Hi, everyone. Sorry it's been so long :(. I could blame it on the holidays, and it IS partially their fault, but it's mostly mine. I had a bit of a crisis of faith in writing. I was spending my time trying to emulate other writers to make myself better, and it doing so, made it totally not fun for myself. So I avoided the story for a time, because I found no joy in writing it. It took me a while to realize that I can't write like anyone other than myself, and it was wrong to try to do so. I'm not looking for sympathy, I just wanted to be honest with you guys about what happened.
So, in apologies, this chapter is quite long. And I swear the next chapter after it will come in a more prompt fashion, as I *think* I've reclaimed my joy in writing. Thanks to everyone who has stood by and kept reading :) Especially you reviewers, and most especially animegirl10, who sent me a review just a few days ago and really reminded me why I do this: for myself...and for those of you who enjoy my story :)
A hand shot out of the tightly-packed crowd, snatching the King's arm.
Sigrun, behind the cloaked and hooded monarch, drew her blades with instinctive panic. Who had recognized him? Who had seen them? How many were there?
He jerked his arm towards his chest, dragging the hand and its owner out of the throng in a stumble. Gathering a fistful of their leathers in his free hand, he dragged the person forward.
"Isabela," Leliana said sharply, stepping in front of Sigrun and reaching forward to untwine the King's fingers. "Let her go, dear. You will cause a stir."
"Easy, darling," Anders whispered from behind her. "Your blades will taste blood soon enough."
Not soon enough for the former legionnaire, but she did as the mage asked. If with poor grace.
"Such a welcome," Isabela murmured as the King released her, dusting imaginary particles off her tunic. "One would think I was a loathed enemy."
"Forgive us, captain," Leliana said sweetly. "The past months have been trying."
Isabela smiled, but it wilted quickly when she looked at the King's hooded face. Sigrun couldn't see it from this angle, but she could bet it wasn't friendly. Leliana had said he would be better on the road, and she'd been right…to a point. He wasn't frantic any longer. Instead he was cold and quiet, like a forgotten tunnel in the Deep Roads. And just like an abandoned tunnel, just because you couldn't see inside didn't mean you couldn't tell that it would be safest to stay away.
"You've looked better, Warden," she said to him, trying to regain some of her former swagger. "I would've thought your current lifestyle more comfortable than your last, but you seemed more at ease then."
"My current lifestyle has led to a problem," the King growled quietly, which Sigrun could almost feel vibrating through the soles of her feet. "Are you going to help me rectify that problem…or would you rather stand here and flirt some more? See how that goes?"
Leliana stared at him, her eyes narrowed just a bit.
Isabela swallowed hard, but she didn't flinch. "Right this way, my friends." She blended back into the dock crowd, followed closely by the King.
"Might I recommend shortening his leash a bit more, dear?" Anders advised.
"Shall I let you hold the leash, ser mage, and see if you can do any better?" she snapped. With a flick of her hair, she disappeared after them.
"Not the most suave thing you've ever said," Sigrun chided at the open-mouthed mage.
"Really, Anders. Are you trying to avoid her bed?" snorted Aednat, shoving roughly passed him to follow Leliana and the King, Aideen close behind her.
"I was just- What I meant was-" he spluttered to the elves' backs, before turning to Sigrun in desperation. "Really, I-"
"Don't tell me, tell her. Come on." Sigrun quickly started elbowing her way through the people. The faster they got to the ship, the faster they'd be off, and the faster they'd make the island, and the faster she'd see Nathaniel-
Sigrun swore under her breath. Leliana had been asking some strange questions in their free time. Never leading, but always somehow ending up on Nathaniel, and as a consequence, the dwarf found herself more and more preoccupied with the archer. Wondering if he was sleeping enough (he was always up and about at odd hours), if he was eating enough (if left to his own devices he'd forget at least one meal), if he was giving himself blisters fussing with his damn bow and arrows (honestly, he'd sleep in a hole in the ground if it meant that his bow was properly oiled), if he was bandaging said blisters or just waiting for his Ancestor-damned hands to fall off.
She swore again, and picked up her pace. Surely when she saw him and had appropriately berated him for all those things, surely she would stop thinking about him.
The pounding on Lorelai's door woke her from a doze. She curled into the corner, slouching herself down to look tired, artfully hiding her stomach in the process.
It swung open, and Grady came in. He darted a critical eye over the bare room, finally laying his gaze on her. "It has been brought to my attention, involuntarily I might add," he began, "that I have been being a poor host." An exasperated grimace stretched his face. "I have come to offer you a luxury."
Despite the fact that what he said made little sense, Lorelai stared at him with blatant malevolence, as was her normal greeting for him.
"I thought perhaps you might like a hot bath." At his words, several of his lackeys shuffled in carrying a large wooden tub, which they placed in the center of the room. Following them came more, all bearing buckets filled with hot water. As they filled the tub, a last one entered with a plate of rough soap.
The ranger's mouth hung wide open in shock and surprise. What did he mean by this? Was he trying to get to her to…like him? Was this some cruel ploy? Did they know about the baby?
Involuntarily brought to his attention? Keep.
All the men filed out just as silently as they'd filed in, leaving only Grady. "I'll stay outside the door, just let me know when you're finished, and I'll have everything removed."
Not waiting for a response, he turned and left.
"Thank you," Lorelai blurted out, just before he shut the door behind him.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You're welcome, my lady."
"I cannot say that to her!" Nathaniel half-shouted, digging his fingers into his scalp in frustration and near-panic. "Are you mad?" He was fairly certain that was exactly what the elf was.
"Of course not, Warden. Do not be so quick to judge. You are too shy. You must approach her with boldness and surety." The assassin waved his arms around airily. "How else will you sway her if you do not exude confidence?"
"I don't know, but Maker help me, I'm not saying that." Nathaniel grumpily grabbed his pack and pulled out the things needed to oil his bow. At least that was something he felt capable of doing.
But telling Sigrun that all this time (Andraste strike him dead, for that was clearly an appropriate punishment for someone so stupid) he had feelings for her? He'd rather throw himself into the ocean to drown.
"You know what shall happen if you fail to tell her, yes?" Zevran chided.
Nathaniel blanched, almost dropping the jar of oil. "You wouldn't!"
The elf pulled a face of tragic sadness. "Ah, but I would be forced to, my friend. Do you not recall that you promised me you would tell her, in exchange for my silence about a certain dream I overheard? I am a man of honor, ser! If you were to break your half of our deal, it would only be fair to carry out the task myself."
"'Man of honor'!" Nathaniel snorted. "'Man of exploitation' is a better title for you."
"I'm wounded!" Zevran cried, clutching his chest as if the archer had made a fatal strike.
"You'll live," Nathaniel assured him.
"Only long enough to see the two of you bonded together with the ties of love. Then I shall perish, a life well-lived."
Nathaniel groaned. With this cad "helping" him, it'd be a bloody miracle if he didn't totally botch the entire thing. Then again, it wasn't like he'd been able to come up with anything decent on his own, either.
"Any other ideas?" he finally said. "Preferably something that sounds less…you."
Leaning against the wooden rail, Alistair stared fixedly at the gray-green water frothing against the side of the ship. The spray felt good and clean against his skin, but he only noticed it in a detached sort of way. It was the way he noticed everything lately. Every sense, every thought he had was constantly spiraling inward. Draining down to a pit inside his heart. He knew the others thought he was shutting off, turning them out. That wasn't the case, at all. Their energy in all its forms: positive, negative, anxious, focused, wild, restrained, all of it fed the pit.
When he found the men responsible for this horrid chapter in his life, all of that would come rising up, lunging from inside him like a High Dragon.
He allowed himself a small smile. If he'd been able to channel himself like this during the Blight, he felt like he would've been a whole lot more helpful. Oh, he'd done his part. Shield for his leader, sword for his love, lethal to the darkspawn and anyone else who'd gotten in their way. But there hadn't been this razor's edge of rage, sinking everything down to a singular goal. Sure, he'd hated Loghain, held the man responsible for single-handedly destroying the only family he'd ever known, but it had been loose, blurry anger dulled by mind-numbing grief.
Not this focused beam of destructive energy. Not Lover's rage.
While Lover simmered just below the surface, King ticked off the details for the hundredth time. They'd sent the vultures to Shale, Wynne, and Sten, telling them to go to Gwaren and meet with Isabela to reach the island. He'd flatly refused to tell Eamon anything, merely leaving the castle and the man who'd raised him sputtering in impotent anger. Mistress DeWitt had been similarly handled…sort of.
She bit her lip, looking up at him. "So I am to be kept in the dark, then? Even as my King leaves the palace without even a single member of the palace guard?"
"There's nothing to tell," Alistair responded tersely. "It's Warden business, and therefore I don't need the guard."
She clasped her hands together tightly, and her eyes filled with tears. "I am not stupid, Your Majesty, and I'm not certain as to what I've done to make you think so."
He blinked at her for a moment, totally thrown off. "Mistress DeWitt, I assure you-"
"Just bring her home, Your Majesty," she interrupted, before turning swiftly in a rustle of skirts and disappearing down the hallway.
That woman saw too much by half. The entire way to Gwaren, he'd been expecting to see her come traipsing out of the woods and begin organizing camp for the night. But she hadn't, much to his relief. He still hadn't told Fergus what was happening, and his heart pounded with guilt. It was for the best, however. All Leliana needed was two murderous men to control, instead of one.
"Ah, so serious!" came a voice from beside him.
"A shame really, what with that handsome face," mourned a second voice from the opposite side.
Maker help him. He didn't turn to either side, keeping his eyes on the water. "Should I be some other way?" he asked, knowing that ignoring them would do no good.
"One might request you tone it down just a hair," Aideen suggested, bouncing her curls before whispering to him conspiratorially, "you're frightening the pirates."
Alistair snorted. "Am I?"
"Indeed," agreed Aednat. "There's no need for all the glowering. It will all be for nothing in the end, anyway."
Now this was an interested turn of conversation. "How so?"
Aideen gasped, and shared a horrified look with Aednat. "And here we thought you were a good husband!"
"I am," he growled, shooting the dark-haired elf a warning look.
"Then you should know your wife better," Aednat chided, unfazed by his glare when he turned it on her.
"Honestly," Aideen scolded.
"All right, ladies. I'll bite." He straightened up, part of him despising them for the distraction they gave him, and part of him wanting to hug the pair of them until they couldn't breathe. "What am I missing that you feel is so vital?"
"We're going to get there, and she's going to have slaughtered them all," Aideen said simply, with a whimsicalness in her voice that most women reserved for chocolate.
"Well, maybe not all," Aednat pointed out. "She'll have kept some around to wait on her hand and foot."
"Right, silly me," Aideen acknowledged. "So, except for the slaves, she'll have killed them all."
"And she'll have made a throne out of their bodies-" Aednat expounded.
"-and she'll be sipping tea out of one of their skulls-"
"-while the carrion birds poke out the eyes of the particularly loathsome ones."
"So, all this," Aideen concluded, gesturing in his direction in a circular motion, "is all for nothing."
"Not to say it's not terribly impressive-"
"-and manly-"
"-but unnecessary just the same."
Alistair choked on the gruesome mental picture. The worse part was he could actually see it: the bodies, the carrion birds, even the- "Tea out of a skull?" he managed to spit out.
"If there aren't any cups around, what else is she supposed to use?" Aideen countered, as if he'd questioned the sun's rise in the morning.
His head spun momentarily. How in the Maker's name did Lorelai handle this pair? A grin spread slowly across his face. How had she handled any of them five years ago? "Silly me. It makes perfect sense."
"Of course it does," Aednat agreed. "Now, when we get there, what's she going to say?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Come on, you're the good husband!" Aideen urged. "What's your lady wife going to say when you come thundering up looking all," she waved in a circular motion again, "like this?"
He closed his eyes, wanting to give them a real answer. Those crafty minxes had him wholeheartedly playing their game, and they deserved a valid conclusion for their efforts. "She'll say…" he opened his eyes, and pitched his voice into his best imitation of Lorelai, "'Well, dear heart, if I'd known you were bringing company, I'd have built more chairs.'"
"Yes!" Aednat crowed enthusiastically while Aideen clapped her hands. "Brilliant! That's exactly what she'll say!"
"And you don't want to ruin such a perfect moment with your thunderclouds, do you?" demanded Aideen sternly.
"No."
"So, chin up, warrior," whispered the brunette elf, suddenly serious, her freckled face filled with tenacity. "There will be plenty of time for slaughter." She banged her fist lightly against his breastplate once. Then, she and her "twin" walked away.
Alistair watched them go, then turned back to the water. He imagined if he called them back and hugged them breathless that they'd be embarrassed, so he restrained himself.
Lorelai couldn't stop sliding her hands along her skin. Never in her life, not even after they'd left the Deep Roads and gulped breath after breath of fresh air, had she felt so clean. The impossible luxury of the bath couldn't be described, not if she had all day. She'd stayed in it long after the water had gone cold, determined to remove as much filth as she possibly could. Who knew when she'd get another?
Anything seemed possible after that bath. Escape, rescue, life after. The world felt limitless.
Perhaps she would make Grady's death swift, in light of that gift….then again, perhaps not.
Besides, it was Keep she had to thank for it, she was certain. The next time he came, no matter what information he had to tell her, words of gratitude would be the first things to come out of her mouth.
A scratching came at the door, and she grinned widely. Pushing herself to her feet, she started her way across the chamber.
"Pretty, pretty Queen. Pretty, pretty Queen in a dark, dark cell."
She froze halfway to the door, her heart banging painfully against her ribs. That was not Keep.
Backing up slowly, staring at the shadowy shape of the wooden door, Lorelai found herself longing for the darkness in the corners of her room. Anything to hide her from whoever that was.
"Pretty Queen is so quiet. Does she not want to share her stories?"
She flinched. The voice was…vile, a grating hiss that scratched at her ears. A desperate plea tried to rise to her lips, a fervent prayer to Andraste that the speaker was a ghost or a demon. But she couldn't give it voice, for it would be a waste. The very undercurrent of humanity in it was what made it so terrifying.
"I have stories for the pretty Queen. Stories filled with blood. Filled with so much blood. It's on my hands, you see, pretty Queen. It won't come off my hands."
Lorelai squeezed her eyes shut as she pressed her back against the reassuring stone wall, felt the coolness of shadow wash over her. Hide me, Andraste.
"Pretty, pretty Queen. So pretty, so admired. So-"
Her fingertips dug into wall convulsively, the abrupt end to the words almost worse than had they continued.
"Bitch! Whore!"
Lorelai jumped, and tears fell from her eyes. An erratic pounding thumped against the door, and she had to clap her hands over her mouth to keep in the cry of fright. A shuffle of cloth, an anguished moan, then silence.
Lorelai did not sleep that night, as she stared fixedly at the stout wooden door to her cell.
The seething heat of the jungle bore down on Alistair, slithering underneath his armor to lie against his skin like a blanket of slow-burning fire. He marched resolutely behind Isabela, not allowing himself to become distracted by the daunting plant life that threatened to swallow he and his party whole.
The only thing he dared to think about was the grotesque picture Aideen and Aednat had painted for him. He focused on it so singularly that the expectation to see the throne of bodies, the skull tea cup, grew large enough to block out the doubts that continually tried to penetrate his mental armor.
"Not far," Isabela said softly over her shoulder, as if feeling his stare between her shoulder blades.
Not far. Not nearly close enough.
Doubt saw his moment of weakness, and plunged into his mind with dagger-like precision. Why, if Lorelai were merely being held for ransom, had she Called no animals to help her?
Cursing quietly to himself, he shoved the thought away. He couldn't afford to question now. Along with being a ranger came a connection with animals that he couldn't begin to comprehend. She would not have Called any if she knew they would merely be embarking on a suicide mission to help her.
That was it. That must be it.
Isabela shuffled to a stop, using the giant fronds of some strange catapult-sized bush as cover. She turned to him, then gestured with her head. "We think she's in there."
Alistair obediently looked where she'd indicated, and felt the world around him drop away. A part of him screamed that rescuing her from that was impossible, that he'd indeed have to call the armies of Ferelden to even attempt to attack it. But Lover drown out those concerns in bloody fire.
She was in there. As sure as he was of his own name, he was sure she was in there.
And that hulking monstrosity of a fortress, which huddled in the jungle like an enormous ill-tempered toad, would not stand in his way. Nothing would stand in his way. If he had to-
"Ah, my friends, so good of you to make it," Zevran said warmly, materializing next to Alistair apparently from thin air. His tone was like they were being welcomed into his sitting room.
"Zev," Leliana hissed sternly from somewhere behind Alistair's shoulder, "how did you do that?"
Oh, good. Alistair had been worried it had been just him who thought it seemed like the elf had appeared from nowhere.
"Warden Howe has been teaching me all kinds of things in our quality time," he explained. "Take, for instance, this shadow ability-"
"Where is he?" Sigrun snarled, diverting the assassin from his conversation with Leliana.
"Around here somewhere," Zevran told her in a gentle tone Alistair hadn't been aware the elf possessed. "Fear not, gentle lady, he-"
"You don't look any worse for the journey," Leliana interrupted, reaching forward to grab his arm and drag him closer. "You've been careful, haven't you? Taking care of yourself like a good assassin?"
Alistair turned to look behind him, and saw the glint of steel in Anders' eyes. Then he remembered that Anders hadn't been in the throne room until Zevran had already left…and apparently Leliana hadn't been forthcoming about her elven partner. Who needed visions of Lorelai reclining on a throne of dead men to divert his murderous thoughts? He had romantic catastrophe to capture his attention.
"Of course," Zevran replied. If he noticed Anders' glare, he didn't acknowledge it. "I even took excellent care of the Warden in my possession." He finally looked Alistair in the eye. "And I can see you did the same. Perfect." Turning his attention back to Leliana, he pointed at her sternly, "I hope you're ready to go back to school, my crimson-haired flower-"
Anders choked in what Alistair could only assume was flaring jealousy.
"-because you will be learning this shadow ability, too. Now, if you will all follow me, we can-" No one had interrupted the former Crow this time. He'd come to a dead stop all on his own.
Alistair noticed the elf's eyes had gone…fuzzy for lack of a better word. Not a descriptor he'd ever thought he'd used in conjunction with Zevran, but it was oddly the most appropriate one. The Warden followed his old companion's gaze, and almost choked as thickly as Anders.
Aideen and Aednat stared right back at Zevran. Aednat leaned her blonde head close to her "sister", and whispered something. The smile on Aideen's face as a result was purely predatory.
"My friend, how kind of you to bring such…gorgeous distractions with you," Zevran murmured, his face softened to the point where Alistair wasn't sure he would've recognized the elf if he'd passed him on the street.
At his words, Aednat actually giggled while Aideen's smile turned into a grin.
Maker help him… "I try," Alistair replied, managing not to laugh. He was impressed, and relieved, by the steadiness that had come over him. Perhaps it was the presence of everyone as a cohesive unit, although they were missing Shale, Wynne, and Sten. But still, they were no longer fractured, spread across the land desperately trying to tie all their pieces together. They were as whole as they could be.
And they were where Lorelai was.
All that allowed him to appreciate the drama going on around him.
"I'm certain there will be time for proper introductions later," Leliana said, biting her cheek in an attempt to keep her features serious. It was failing miserably.
"Of course," Zevran answered, pulling his eyes away from the "twins" with visible effort.
"Do you plan to stand them here in the jungle forever, Zevran?" asked Nathaniel Howe. He made his entrance in a much more reasonable fashion than Zevran: merely pushing his way through the dense vegetation. His eyes met Alistair's, and to his shock, the archer's face paled noticeably, and he immediately dropped his gaze to the ground. "Your Majesty," he said quietly, bowing much lower than necessary.
Alistair looked at Leliana in alarm. The bard looked as confused as Alistair felt, but she darted her eyes to Sigrun emphatically. Alistair obediently looked to the dark-haired dwarf, and was confused even further. She was biting her lip, staring at Nathaniel with some unidentifiable, raw emotion plastered across her features.
She noticed Alistair watching her, and blushed instantly, dropping her eyes.
More confused than he possibly thought he could be in this scenario, Alistair chose to ignore it all. Stepping forward, he held out his hand to the son of Rendon Howe until the man straightened up from his unnecessary bow.
The archer looked between the hand offered to him and Alistair's face several times before just staring in what looked like…surprise? Relief?
"So, who would you like your heartfelt, inadequate, desperate gratitude to come from?" Alistair asked. "Husband, King, or fellow Warden?"
The tension finally seemed to ease out of the man, Maker only knew where it had come from in the first place. He took Alistair's hand. "Husband, always."
Alistair swallowed the sudden lump that rose in his throat at the other Warden's sincere words. He cleared his throat roughly, "Then you have it from a husband. Thank you…for everything."
Nathaniel nodded. "If, ah, you'll excuse me, Your Majesty." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, glancing at the group gathered nearby.
"Of course," Alistair said. As he pulled his hand away, someone else came pushing out of the heavy bushes. Alistair heaved a happy sigh, and dropped to one knee in front of the mabari. "Jacob, old boy," he greeted, holding his arms wide. "Come on, son."
Bounding forward, the wardog pressed himself against Alistair's heavily plated chest, nuzzling his face against the Warden's neck and shoulders. Burying his face against the mabari's thickly muscled neck, Alistair felt himself roughly brought back to reality. "Don't worry, boy, we'll get her back," he said. Jacob whined in response, pressing his considerable weight harder into Alistair.
The urge to shed a few tears against the dog's short fur was appealing, but Alistair forced it out quickly. He knew it wouldn't be just a few tears if he let go of his control. He contented himself with keeping his face against the back of Jacob's neck and taking deep breaths.
"You look a mess!" he heard Sigrun hiss vehemently.
"Sigrun, I-" Nathaniel began, trying to interrupt her tirade.
Oh, this he had to see.
Alistair turned his head to watch the proceedings, resting his cheek against Jacob's head.
Nathaniel was trying not to, but his hands were gradually rising in surrender as Sigrun heaped on the onslaught. "You've lost about twenty pounds-"
"Look, can I just-"
"-your hands look like that excuse for pork chops the innkeeper served us in Lothering-"
"Sigrun, would you-"
"-and I can tell you haven't been sleeping worth a basket of nugs!"
Nathaniel turned to look at Zevran, of all people, frantic desperation plainly filling his face. The elf shrugged, and then grinned lewdly.
"I told you that if I walked across Ferelden to find you half-dead, you'd regret it," she growled.
"Actually, you never finished that sentence. And, as I recall, he had to be half-dead in a ditch, not just half-dead," Anders chimed. When Sigrun directed her withering stare at the mage, he coughed. "Of course I could be wrong."
She spun back to back to Nathaniel. "So, have you got anything to say about the deplorable condition you've let yourself fall into? Anything whatsoever?" she demanded.
Again, incredibly, the archer looked to the former Crow. The elf shrugged again. "She gives you no choice, my friend."
"I give you no choice about what?" the former legionnaire spat. "What is he-"
Nathaniel seized Sigrun by the shoulders, bent his head, and kissed her soundly.
"Well I'll be the sissy mage's mother," Oghren grunted into the ensuing silence.