A/N: Wow, it's a long climb back from falling off the face of the earth…. But here's a wicked long chapter to make up for it! And if you haven't read "The Fever" you might want to. And "Duty's Journey". And everything else too

Duty's Choice: The Bastards of Ferelden - Chapter 44

Fever

Amaranthine – 9: 41 Dragon, Fall 2, 3rd day

First Warden Elinora sat heavily on the edge of her son's bed, and, for the first time in a long time, wept. Tears tumbled without permission from her shadowed eyes as sobs tore from her breast. She bit her hand, not wanting to disturb him. Duncen was still now, no longer howling or crying, but sweat beaded on his flushed face and his breath was labored. The Warden fever burned.

It was something all Wardens went through; a night of fire brought on by the Joining. Their first test was surviving the nightmares of Darkspawn and their own personal demons, and the dreams of the lives they had left behind. She'd burned many who didn't make it.

Elinora knew that the fever was a possibility. As Duncen's fifth birthday came and went, she hoped that it had skipped him. It had not, catching up with a vengeance two days ago.

She clutched First Warden Jurgen's ancient journal to her chest, curling around it, trying to hide from her own tears. The long dead man had not been nearly helpful enough; no matter how many times she read the entry, it was always the same.

7:92 Storm – Winter 3, 26th day

Birkey, son of Blythe, burns with fever, one that very closely resembles the fever we go through during the Joining. Charlot fears for the child's mind. Blythe sits by her son and weeps, unnatural for a woman born to her name. Edrick stays solemnly at his adopted mother and brother's side.

I shall note here that Edrick and Vivienne remain healthy, normal children. Four years old now and very smart according to those who know of such things.

Griselde and Franar, sadly, are not well. Their bodies grow wrong, for lack of a better term.

In short, it told her nothing. In the end, Charlot noted that the fever had damaged Birkey's mind, that he would be nothing more than a sweet boy.

Elinora, Hero of Ferelden and First Warden of Thedas, had never been so frightened in her life. Not when kidnapped by a god, not when facing the Archdemon, not in any of a dozen battles with swarms of Darkspawn, not even that terrible night in Highever. She could fight those with steel and wits. This was very different. This battle she fought only with a cold, wet rag and time.

Too much time; too long for his mind to come out of this in one piece even if his body survived.

Petra had come and done what she could; a tincture of elfroot and other herbs and the continued use of a cold compress until the fever broke. She left instructions to continue dosing the boy when possible and to get some water in him. Zelig had maintained his vigil as long as he could, but was finally overwhelmed as Duncen's nightmares bled across the Warden bond.

Elinora would not leave her son, no matter how bad the dreams got.

At least Duncen's screaming had stopped. For an hour he had physically wrestled monsters that only he could see, shredding a blanket in the process. Before that there had been singing, nursery songs mostly, but with a few saltier tunes that he must have picked up from the Wardens. She didn't care. He could sing every verse of the 'Mistress of the Guard' and she wouldn't shove a bar of soap in his mouth, just as long as he was all right.

Warm hands slid over her shaking shoulders, then continued to wrap around her, pulling her into the protective circle of his arms. She didn't need to look to know who it was; Alistair. She turned in his embrace, her tears making a soft plink on his armor. He let her cry, whispering soft words of comfort, even as his eyes searched Duncen for a sign of hope. The boy was breathing and flushed, twitching everyone once in a while, just like every Grey Warden in the grips of the fever.

Eventually, a thought other than her own distress penetrated Elinora's churning mind. "Why aren't you in Denerim?"

"Good too see you too," he whispered wryly, a comforting hand stroking her hair. "I had a nightmare the other night; Duncen on fire. I rode out at first light."

"Andraste's blood, how many horses did you kill to get here so fast?"

"Just the two," he admitted, truly not caring at the moment. Alistair let his wife go with a squeeze and went over to his son. Gently he pushed sweat-soaked dark-blonde hair from his forehead. "How is he?"

Elinora gulped. "Burning up. Same as he's been for over a day."

"What do we do?" Alistair picked up Duncen's hand a squeezed it.

Her eyes fell to the blankets, an unheard of resignation in her voice. "Not much we can do. Keep pouring water and that stuff Petra left down his throat, cold compress. Pray." She slid off the end of the bed and went for the tincture bottle Petra had left. "Help me."

Alistair nodded. He slid his strong hands under his son's shoulders and lifted. Duncen's head tilted back and mouth opened. Elinora poured just a few drops down his throat. Alistair set the boy upright as Elinora lifted his chin and stroked his neck, causing the muscles to contract and swallow. Duncen sputtered a little, but the potion went down. They settled him back into bed, covers tucked high and a fresh compress on his forehead.

With Duncen settled, Alistair looked over at his wife. Elinora hadn't looked this awful since her own fever, directly on the heels of a run through the Korcari Wilds and the tragedy at Highever. "Have you slept since this began?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

She shrugged, her weary eyes trained on Duncen. "Not really, no."

"You should try," Alistair suggested gently.

"No."

"But..."

"Not leaving his side." Her luminous eyes, undimmed even in this state, met his. "You didn't leave mine."

A soft smile drifted across Alistair's face, a memory that was happy in spite of itself called to mind. "Alright, my love. We'll stay right here." He rolled his plated shoulders. "Help me out of my armor, will you?"

She did, and sent a servant to fetch a fresh tunic and breeches for him. They kept a small stash here, mostly rough and tumble practice clothes. These visits to Amaranthine, usually under much better circumstances, often included his best sparring sessions. The Wardens regularly forgot the king part and remembered the somewhat lapsed member of their order who needed to reminding of where he started.

Once changed, he settled onto the end of the grown-up sized bed, leaning against one of the posts of the four-poster frame. This wasn't Duncen's usual room; that was a nursery suite that he shared with the other royal children when they were in Amaranthine, as they often were. For now, he was in quarantine, even though this fever was not contagious. Cailin and Maricen, both currently in residence, didn't need to hear Duncen's screaming, though they had visited several times since their little brother had gotten sick.

Alistair pulled his wife into his arms, her back to his chest and they watched their son together. Elinora settled in, her eyes never leaving Duncen, but glad to have a respite from the constant fear. It was still there, cloying to her mind, but now muffled in something warm. Maybe it could be further drowned out with a little distraction. "Tell me what's going on at court," she ventured.

Alistair shrugged a bit. "Its boring."

"Maybe it'll put me to sleep."

"Stranger things have happened." He kissed her hair and tried to choose where to start. "Chantry and the Tower are still going at it."

"Still? It's been five years! Didn't you issue some sort of ultimatum that was supposed to prod them along?"

"And it did, to an extent, but the Chantry's dug their heels in. Even Gylda's not budging."

"Eesh." Gylda, after quite the campaign, finally managed to get herself named Grand Cleric. Leliana had been instrumental in getting her installed, and continued to run interference between the Chantry and palace. Generally it was a functional arrangement, but there were days…

Alistair switched to a more pleasant topic. "Sybila's push for less restrictive treatment of mages is going well, however. She's slowly convincing arls and banns to have a court mage or two on hand, legal and open. I think her next mission is allowing apprentices to visit their families."

"Radical notion," Elinora said dryly. The last time she had been in Denerim, she had noticed Sybila and Isolde spending a goodly amount of time together. Sybila pushed the case that the isolation of mages eroded their humanity, making the abuse of magic more likely. Elinora saw her point, but kept her mouth shut. She had to admit, a less controlling Chantry would make recruiting mages easier, politically. The Grey Wardens had often been the refuge of apostates, the Right of Conscription protecting them from pursuing Templars. While it worked, it made the mage's training and control unpredictable. "So what's keeping them from moving forward?"

"Templars and evil wizards."

"Oh please," Elinora huffed, incredulity dripping from her words.

"I'm not kidding. Both sides are taking the extreme ends of the issue." A frustrated sigh escaped, something he usually didn't allow to happen. "The worst part is that they are both right. I just wish they would come to some sort of arrangement and get out of my hair!"

Elinora chuckled. The palace had been serving as neutral territory for these talks and Alistair was doing his damnedest to get this done, but it was exhausting. Crow's feet were starting to pop out around his eyes, and his smile lines were more pronounced. Despite the obvious signs of stress and age, he was still as adorable has he had been the day she met him at Ostagar.

Alistair lightly nuzzled her neck, his nose to the tattoo that matched his own. "Your turn. What do you hear from Highever?"

It took Elinora a moment to get her mind back to the last letter she had received from her brother and sister-in-law. "Sophie's discovered gardening, or at least how much fun it is to pull up Twyla's flowers."

Alistair snickered. He could very clearly picture the little girl, covered in mud from head to toe with a bright and slightly mischievous grin on her face. He hadn't seen Fergus's family in almost a year. The lot of the royal family had descended on Highever to celebrate First Day, including the recent arrival of the youngest Cousland, a fine son named Brice. It was a true family holiday.

Sophie was so different from Alistair's own daughters. She had rosy cheeks and chestnut hair just like her aunt; all earthy energy and giggles. Aurora and Wynn were both so… pristine; blonde curls and blue eyes and an unnatural coolness for a pair of six-year olds. Wynn and her cousin had gotten on well enough; held quite the tea party for Sophie's dolls and a very patient Cailin, but Aurora was not interested in such childish games.

"And Amaranthine?" He moved on from worrying about his daughters.

"Running smoothly, thanks to Orbert and Kinna more than anything else."

Alistair chuckled. "So when's the wedding?"

Elinora snorted. "The twenty-ninth of never. She's an elf, and he's a prince, and they're both Grey Wardens. And believe me when I tell you, that was not a fun conversation."

"And I thought our love was impossible," Alistair muttered.

Truth be told, they had both known that marriage was not an option, but there was a little disappointment in Kinna's eyes when they discussed children. Once she had read the old journal, she understood better. Their romance didn't seem diminished by it; Elinora still found Kinna on Orbert's lap as they went over the arling's ledgers together.

Elinora snuggled back into Alistair's arms just a little more. "Not impossible, just really difficult." She rested her head against one solid bicep, her eyes drifting over their sick son. Alistair pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, then rested his chin on it.

Difficult was hardly a strong enough word. She had never heard of a marriage so distant, at least not between a couple that actually loved each other. Alistair was needed in Denerim. Not only was there the regular governing of Ferelden to do, but he made it his mission to untangle the knot of Chantry and Tower politics he had helped create.

For her part, Elinora needed to stay out of Ferelden politics and focus on her duties as First Warden. New information poured into Amaranthine; Grey Warden records, scholarly research on the Old Gods, Darkspawn and Archdemons, and report upon report of the status of various outposts throughout Thedas. The best minds of the Wardens were coming to her, eager to help research how to deal with Ashling, should they ever find her. Besides that, she was steadily prying Wardens out of their fortresses and out into the world. Four-hundred years without a Blight had made them complacent. All this progress left little time for marriage.

Fortunately for Alistair and Elinora, Denerim was only two days away by carriage or sensible riding. With fast couriers and well-chosen way stations, a message sent at dawn could be in the other's hands by the following dawn. And, to make meeting easier, they had turned an abandoned manor at the southern end of the Wending Wood, right off the Pilgrim's Path, into a grand way station, one day from both Denerim and what was now called Warden's Keep. They really needed to find a proper name for it; the Royal's Love Nest would make cartographers blush.

As conversation dropped off, her thoughts rambled into various pieces of business, but could not focus on one. She could sense Alistair's mind-set was much the same. The quiet was comfortable, even if the circumstance was terrifying.

Elinora had started to drift into something like sleep when Duncen started to mutter and toss again. At first it was small; a few garbled words and shifts from one side to the other. Mother, gold, out, tower. Whatever was happening in his head got worse. He started to thrash, pulling away the sheets and throwing the rag across the room. He was yelling words that were only half intelligible; no, monster, brother, Warden.

Elinora darted to the head of the bed and pulled her tormented son into her arms. Alistair slid closer, ready to catch him if he got loose. Amid her gentle shushing noises, she was sobbing again. "Please Duncen, shhhh… come back to me..."

Duncen gasped and went still. For a horrible moment, Elinora thought he was gone. But his heart beat under her hand. Duncen wasn't lost yet.

His chin lifted and small body bolted upright, free of Elinora's arms.

"It will be all right. I will keep him whole."

The voice came from Duncen, and was mostly his own, but it sounded older, experienced. It was not the speech of a child.

Alistair blinked, his mouth agape. "Duncen?" The way he said it, Elinora wasn't sure of the spelling.

And then her son collapsed back into her arms. She checked him over, trying to keep her hands from trembling. Duncen's pulse was steady and breathing even. And finally his skin was no longer on fire. He looked for all the world like a normal, sleeping boy.

"What just happened?" Alistair's voice was shaking.

Elinora eased Duncen back under the covers. She gently daubed his face with a dry cloth, then rested her fingers on his cheek for a moment. "He's not alone in there. And here I always thought that was a dream." Her eyes hadn't left Duncen.

Alistair went to her side. He put one hand on her shoulder, and took Duncen's hand in the other. "Eli, what dream?"

She took a long, slow breath. "The night he was born, I think I died for a bit. But Duncan, the original Duncan, pushed me back. He came with me." She closed her eyes, the Fade spinning past her as they fell back into the real world. "Had to be a dream."

"You did die for minute. Petra…" He pulled her closer with a small shudder. That was a moment he didn't want to revisit. "Come here." He tugged her back to the foot of the bed, back to their post.

It was a dull watch. Duncen slept on, untroubled. A certain peacefulness caught up with them. Or maybe it was exhaustion.

Something shook Elinora's shoulder.

"Mama?"

Elinora opened eyes that had closed without her permission. Alistair was behind her, draped half on, half off the bed and snoring lightly. In front of her was the best thing she had ever seen: "Duncen?"

He smiled; a bright grin that reminded her of Alistair and her father all at once. "Why are you sleeping on the end of my bed, mama?"

Elinora sat up with a start and snatched her son to her, hugging him like he might vanish. "Because you were sick, silly boy." Relief washed over her as she held Duncen. He was whole, and real, and well.

"I feel fine, mama," the boy stated plainly.

Alistair, having been woken up by his wife's sudden movements, got up and circled around as Duncen squirmed out Elinora's embrace. He caught up his son with a hug as ferocious as his mother's. Duncen, again, wriggled away before his ribs were cracked. Grown ups were crazy sometimes, and his mother certainly looked it. "Mama, you look awful."

Alistair snickered and sat on the bed. "From the mouths of babes…"

"Not a baby." Duncen pouted.

Alistair beamed at his youngest. "Most definitely not, my little warrior."

Elinora shot both of them a look. "Such charming princes, flattering me all the time."

Alistair grinned at his wife as Duncen crawled into his lap with a yawn. "We're not some poofy princes, are we Duncen? We're Grey Wardens, whom you always tell to be honest and frank with you, right?"

Duncen nodded sleepily as he snuggled closer to his father. "I'm hungry."

Elinora shook her head with a smile as she went to the door. A page waited outside. "We need porridge for Duncen, and fetch Healer Petra. He's awake." The boy nodded and took off running. As she watched him go, she tried to place a name to the gangly teenager and came up with nothing. There were so many of them these days.

After the break with the Chantry, Blight orphans had started turning up in Amaranthine. Whether it was a political statement or simply acts of pragamaticism, Chantries across Ferelden declared they could not afford care for so many orphans. And so they dumped their charges, mostly boys over the age of seven, on the Grey Wardens and the palace. Over the years, a great many had been fostered out various noble houses throughout Ferelden, but the hardest cases came to Warden's Keep.

For their part, most Wardens had taken to mentoring a lost child. It was the opportunity at fatherhood that many had missed. They claimed to be raising the next generation of the Order, though Elinora had flatly proclaimed that the children would make their own choices about their lives. She forbade them to undertake the Joining until they were ready and at least twenty years old. In the meantime, these orphans were educated, cared for, and their talents encouraged, all while serving the Keep and the Wardens as was appropriate to their age.

Elinora pushed open the heavy curtains just a little and flinched at the bright daylight. She judged it to be mid-afternoon. The sparring rings were all in use as Wardens trained. Their kennel master had three mabari working with assistants on various commands in the paddock. Warden's Keep bustled on with the day-to-day business that was a working fortress. Business she needed to get back to.

Alistair looked up from Duncen, sleepily playing with a toy horse in his arms, and frowned at Elinora. Her shoulders tensed with exhausted stress, like she was drawing herself up to face a fight. He could tell she was making a mental list of all the things she needed to do, now that Duncen was on the mend. He would have to do something about that.

But before Alistair could even say anything, the door opened to admit Petra, carrying a bowl of porridge. "Good to see you, your Majesty," she said to Alistair with a nod, then turned her focus onto Duncen. "And even better to see you awake and playing, Duncen!" She set the bowl on the bedside table and tickled him. Duncen squirmed and giggled, but not nearly as much as usual.

Petra felt his forehead and cheeks, touched slightly glowing fingers to his temples and took a long look at his eyes. "Well, that's done with." She poured a bit of her tincture into a cup, and then filled the rest with water. She handed it to Duncen and ordered, "Drink all of this, right now."

Duncen made a face, but obeyed. Once done, Petra handed Alistair the porridge bowl and let them have at it. With the boys busy, the healer went to Elinora, giving her the same once over she had given Duncen. "You need rest. Now."

Elinora rolled her eyes. "No rest for the First. Just hit me with a Rejuvenation spell and tell we what Duncen needs now. Then I need to get back to work."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"No. I'm sorry, but I will do no such thing. You need real and solid sleep."

"I order…"

Petra's wicked smile spread across her face. "I'm not a Warden, you can't order me to do anything."

"But..."

"She's right," Alistair broke in. "Darling, you need rest. So do I, come to think of it."

Duncen yawned.

Petra looked at him. "So does Duncen. So, sleep for the royal family, Healer's orders."

Elinora sighed. She was out of fight, especially when she was outnumbered and out-reasoned. "Fine."

"Good," Petra said smugly. "I've already had food sent to your rooms. I don't expect to see either of you until morning. Neither does anyone else, got it?"

"Yes Healer Petra," Alistair saluted as best he could with a child in his lap. For his part, Duncen had finished his porridge in record time. Petra took the bowl and withdrew, allowing mother and father to do something they rarely got to do together; tuck in their son.

With Duncen already drifting off to sleep, Alistair and Elinora headed for her rooms.

She managed to veer off to her study, only to find Orbert standing against the door, giving the First Warden a stern look he reserved for his inferiors.

"Sorry, First Warden," Orbert said with a chagrined smile, "Healer Petra's orders, and in this case hers supercede yours. Besides, there's nothing on the docket that needs your attention right now. And your dinner should be waiting in your rooms."

Elinora sighed as Alistair chuckled under his breath. She jabbed him in the ribs with an exasperated smile. "Food and sleep, that's all that's left for me to do." Orbert saluted as they turned and continue up the corridor.

Alistair leaned down to her ear as he offered his arm. "That's not all…" He nipped a quick kiss to her earlobe.

The look she shot him was at once sultry and scandalized. "Could we at least get behind closed doors before you start making… suggestions?"

Another chuckle rumbled. "So professional. As you wish, First Warden."

"Your Majesty is too kind."

But once the door closed, more than suggestions were made.

As the last of the sunlight faded, so did they, twined in the haven of each other's arms; a paradise they didn't get to experience nearly as often as they would like.

Which made it all the sweeter.