Second one: On being alone together.
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Alone
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As hard as it is to believe, Anora tries to love her husband.
A king and queen are cursed with the lack of privacy; there are fellow nobles, relatives, knights, clerics, servants, cooks, and even a particular dog that demands their attention. There are always visiting ambassadors to greet, courts to visit, riots to quell, and darkspawn to cause worry. Even at their barest, each action must be made with caution: how will the public see it? Will this arl of this particular arling keep support of the crown? Will the King approve of this legislative action? (Not that Anora needed to ask Alistair often.)
In the time between them spent alone together, Anora tries to gain the trust of her King. She attempts to understand her husband (fellow prisoner).
She finds his mask too strong in their public events. Eamon had taught the boy (too) well: Alistair has learned to speak with grace even to the most brash Orlesian emissary; to hold Anora's hand or how to tolerate dances with her and other ridiculously painted-up women (we need to show strong monarchs, not two children who sit all day and pout, Teagan had bellowed at the two once); to hide his disgust at the exorbitance of the nobles around them (she figures that he will never get used to attending courts).
He has been hardened, cooler than pure lyrium rocks and just as dangerous. She finds relief and worry in the lack of humour in his speech, preferring the days when he would deflect her questions with jest and laughter. At least in those days, she could get an accurate read on him. Now, Alistair bears the countenance of his half-brother and none of the mirth that connected them so.
Anora wonders if Alistair is hollow, empty, like a mail of splint ready for its guard and for the abuse to come, but finds a strength glowing behind his mask. It is dim, not out of weakness, but out of necessity, even out of greed. Behind this strength is something he treasures, a token to provide support through his harsher days, something he does not want revealed to the maw of the public. She has always suspected—nay, known—this presence, perhaps envious of its power, so pungent and powerful that even seasoned templars forget the sweet song of lyrium behind this draught. A woman.
She suspects that they have and will never be alone.