesty, it made me long for my time at the Great Library in Tantervale."
The Teyrn chuckles while the Teyrna sighs with a reproving, "Aeden."
"What?" Like all scholars, he is oblivious to all save for his interest, though Alistair judges that from Mairyn. The Teyrna beckons him over to introduce to Cailan and Anora while Father turns to the girls.
"And the lovely daughters of House Cousland," he says as they too bend a knee before him. "Morrigan and... I'm so very sorry, my dear, forgive an old man, but I've forgotten your name?"
"Elissa," she says. She smiles and those incredible eyes crinkle at the corners just as they had with their first kiss. "I'm Elissa, Your Majesty." Said eyes wander from Father straight to him. Alistair feels as if he's inside of a bell that's just been struck with a mallet. He could vibrate right out of his skin. Something beneath his skin burns beneath those ever-blue eyes and Maker help him it sends a trill down his spine. "And I am very happy to finally be here."