At the coronation feast, Melisande was seated at his right hand, elegant in a russet gown that rustled when she moved. Alistair made sure of her seating arrangement. He'd managed not to trip over his own feet or blurt out something horrifically inappropriate during the ceremony and this was his reward. Even if she wouldn't talk to him, it was better than Lady Bertilda again and her rabbits.

But, it turned out, even Melisande was obliged to speak to the person on her right for the first half of the dinner. Blasted formal manners. Funny, Loghain hadn't managed to wipe out that bit of Orlesian foolishness. Alistair did his best to converse with Bann Alfstana for the time being. At least when she talked about rabbits, she meant the ones in pastry.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Melisande push around the food on her plate for two courses, as she chatted with Bann Teagan. Finally, he waved over a footman. "Bring the Warden a bit of that sweet potato puff thing."

Melisande glanced up in surprise at the appearance of the server at her elbow. "I'm fine, thank you."

Alistair was having none of it. "You haven't eaten anything, Meli. Try that. It's really good. It's got nuts in it. And…sugar and something. Plus it's orange. Can't go wrong with orange things."

Teagan objected, "Alistair, I mean, Your Majesty, it's not really appropriate for…"

But he knew better on this one front. "Sod appropriate, Teagan. Melisande didn't stop being a Warden when the Archdemon died." He looked back at her. "You're going to get sick if you don't start eating enough, Meli. Please." And though she wasn't as haggard as she'd been when they found her at Highever, she was still clearly not taking proper care.

She took a bite, with a look of sufferance clear on her face that shaded into a brief bliss that made Alistair have to swallow hard. "It's good."

He covered his discomfort with smugness. "Told you. Orange things win."

With a small chuckle, she took another bite. "Alright. Yes, you're right. Huzzah for the king."

With his most monarchical demeanor, as arrogant as he could manage with a straight face, he explained. "That's my job now. Um…being right about things, I mean. Not being a pest." The arrogance bleeding out into sheepishness.

Melisande felt her cheeks flush and she spoke in a low tone. "You aren't a pest. You're just trying to help. I did eat earlier, you know, though. Just in case this was one of those 'everything is very pretty but nothing is actually edible' feasts.'

"I've banned those, you know. All food in my domain is now edible, if not pretty." Alistair waved his hand over the table as if bestowing a decree, drawing bemused glances from the other diners.

"That is quite the declaration, as last I checked, this was still Ferelden, home of the blandest food in the whole of Thedas." Oh, she'd missed this. This teasing and easy conversation. And she'd miss it more, once she left, now that they'd managed to pick it up again. But he was officially king now. And he owed it to his kingdom to find a bride. She'd only be a hindrance. Jealousy twisted her gut and she glanced down at her plate trying to hide it.

Alistair felt the moment of amity slip a little, as shadows fell across her face and strewed around for something else to…oh, here. He passed over one of the soft bread rolls, glazed with honey and saffron. "Bit more, I think."

With a shake of her head, Melisande tore off a small bit and he couldn't help but watch her lush mouth as it brushed her fingers in a bite. Yes, well. That wasn't helping. He cleared his throat and took a bite of his own supper. Missing the way her eyes lingered on the place his tunic gaped away from his throat as he swallowed.

Beside him, and on her right side, Banns Teagan and Alfstana shared an amused look.

-000-

The letter came for her a few weeks after the final fete had ended and people were trying to get back to their lives.

Melisande had been away from Denerim more and more. Occasionally with Zevran and Leliana, but more often with only the troop Alistair had given her, once the bulk of the army was transferred formally back to Fereldan rule.

She'd become concerned that, contrary to tradition and everything they could find in the Warden records, that the darkspawn weren't entirely dispersing.

More than once, she'd stalked into the courtyard, grim at having discovered a crofter's farmhold completely destroyed and determined to make a proper campaign, now that Denerim was set as much to right as could be expected.

Alistair had held the letter back, seeing the First Warden's seal and knowing it would call Melisande away, but only until she had rested and cleaned up from the latest foray. He was a Warden, too, despite all his declarations to the contrary. They couldn't duck the duty forever.

Alistair found Melisande in the castle study, just off the library, staring into the fire with the parchment dangling from her fingers. She was wearing a dress of all things. Simple, just a blue woolen kirtle belted with a more decorative swordbelt over one of her long-sleeved tunics and embroidering in copper along the edges and the neck. Simple and appealing, it suited her more than the formal garments he'd seen her in since their arrival in Denerim. He cleared his throat, not wanting to startle her. She looked unarmed, the scabbard on her belt empty, but Melisande was likely still wearing a knife or two, gowned or not.

"I had them bring it to you. You're still the Warden-Commander."

"Yes, I am."

"What does Weisshaupt want?" He stepped from the stone doorway into the warmer chamber, light from the high windows streaming down. The sun caught in the redgold curls of her hair, still short and practical.

"Oh, mostly another account of events. Something more thorough than, 'Killed the Archdemon, hunting down stragglers,' which is apparently what they got from the senior surviving Warden." She gave him one of her sideways smiles.

Melisande watched him approach, feeling a little as though she were being stalked. His expression was carefully light. His charming self. And while she was happy to see it, it made her nervous. What was he up to, then?

"I was in a hurry. And the Commander was away." He glanced down at the fine rug covering the stone floor, almost afraid to ask. "Do they want the report in person?"

And with that, his casual self was gone and he was nearly thrumming with nervous energy. She tried to steer him back to business, simply nodding and replying, "Yes. But more urgently, they want me here to start rebuilding the Order. Apparently there's some worry that without a significant presence of Wardens that there might be a problem with outlying groups of darkspawn."

That drew him up for a moment. "That's what you've been saying."

"Exactly. I've got a whole list of things I'm to do and a better recipe for the Joining Cup from Avernus, that more recruits might survive." Melisande set the parchment aside on the small rosewood desk and stretched her arms up over her head in an abrupt movement to wrest the kinks out of her back. "I should probably get organized for a recruitment drive across the Waking Sea and Amaranthine arlings. They suffered the least from the Blight. I think Zevran and Leliana will travel with me for a while. Sten is leaving soon, though. I want to stay until he does." She spoke briskly, as if by doing so she could keep some semblance of formality between them.

"Will you…will you come back?" And with that, the veil of distance between them shredded as if he'd stabbed it through.

Caught off guard, she stopped stretching and dropped her arms. She stared at him, gnawing her lip before, in almost a whisper, Melisande asked him, "Do you want me to?"

Alistair stepped towards her. No time for hesitance, now. "You know I do." He moved quickly around the desk but she stopped him with her hand raised.

"Even with…?" Melisande knew better than to think he had simply forgotten.

Reaching out, not surprised to see his hand shake, he touched her face, finally close enough to touch her again, drawing the back of his fingers along her sharp cheekbone, heart lurching at the way she sucked in a tiny breath. "Even with everything. Please, please come back."

Oh, she wanted to lean into that touch. The hard brush of callus against her skin. Melisande longed to close her eyes at the way his voice had dropped, low and husky. But she forced herself to meet his gaze.

"I want…I want to come back. I don't know that I should." Laying her hand on his, she stroked her own calloused fingers along his and felt the warm strength that he held in check so easily. "You need an heir. I…will always be…"

"No. Do you love me?" Surrounded by him, his warm scent, leather and musk and just a hint of some spicy soap that was being made for him now. Different from the smells of camp and sweat and smoke that clung to him usually. Still him, though. Still Alistair. Melisande pulled away, clearing her thoughts and he breathed in sharply, hurt.

She raised her hand and took his again. "It's not that simple and you know it."

"By damned, it is that simple!" Alistair managed not to shout but the intensity in his glare and the way he tightened his fingers around hers carried as much weight as if he had and Melisande yanked her hand away, twisting to break his grip and backed away towards the window between the bookcases lining the chamber.

"Is it? You forgive me? You pardon me from my murder and for my betrayal? Because I'm not sure I forgive you!"

"Me?!"

Her eyes were bright with emotion, the grey clear and sharp in her pale face. "You left me! Bloody Void, you swore you trusted me. You swore we were…and then it was just…" Melisande swung around, her arms tight around her waist as she stared out the window to the grounds, where grass was finally starting to grow again, bright and freshly green against the burned earth. "All I wanted to do was keep you safe, the way I couldn't for anyone else and in front of everyone…you just turned your back."

Alistair saw her hand drift down to her stomach and in his mind's eye, he could still see the scar that had snaked across her stomach. On her left side, where her defense was always weakest. Where his leaving had left her vulnerable. He'd ignored it, tried to forget it.

She'd left him, it was true. But he'd left her, as well.

"I…I'm sorry." He couldn't help the small rush of anger that flooded back, though and there was a sneer in his voice when he spoke again. "I didn't leave you alone! You had all of your friends. All of them, even Morrigan." And it occurred to Alistair to ask "Where is your witch, anyway? Zevran said she up and disappeared the night you got to Redcliffe."

Her mouth twitched a little when she told him. "Morrigan had some ritual she wanted to do with you. That involved you and her, a little blood magic and a bed. And nine months later, a baby that apparently would have held the soul of the Archdemon or something. I honestly have no idea." She flung her hands in the air, in a violent gesture of release.

Alistair gaped at her, horrified. Thoughts just randomly flying about his skull, knocking each other over.

The twich shifted to a full smirk. "Yes, well, I imagine I could have talked you into it. If not for Loghain."

Her moment of humor was fleeting. Another flurry of motion, as if all her anger and hurt was trying to flee her body by force. Knotting her fist, Melisande slammed it against the bookcase as she shouted at him again. "Anything. Any bloody thing! I'd have done it all to save you and you left me for it! The two of us. That's who was supposed to stand between Ferelden and the Blight and…." She slammed her hand against the heavy oak again, gasping at the flash of pain in her knuckles, even as anguish bled out of her heart.

"Meli, don't." Alistair slid between her and the bookcase and grabbed her hand as she swung it again, aimed for his chest. "Don't, please." The skin had split across her knuckles and he pulled a tin of Wynne's elfroot salve out of his pocket. Old habits. She watched him physick her wound and recalled. She'd never asked.

"Why did you come back?"

He didn't have to ask what she meant and he didn't hesitate to tell her, watching her carefully.

"Because for all that I felt betrayed and alone and hurt, I couldn't leave you with only him to watch your back." Even as he smeared the salve across the wound, it healed. If he'd been the praying sort, Alistair might have wished that all their hurts would fade so easily.

Melisande choked, caught between a laugh and a sob. "He was a terrible back-up. Good with that damn sword, all but commanding on the field, but…lousy at covering another fighter. Like he'd never fought as a pair."

"I know." He whispered and reached out to brush his fingers across her stomach, just where the darkspawn's broken blade had caught her.

"I missed you." Melisande's voice cracked a little and her hands, healed now, settled on his shoulders. "I'm so sorry. I just couldn't let it have you. And I knew… I knew if it was just you and me, you'd insist on…"

Alistair snagged his fingers in the lacing up the side of her dress, as if he could keep her by those fragile ribbons. "Me too, Meli. I'm sorry, too. Please…Maker, tell me you're coming back. Don't leave me to this, all this…formality and meetings and people who want things from me but don't want me."

Ducking her head, she offered. "You… could leave. You could be just a…"

But Alistair was shaking his head. "No. No. Not now. They need me. I can be a good king, but I need you. Please…" His hand slid from her stomach to her waist, pulling her closer and nearly sobbing when she relaxed into him, her body warm and alive against him, the wool of her dress rough and warm with her body heat under his fingers. She smelled of cloves again and the new dye in the cloth.

Taking a chance, holding his breath as if he was plunging into a lake from off a cliff, Alistair pressed his lips to her temple as she whispered. "You'll be a great king. You can be."

"Then that's what I want. If you love me, what else will matter?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will away the tears that were gathering. "That's not what Arl Eamon will say. That's not what the banns…"

"I don't care. Damn it, I don't. I've cared all my life what everyone else wanted. I can't have children. It doesn't matter who I marry. And I want you." He took a breath. "Unless you don't want…do you still want to leave, Meli? I know…it'll be a chore, being a queen and a commander. Maybe you'd rather just be a Warden and leave…this. Me."

She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to just be his and damn all the rest of it. This changed nothing. She was still a Warden. They still bore the taint in their veins. There would be political ramifications, they would have to dodge and counter every challenge until they could designate an heir and ensure Ferelden's continued peace. But if they were together, then maybe they could manage. They could balance just as they always had on the battlefield; his sure, steady advance and all her knack for weakpoints and views from the shadows. Oh, Maker. Can I really just…?

"A Cousland does her duty."

Panic shot through Alistair, and he forced himself to let her go and backed away. "Is that all you have to…mmmph…"

Abruptly, Melisande was in his arms and her lips stopped his question, the sudden forward movement staggering him for a moment, until he set his stance and caught her lithe body against him. It was a desperate kiss, hard and demanding, her lips hot and chapped on his and he could nearly taste the hurt and sorrow on her tongue as it slid against his, as they tangled. He groaned into her mouth and it only seemed to drive her to lock herself tighter against him.

Melisande dug her fingers into the embroidered fabric of Alistair's tunic, clutching him close, aching to feel the solid strength of him, the broad plane of chest. His powerful shoulders bunched in shock and then his arms closed around her and she was warm and safe and his, only his.

His hands found their way into the richness of her hair, still short and unfamiliar, before he let one slide down her back, smoothing away the tension that laced her frame. He kissed her back, open-mouthed, tasting the sweet taste of the mint she liked to chew after a meal. Alistair leaned into her, trying to steal away loneliness and anger away with every nip.

Gasping, shaking, they parted but only a whisper between them. And he had to stand for a minute, his forehead pressed to hers, panting before he could ask. "Meli…I'm not the fastest of wits, my love. Is that yes or goodbye?"

"It's an 'I'm yours and Maker help you and damn whatever else tries to come between us, sweetheart'." She smacked him across the chest, for good measure. "And stop saying things like that. You don't lack for wit."

Alistair caught her hand against his chest; the rough, slim fingers shook in his, betraying her nervousness. His was gone, though. Hers, he was hers and the taint would take him before he'd let her go again. "There are those who would disagree with you."

Searching his face, she could see it. Still that old hint of hurt, lingering in his eyes. Melisande brushed the fingers of her free hand across his brow, smoothing the lines that care had etched on his forehead. He was so young for this. But she would be with him, beside him. "Not to my face."

Her vehemence warmed the colder parts of his heart and Alistair couldn't help but smile fondly as he slid his fingers back into the soft curls of her cropped hair. "Fierce, dangerous woman."

"Oh, yes." She kissed him again, softly this time, craving the shiver of delight that his gentle searching sent down her spine. "I do love you. I never stopped," she whispered it like a secret into his ear.

Alistair closed his eyes with the brush of her lips at his throat just below his ear, wrapping her close to him in his arms until he could feel her heart pounding against his own chest. He'd been afraid, so heart-stoppingly terrified, that this closeness would be naught but a memory.

But he managed a joke, trying to relax his grip. "Well, of course you do. I'm a lovable sort, so you tell me."

It bubbled up, laughter like a fount from the cracked, bleak stone lodged in her chest. "Well, one of us should be, I suppose," Melisande gasped, finally finding her voice as he watched her, amusement in the glint of his eyes and the cant of his smile. The first real smile she'd seen on his face since…oh, too long. Her other duty, then. To keep that light shining in his eyes.

He caught her chin. "None of that from you, either. I love you, Meli. Dare to tell your king he shouldn't?"

Solemnly, even though her quick hands had snuck under his tunic to trace up the warm skin of his back, utterly unable to keep from touching him she answered. "No. My king knows his own mind."

"So I do. C'mon, then. Let's…" Alistair trailed off in a groan as her clever fingers slid up his spine. "No, never mind. They can wait." He bent to kiss her again, to lose himself in the warmth of her mouth as she opened to him, standing on her toes.

A knock on the door had them springing apart, Melisande straightening her dress as Alistair stepped behind the desk, hoping he wasn't as flushed as he felt even as he wanted to follow the rosiness creeping across Meli's neckline.. "Come in." Oh, hey. Voice was even nice and steady. Might pull off this king business someday.

"An urgent message from Amaranthine, sire. The messenger is waiting in the Hall."

"Of course. Be there in a minute."

The young servant bowed. "Begging your pardon, Your Majesty. For the Warden-Commander, as well."

Alistair swallowed as Melisande prowled across the floor, to stand at his shoulder. "Well, then, we should find out what the messenger is after." And quickly, please. He offered her his arm.

Melisande couldn't help a secret smile as she took his offer, gripping his sleeve lightly and they strode out of the room, together, to find out what the message might entail.