After the ceremony was finally over, the feast conducted, and the bannorn cleared out to return to their Denerim estates, Alistair felt as exhausted as he'd ever been in his life. Battle gave him adrenaline; these endless kingly formalities were just bloody boring.
But when he reached his bedchamber, he found that he couldn't sleep. After staring up at the ceiling for an hour or so, he tossed the covers aside with a sigh and set out on a solitary walk around the Royal Palace.
Why is Naia still alive?
He hated asking that question. Naia had become like a sister to him, and he was much happier throwing her a hero's celebration instead of a hero's funeral. But Riordan had been crystal clear about what would happen to the Warden who killed the archdemon. Had the archdemon's death gone wrong somehow? Was there a Genlock with an Old God's soul somewhere in Ferelden, transforming into the next archdemon while they celebrated a hollow victory?
Or—oh, Maker—had Morrigan somehow gotten him to perform the ritual without his knowledge? That's even more disturbing than a new archdemon.
As he passed the kitchen, a rustling, clanking sound drew his attention away from the Archdemon puzzle. Andraste's blood. Has Duncan got into the larder? Alistair pushed the door open, hoping the dog would obey him if he yelled at it loudly enough.
But the mabari was nowhere in sight.
Instead, Zevran was sitting at a table in the kitchen, an odd array of foods in front of him—cake, some meat, ale, a bowl of soup, and a half-eaten loaf of bread. The elf was barely stopping to chew, but he put his spoon down to greet Alistair with a friendly wave.
"Maker's breath, didn't you manage to get any food at the feast?" Alistair asked, eyeing the packed table with surprise.
Zevran swallowed and flashed Alistair his usual cocky grin. "And good evening to you as well, Your Majesty! Your staff has been most hospitable. It seems they will trade any leftovers for a few tales of how I fought the Blight alongside their new King."
"A few tales? It must have been more than a few if they gave you all of that. The last time I put away that much food, I was …"
When he remembered exactly when and why he'd last eaten so much, Alistair felt his heart skip a beat—several beats, in fact. The Joining left me famished. The puzzle that had haunted him since Fort Drakon suddenly had a solution. "Maker's breath. It was you." His legs felt weak, and he collapsed on a nearby stool.
Zevran wiped a bit of broth from the corner of his mouth. "Hmm? I am not sure I know what you are talking about, Alistair. I hope I did not eat something reserved for royal consumption." He did not meet Alistair's eyes.
Alistair stuttered a bit before finding his voice. "You-you're a bloody Warden!"
"Oh, come now, my friend. Because I'm hungry, I must be a Warden? There are some bodily fluids even I will not touch," the elf said flippantly.
"Well, apparently Darkspawn blood isn't one of them. Bloody hell. Did Riordan put you up to this? I … no, of course not. It was Morrigan, wasn't it. You did the ritual, gave her that Old God demon-baby … thing. Gaaah!" Alistair's head swam. "Why would you do that?!"
Zevran's merry smirk evaporated. He turned his face to look at Alistair and for a moment he simply glared, his expression close to hatred. "Why? Why?" he asked softly, rising from the table. "I think the better question is, why wouldn't you?" A slight shake entered his voice. "Were you so confident Riordan would succeed—so certain your fellow Warden's life was worth less than your virtue, Your Majesty? You knew that she might die and you did nothing!" He almost spat the last word at Alistair.
"How could I let Morrigan raise a royal bastard with Old God powers and a claim to the throne?" Alistair protested. "I wanted to take the blow myself. You heard me tell Naia I would do it."
The elf snorted in disgust. "Of course you did. You never thought for a moment she would let you."
Alistair wanted to be angry with the assassin, but Maker help him, he wasn't. He actually felt … grateful. And rather sorry for the poor bastard, though perhaps not everyone found the idea of sex with Morrigan quite as horrifying as he did. "Does Naia know?"
Zevran shook his head. "No. I did not tell her. And I do not intend to."
"Why on earth not?"
"I will not have her tied to me out of pity or obligation," the assassin snapped.
Alistair leaned back on his seat, briefly stunned into silence by the agony in Zevran's eyes. Well, what do you know. You love her, don't you? You actually love her.
The king almost said those words to the elf, but some invisible, mysterious wisdom stopped him, warning him that Zevran might not be ready to admit to that particular emotion. "Do you know what she said to me, when she thought she was going to die?" he said instead. "She said, 'Tell Zev I'm sorry.' Does that mean anything to you?"
"Ah. She must have been the one who stole my poisons. You may tell her I forgive her, I would not have let me keep them either under the circumstances."
The ex-templar sighed. "You don't want to talk about it."
"How extremely astute, Your Majesty. And to think Morrigan said you didn't have the brains to be king."
The barb didn't even bother Alistair. "Look, Zevran. Naia's been half out of her mind worrying that the archdemon might still be alive somewhere. If you don't tell her, I'll have to. But I think it should come from you. It might smooth things over, since the two of you seem to be … at odds, at the moment."
"Advice on women from a man raised in the Chantry? How valuable. I think I will consult Oghren next. At least he's bedded a woman, even if the experience did lead her to prefer her own sex."
"Andraste's flaming sword, it's like talking to a Chanter, except instead of reciting the Chant you recite lewd insults." Alistair shook his head. "Have it your way for now, Zevran. But this isn't over."
The assassin shrugged indifferently and resumed eating. Alistair rose from his chair and turned to leave the room, but paused briefly at the kitchen door. "She's probably still awake, you know," he added.
Zevran had no reaction to that, except to take another large bite of his bread. With a quiet frown, Alistair left.