Sorry it's been so long. I went on vacation, and then my parents came to visit. Craziness. Anyway, as always, thanks so much for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites. You guys rock my world :)

"Sod it, did you have to bury the stuff?" Oghren complained, dragging the heavy breastplate from the very back of the storage closet. "'Course, it would help if you didn't keep every blasted thing we found along the way!"

Alistair flexed his fingers inside the heavy metal gauntlets. It had been so long since his hands slid into them that they felt odd. Any time he had to wear armor nowadays, he wore the ornate, golden armor of the King…which made him feel like nothing so much as a shiny beetle. Clad in that monstrosity, an overwhelming sense of being merely for show always came over him.

But along with the oddness of the gauntlets he wore this very moment came a beautiful sense of purpose. He'd worn this set for most of the Blight, even after he'd been declared King. They'd tried to dress him as the golden beetle, but he'd shrugged them off. He'd face the Archdemon like he'd faced the rest of mess.

He flexed his fingers again, listening the leather creak like old wood. It would have to be oiled of course, softened up, but for now he liked the leather digging painfully into his skin. He was betting the breastplate would be even more uncomfortable, and the boots nearly intolerable. But he was looking forward to it. The pain would bring him focus.

"You're not expectin' me to sling this over your head, are you?" Oghren growled. The dwarf thrust the breastplate into Alistair's hands before dragging over a stool.

Smiling, he pulled the armor over his own head, noticing with irritation how heavy it was. It had never been heavy before. He'd let himself go, gotten comfortable. Then, of course, he'd attempted to starve himself. Unhelpful.

Oghren gruffly hauled himself onto the stool. His calloused fingers began tightened and adjusting all the leather fastening. "My fingers are damn near too thick for this, boy," he grumped.

"Lorelai used to do it," Alistair answered, savoring the bite of the metal and hard leather into his skin.

"Well, don't get to reminiscing about those times. I don't need you getting fresh with me," the dwarf warned.

"I won't," he replied, smiling again. As the armor settled into place, he remembered when she'd given it to him. He'd been standing over the decomposing body of Sophia Dryden, his sword and shield covered with filth. Lorelai had come up behind him, and immediately began hauling the armor off the corpse.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, taking a few steps back in shock.

She tossed her crossbow to the floor, freeing up both her hands. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Looting a rotting corpse."

She grinned up at him, but he could see the strain around her eyes. The smile was a lie; she was livid. "Is that so out of the ordinary?"

"I guess not...but-"

"This," she hissed between clenched teeth as an ancient leather fastening gave way, "armor deserves a better wearer than her, don't you think?"

"Yes, but-"

"Don't worry, we'll get it cleaned up for you."

He stared at her, aghast. "For me? Lorelai, I can't wear that!"

"Why not?" She gave him a critical, up-and-down glance that made him blush. "Last time I checked you were strapping enough to handle it."

"That's not why!" he protested frantically, his ears going even hotter as Morrigan's unconcealed giggles could be heard from the other side of the room. "It's…a Warden-Commander's armor. It wouldn't be proper. I'm not-"

"Oh, stop being silly," she interrupted. "We are the only two left. It makes perfect sense."

"But you're in charge. You should-" He shut his mouth quickly. As far as well-thought-out statements went, that one was pretty far down the list.

She laughed, and then grunted as one of the gauntlets came free without warning, spilling her onto the floor solidly. "Please don't tell me you were about to suggest that I wear it? Honestly, Alistair, I can barely lift both the boots at the same time."

"Well then maybe-"

"Maybe who? Would you like Sten wearing the Warden-Commander armor? I think not."

He gritted his teeth. Unfortunately, he agreed with her. They couldn't leave such a set of armor behind; Lorelai's pack-ratting would not allow it. And besides himself, Sten was the only other one capable of wearing it. He was not, however, comfortable with this in the least.

"All right, but the first Wardens we see, I'm tearing it off and pretending I fight darkspawn in nothing but my underclothes."

She looked up at him, her gaze a blend of determination and what? Was that pride? Was she…proud of him? For what? "Dear heart, if you're confident that you can remove this that fast, then get down here and help me."

"Lift your arm, you fat nug lover!" Oghren snapped, banging a fist against Alistair's metal-encased torso. "Wake up in there!"

"Sorry." Alistair lifted his arm so that his fellow Warden could reach the fastenings down his side, managing to hide the sudden rush of anger at himself from his voice.

She may have been proud of him that day for some reason or another, but he was certain she would have nothing to be proud of if she could see him now. That first day when Sigrun and Oghren had showed up, he'd thought he'd had a handle on it. He'd come up with a plan, he'd sent the vultures to get their friends, he'd called a couple Silver Order members to join the mix. And then what? What had he done after that?

Nothing, that's what.

Oh, he'd handled the nobles in a detached sort of way, continuing with the business of palace and country. He'd deflected Mistress DeWitt's all-too-piercing questions. He'd avoided Eamon like the plague, in case he was not so adapt at deflecting the Arl. But that was about it.

Maker's breath, he hadn't even sent word to Fergus in Highever to let him know what had happened.

He snorted to himself in disgust. On the roof, watching the vultures disappear, he'd imagined he could call himself a King. Now he knew the truth: King wasn't something he could manage. Not without her.

You just got confused. Happens to the best of us. You can manage, you just picked the wrong mix.

He winced. The sound of her voice echoing through his consciousness was almost too much to bear, regardless of how comforting it was. If he closed his eyes, he could fool himself that she was right there next to him, instead of Maker only knew where. Knowing what she'd say, carrying her around in his head, was both a soothing balm to his jangled nerves…and a dagger twisting through his heart.

At any rate, he agreed. Not perhaps that he could manage being King, but that he'd definitely picked the wrong mix. Letting that cold, implacable persona he'd felt wash over him at Sigrun's news have complete control hadn't been wise. He'd mistakenly thought the best course of action would be to let King have the reins, while Husband and Lover were silenced in the its grip.

But in doing so, he'd lost the rage that would've pushed him to do the things that needed to be done. Without that anger, he'd been swallowed by his despair and worry. The practicality had left him with no driving force, and no love.

"There, finished." Oghren stumbled off the stool and dragged the boots over. The red-haired dwarf stopped for a second and stared at him. "Ancestor's balls, boy, you bring back memories lookin' like that!"

Alistair chuckled. "You're not going to cry, are you, Oghren? I'm not sure I could stand it if you did."

"Ah, shut your hole!" he growled good-naturedly, tossing the boots at him. "My tears are manly! The women can't help themselves when I let a few go. You should try it."

Nodding seriously, Alistair agreed, "You'll have to show me that some time."

"Huh, if you're lucky!"

Alistair shoved his foot into one of the boots, and gritted his teeth. He'd been right: saying the boots were painful would be an understatement. First thing he was going to do when this nightmare was over was hire someone whose sole job was to upkeep all the armor and weapons. What was the point of all this stuff if it was allowed to fall into disrepair?

When this was over… That was an alluring thought.

Well, if he was going to make it that far, he'd need a new cocktail of emotions. He had keep King up front, he didn't think he'd taken a total misstep with that. Husband had to be right behind it, though, fueling King. Change the cold to cold fire, twist the practicality to become ruthlessness. And Lover behind them both, keeping Husband's rage roaring with its own bellowing pain. That seemed appropriate. After all, he'd been Lover before he'd been either of the others.

He tried it out, letting the mix ooze through his mind and fill his body. Fury spiked through his bones, but it was leashed by purpose. Fear rimmed his thoughts in piercing light, but instead of debilitating him, it aided the anger, fanning the flames higher.

Yes, this would work. This would work just fine.