Authors Note: Hello everyone! In celebration of Chapter 5 getting our story to over 300 views and 9 Reader Reviews, I've decided to post this chapter early. It's alright, I'm currently on Chapter 12 right now...and I hope it's been up to snuff for you all so far! So as always, thanks to my beta-readers, to my friends and game continuity checkers, and everyone who has written their review and offered their opinion so far. As always, thank you Bioware!

Chapter 6

As warm as Antiva City had been, Denerim was cold and wet. This was not unusual for Ferelden's capital city. It was not unusual for two figures that stood on the deck of a boat at the docks. No, these figures were unusual to the city. One was an elf dressed in elaborate Dalish leathers: long trousers and a corset like torso guard buckled into place, leaving his shoulders and his arms bare. He had a shock of whiteblond hair, brushed past his face. At his side there was a much more subdued, diminutive, feminine form. Her face was obscured by a veil, revealing only her gray eyes, the tips of her pointed ears, and offered a peak of raven hair. She wore a robe of black linen, closed tightly over her body like a shield from the cold air. With her hand in his, they walked down the streets; the crowds parted for them, sensing somehow that these two strange creatures were important. Was this some sort of Dalish royalty, as evidenced by the man's strange attire? Were they from another kingdom of elves, some undiscovered country?

They were of course, none of the above. These streets were as familiar to Sylrien as the veins on the back of her hand. She had grown up here, survived in the ghettos and back alleys. Though she no longer had to scrounge about for survival, beg for bits of coin or serve drink for a copper bit or two in the decaying establishments that permitted elven labor, Syl often found her eyes wandering over familiar haunts. To act so proud and bold in a place that forced one into a life little better than slavery, it was unnerving.

She was certain that that Zevran could feel her anxiety growing with every step towards the palace. That must be why his grip around her waist grew tighter as they walked. If he had not been there, surely she would have crumpled into a heap by now, sobbing and running back to the boat or to the hovel that she had grown up in in the alienage. Would Alistair...would he love another by now? He had to marry, they had discussed this, had to father a legitimate son. The Hero of Ferelden would have been content to be little better than his whore. But as degrading as that might have been, she would have done it to wake to those amber eyes every morning, to feel the stubble of his cheek scrape against her face. Just imagining having those rough hands hold her tight to him, threaten to break her in half with the intensity of...of...Sylrien stopped suddenly, her hand clutching her chest, over her heart. Zevran, the man who had guarded her, who had shared her bed and reminded her of the fleeting pleasures of the world - he stopped and drew an arm around her shoulders. He tilted her face towards him, nuzzling her cheek softly. "Woman, has it been so long since you last walked? I know that our past nights exertions might have rendered any other creature limping, but I thought a Grey Warden was made of stronger stuff, no?" A nervous chuckle left his lips as she leaned against him for a moment longer before finally standing upright and speaking, "No, no, I am fine...Just...overwhelmed. " She had heard the hitch of fear in his voice, and in that moment knew he feared losing her to the king. It was in vain; though, her heart had been Alistair's long ago, and death could not break that bond. No, only golden, hazel eyes regarding her as a stranger could do such a thing. She had seen horrors in the Dead Trenches, massacres and abominations and grave betrayals, but this was the only time she could remember being so afraid. Squeezing Zevran's hand, she mustered the will to continue on.

To Queen Valethe, it seemed that all the sorrows and misfortunes of the world rested on the shoulders of her husband. As courtiers and citizens of the realm came to petition him for aid, she could see his shoulders droop, watched as his brows furrowed and saw wrinkles form. Since the Tomb of the Warden had been vandalized, he had changed. His hair seemed to have grayed overnight, and the jovial, laughing thing he had been vanished. It hurt her to see him this way, but there was nothing she could do. Whispers reached her that instead of making merry in taverns with his Dwarven General at his side, he drowned himself in tankards of ale and unseemly women, singing halting phrases of some elven song. Her husbands generosity towards the elves was unprecedented, and when the bannorn of the alienage - no, it was no longer called an alienage. It was now the "Elven Quarter." The bannorn or hahren or whatever it was that led them had stormed into the court once news had spread, demanding answers for why their hero, the sainted daughter of their people, had gone missing and her resting place desecrated. The redheaded elf had hurled rude words at the king, accusing him of the old attitudes and prejudices before just stopping short of promises of revolt. When the guards had tried to remove her on the Queen's demand, the Dalish ambassadors had begun to draw blades and Valethe was certain that blood would be shed and she had cried out for help and - and the king barked an order for the guards to stand down. He stood and walked to the Elf, whispered something into her ear as he took her hands into his. He then led her to a council room with the Dwarven General following the pair. The uneasy silence that had settled over the court was broken about fifteen minutes later, and when Alistair came back into court she could swear that her strong husband had been weeping.

She had seen him speaking to his spymaster later on, and noticed the absence of certain servants and courtiers afterward. Valethe surmised these had been the shadowy spies and assassins that every royal court had, and they had been sent to discover what had become of the remains of the Warden or at least who had taken them...She paid it all no mind, her only concern was that Alistair's infrequent visits to her bedchambers became even rarer. With a healthy prince and a second child on the way, his obligations to her were over. Still she was a woman, and valued the companionship of her husband. Prince Duncan (I shall name him after my father, he said. Shouldn't that be Maric, then? Oh, you're right Valethe, nevermind. I just like the name...) was nearing his tenth year, and he was really the only interest his two parents shared. He had a shock of red hair and the amber eyes of his father. It was hard to believe he was her son, there seemed to be so little of her in him.

It seemed that the thoughts of both monarchs had drifted elsewhere. After petitions came introductions, and the list seemed unending. Valethe would nod and smile while Alistair seemed off in thought, occasionally speaking to the smelly dwarf that was the general of his armies. But then after what seemed an endless list, there was a name that caught the attention of both monarchs.

"...presenting the leader of the Antivan Crows to their majesties..."

Alistair and Valethe sat up immediately at the announcement of their latest guest, if for very different reasons. To Valethe, the Crows were an organization of assassins, and who ever heard of assassins being so obvious? The sound of blades unsheathed were heard amid the sharp laughter of a strangely dressed elf.
"Arls, sweet Arlessas, lords and fair ladies! I did not expect such a hostile welcome in the court of my old traveling companion! Though, I must admit I do not think I was your favorite, Alistair."
For the first time in what seemed ages, Alistair sat up, alert and tense. Color seemed to grow in his cheeks, and Valethe saw something of the man he used to be. The elf - a blond creature - continued.
"I have heard that Ferelden has been known to honor past treaties and agreements- that their king is very wise and fair...that if his attentions should falter, that his lovely bride also had a deft touch with such things." Another chuckle. The elf seemed so sure of himself, in control of the entire room.
Alistair smirked softly. "Perhaps, Zevran. But why are you here?"

"No pleasantries made? Barbarians! I am crushed, my king. No warm greetings?"

Zevran smirked, drawing out and savoring the anticipation that caused the humans form to grow tense. "See, I come not for my own desires, but for this bewitching creature, this rose of a woman. See, she had been very persuasive and I cannot resist her charms, nor her pleas. 'Take me to the King of Ferelden!' she says, and I am but a lowly servant, dedicated to fulfilling the whims of my goddess." he winked and gestured to the veiled figure at his side, who seemed to flinch. It was the first time Alistair had noticed her, and he could not help but grin widely.

"Aha. So someone's finally been able to make you feel something, rather than serving to be felt up? I thought you were the kind of man that couldn't be tamed, Zevran. Bring her forward then, she must be some sort of witch or something to accomplish such a feat. Though if you wanted me, Lady, I'm afraid that I'd lack the refined technique of your elf, and am quite happy with my wife."

The woman whispered something to Zevran that caused his expression to turn dark and even cruel before she approached the king. She brushed past the elf, taking sure steps towards the throne while her eyes remained downcast. Kneeling at the lowest step that led to the dais where the king sat, she began to remove the veil, began to push back the hood. Alistair leaned forward to get a better look at her, to listen to what she had to say. He felt Valethe's hand wrap around his own. The first thing he saw was raven hair that seemed fall to her shoulders like a dark cloud. The second thing he saw were her lips, lips that began to move. "Please..." (Please don't leave me, those lips had once said. She had sunk to the floor, clinging to his leg, pressing her face against his armor. "Please don't leave me. I want to stay with you... let me be your mistress, your whore, just Alistair, don't leave me. Don't toss aside our love) "Please my king, I have come as a Grey Warden to seek your aid against a great evil."

He stood slowly at the bent figure that knelt before him. He must be dreaming. But he sure as hell never dreamed of Zevran before. Must have been that red tomato stuff that had been liberally applied to the chicken. It had been sweet, at first bite, but then a few moments later the spiciness overwhelmed him. Eh, he didn't like the cook much anyways. And he was king so he could very well have him executed for his deceptively spicy salsa. Sometimes it was good to be the king. He just...had to see. His hand found her hair, felt her shrink back slightly from his touch. "Look at me..." Alistair whispered. "Are you some demon sent to torment me?" She looked up at him, and when he saw those gray eyes, he knew this was real. In twelve years he was never able to get those eyes quite right in his dreams. Sylrien was here, in front of him. Living and breathing.