WARNINGS: Suicidal thoughts; a considerably less graphic (but still present) miscarriage; very frank discussions of sex, sexuality, and sexual practices.
They returned to Denerim with a merchant, Elissa riding with his wares. The healer cautioned her against walking, and Cauthrien had decided she ought not walk at all. Bundled in blankets, she spent the duration of the trip in silence. Her skin was warm but her heart was frozen. Each bump in the road threatened to shatter it. The world passed her by; she saw none of it, too lost in sorrow and self-loathing.
The rumors reached Denerim several days before they did, and when they arrived, Elissa felt the eyes. She felt the suffocating weight of their pity, and she saw the sympathy on their faces.
When she stood before the court to inform the king of their success, she heard the whispers, saw the glances the nobles exchanged. Eamon took a step forward.
"We have heard… worrisome tales about your majesty's health," he said, his brows drawn. She couldn't discern whether it was born of concern for her or concern for the kingdom. One was not the same as the other.
"I am perfectly well, thank you, Arl Eamon."
Alistair knew better. Alistair always knew. He might not say it, Maker bless him he knew when to stay silent, but he knew. With his elbow on his throne, his chin resting on his thumb and his fingers curled about his lips, with that considering face and thoughtful expression, there was no doubt in her mind that he knew.
The crown dismissed them, and they bowed before leaving the hall, Wilkes taking Cauthrien and Driscole with him while Elissa excused herself from Shale and Oghren. A bath, she said. She needed a bath.
The servants saw her into the bathing room, helping her out of her armor and into the spacious, tiled bath. After shooing them away, she closed her eyes. Floating on her back in the middle of the bath, her toes brushing one edge, her spread fingers touching two others, she felt weightless. Peaceful.
Still.
A breath in, a breath out.
She turned her face in the water, parting her lips to breathe through her mouth. Water filled her mouth, licking at her tongue, and she took long sips of air around it, rattling it. Little droplets hit the back of her throat.
A thought coalesced in the mists of her mind. A dark thought. A terrible thought. Dragging her fingertips across the surface of the water, she considered it. Considered rolling onto her front and breathing the water in.
Part of her recognized how stupid that was. Her death would only complicate things for Alistair, and she loved him too much to complicate things further.
Doubt picked at her mind.
I love him, she insisted.
But she couldn't help thinking the child she lost was the only one she would be able to conceive. The taint would spread through her, making it harder to have a child, she was sure. She had destroyed their one chance.
Maybe it would be better to free him from his obligation to her. Let him find another wife.
Rolling in the water, she sat on one of the submerged shelves and stared blankly at the tile floor of the bath. She exhaled slowly.
She pushed away from the shelf and sank under the water, closing her eyes. Her lungs burned as she opened her mouth. Breathe, she told herself, but her body refused, paralyzed by fear.
She didn't want to drown. Of all the ways to die, she didn't want to drown.
Rising from under the water, she took a long breath and opened her eyes. Alistair sat on the edge of the bath across from her, his boots discarded, his breeches rolled past his knees. He smiled, the expression inviting, and Elissa pushed herself forward, between his legs, and she wrapped her arms around his stomach. He leaned over her, a strong fortress, a mighty wall, her stalwart protector. His arms banded about her, drawing her close, the warmth of his body creeping under her skin to melt the ice inside her in a way the hot water couldn't.
Her wet hair soaked his velvet doublet; her tears left darkened tracks down its front.
One of his hands brushed over the top of her head, stroking gently. "Don't cry," he murmured, kissing her cheek. "You weren't made to cry."
"I can't—I'm sorry, Alistair." She pressed closer to him, digging her fingers into his doublet.
"Come out of the bath, my dear." He slid his hands to her arms, tugging gently, urging her to move.
She pulled against him, refusing to cooperate, suddenly very aware of her nakedness. It had never bothered her before, but as he released her, confused, she sank into the water and crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to meet his eyes. "I'll be fine."
The world was silent for a moment. And then Alistair was in the bath, fully clothed, grabbing her close, holding her so tightly she thought he might absorb her. For a moment, her throat tightened, panic made her vision spotty.
"Elissa, Elissa," he whispered against her hair. "I—"
He stopped, cut himself off, and she would forever love him for it. No stupid, paltry words fell from his mouth, no empty promises, so claims to understand. He whispered her name again, momentarily tightened his hold on her, and she realized the cage of his body gave her strength.
When he swept her into his arms, she didn't protest. She pressed her face against his neck and he clambered out of the bath, somehow managing to keep her tight against him. A servant asked if they needed a towel, and he took one to wrap around her, bundling her up in it. He took the servants' corridors back to their room, a short trip, really, and when they were there, set her on the bed.
While he stripped out of his wet clothes and added two logs to the fire, she focused on breathing. And on what she could possibly tell him. He knew, obviously. Or, if he hadn't, he did now. She was sure he knew. He had to know. The thought of being wrong, of him not knowing, filled her with an ice cold terror and strangled her breath in her throat.
He approached slowly, watching her with concern etched into every line of his face. He settled beside her, rubbing her arms before tugging the towel free of her body to dry her hair. Then he pulled her against him, trapped her body in his arms as he leaned against the headboard and held her.
"We heard the rumors," he said, his voice quiet and soft. "I didn't know what to believe."
She started to apologize, but he spoke over her.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you."
She balked. "You?" Peeling her cheek away from his shoulder, she stared at him, incredulous. "You didn't lose our baby. You're not the reason we—" A sob caught in her chest.
Warm hands cupping her cheeks, he drew her close and peppered gentle kissed on her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, and her cheeks. His mouth brushed the corner of her lips, but he didn't press for anything more – she didn't think she could give him more; the idea of sex made her blood curdle with ice.
"We can keep trying," he murmured, stroking his thumbs over her jaw. "We'll try again."
Rage twisted her up inside, made her sick to her stomach with its intensity, and she exploded with it, wrenching away from him. "I don't want to try again!" she shouted. Her body flushed with anger. Words leapt from her lips, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. "I want that child!"
That wasn't true, not entirely.
"I don't want to keep trying! I don't want the pressure, Alistair. I hate how we have to perform for them!" She paced in front of the bed, her hands clenched into fists, before whirling on him and jabbing a finger into his shoulder. "I never wanted children! I don't want children!" She sounded idiotic even to herself, half-mad and full of anger that had no outlet. A year ago, she would have channeled this into stabbing darkspawn. But now all she had were pretty dresses and fake fights.
"And what if we never have another child! What then?"
There was the root of her anger: fear.
"Will Ferelden descend into another civil war? Will we be held responsible for it? Stave off a Blight, unite the country, and then leave it broken thirty years later when we die without an heir?"
Whirling, she continued to rage, shouting at him, at the walls, at Eamon and the world. At her dead parents, at Duncan – Duncan, who she hated and despised, for saving her. She should have died that night alongside her mother and father, should never have become a Grey Warden. Blaming Duncan for all her woes was easy. He was the beginning of all her troubles; if she died with her family, none of this would be happening. She wouldn't have problems. She'd be dead, and being dead was easy.
Alistair grabbed her wrists and pulled her flush against him, her hands held tightly between their bodies. "Enough, Elissa!" He was angry, too, and she sucked in a sharp breath, not entirely sure where his anger was coming from. She'd certainly given him enough reasons to shout back at her. "Enough. Please."
But he wasn't shouting.
Releasing her wrists, he held her, simply held her. Against her cheek, she felt the steady beat of his heart, and hers slowed to match it. His breath made his chest rise and fall, set the pace for her own breathing.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, closing her eyes as the last of her anger left her. She felt, for the first time in days, gloriously empty. Blank. "For yelling. For—"
"Accepted." He cut her off before she could apologize for the child they'd never have. He took a deep breath and tilted her chin back, looking at her with worried eyes. "Do you remember Orzammar? After the Deep Roads?"
The question brought to mind a flash of memory, the brush of his mouth on the inside of her thigh, and she nodded.
"You said you loved me." His fingers slid into her wet hair, his thumb pressing against the base of her skull and alleviating a pressure she hadn't felt build. Sighing, her eyes drifted shut and she leaned against him. "And you told me you'd never expected it." Warm, gentle hands settled on her shoulders, kneading tension from her muscles. "So I told you I didn't expect anything from you."
Warm languor spread through her, and contentment chased at the emptiness. Guilt made her force the contentment down, made her fight it.
His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "No matter what you think, how you feel, you are no less a woman. You didn't fail me."
Something in her broke, and relief crashed down around her. That was it. That was the source of her fear, she realized; she had been terrified that he would discard her, that he would see her as a broken woman, a failure as a wife. Success as a warrior made her strong, but her devotion to that strength left little time to be what a woman ought to be – gentle, well bred. She couldn't dance. Needlepoint eluded her. The household servants came to her when they needed to know how many candles to order for the next month, and she hadn't the slightest. All those things women were supposed to know, the ways they were supposed to bring honor to their husbands, were beyond her. But she could still have children. Even if she didn't want them, she could still have them. Becoming a Grey Warden didn't change that thought; she was young and invincible, and maybe these things happened to other Grey Wardens, but they wouldn't happen to her.
And then they did.
"Come to bed, my dear." With kind hands, Alistair urged her onto the bed, tucking her under sheets and fur and silk coverlets. He joined her a moment later, catching her hands in his and kissing her knuckles.
"You don't have time for this," she said, frowning.
He shrugged. "Right now, I'm not a king. I'm a husband."
Shifting closer to him, she didn't wonder if that was a good thing, him putting her before his throne. She didn't think about duty or position. She kissed him once, chastely, and found contentment wrapped in his arms.
Two weeks later, in a heavy winter gown the color of evergreen needles, Elissa approached the door to Wynne's workshop.
Two guards stood outside the door, a templar and one of the king's guard, and Elissa smiled at them and greeted both by name. Mairtan Lochlain tipped his head to her, but the templar, a younger man by the name of Padrig, did not so much as move. Padrig took his job very seriously. The one time they'd spoken, he had said, in a stern and even voice, one that brooked no nonsense, that he would protect Wynne from the people of the palace as much as he would protect the people of the palace from her and that the king and queen need never fear him misusing his templar powers.
Rapping lightly on Wynne's door, Elissa slipped into the workroom and shut the door behind her. Wynne leaned over a long table covered in books and scrolls, a frown on her face as her fingers ran back and forth across lines of text.
"A moment," she said, leaning closer to what she read. Her eyes narrowed, and Elissa, knowing better than to interrupt Wynne when she focused so fiercely, turned her attention to the tables and bookshelves lining the walls.
She didn't recognize many of the books, but quite a number were by Brother Genetivi. With a fond smile, she pulled In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar from one shelf. On the inside of the leather bound cover was a note addressed to Wynne. She passed over it, paging through the book at her leisure, looking for passages that might catch her eye. Lingering on one page discussing the Harrowing – not in nearly enough detail, in her mind – she shifted the book to one hand and laid the other absently over her stomach.
That was, of course, how Wynne found her. Feeling the weight of eyes, Elissa turned her attention from the book to Wynne's table. Wynne was studying her, now, with no small amount of curiosity. "Your majesty."
The face Elissa pulled must have been a hideously amusing mix of annoyance, aggravation, and bewilderment, because Wynne burst out laughing. Pursing her lips, Elissa shut the book a bit harder than necessary and laid it on the shelf. "Wynne."
"Forgive me," she said around her laughter. "But your face—"
Elissa's lips quirked, a tiny smile tugging one corner of her mouth upward. "It's nice to know someone can still laugh at me." She drifted toward Wynne's work table and settled on one of the stools beside it. "What are you working on?"
"Oh, nothing in particular." But Wynne began a lengthy explanation of her experiments anyway. Something about lyrium and its effect on a mage's ability to cast spells, how one could distill it to make it more potent. Elissa tried to keep up, but she found most of it went over her head. She knew the basic recipe to make lyrium potions – how many times had Morrigan snarled at her about needing a distillation agent instead of a concentrator agent? – but nothing else.
"—which is when I slew the High Dragon and saved all of Orlais."
Elissa blinked, swinging her gaze to Wynne. "I—what?"
Chuckling, Wynne turned to a side table and poured them both a glass of wine. "I knew you weren't listening. Oh, no, don't apologize." Her hands glowed with magic and she offered one of the glasses to Elissa.
Taking it, she let a mouthful of the warmed, spiced wine settle on her tongue, enjoying the sharp, full-bodied tang. "This is excellent. Where did you get it?"
"A bribe from Irving. He wants me to go back and teach a class on demons."
A frisson of fear coursed down Elissa's spine, and she wondered if she ought not tell Wynne her reason for visiting. "Are you going?" she asked, hiding her worry behind another sip of wine. She kept the goblet lifted, hiding her mouth behind it.
"Of course not." Wynne sounded affronted. "The minute he gets me back in the tower, he'll have me so busy I won't ever leave again." One brow lifted. "I have no intent of spending the rest of my days there." She lifted her goblet as if to toast Elissa. "And who can say if the Hero of Ferelden won't have need of a senior enchanter in the future." Setting the goblet down, she came around the table and leaned against it beside Elissa's stool. "Now, tell me why you've come to visit."
Her words caught in her throat. Asking for help from Wynne should have been easy – asking Wynne was always easier than asking Morrigan – but her mouth suddenly felt dry, and nerves made the wine settle uneasily in her belly. "I…" She curled her fingers tightly around the goblet and took a long, steadying breath, briefly closing her eyes.
Wynne did not move. She said nothing. When Elissa turned to her once more, there was no judgment in her gaze, only patience.
"There are potions to help a woman conceive." Something flickered across Wynne's face, there and gone before Elissa could assess it. "I hoped you could make one."
Wynne's expression closed, became guarded, and Elissa felt a fleeting lick of panic. If Wynne said no, there were other places she could go, other herbalists she could see, but she didn't particularly want to purchase this service from someone she didn't know.
Brittle silence stretched between them. Swallowing hard, Elissa shifted on her stool, hooking her feet behind the bars as she waited for Wynne's response.
"You know these potions can be incredibly dangerous."
She leaned forward, letting her desperation show on her face. "That's why I'm coming to you, Wynne." A tentative smile formed on her face before her expression became worried again. "I need this, Wynne."
"Are you sure you're ready? It's only been two weeks."
Her voice was so gentle that it cut deeper, harsher, than a sword through the gut. Without realizing it, Wynne had ripped off the barely formed scab over her heart and left her bleeding. Anger was her best defense. "I'm fine," she snapped, sliding off the stool and stalking across the workroom to stand at one of the windows. Frigid air seeped into the room, the heat of the fire not quite reaching her.
"Are you?"
Bitterness welled up inside her, constricting her throat. Her fingers clenched the goblet between her hands as she resisted the urge to hurl it, wine and all, against the ground. Being confined to the palace made her neurotic. Frustrated and malcontent. She wanted to be out doing things, but no one would let her. The king's guard flanked her almost everywhere, the men in the training yards refused to engage her. Even Alistair was reticent to let her do as she wanted.
Idiotic, all of them. If she felt fine, she should be allowed to do as she pleased, not coddled and sheltered. She was the Hero of Ferelden, the Warden-Commander, and she did not appreciate being treated like a fragile doll.
"Of course I am!"
Wynne said nothing, offered no judgments, and Elissa flagged. Drooping against the wall, she shook her head. "I'm not, am I?" She closed her eyes and turned away, pressing one hand to her forehead. "When you… how long did it take you?" The words came quietly, barely above a whisper.
"I had the benefit of being able to hate the templars and the child's father instead of myself," Wynne replied.
Elissa dragged her hand down her face and finished the wine. "I can't afford the luxury of waiting." Her hand slipped over her abdomen, and she tried to disguise the attempt at self-comfort by curling her fingers around the pearl belt she wore. A wedding gift from Alistair, the "proper" one, the public one. It wasn't as hollow as that, though, affording her a great deal of comfort. As if he stood with her. "I should wait. But I can't." She swallowed. "The taint… every day that passes will make it harder."
"Yes."
Elissa opened her eyes, startled. "What?"
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Wynne nodded. "I'll make the potion for you. But first, we need to make sure your monthly flow is regular."
Elissa frowned, her nose wrinkling. "That will take too long."
"Bleed consistently for three months, and after that third time, you'll have the fertility potion." Elissa pulled a face. Wynne's scowl wiped that expression clear off. "I'm serious about this, Elissa. Cut corners and you'll regret it. These aren't things to trifle with."
She sighed. "I know. I just… it would be nice if it were easier. Don't you think?"
"Is anything easy ever worth it in the long run?"
Immediately, she thought of Connor. It hadn't been easy to have the final decision thrust on her – Isolde didn't want to make a choice. Neither did Teagan, and by rights, they should have. Instead, she'd made the choice for them. She'd chosen to sacrifice Isolde to save Connor, unwilling to leave the child in the thrall of a demon.
It hadn't been easy. But all she could remember after was her argument with Leliana – and then Alistair.
Would it have been so hard to go to the Circle? Would it have made our lives that much more difficult? He had been unrelenting, driving her back, looming over her in his splintmail, and so much fiercer than she'd ever seen him. Infuriated. What would it have hurt to make sure, just once, everyone lived?
She'd quailed under his attack, unprepared for it in the aftermath of Isolde's death. Making that decision, choosing to let Jowan sacrifice Isolde—that wasn't easy. But saying those two words, just two, telling him do it. That had been easy.
And, no, in the end, it wasn't worth it. There was a rift between Alistair and Eamon because of her. They were cordial enough, but Eamon was cold to him now.
"I suppose I'll have to sit on my ass all day and pretend to find needlework fascinating."
"And entertain the ladies of the court."
Elissa pretended to gag. "Wonderful." Drawing her shoulders back, she lifted her glass and tilted her nose into the air. "I must needs learn how to titter like a helpless maid and simper whilst I am at it."
Wynne's lips twitched. "Tis a most noble sacrifice you make, your most regal majesty." She swept into a mocking bow before Elissa dissolved into helpless laughter.
"Thank you, Wynne." She crossed the workroom with quick steps, touching Wynne's arm lightly. "I appreciate it."
"I'll have your potion for you in a week's time." She placed her hand over Elissa's and gave her fingers a light squeeze.
Life gave Elissa no reprieve; a month after her visit to Wynne, she was called to Amaranthine. Warden-Commander, indeed. She spent most of her time wondering if anyone actually knew who she was. It certainly seemed they did not.
And she wasn't as alone as she thought she would be – Oghren was there. As was her habit, she collected the odd strays, first Anders, and then Nathaniel, and then Sigrun, Velanna, and Justice. Being on the road refreshed her more than it drained her, but as she went with Oghren and the other two boys from Vigil's Keep to the city, exhaustion overtook her.
"Are you alright?" Anders asked, as she paused for breath, pretending to examine a merchant's wares.
"Fine," she said easily, lifting a staff and examining it. "I always wondered why we found mage staves at generic merchant stores. Maybe they just don't know what they have?" She tossed it, amused at the way Anders' eyes bugged out his head, and caught the thicker end of the staff. She held it out to him. "Useful?"
Taking it, he ran his other hand over it, and shook his head. "Less boost to spellpower. Are you sure you're alright?"
"Perfectly." She took the staff back from him and set it on the counter, crooking her finger at Nathaniel.
"You called?"
She rolled her eyes and pointed at a noble muttering about the riffraff filling the city streets. "Bet he's got at least three sovereigns in his pocket."
He drew back, surprised. "You want me to pickpocket one of the nobility."
"Mmm." Her fingers drifted toward a garnet. "Do you think Wade would like this?"
"But you just asked me—"
"Yes, I did."
"That's a crime."
She lifted both brows as Oghren grunted, walking by in his heavy armor. "And she's the sodding Queen."
And therein lay the reason she adored Oghren so much. He had a wonderful way of stating the truth of things.
They made their way through the rest of the city, eventually taking two rooms at The Crown and Lion. As they sat and drank, the twinge of pain in her abdomen became a knife accompanied by an uncomfortable pressure.
Finishing her wine, Elissa bade the men good night and made her way up the stairs and down the hall to her rooms. She paused outside the door, pressing a fist against her abdomen. Then she pushed inside, shutting the door behind her. She dragged a hand down her face, wondering why she'd expected anything less than this. Wynne had said she might be pregnant, washing her with magic to check a few days before she left for the Keep.
She stripped to her small clothes, wincing as the muscles in her lower abdomen seized. There was blood on her smalls, not very much, but enough, and her stomach roiled. The wine climbed her throat, and she stumbled to the chamber pot, vomiting into it. It burned her mouth but came up easily.
When she sat back, reaching for a towel to wipe her mouth, she found a hand offering her a glass of water. "Drink," Anders said.
She drank. He was using the same healer voice that Wynne used, and it was impossible to disobey.
Crouching beside her, he exchanged the glass for a towel when she'd rinsed her mouth and drank a mouthful. "You want to tell me what's wrong now?" he asked.
No, not really, she didn't want to tell him anything. But he was a healer.
"Are you sick? Is this some Grey Warden thing?" He reached for her, his hand settling on her shoulder, and she felt the warm roll of his magic through her. "You don't even flinch."
"I spent a year with Wynne and an apostate." She shrugged.
The magic swept through her, and she felt her stomach settle. With a heavy sigh, she sank to the ground, steadied by his hand and magic, and he pulled back, his brow creased. "You and the king—"
"It's a miscarriage, isn't it?" She sighed and pushed her hands into her hair, dragging at hunks of it. Strange how this time it didn't hurt. Instead of pain, she felt nothing but emptiness. Hollowed. Wrung out. Dried out.
"You're barely a month along. It…" He swallowed, and she wondered if he'd ever had to give news like this before. "It won't be much different than a normal flow. You'll bleed more heavily, and longer. You'll have—"
"This isn't the first miscarriage I've had," she snapped, cutting him off. She had no desire to hear him tell her things she already knew. She didn't want to listen to someone tell her how she was broken. "I'd like to be alone."
Anders dropped to the ground beside the stinking chamber pot, and opened his pouch to let Ser Pounce-a-lot out. Elissa recoiled from the kitten and glared at Anders. "I said—"
"Oh, I heard you," he said. "Healer's orders, you're not to be alone tonight."
She bit her tongue to keep from saying the stupid things so ready to spill from her mouth. I don't want you here. Get out. Your company isn't welcome.
Instead, she narrowed her eyes. "You're too clever by half."
"Not really."
She exhaled and let the tension run out of her body. A small smile turned her lips up. "You remind me of someone, you know."
"Good or bad?"
Laughing, she pushed the chamber pot away. The innkeeper had assured her a maid would come through to freshen the room; she'd care for it when she came. "I'm not sure yet. So. Anders."
"So, my queen."
She propped her chin on her hands, her elbows on her knees. "Tell me all about how you've managed to escape the Circle so many times." He hesitated. "I'd rather listen to you than talk about myself."
That was enough, and he began to speak. When the room grew cold, she pulled the sheets off the bed and wrapped herself in one, gave him the other, and he stoked the fire with magic, and they stayed awake long into the night.
The next day, they were both bleary eyed, but in spite of that, Elissa's mood was much improved. Anders examined one of the potions Wynne left her, and they spent the majority of the day walking together, talking.
In some ways, dealing with the trouble at Vigil's Keep and Amaranthine was more difficult than dealing with the Archdemon. Keeping up with Wynne's potion – and she would be damned before she stopped taking it – meant having to cope with women's troubles the duration of the campaign against the Architect. But Sigrun proved an invaluable friend in that regard.
She found herself back in the palace, some five months later, alone. Wynne was traveling, Shale was with her, Alistair was in Orlais, Eamon had returned home. The court was relatively empty, the arls and banns returning to their lands for the summer, and she found herself bored out of her mind. Her itch to spar and fight sated by the long battle against the Architect, she lounged in the library in comfortable leathers, not bothering with gowns with no one to entertain. Reading was difficult for her, unless the book was a torrid Nevarran romance, but she forced herself to make her way through several tomes addressing politics.
The solitude wasn't so bad as that, though; Cauthrien joined her in the libraries in the second week, a silent companion recently returned from a tour of southern Ferelden at the king's behest. She brought Driscole and, sometimes, several other knights in the king's guard with her, and so the palace was less lonely.
Lounging in front of the library's empty fireplace, which meant she sprawled on her back across a thick rug in a pair of Alistair's trousers and one of his fine silk shirts, Elissa held out a book to Cauthrien. Shae. It was odd to think of the knight by her given name. "Wasn't this banned by the Chantry?" she asked, rolling onto her stomach after Shae took it. She reached for the mug of crisp, cold wine at her side, pawing uselessly at the air, unable to understand why the mug seemed so far away.
Driscole pushed it closer with his toe as he tossed back a mouthful, and Elissa finally got her hands around it. Sweet wine filled her mouth and trailed warmth down her throat when she swallowed.
Shae choked. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Banned. Is this even possible?" She shoved the book under Driscole's nose while Elissa reached out and grabbed at it. They ignored her, Driscole making a surprised noise while Shae nodded.
"Let me see," Elissa demanded, waving her hand at Driscole's face.
He turned the book, displaying the lewd picture she'd been examining before handing it to Shae. She smiled. "Oooh, that. Yes."
Both of them stared at her.
Rolling her eyes, she spread her legs wide, a perfect split, then closed them and brought them up behind her back, touching her toes to her shoulders.
Their eyes grew wider.
"You learn things, you see," she said, as if that made everything better. "You need to be bendy to fight the darkspawn."
"I doubt your husband is very bendy." Driscole turned the book about and paged through it. Whistling, he jabbed his finger against one page. "I—I want to do this, though. Cauthrien. Cauthrien, we should—should try this."
She leaned over, swayed, and nearly fell. Catching herself on Driscole's shoulder, she peered at the book. Clearly unimpressed, she said, "No. Absolutely not." And then she swung away. "What are we doing?"
"Getting drunk," Elissa said, downing another mouthful of wine. She hauled herself into a sitting position and grabbed at the pitcher on the floor between them. "Wonderfully, blissfully drunk."
"Why?"
"Giggles." She poured more wine into the cup, drained half, and poured more.
Driscole grinned. "Because we don't have to be on the field at assbell in the morning."
"That," Shae said, pointing at him with a wobbling finger, "is not polite."
"Assbell?"
Elissa giggled, snorted, and laughed all the harder for it. "Asschabs."
"What." She wasn't sure whether Shae or Driscole said that.
"Asschabs!"
"What's an asschab?" Driscole asked, frowning, looking like he was thinking very, very hard.
But she had to admit: it was very hard to think. Thinking was difficult. She didn't know why she did it so much. Clearly, she should just stop. She almost said as much, but a shadow fell over her, and that distracted her.
"Alistair!"
"No," Driscole said, lifting a finger. "No, that would be very much—it would be—what's the word?"
"Rude?" Alistair asked, lifting both brows and staring at the top of Driscole's head.
Driscole fell over himself as he tried to spin around, knocking the wine pitcher across the floor. Elissa wailed.
"Not the wine! Driscole!"
He was too busy scrambling away from Alistair to pay her any mind. Shae waved at the king. "Hello, your majesty."
"Ser Cauthrien. You look… comfortable."
"I made her put on trousers," Elissa explained, quite proud of herself. "And let her hair down. And we were going to put on makeup. But then we were too drunk and walking was hard."
"Very hard," Shae agreed. Her face went white and she threw herself at the book, spilling her, wine, too.
Elissa picked up her own glass to spare it. Then decided to drink everything that was left. "You weren't supposed to be home tonight," she said, licking the taste of wine from her lips. "The cha—" She paused, not quite sure how to say the word she wanted to use. "The person who knows your trips."
"The chamberlain?"
"Yes, him. He said… uh… I don't remember. Do you remember?"
Driscole scratched his chin, thoughtful. "No."
"I don't either."
Alistair crouched beside her, plucking the glass of wine from her fingers. "How long have you three been drinking?" he asked, turning the glass over in his hands.
Giggling, Elissa pressed her hands to his face. "You're so handsome."
He flushed and grasped at her wrists, pulling her away. "Thank you. But you're drunk."
"So?"
"Are you going to kiss her?" Driscole yanked the book out from under Shae and held it up for Alistair to see. "She says you've done this."
Alistair went scarlet, which was really a lovely color on him. Twining her arms around his neck, she scooted closer to him, between his lovely, strong legs. Her handsome husband was very handsome. So handsome. The handsomest. Most handsome. "Elissa… says a lot of things. While drunk. My dear, please sto—"
She kissed him. Because he needed to know exactly how handsome he was, and kisses were an excellent way to show him. Except she seemed to have missed his mouth.
Behind them, Driscole howled with laughter. She glared at him over her shoulder, and he fell to his back, still laughing, while Shae covered her eyes and pressed her lips into a thin line. But she was trying not to laugh, too.
Fine, they were just jealous. That's what it was.
Clearly.
"Alistair."
He sighed. It sounded long-suffering. He must be tired.
She hoped he wasn't too tired.
"Yes?"
"Can we have sex now?"
He choked. "I think it's time to go."
"To bed?" She was hopeful.
"Er, eventually."
"Oh, good. I've missed you." She snuggled close to him as he wrapped his arms around her and picked her up, cradling her body in his arms. He was warm, smelled of sweat and leather and open skies, and she sighed happily.
"As for you two," Alistair said. His voice rumbled in his chest, and she turned her head to lick a tendon in his neck. To express her appreciation. "Get back to the barrack's, for Andraste's sake, before you can't even move."
Grumbling unhappily, Driscole dragged Shae to her feet and they plodded out of the library, herded by Alistair. Elissa, ignoring them for the most part, applied herself to the distraction of her husband, kissing and nipping at his neck.
"Stop that. You're drunk."
"I missed you," she crooned, sliding one hand into his hair. She tried to push his mouth to hers, but he refused to yield. Instead, he stared at her like she had three heads. She tried to scowl and look pathetic all at once.
He sighed and bent his head, giving her a brief kiss. Too chaste, too boring, but she'd take what she could get. "I missed you, too."
"Oh, good. I was worried."
"Were you now?"
"Yes."
He stepped through the massive doors to their suite, held open by a guard, and she waved. "Hello, Ser Muirdden."
He inclined his head. "Good evening, your majesties."
And then the door shut behind them, and they were alone in their rooms. She thought he'd put her down, which was a bit scary – she wasn't sure her legs would work. They felt squishy. But he carried her to their bedroom instead, setting her gently on their bed.
She stretched on it, beckoning to him with a sultry smile.
He dragged a hand down his face. "I need to bathe," he told her.
"I have a tongue."
He went still, and she smiled. "Elissa, that's—"
She pushed herself upward.
And threw up.
"I hear you're hung over."
Elissa pressed the pillow over her face and groaned. "Too loud," she mumbled into the bed sheets.
The bed dipped and rolled, and her stomach lurched. She was going to die. She wasn't hung over, she was dying. This was the end.
"Of course."
Slowly, she peeled the pillow away from one eye so she could see who was beside her. "Wynne?"
"None other. Alistair tells me you drank yourself sick last night."
Moaning, she drew the pillow back over her face and debated killing herself. Better than dying of shame. "Apparently." Someone had cleaned up the vomit, she recalled that much, but there was a faint odor in the room. She'd burn cedar wood in the fireplace later. Except that would make the room unbearably hot.
There was no hope of success.
"You don't deserve it, but I've made a remedy for you."
"…how?"
"You're going to question my kindness?"
Sitting up with great care, Elissa took the flask Wynne offered and tipped its contents down her throat. It was bitter. And lumpy. She made a face, handing the flask back, but didn't question what was in the remedy.
"I arrived shortly after Alistair, and he begged my aide." Wynne tucked the flask into a pouch at her hip. "He also promised me a very expensive, very rare bottle of Antivan red."
"Generous," Elissa said, trying to get the bitter taste of the remedy out of her mouth.
"And I have something else for you." She picked something off the bed, a rolled up velvet cloth. Carefully untying the strings that held it closed, Wynne unrolled one end to reveal a series of vials.
Elissa's heart lurched in her chest. "You—"
"Yes. But if you drink like that while taking these, I will light your hair on fire."
She almost laughed. But Wynne looked so serious she held back.
"Drink one every morning," Wynne instructed, pulling one of the vials free of the cloth. She unstopped the top and passed it to Elissa. The liquid was a muted orange color and smelled faintly of lilac. Bringing it to her lips, she tipped back her head and swallowed.
It tasted worse than the remedy, and she choked, coughing.
"This is terrible," she gasped.
"Did you expect it to taste like rainbows and sunshine?"
"I'd think it would taste better." Wincing, Elissa slipped the empty vial into the cloth once more.
Wynne wrapped the cloth up, tied it, and slipped it under her bed. "Make sure you take it every morning. If you forget, take it at night, but don't take two in a single day, do you understand?" Elissa nodded. "You have enough here for two months. After three, the potion spoils."
"Thank you, Wynne." Elissa took her hand and squeezed lightly. "Truly. I mean it."
Wynne inclined her head. "I know." She stood, and held out her hands. "Now, up you get. You have a busy day. I saw your schedule."
Groaning, Elissa took Wynne's hands and allowed the other woman to pull her to her feet. "How can I be busy? Alistair only just got back. Who else is here?"
"An emissary from Antiva, I believe."
"Zevran?"
"Do you think the Antivans would send Zevran here, to discuss politics with us?"
"No."
Amethyne bustled in, then, her arms full of clothes, and Elissa sighed, resigning herself to a very long, very boring day. Plucking her smalls from the top of the pile, she slid into them as Amethyne arranged her outfit on the bed and Wynne looked on.
"Elissa."
She made a disgruntled noise of acknowledgement, tugging her kirtle onto her body. Amethyne laced it up the sides.
"How often do you have sex with your husband?"
A strangled sound caught in her throat, and she felt her face heat and flush. At her breast, Amethyne's hands faltered, and the young girl turned away, blushing furiously. "Wynne, I'm not sure—"
"Elissa, I traveled with you for the better part of a year. I am intimately familiar with the vast majority of your sexual practices."
Why the floor didn't just open up and swallow her, Elissa would never know. But she fervently wished it would. Pushing her thumbs against closed eyes, and answered, "Often."
"Elissa." Wynne sounded annoyed.
"It depends!" Exhaling hard, she brushed Amethyne's hands away and turned to Wynne, her arms crossed, her brows drawn tight. "Why are we even discussing this?"
"As your healer, and I assume your midwife, it's important you tell me these things."
Amethyne's fingers tugging on Elissa's arms until she uncrossed them, and the little girl helped her into a chemise.
Sighing, but still uncomfortable by the thought of putting her and her husband's sexual practices into words, Elissa nodded. "Maybe… two or three times a week. When we're together." Wynne's brows rose, and Elissa swallowed, wondering if there was a right answer to that question. "Is that a lot? Or too little?"
A wry smile quirked the corners of Wynne's lips. "The research I've done recently—" Andraste's ass, Wynne had done research for her? "—suggests it's best to engage in…" She made a vague gesture with a twist of her wrist, an impassive look on her face. "…in intercourse every two to three days when you're at your most fertile."
How is this conversation actually happening?
She folded her hands over the stomacher while Amethyne picked up a simple leather belt. "No, the pearls, please," Elissa murmured to her as Wynne continued.
"And if you perform fellatio on—"
"Wynne!" Her horror could not be described. Amethyne, thankfully, was probably – she fervently hoped – too young to understand the conversation, but that did little to mitigate her embarrassment.
"—you should stop. It's a waste."
Elissa's mortified scream strangled in her throat, coming out as a pathetic gurgle instead.
"Hero of Ferelden, slayer of darkspawn hordes and the Old God Urthemiel and you can't discuss sex with your healer?"
"You're like my grandmother," Elissa exclaimed without thought.
Wynne chuckled. "I'll see you this evening at dinner," she said, brushing by Elissa as Amethyne wrapped the belt of pearls about her waist and snugged it around the stomacher.
Shifting uncomfortably in his chair – he still wasn't used to the damn thing, and it would need at least eight extra pillows before the thought of sitting in it for hours would become appealing – Alistair reread the first paragraph of the Antivan emissary's letter for the third time. He was sure there was some double meaning in it, but he wasn't sure if the man was saying he wanted to sleep with the queen or take a nice long ride through the country that would end with an arrow in Alistair's eye.
Either way, he wasn't thrilled.
Or maybe it meant exactly what it said and there was no double meaning at all. That was the trouble with Antivans: one could never tell when they were being honest and when they were being sneaky.
Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead, marveling at how quickly work could give him a throbbing headache.
The soft rap at his door promised to make the headache worse.
"Come in," he called, pushing the missive into his "to do" stack, a haphazard pile of papers that grew by the moment and had no discernible organizational scheme. Even to him.
Wynne bustled in, looking spry and fit and far too energetic for the time of day. "Alistair."
Thank the Maker she used his first name. Whatever she wanted, it was a matter of friendship, not state. "Wynne. Hello, how are you? Please, sit down. Can I get you a drink?"
She chuckled as she eased into one of the chair across from his desk. "Bored already?"
"Yes. How is Elissa? You gave her the remedy?"
"I did, and she's fine. Do you have a moment?"
"I have many." He gave her one of his practiced, inviting smiles, and her arched brow said she saw right through it right away. Of course she did. She always did. Having Wynne around was like having a mother and a grandmother and a personal keeper.
Now there was a disturbing thought.
Coughing, he gave her an inviting gesture. "Please. By all means. What did you need?"
"I spoke with Elissa about this earlier, but I wanted to make sure you both understood."
She wore an intense expression, and Alistair stilled, somehow expecting the worse. They'd done something to upset Wynne. She was leaving. Or she was going to die and they weren't allowed to follow. Or she was going to bequeath her lab to them, and they'd have to worry about cleaning it out or—
"Regarding your attempts at conceiving another child—"
His thoughts came to a screaming halt, and he felt his jaw slacken.
"Wipe that look off your face, young man, this is serious." He did as she commanded without hesitation, covering his mouth with his fingers and propping his elbow on the arm of his chair. Maybe that would help. Hide his expressions. Maybe.
Unlikely.
Wynne could read his expression in the dark when she wasn't looking at him.
"As I told her earlier." Wynne held up one finger. "Limit yourselves to intercourse every two to three days." He stared. She held up a second finger. "If Elissa wishes to perform any prolonged oral acts, do not finish in her mouth." He choked. She held up a third finger. "Don't burn yourselves out by engaging in intercourse multiple times a night." He thought he might die of horror. "Not to say you can't indulge, but do try to practice moderation." Her brows lifted, and he had the awful realization that she had heard him and Elissa that one night in the Dales.
Maker's mercy.
He swallowed and nodded.
"And one the nights you don't couple, do refrain from taking yourself in hand."
This can't be happening. We can't be having this conversation.
"Yes, Wynne," he finally managed.
"Excellent. I'm glad you understand." She rose.
"Wait, wait. That—the only reason you came here was to—to tell me that?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Have a pleasant day, Alistair."
Oh, yes, very pleasant, now that all he could do was feel deep and burning shame at every sexual thought that crossed his mind. And there were many.
Eamon entered his study as Wynne exited, frowning when he looked at Alistair. "Something the matter, your majesty?"
"Ah, no. No, nothing. Nothing at all. Why do you ask? Should there be something wrong? Look, I think that Antivan emissary wants to kill me, isn't this some sort of Antivan code?" He thrust the letter at Eamon, and Eamon, Maker bless him, took it without question.