A/N: Thanks to Jaden Anderson for beta'ing this chapter for me. :-D I've been so concentrating on becoming a better writer, that I forgot to concentrate on story. Kind of important, no? And whaddya know, my inspiration returned for this prequel. If you'd like, look up a song called "The Voice" by Celtic Woman. It's what was running through my head as I wrote the final few paragraphs of this chapter. :-)
Lots of love, reader!
Alistair sat on the edge of the fence, kicking his feet and watching the departing wagons. The week was ended, and all of his playmates were going home. He wondered where Lyra was.
"Did you enjoy the tournament?" Duncan said, and Alistair nodded.
"I liked the fighting."
"Have you begun any of your own training?" The man asked. Alistair was quiet, and shy, and Duncan had been trying to converse with him for almost an hour now. It was like pulling hens' teeth, but Duncan didn't mind. Every small detail was being filed away, to be recorded and sent to Alistair's mother, Fiona.
Alistair shook his head. "Eamon says I ain't ready."
Duncan considered, one hand raising to his chin. The boy looked strong enough, a little short for his age, perhaps, but that would be the elven heritage coming through, and the Warden doubted that Alistair would ever be overly tall.
"You know, I started sword work when I was quite young," Duncan said, and Alistair looked up in interest.
"How old were you?"
"Oh, seven, perhaps. And I became a Warden at fifteen."
"Really?" Awe covered the boy's features. "So, what'dya do as a Warden?"
"Protect people. We do what we must to keep Ferelden safe." Alistair digested this, one hand finding a bit of loose wood to pick at. Duncan's sharp eyes memorized his face... wide, hazel eyes serious, a few scattered freckles dotting his cheeks and the bridge of his long, slender nose. He favors Fiona... he has her easy smile. And yet, there is so much of Maric in him, as well.
"So...you're like a knight?"
Duncan chuckled. "To a degree, yes. And what of you, Alistair? What is it you wish to be?"
The boy shrugged, and studied the grass. "I dunno. I 'spose I'll be a soldier someday. If Eamon lets me learn the sword, I mean. Can't be a soldier if I can't fight."
"Can you read, and write?"
Alistair nodded.
"I would like to write to you," Duncan said. "Would you like that?"
Alistair's eyes widened. "You wanna write me letters? Why?"
"Because I think you are a fine young man, and perhaps we can become friends through letters. Have you never received a letter of your own?"
Alistair shook his head and inspected the grass again. "Got no one who'll write to me."
"What of your friends? Surely there are other noble children who you have friendships with," Duncan said, remembering the pack of youth he'd seen running around that morning. Alistair had been among them, thick as thieves with one particular, boisterous girl.
"I just met most of them this week," Alistair said. "And now they're all goin'." His small foot kicked at the grass, and the look on his face was so sad it made Duncan's heart twist.
"Are there any you'd like to write to?" Duncan asked. "You could, you know."
"Really?" Clearly, the idea had not occurred to the youngster, and Duncan smiled at his befuddled look.
"Really."
"I 'spose I'd write to Lyra..." the boy said, and then his brows furrowed. "What would I say?"
"Tell her how you are and what you're doing, and ask her the same."
Alistair considered this, and then he brightened as the same girl from the morning came charging across the grass.
"Al'stair, c'mon! We're leaving in a little while. Let's play tag!" The girl was bouncing with enthusiasm, and Alistair didn't look back as he took off after her, their feet swishing through the grass.
Duncan sat himself in the grass and pulled a roll of vellum from his pouch, along with a stick of graphite. He began to scribe a letter, his eyes glancing at the children often as they played.
.oOo.
Bryce Cousland stood waiting as Eamon Guerrin shook hands with Bann Franderel, who was herding his many children into two carriages.
"Honorata, don't hit your brother."
"Don't call me that!" a tinny voice berated, and Bann Franderel chuckled as he ducked into the carriage.
"Bryce! Thank you for coming," Eamon said, and clasped his hand with real warmth.
"It was our pleasure, Eamon. You are a fine host," Bryce said with a smile, and then hesitated. "I wonder if I might speak with you privately?"
"Certainly, my friend. I suppose...now would be fine." Eamon led him away from the field to the shade of a large willow.
"What can I do for you, Teyrn Cousland?" Eamon's voice was friendly, and Bryce silently sent a quick prayer to the Maker that he wasn't about to offend Eamon somehow.
"I wanted to speak with you about your ward, Alistair. Do...you have definite plans for him?"
Eamon's brow furrowed. "You wish to talk of Alistair? Has the boy done something?"
"No, no, nothing like that. In fact, he and my daughter have become quite firm friends," Bryce said. "Have you seen them running around this week?"
"No, I admit, I've been a bit too involved with all of the activities to notice," Eamon said. "I trust he's behaved himself?"
"Admirably. Eleanor asked me to speak with you, in fact. We...would like to offer to foster him at Highever."
Eamon's brows shot skyward, and then a suspicious look crossed his face.
"Whyever for?"
Bryce chuckled, hoping the easy sound covered the uneasiness he was feeling at Eamon's unwelcome expression. "Eleanor feels he's a good influence on Lyra. He got along well with our children, and she thought perhaps with your recent marriage you might wish to have... more privacy in your own house. Your care of him has been exemplary, and it's because of this that Eleanor wishes to have him in our home."
Eamon's shoulders dropped slightly as his tension over Alistair released. Bryce wondered at that... could there be something to Eleanor's thought about Alistair's parentage after all?
"The boy is to be sent to Denerim in a few months. He'll enter the chantry, and he'll be trained as a Templar, or a Brother, whichever he's more suited to."
"Ah," Bryce said. Eleanor would be disappointed, and he was glad that Lyra knew nothing of their plan. She would have been devastated to know that Alistair couldn't come to Highever.
"Well, if for some reason those plans don't work out, do consider my offer," Bryce said. He held out his hand to shake, and Eamon nodded as their hands clasped.
"I shall," he said, and then looked as if he might like to have said more, but didn't. The men said their goodbyes, and promised to see each other at Satinalia for the Couslands' ball.
.oOo.
"Write to me," Alfstanna said, her voice urgent. "Don't forget-"
"How could I?" Nathaniel breathed, and his fingers threaded through her hair, cupping the back of her neck as their lips connected.
"Nat! NAT!" Thomas' voice cut through the heady cloud, bringing Nathaniel slamming back to earth. He released Alfstanna's mouth to lean back and shout at his brother.
"Shut up, Thomas!" he yelled
"Da says we're leavin'! He said you have two minutes to get your lily-white ass out here or-"
"Shut up!" Nathaniel hissed as his brother came skidding up the path. Thomas' eyes glittered with wickedness as he sidled closer. Alfstanna started to pull away, but Nathaniel wrapped her more closely into his arms and scowled at his kid brother.
"Get lost, Thomas," she said.
"Nat's gotta go," he snarked. "He's got no more time for a hussy like you."
Alfstanna's cheeks flamed red and she gasped, and Nathaniel reached out and pushed the boy. Thomas was grinning like a fool and only stumbled backward, seemingly unfazed by his brother's shove.
"Thomas, get out of here before I whoop your little butt," Nathaniel threatened.
"You gonna kiss her, Nat?" Thomas sneered, making Nathaniel's blood boil. Alfstanna's voice gave him pause as he considered violence.
"Yes, he is," she said, and pressed her mouth against his own, her hands gripping his collar as she tugged him down to meet her. Thomas' laugh of derision echoed all around them, but Alfstanna's lips were all the distraction Nathaniel needed. Her lashes brushed the edges of his cheek, and his thumbs stroked her jaw.
"Write me," she murmured against his lips, and his forehead fell against hers, eyes drifting closed.
"I will," he said softly, and his lips claimed hers one last time before he darted away, dashing down the path after Thomas to where Rendon Howe's carriage waited. Alfstanna ran a few steps after them, eyes following Nathaniel's back until he had disappeared from her vision. One hand stole up to caress her mouth, and her eyes closed, branding the memory of his touch into her memory. She would relive it over and over as the months passed, before Harvestmere and her birthday, when they could be married.
.oOo.
Anora stepped up into the carriage and lowered herself onto the plush seat, arranging her skirt around her so as not to wrinkle it. It was a long ride back to Denerim - five days - and a certain amount of wrinkling was bound to happen, but protocol was protocol, and it was her duty to keep herself as fresh and beautiful as possible. A queen could do no less.
Cailan was calling goodbye to someone, laughing and waving, and Anora felt a surge of irritation. Kingly behavior, her fiance did not possess. Immaturity in spades, but plain common sense was something that she didn't see a lot of from Cailan. And now here he was, shouting across the yard like a child. Couldn't he walk over and speak with someone, like everyone else? He was making a spectacle of himself.
She hadn't managed to get him alone once since her father's edict. Suddenly, he was serious about his studying. Why now, and not before, she couldn't fathom. And now, on the drive home, with the king and the general sitting three feet away, it seemed entirely unlikely that she would have any kind of chance at all.
She understood her father's order. Oh, all too well. Some birds needed help to fly, some needed a nudge, and others needed to be pushed from the nest to test their wings.
Cailan needed a shove off a cliff, and Anora had been elected to make the push.
They'd always been playmates and friends. He was a year her junior, and since their first kiss when Anora was thirteen, he'd been hers, wrapped around her finger tighter than a Summerday ribbon. It had all been pleasant enough at first - being betrothed, knowing that she would be a queen one day. A young girl's dream come true...a beautiful life, a handsome prince, and a happy-ever-after, just waiting for her to grow up and claim it.
Now that the day was nearly upon her, her dread was thick enough to choke on.
Things weren't as simple as she had believed when she was a girl. There would be dresses, balls, beautiful moments. But there would also be endless meetings, missives, responsibility...the weight of a country, and all on her shoulders. It was clear that Cailan was an idiot, incapable of the job on his own. A friendly, sweet idiot - but an idiot, nonetheless. An idealistic boy who could not fathom the amount of work that was involved in running a kingdom. She had been grooming herself for it for years, and the weight grew heavier as her wedding day approached.
To make it worse, her father was the only one who believed she could do it. The others, they tutted and smiled and bowed, calling her "my lady" and suggesting that perhaps she would be happier visiting with their wives. She was still developing the perfect, cool responses required to let them know how very serious she was about staying to speak of state affairs. Maric, at least, was impressed, and that was the first step. The others would fall in line, and perhaps once she and Cailan were married...
Her thoughts lingered on that. Married. She had been expecting it her whole life, but with the burden of babies upon her, it was distasteful. How much time would she have for the kingdom, with a pack of brats hanging around her neck? How seriously would people take her, with a belly rounded out by Cailan's desire? She would lose every stitch of ground she had gained, and yet her father was convinced this was the quickest path to ensuring the safety of Ferelden.
Bed Cailan. Conceive. Marry. Rule.
She knew her father had intelligence gathered from Orlais, and that there were whisperings of an uprising. Why he didn't think Maric could handle it, she didn't know. Loghain had been his right-hand man for years, and the arrangement seemed to work well enough...
...they had been growing apart, though. And in the last week, the distance seemed to have widened even more. What could have transpired in Redcliffe, to drive the largest wedge yet between Maric and Loghain? She couldn't figure it. It had been a week of fun, of social activities and quiet politicking. The nobility regularly used such events to strengthen ties, arrange engagements and talk of alliances for the future. Maric's endorsement of Isolde, perhaps? But the orlesian woman had sworn allegiance to Ferelden, and had been watched closely for three years by Loghain's experts. Not a whisper of rebellion was in her, only an honest desire to marry Eamon and give him children. She's so old, Anora thought with a giggle. She'll be lucky to have one, much less a brood.
The errant thought reminded her of her father's command. I wonder if I can get away with only one pregnancy, Anora thought. Andraste's knickers, I suppose it'll have to be two. The heir and the spare, and all that. Maker, make the first one male...
Cailan was...sweet. In a friendly, waggly-puppy-dog sort of way. She would marry him, help him, give him children, and not complain. She couldn't prevent the teeth-gritting, though. It was part of the bargain of becoming his queen, and gaining the power that came with it.
"No, you take care!...I will!...Safe travels! Yes, Goodbye, then! Til Satinalia!" Cailan's laughter rang out like a bell as he crouched into the carriage, landing on the seat beside her. Leaning over, he planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek, and she disciplined her face into a pleasant smile. King Maric and her father made a more docile entrance, and a few moments later they were rolling out of Redcliffe.
.oOo.
Anora's chin slipped down to her chest, the sudden sensation jerking her awake. She wiped one hand over her mouth, highly conscious of the small rivulet of drool. Fortunately, the men were sleeping even as she had been, and none had seen this lapse in decorum. Queens did not drool.
Two days gone from Redcliffe, with three remaining, and it seemed as though all they could do was read, sleep, or in Cailan's case, study. Conversation had run dry after the first few hours.
King Maric was pensive about something, and her father was taciturn - even more so than usual. Something had transpired between the two of them, Anora was sure of it. and though they weren't as close as they had been when Anora was a girl, things had become worse in recent years. And now they had barely spoken in days. Cailan was buried in his maps when he wasn't sleeping, and she had finished the only book she'd brought with her. Anora was certain that if someone didn't say something soon, she would go mad.
The wheels creaked to a stop, and she glanced out of the carriage. The other two wagons were coming to a stop in a line behind them, the king's servants and retainers pouring from the doors. Had she slept away the morning? It couldn't be time to eat already.
"Why are we stopping?" she called to the driver.
"Lunch, m'lady," he said, and hopped down from the seat to open the door for Anora. She stretched, then climbed carefully over Cailan's comatose body to step slowly from the carriage.
A shaft of sunlight kissed her face, and she spread her hands, letting the cool breeze play over her skin. It felt lovely to be out of the carriage, standing on her own two feet. She smoothed her skirts, pleased with the way they were staying so neat and tidy. For the fun of it, she had chosen her favorite dress that morning - a pale green gown, trimmed in cloth-of-gold and orlesian lace. Frivolous, perhaps, but it was a dress that wasn't fancy enough for formalwear, and too fancy for everyday, so it didn't come out of her wardrobe often. She had worn it in Redcliffe to Eamon and Isolde's wedding, but when they returned to Denerim it would find its way to the back of her wardrobe again, and she wanted to wear it once more before then, just for the fun of it. She especially liked the way the green of the gown brought out her eyes, and had chosen to wear her mother's emerald pendant, as well.
"I think I'll walk for a bit, Henley," she said to the driver, and he bowed acknowledgement.
"Yes miss. Shall I send someone behind you?"
"No need. I won't go far - I'll keep the carriage in sight," she promised. He nodded, and continued in his task of spreading a blanket on the ground for their noon picnic.
Anora wandered down the path, seeking nothing but a few moments of fresh air before lunch and the never-ending trip back to Denerim.
.oOo.
The wolf pup crouched in the bracken, eyes on the carriage. People! So many...she counted at least twelve, maybe fifteen. They buzzed about like bees in a hive, busy with their meaningless tasks, running to and fro to carry out errands that meant less than nothing to the small wolf. Her tongue dipped from the side of her mouth, releasing a bit of body heat, and with a darting movement she nipped at her side as a biting fly sought to draw blood.
A brief movement from the head carriage, and the tongue vanished back into the furred mouth. She... a princess? A queen? Some royal personage, there could be no question in that! Oh, but she glittered... sparkled like the stones that seemed plain on the outside, but revealed hidden beauty when smashed open. The pup raised herself to her feet, nosing aside a rippling stalk of brush, to get a closer glimpse at the glamorous creature who stood before her.
Her gown was palest green, like the leaves in earliest spring before they deepened with the maturity of sun and rain. A glimmering golden thread sparkled round her neck, bearing a bauble as deep as moss. Gold shimmered at her wrists, at her bodice, in the color of her softly waving hair... She curled her fingertips toward the sky, then yawned, rosy lips stretching dainty-wide. Blue-green eyes darted about with curiosity, and a cruel chuckle sounded from behind the wolf pup.
She whined.
The young royal began to stroll away from the carriage, the sunlight sending glimmers of light dancing along the lines of her dress. One casual hand reached out to graze a limb, startling a bird into flight.
"Morrigan... you see that girl? You think her beautiful?" Flemeth's voice was mocking, and Morrigan cowered, pressing her face into the mud. When Mother was in this mood, 'twas better to stay low and listen. Opinions earned ire.
"Beauty fades. Intelligence dwindles. Time lays all low. Power... that is the only mistress worth serving. Remember that, Morrigan. That girl... She is nothing," the witch said softly. "Nothing but an example."
There was more movement at the carriage, and Flemeth's stare lighted on the golden-haired youth who leaped down the steps. His eyes scanned the forest, absorbing his surroundings with an eager look.
"Anora?" he called, and Flemeth's eyes glowed, hungry anticipation shooting through her gaze. Morrigan's nose darted in the direction the girl had gone, but she had disappeared among the trees.
"What have we here..." Flemeth purred, and then pure shock settled itself over her face.
"Oh, no. No, no no..." her voice growled. "They fool with the plans of ages..."
Morrigan sank back as her mother brushed past. "Go home, girl," her harsh voice commanded, and the wolf pup slunk away, then turned back at the shimmer of bright magic.
.oOo.
Honey-colored hair, softly waving, gleamed in the noon sunlight as Anora slipped her hand into Cailan's, and her mouth reached upward to brush against his. Cailan's eyes lit with surprise, then drifted closed as he gave himself over to the moment. She smelled like sunlight and earth, like wisdom and passion.
"Come," she murmured, and led him into the trees. He went, charmed, his feet carrying him through the bracken as he trailed behind the female swaying her way deep into the forest. Desire curled through him, like mist invading a moonlit night, creeping silently to take him over until he could think of nothing but possessing the enchanting creature who was his fiance.
Perhaps she read his thoughts, for she turned, lips seeking his own, fingers busy at his collar.
"Come to me," she whispered, her voice echoing, refracting, blocking out the small forest sounds until there was nothing to be heard, nothing to be seen but her, nothing else in the world but his lust.
By the time the last piece of clothing slipped away, Cailan's mind was nothing but a black abyss, his body reacting to the woman in his arms as an animal in rut. As they sank to the spongy earth, the witch gripping his young body with her own, she released the pent-up power of her spell, sowing small seeds of the future that would have lasting repercussions in the years to come.