Authors Note: We had a scene with Zevran, now it's time for Hardened!Alistair (In more ways than one). Sex is rated T for Teen. Enjoy the party and the afterparty. Huge thanks to Lady_Fawna and others for making sure this story has all the kinks ironed out. Don't own Dragon Age, not using these for my own gain. As always, please Read and Review. It makes the Alistair happy. Very Happy. Like before, a shorter chapter.

Chapter 9

Sylrien was still reeling from all the excitement that had happened in the hall as she stumbled her way into the bedroom set aside for her. A smile seemed painted on her lips, her cheeks still flushed from so much wine. Shale - No, it was now Shayle - was a 'fleshy creature' now, having gone on some grand quest with Wynne after...after the Archdemon had been defeated. And what a figure she cut! With her hair a slate grey, bound in a tight bun at the back of her head, dressed in dark armor with bright blue eyes. She had been quite bothered when Sylrien hugged her, still uncomfortable at being so...being so...real? "It...you look unchanged." The dwarf said. "You look like you've been frozen as a statue since last time we parted. Hmmpf. Don't suppose you've come to realize the wickedness of birds - pigeons, doves, crows...?" Sylrien had to bite back a laugh, looking toward one 'Crow' she did have an affinity for. In the end Shayle had broken down and told her how glad she was to see the Warden still alive....She had been there when Sylrien had taken the final step to end the-

It was of no consequence. They had spent the rest of evening talking and drinking and it was all wonderful. Since arriving back in Denerim, she had wondered at the fate of her companions. Wynne had died a few years ago, Leliana's whereabouts were unknown, Sten was with his people, Morrigan - She winced. She knew what happened to Morrigan. Sylrien opened a window, inhaling the cool night air. It was good to feel the moonlight on her face, to hear the sounds of the city below. While she stood there, something moved in the corner of her eye. Immediately she jumped back, looking around for a blade. Someone had been waiting for her, a tall figure that had escaped her notice when she entered, cloaked in the shadows of the unlit room. He stepped into the light cast by the moon; It was Alistair, dressed in simple breeches and tunic.

"You look very beautiful, but you know that." At his words she relaxed, stepping forward and leaning against the windowsill.

"And you are still very handsome, but you knew that already."

The following silence hung thick in the few feet of space between them. Alistair was the first to speak, breaking the silence. "Are you and Zevran-...?"

"Please, after all this, is that is all you can ask me?" She snorted, beginning to move away.

A hand reached out and gripped her arm tightly. She tried pulling away, with little success. "Don't. Since I saw you, there are so many things I wanted to tell you. I want to do with you. Maker, woman...Do you know how hard it has been for me since you arrived? How hard it has been without you? I have had to suffer for twelve years, and you walk in on his arm, knowing that he was the one that was taking care of you while the very little of you I had left was gone?"

He looked at her, eyes hardened. Sylrien lifted her free hand to stroke his cheek, but he grabbed her wrist before her fingers could brush against his skin. She could practically taste the drink on his breath, and she couldn't help swooning a bit. His grip held firm. "Answer me."

"My thoughts have been of you since the first moment I woke, Alistair. Even before then, when I was lost in the Dreaming. I care for Zevran, more deeply than I should. But what he and I have - it is nothing, nothing compared to fire that has always burned in my heart for you." He did not let her know if he was satisfied with her answer. His grip on her arm and wrist stayed firm.

"Then why? Why did you choose to die? I would have slept....I would have had ten demon babies with Morrigan if it meant you being alive. Why did you promise me you were coming back?"

She managed to free herself from his grasp and snapped at him, "Do you think I wanted to die? Do you think I wanted to leave you? We both hoped that Riordan would have...Gods above, Alistair. You had everything to lose, and I had nothing."

He tried to interject, "But you had me-"

She quickly cut him off. All traces of the evening's mirth had gone. Her cheeks were flushed with anger rather than wine. "Don't tell me what I did or did not have! I would have given everything up; I would have abandoned Ferelden to the Blight if it meant being with you! When all I could be was your whore that still would have been enough for me! I could not let you die, not when you could give the world so much! Look at the elves, see what they have become - all because I died and you became king. Look at what you have done for Ferelden, you have your heir and a woman you would not be shamed to be with..."

She sighed, smoothing her hair back as she paced around the room. All he could do was lean back against the windowsill, watching her. She was like a caged animal.

"When I saw Riordan fall, I knew it had to be that way. I couldn't let you have a child with Morrigan because it would...I know it would have had repercussions for you later. With this Taint, with this death sentence..." Sylrien spat the word out, hand clutching the fabric over her abdomen. "I was already a dead woman when they came for me in the Alienage. I just didn't realize it until I saw Riordan die. I promised you I was coming back because I knew you would follow otherwise. I knew you wouldn't let me die. Hate me for what I did, Alistair. I am no better than Loghain, but I would die a thousand deaths if it meant you would live for one more day."

Finally she stopped talking, sitting on the bed and looking at her hands despondently. "You remember the last days. The things we had to do. Things I did...I-I have many regrets, things I should have done - things I should not have done. My blood was a poison, and I could feel it burn in my veins, but I did whatever I could do if it meant victory...I-I..." Alistair quietly sat next to her, arms wrapping around her shoulders. She whined softly, pulling away. "Let me go..." He did not. Again she tried to slip away, put space between them. His fingers pressed so tightly into her wrist it began to truly hurt. "Please, just let me go...Let me go-"

He put a finger to her lips, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "I let you go, once. I will not do so again." Sylrien tried to fight him, tried to push him off of her, but he did not yield. There was only that persistent iron grip pushing her down, pinning her to the bed. He tried to silence her protests with his lips, hushing her with kisses. Her hands went underneath his tunic, pushing against the hard muscle underneath the fabric. She dug her nails into his skin, raking them down his chest; he hissed, but still he did not relent. His rough hands were everywhere now, and the rush of the familiar sensations caught her in a moan...

The first time they had lain together had been in a tent on the cold ground, so many miles from the palace. She only had a little more experience than he did, so they were both fumbling through the entire ordeal. Clothes were hastily pulled off and things practically torn open. While they had slept together before, it was in a chaste way - two bodies huddling close for warmth, protection from a world that seemed to be set against them. It was after the Deep Roads. He had stayed behind in case she should fall , so there would be at least one Grey Warden left to do what was needed. He remembered she had looked pale, shaken after her group had emerged from the tunnels. He did not ask her what she had seen in the Dead Trenches because he could tell by the look on her face those of her companions. (Well, except Shale. You really couldn't read a golem.)

He had spent the days of her absence nervous and pacing, always jumping whenever someone had passed by, wondering if this would be a messenger to tell him she had been lost. Alistair cursed himself for being so stupid, giving her just a rose and a vague declaration of his feelings. He could have done so much more, said something, anything else! Tell her that a part of him went with her into that damned place, make her take him with her...But she eventually came back, stone-faced when presenting the Crown of the Paragon to the Assembly. He had grinned when she chose the future king: Bhelen. When they had been in Dust Town, she told him it reminded her of the Alienage with the poverty and the crime. Anyone who even hinted at stopping it, and giving these caste-less an alternative...She had hoped that one day Ferelden's king would do the same. He had remembered that when he first sat in Ferelden's throne. He had remembered being appalled when he had visited Denerim's Alienage with her; somehow she had grown up here amid all that excrement and filfth.

So the night she came back from the Deep Roads, he had initiated their first coupling, stuttering and mumbling how he wanted to be with her. They set to it, and even though their first time had been miserably short-lived, both of them acted like sniveling children afterwards, swearing oaths of undying love and loyalty. After fifteen minutes they tried again, and that time - that time it was glorious. Tonight they were renewing those same vows with their actions, if not their words. This was no tender lovemaking; it was harsh and violent. It was all bruising kisses and bite marks, hoarse cries of passion and orders, yet it felt like that first time. He had thought her dead, and now she was alive and breathing and so warm. They were not young - they were both older, hardened by the world's cruelties - but tonight none of that mattered because they were together. Over, and over, and over again.

When dawn's light filtered over the entangled couple, he was the first to wake. Maker's balls he was sore. He was sure that his back was a tangled mass of red welts, he was sure his shoulder was still bleeding from where she had bit him. There also seemed to be a smithy hammering his brains into fine mush, and he knew he pulled a muscle in his thigh...But she was still there, nestled against his chest. There was a macabre pattern of bruises around her upper arms and her wrists. There was a little smile that played at her lips as she slept; he leaned his head down to place featherlight kisses at the corners of her mouth before settling back into bed. He wanted just a few more hours of this perfect moment, and he would get it. It was his right as a man, as her lover, as a king. Everything else could wait.