WARNINGS: Mild sexy times, references to previous miscarriages, a desire demon making promises to a distraught woman. This chapter is mostly tame in comparison to the previous two.
Winter dropped thick layers of snow across Ferelden, even in Denerim by the ocean, and Elissa found herself besieged in her own palace, unable to escape. The banns who flocked to the city at the start of the winter season brought with them their wives and daughters, all of whom were quite eager to endear themselves to the Queen and Hero of Ferelden. She spent her days in salons and parlors, never sure whether or not she was being complimented or mocked.
Her nights weren't much better. Alistair's reticence to have sex with her likely came from her third miscarriage toward the end of summer. She would never have known – it had seemed like a normal flow – except that Wynne checked in once a week, hoping that detecting a pregnancy early would allow them to keep her safe.
Which meant lots of boring bed rest.
But since that second miscarriage, Alistair hadn't expressed any desire to sleep with her. Even now, several months later, when he touched her, his hands were kind and warm, but never passionate. Never inviting. He was tender. He was sweet. But he kept his kisses reserved and his hugs gentle.
"I don't understand," Elissa muttered as she signed a letter to one of the Antivan merchants currently holding sway over the country.
"Don't understand what?" Leliana asked. "Antivan politics?"
With a snort, Elissa dropped her quill in its ink well and swept her gaze over the letter once more, tilting her head to the side. "I think this is worded prettily enough. Would you read over it for me?"
"Of course." Leliana reached for the parchment, and Elissa passed it to her, leaning back in her uncomfortable chair. The back was straight, extending above her head and bearing the royal crest. The arms were too high, the seat too broad, and so she slouched, trying to find a comfortable position. Her stomacher bit into the skin under her breasts, so she shifted, leaning against one arm rest. But that was just as uncomfortable. With a sigh, she draped herself over the arm of the chair and scratched the top of Rabbit's head.
He grumbled softly, turning into the touch before dropping to the ground and working his nose under the hem of her skirt and licking her leg.
With a quiet laugh, she pushed his face away. "No, stop that," she chided softly, and he dropped his head to the floor at one foot of her chair, watching her with woeful eyes. "Rabbit. You can't eat my stockings."
He whined, as if to ask why not?
"Because they're very nice stockings. And I like them." No, she didn't. She hated them. But unless she was on the training grounds, she wore all the proper fashions for a queen. It was impossibly hard, sometimes, to be a warrior and a woman, but she loved the accoutrements and trappings of both. She made do, willingly.
"Well, I think this is fine." Leliana handed the letter back, and Elissa took it, carefully folding it. "But you didn't answer me. What don't you understand?"
Sighing, Elissa let heated wax drop onto the folded letter. She pressed her crest into it, sealing it, and then set it aside. Leaning heavily on her desk, she put her face in her hands. "Everything," she moaned, feeling the weight of her life crushing down on her.
"Of course you don't." Leliana used her bard voice, the soothing one. The one she used to ply information from people when Elissa was unsuccessful. "Perhaps you could be more specific?"
"Alistair." Elissa groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "He… he doesn't seem to want me anymore." She swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her throat. "I—after the second miscarriage, he—he won't touch me. Not like he used to."
Her only answer was silence.
Lifting her face, blinking back tears of frustration and anger, she said, "I don't know what to do, Leliana. I can't give him the heir he needs, he doesn't want me."
"This is not the woman I know," Leliana said, and though her voice was firm, it was not unkind. "This is not Elissa Theirin, who commanded the armies of Ferelden against an Old God, who saved the world and everyone in it."
Elissa turned away. "I killed more people than I helped," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. People died. She knew that. But she didn't like how many she had sacrificed, in the end, to defeat the Blight.
"Bah, stop that. You are feeling sorry for yourself now, and why? Because your husband is afraid to hurt you, maybe?" That startled her. She hadn't thought of it like that. "If he will not go to you and you want to make another child, you must simply go to him." A devious smile lit Leliana's face. "And if her majesty the queen and Hero of Ferelden has time for a simple bard…"
"I always have time for you."
"Then I believe I know just what we can do."
They spent the remainder of the afternoon in Elissa's rooms, digging through her trunks and armoires of clothes. Leliana insisted she had all the clothes they needed, and stripped Elissa to her smalls. Elissa watched Leliana root through her things, wrapped in a thick blanket. When Leliana found something she liked, Elissa let the other woman dress her, let her study the results and judge them. She tossed aside more clothes than Elissa realized she owned before finally settling on something deemed passable.
"What do you think?" she asked, pulling Elissa in front of a priceless mirror, the silvered glass easily as expensive as some of the bejeweled crowns she wore for special state events.
Elissa stared at herself in the mirror, unsure what to say. She wasn't really wearing anything. Leliana, using the long length of pearls Alistair gave to her on their wedding day, had wrapped her in light, nearly sheer sky blue silk. Her cheeks sparkled, lightly dusted by makeup, and her hair, curling gently, Leliana pinned back with sparkling clips of sapphire from the bottom of one trunk.
"You look like a goddess," Leliana said, lightly squeezing Elissa's shoulders as she peered over them.
She almost felt like one. "Thank you."
"Of course. I will tell ask dinner be sent to you, yes? I think… finger foods?"
Elissa gave her a slight smile. "You don't need to do that."
"No. But I want to." Leliana drew away. "Have a good night, Elissa." And then she was gone, the tapestry cutting off the bedroom from the rest of the suite swinging once in her absence. The sound of the door closing followed, and Elissa stood still before the mirror, acutely aware of how empty the suite was.
She tentatively touched the edge of the silk, where it swept over one breast, barely veiling her nipple beneath it. No one would ever call her attractive – except her husband – but she felt pretty as she turned in front of the mirror, eying the fall of silk over her thighs, how the ends brushed just above her knees. The rope of pearls fell to ground, a small pile at her feet, and she plucked at the length just below the knot at her navel.
Fretting, she turned from the mirror. Maybe Alistair would consider this too bold. Maybe he wouldn't think it becoming at all. Maybe he no longer wanted her at all, and his reluctance to bed her had everything to do with that and nothing to do with her miscarriages.
Tipping her head back, she pressed her fingers against the bone under her eyes and then slid the tips of her fingers up to push against her closed eyelids. Sparks of light exploded against her darkened vision.
Dragging her hands from her eyes, she glanced at the candle burning on the wall. Alistair would be done with his evening duties to the crown soon, would be back soon. Or maybe the servants had been late to change one of the candles. Maybe something was keeping him. Maybe he didn't want to see her.
She pushed at the uncertainties clawing at her, hating herself for every one of them. She'd never been a weak-willed person, never harbored as much self doubt as she did now.
Needing an outlet for her growing nervous agitation, she plucked Alistair's sword – the functional one, not the hideous gold thing he wore when swanning about the palace – from where it hung over the fireplace. She spun it in her hand, turning it round and round, listening to the quiet sound of the blade cutting through air.
Turning her body to the side, she lifted the blade into a defensive position, closed her eyes, and—
Skin prickling, hyperaware, she moved through the world in slow motion. But her blades were fast, like lightning chained to steel. Darkspawn fell before her, limbs severed, throats opened. Gurgling as they died, some reached for her, clawed at her greaves.
He moved ahead of her, a wall and a fortress, keeping the horde at bay long enough for her to cut them down.
The metallic smell of blood filled her nose. Electric static from Morrigan's spells danced along her skin. The air itself stood still as Wynne cast, paralyzing and debilitating the enemies swarming them.
Arms burning, legs screaming, she pushed on, forcing herself forward, cutting through the grunts and the meaningless masses. She spun, catching a genlock in the throat. She ducked and thrust, digging both daggers into a hurlock's gut. Tearing them free, she drove them into the body of a monster behind her.
She twisted about, prepared to run at the ogre Alistair had just stunned.
The door to the bedroom shut with a heavy sound, and she froze, her sword arm drawn back, the blade at her cheek. She was poised to strike when Alistair brushed the heavy tapestry to their bedchamber aside.
And he stopped dead, staring.
She licked her lips, and his eyes went straight to her mouth before turning a lazy path down her body, following pearls and silk wrapped around her. Some of the fabric had slipped, revealing a breast and a hint of her lower abdomen.
"Elissa—" He stopped, cutting himself short. In the silence, she moved fluidly from her battle-ready stance, striding across the room to stand before him. As if entranced, his eyes followed the swing of the strand of pearls hanging from the knot at her stomach. At his sides, his fingers twitched and flexed.
She stepped up to him, pressed against him and slid one hand over his shoulder and into the hair at the back of his neck. One of his hands went to her wrist, fingers curling gently about it, and the other wrapped around one of the length of pearl to draw her closer.
"Good evening." She spoke quietly against his jaw as her lips brushed over it, tracing an idle path to his chin. Inside, she trembled, certain of his impending rejection. But outside, she was strong. The goddess Leliana thought she was.
"I—Elissa, are you—"
Their bodies flush, the heat of him spilling into her and turning to warm languor that settled low in her belly, she tipped her head and traced the tip of her tongue along a tendon in his neck. He swallowed hard, his breath hitching.
"You're sure?"
His concern would have been more touching if she could understand it. Rolling her hips against his, she caught his earlobe in her teeth. "You're not?"
"I—you—I hurt you."
She wondered how they hadn't had this conversation before, how it hadn't come up and how she'd been so blind to his reasons.
Her thumb brushed back and forth over his neck, a soothing gesture, and his hand slipped down her wrist to pluck the sword from her grasp. He set it aside, leaning away to lay it on the top of their dresser, and she caught the tense look on his face.
"Alistair." He hesitated. "Alistair." She framed his face with her hands and drew him close, until his nose brushed against hers. The uncertainty and reticence in his eyes made her chest hurt.
"Twice now. I can't bear to hurt you."
Gently, she smoothed her fingers over the drawn lines of his face. "Please. Just this last time. Then we can… we can find another solution."
Her lips touched his, the barest hint of pressure. And then his hand curled around the back of her neck, and he kissed her. Slowly. Sweetly. The promise of more in the kiss drew a moan from her, one he willingly swallowed as he tugged the length of pearls he held in his hand.
His lovemaking was tender, not the fiery, all consuming passion she expected after several months of abstinence. But under the gentle caresses and soft kisses was strength and steel. Each stroke of his body in hers was a promise, one she drowned in willingly.
In the morning, she woke slowly, feeling warm and languorous, her husband's chest her pillow. Picking her head up, she laced her fingers across his chest and propped her chin on them, watching him with sleepy eyes until he, too, woke. Blinking his dreams from his eyes, he smiled at her, and his fingers slipped into her hair, combing gently through it.
"Morning," he murmured.
"Morning." Pushing lightly against him, she lifted her body and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. He returned it with one of his own that was anything but chaste, his hand sliding down he curve of her back to slip between her thighs. With a scandalized laugh, she drew back. "We need to dress."
"No, we don't," he replied, following her retreat and stealing quick, eager kisses from her. "I'm king. I can do whatever I want."
Laughing, she shook her head. "You have a country to run." He grumbled against her mouth. "I have nobles to appease." His hand squeezed her thigh. "Duty, Alistair."
"Always duty," he muttered, catching her lower lip in his teeth and tugging. "Let's take the day off."
Something unfurled in the back of her mind, the barest skeleton of an idea. "We can't do that," she protested.
His hand shifted, tugging her leg over his hip. Stifling a gasp, wanting more than anything to slip across his lap and then down onto him, she turned her face away.
"But—"
"I have to talk to Anora. You have to meet with that fellow from Nevarra and impress him with your swordsmanship."
Grumbling, Alistair released his hold on her thigh. "He looks like a dragon."
She laughed and kissed the tip of his nose. "You fought and killed a dragon."
"No." There was pain in his eyes that he tried to hide behind a cheerful, joking smile. "You left me at the city gates."
She ran with the joke because she couldn't face the hurt. "No." She poked his chest as she pulled away from him. "You're the one who killed that dragon guarding the Urn."
"Mmm, yes. I did, didn't I?" He grinned at her and rose as she did, slipping out of their bed.
She helped him dress, even though they had servants for that, and they fell quickly into their old routine. She buckled him into his plate, and he cinched tight the stays on her dress, smoothing his hands over her sides.
"I lived for our trips into towns," he murmured, drawing her against his armor. The cool of the metal seeped through the thick velvet of her gown, but she didn't mind.
Cocking her head to the side, she lifted her brow. "Oh?"
He kissed the corner of her mouth, the tip of her nose, her closed eyes. "You in a dress? I didn't know how to cope."
Ah, yes. She smiled.
His knuckles brushed her jaw, and she opened her eyes to watch him, to study the serious look in his golden eyes. "Good luck with Anora."
Laughing, she lifted to her toes and kissed his cheek. "Instill the fear of the Maker in our friend from Nevarra."
"Come to free me from my tower?"
Elissa, her hands laced loosely behind her back, dug her nails into the palm of one hand to keep from strangling Anora. Snobby, self-righteous, pretentious, proud creature.
"And if I was?" She swept into the room as imperiously as possible, a difficult thing indeed. Anora had the uncanny ability to make Elissa feel small and weak, spineless and craven.
The blonde turned toward her as she settled in a chair, her eyes critical and judging. Having no patience for games, Elissa let her face be plain and didn't bother to hide how little she wanted to be in Anora's room, sitting on the very edge of the chair, tense and poised to rise.
"I wouldn't believe you."
Anora, true, had few reasons to trust Elissa.
"Would you sit?"
"No, I would prefer to stand." A coolly superior smile lit Anora's face.
Of course she'd prefer to stand.
Elissa tipped her head back, doing her best to look down her nose at Anora while looking up at her, refusing to back down. They didn't like each other, never had, even as children, and not even Elissa's begrudging respect for Anora could keep her from wanting to hit her. And as she had no patience for Anora, she opted not to dance around the subject. "The crown would like you to go to Gwarren."
"I wondered why you hadn't shuffled me to another prison." Anora glided past Elissa, her skirts brushing against Elissa's legs.
"You misunderstand." Elissa leaned back in the chair, loosely lacing her fingers in her lap. Her brows lifted and she smiled. "The crown would like you to be Gwarren's teyrna."
Anora froze, turning ever so slowly to face Elissa once more. Her eyes were narrowed, her brows drawn, and the calculating look on her face made Elissa's stomach twist in knots. "Why."
Because Elissa didn't hate Anora, because locking Anora up for having Loghain for a father was as stupid as executing Cauthrien for being loyal. "Gwarren belongs to the Mac Tirs. There's no reason to deny you what's yours." Because the people of Ferelden loved Anora's father, because the people of Ferelden loved Anora, too.
Anora was silent, surely assessing the offer from every angle. "And if I accept?"
Elissa rolled her shoulders, an easy shrug. "You become teyrna of Gwarren, and should you have children, your children inherit. There is no trick here." Elissa had no desire to make an enemy of Anora.
"Do not think Gwarren will fall at the feet of the crown with gratitude should I accept."
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of expecting that." Baiting Anora. She always baited Anora. Why, in the Maker's holy name, did she always bait Anora?
"I will not be beholden to you for this."
"Anora, the crown means to give you what is yours by birth." It was an effort not to touch the glittering tiara on her head, but she refused to slight Anora in that way.
Anora was still as she thought, her eyes fixed on Elissa's, and Elissa, though unnerved, did not look away. Finally, Anora inclined her head, but she didn't look grateful or even relieved. If anything, she looked annoyed. "I accept."
"Then you should pack your things. Ser Cauthrien and Ser Driscole will see you escorted to Gwarren before the week is out."
"My, so eager to be rid of me?"
Rising, Elissa smiled. "You may be able to out-scheme me and out-manipulate me, Anora. You may be able to plan and prepare for all possible frustrations and outcomes." Her fingers went to one of the pins in her hair, and pulled it free. The bejeweled handle was pretty and useless, but the wicked, curved blade attached to it was sharpened to a more than serviceable edge. "But not even you can do those things from the grave."
Anora sneered, and Elissa met it with an impervious stare.
"You would not dare."
"No." Killing Anora would be a tactical error, even if it would be immensely satisfying. "You used me, Anora, and so I harbor for you a certain disdain. But there are worse things than death." Spinning the dagger once around her fingers, she slipped it back into her hair and gave Anora a mocking curtsey. "A pleasant day to you, Teyrna."
She left Anora's room shaking, clutching her hands together before her in an attempt to hide the anxiety suddenly pumping through her. Doubt nipped at her heels, drove her steps faster and faster until she was nearly running down the hall. Her feet carried her to Wynne's workroom while her mind turned the meeting with Anora over and over. Fear that she'd made the wrong choice crawled up her back like one of the Mother's children, small and vile, whispering and clicking against her ear.
"I need a drink," she told Wynne as soon as she opened the door, with no preamble.
Wynne stood in the center of the room, surveying the mess that was her worktable, and said just as easily, "No."
"But—"
"No. Sit." Wynne pointed at a chair, and Elissa sat. With gentle hands, Wynne smoothed the riotous curls of Elissa's hair back into her braid, adjusting the dagger and other pins to better hold it. "You did this yourself?"
"Alistair helped."
"You spoke with Anora?"
"She agreed to be teyrna."
"Then this is a good day." Wynne's hands settled on her shoulders, and a rush of warm magic filled her body. As a child, magic had terrified her. Need and practicality had numbed her to many of its dangers. The gentle hum of Wynne's magic in her blood was too familiar to be feared, a brush of steel around her bones. Strength fortified her resolve, chasing away the doubts that clawed at her and freeing her mind of worry. She'd done what she had to, done it moderately well. If there were problems, she would face them as they came up.
The magic swirled through her, a faint melody that was almost recognizable. "It sounds like singing," she said softly.
"Does it?"
"Mmm. It reminds me of something." The concern that momentarily fluttered across Wynne's face did not go unnoticed, but Elissa didn't remark on it. She felt the magic pool low in her abdomen and would have retched for nervousness. "Anything?"
Wynne's hands withdrew. "Not today." She gave Elissa a smile that was so kind it was cruel. "We'll check again next week."
"Yes. Next week. Now, I have some time before I have to get to my next bit of courtly duty. Tell me what you're working on."
But she didn't hear anything Wynne said. The weight of failure hung hard from her shoulders. And dread. So much dread.
Cold winds blasted Alistair's cheeks, scalding them with icy fingers, but inside his armor, droplets of sweat ran down his spine and soaked his padding. Astride a horse he hated to ride – and the horse seemed to dislike him in turn – and with the Nevarran emissary and his daughter at his side, saying he was uncomfortable would have won a prize for understatement.
Josef Schwartz seemed utterly content.
And his daughter, Zora or Ramilla or Petra or something, arrayed in furs and looking perfect, wore a beatific expression. If she fluttered her eyelashes at him once more, he'd—he'd—well, he'd do nothing, for all he wanted to do something.
Maybe he'd offer her stale cheese at dinner.
Except that under all that fur was dragonbone armor and at least four knives, and he had no desire to make enemies of the Nevarrans.
"The Ferelden army is quite impressive," Josef observed as they watched a platoon of men practice. Unlike Alistair and his daughter, he wore no armor, just warm velvet and fur and a strangely satisfied expression. "I hear your queen has taken to training them."
Alistair nodded. "With darkspawn still about, we find it prudent to ensure our forces are prepared to fight against anything."
"She must be busy. Warden-Commander, queen, hero."
There was a trap there, Alistair knew. He'd spent enough time during the Blight with Elissa hauling him back by his plate while Leliana searched for traps along the ground to know when to suspect their presence. But detecting those traps was always difficult. "She plans her days well. Very organized," he replied honestly, hoping that would satisfy.
"I would expect nothing less." Schwartz shifted on his horse, but it wasn't a shifty or nervous movement. Nothing about the ambassador was either of those things, and that, Alistair thought, was the trouble. He was an utterly trustworthy man, the kind who joked with a man ill at ease with his kingship, relaxing him. And Alistair knew he couldn't afford to be relaxed around the ambassador. "Nevarra wishes… little more than the success of your reign."
Alistair stiffened in his armor, recognizing that for what it was. Schwartz intended to court Ferelden on behalf of Nevarra, to form and alliance against Orlais. That was obvious. But he, like seemingly everyone else on the face of Thedas, seemed more than politely interested in how pregnant Elissa wasn't. Alistair had already received at least three thinly veiled invitations to meet the daughters of several very rich, very powerful Antivans.
Then Roma or Ronna asked him a question about armor, and he was more than happy to answer it in lieu of thinking about Antivans and their propositions.
Over dinner, Alistair watched Schwartz ask Elissa carefully worded questions, ones meant to injure her pride as much as learn more about her temperament, and Alistair almost felt bad for the man. Elissa's face remained impassive; her tone was steady and pleasant, but the way her fingers curled around her knife told him she had no love for the ambassador. And Elissa could store up her dislike, cultivate it into loathing, and unleash it on an unsuspecting person at the moment most opportune for her and, for her victim, most damning.
Radana or Radka chatted happily with him for the bulk of the meal, something he put up with out of polite necessity. But when the meal and entertainment finally ended, he was eager to escape with Elissa to their rooms.
He pulled at the laces of her gown while she undid the braids in her hair.
"You're frowning," he said, brushing his lips over her bare shoulder.
Her frown deepened.
"Why?"
"It's nothing."
He'd learned the hard way not to accept that as an answer. Setting his hands on her hips, he took a step back and peered down at her, watching her. Her eyes drifted over the floor, her face downturned and gaze averted. Lifting one hand, he set it against her cheek and gently urged her to look at him. She stubbornly refused to yield, so he curled his hand around her neck, applying light pressure with his thumb to the base of her skull. "Elissa."
She pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyes. "I don't want to talk about it." Her hands muffled her words.
Bending, he kissed the top of her head and then returned to undressing her, tugging her skirts down her hips. Quite suddenly, she exploded away from him, jumping out of the pile of clothes, wearing only her chemise and smalls, and spun about. Anger made her cheeks splotchy, and tears brightened her eyes. "Did you hear him?" she demanded. "Suggesting I was—was somehow broken because—he asked if we have any plans to start a family or if we're just going to leave it to chance. To chance!"
Alistair watched her as she grasped her arms and began to pace. She dragged her fingers across her arms, leaving red marks in their wake, and he winced. "Don't listen to—"
"Could he be more obvious? He wants you to marry his daughter," she snapped, cutting him off. Her nails raked across her skin before she pressed her face into her hands, pausing her pacing only for a moment. She started up again, parting her fingers so she could see the floor, and shook with anger. "Or one of those thrice-tainted Pentaghasts!"
He opened his mouth, but she cut him off, whirling on him and jabbing her finger at his chest. "Don't you dare."
He fell silent, pulling back ever so slightly. Even in nothing more than a chemise, he doubted she was unarmed.
Her face fell, and the tears building in her eyes finally broke over her lids, spilling down her face. "Maybe you should."
He stared at her, not sure he heard her correctly.
"Maybe you should divorce me. Maybe if it was—if you were the only—that we're both Grey Wardens can't be helping." Her whispered words cut deeper than any blade, skewered his heart and built an unbearable pressure in his chest.
Moving slowly, approaching from the side so she could see him, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her against him. "But I love you."
"What if I can't give you an heir?" She wiped the tears from her cheeks with brisk, sure motions and pulled free of him. Her jaw set, she met his eyes, all unbending steel and strength. "Alistair, you should—we should put aside our feelings and consider the fact that I may never—" Her voice hitched. "We can't leave Ferelden without an heir. You… you should take a lover."
"I—what?"
The world actually rocked around him he was so stunned by her statement. Recoiling from her, he wheeled away and pressed his hand against the stone of the wall to brace himself. The cold of the stones set claws into his palm and crawled through his veins, but didn't get very far until his anger burned it away.
He couldn't articulate the anger. Couldn't form it into words. He wanted to yell, to shout at her, to demand how dare she suggest that, that he was anything like Cailan, like his negligent father. That he would abandon her, after everything they'd gone through, because that was exactly what taking a lover would be. He'd be telling her she wasn't good enough, wasn't enough for him. And practicality be damned, he wasn't about to do that.
"You should—"
"No," he snapped, shooting her a glare over his outstretched arm. He pushed off the wall, angry energy burning through him. "I am not my brother, and I'm not—no."
"Alistair, don't be ridiculous. Just because you—"
He jerked as though he'd hit her and cut her off. "Just because I love you? Just because? You're willing to trivialize all that?"
With a scream of anger, she flung herself at him, pulling her arm back to hit him. He caught the punch, twisted her in his arms and caught her body against him.
"I'm trying to help you!" she shouted. She stomped on his toes, ineffectual as he still wore his boots.
"You're not." He bit out the words, holding her tight against him. Maybe, if he held her close enough, she would understand. His upset would simply soak into her skin, and she would realize how much the very suggestion of infidelity hurt him.
Maric and Cailan's unfaithfulness had caused them no end of trouble.
"I—I refuse to repeat the mistakes of m—of Cailan and my father." He pressed his mouth against her neck, inhaled the scent of her skin. "We have plenty of time to keep trying." He would remain undaunted, for her. "And—well." He laughed. "If I'm good enough for the throne, I'm sure Cailan has a bastard or two we could dredge out of the gutters."
Slumping, she let his arms take all of her weight, the fight draining out of her. "It hurts."
He tugged her back several steps and lowered them both into a chair. "I know." He saw the pain written across her face every time she came from Wynne. "But you don't have to bear it alone. It's just as much my fault." His mouth found the corner of hers, and he kissed her lightly, trying to reassure her. "I'll always be here."
The world was strange and blurred around the edges. Elissa touched the stone walls as she walked, fingers dragging over the smooth stone faces, wearing a curious expression. She knew there was something wrong with the walls, but she couldn't understand what.
The hallway ended in a door, and she pushed it open, walking into the royal suite.
Wooden figurines covered the floor, and she sighed. Not again. They were always leaving their toys on the floor.
A frown creased her brow.
Bending, she scooped up one and then another, setting them in the crook of her arm. She nearly tripped over a third.
"Momma!"
Elissa's head snapped up. Adrenaline coursed through her, momentary alarm, and then her arms were full of a little girl with golden blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. Laughing, Eleanor pressed her face against Elissa's neck, and Elissa held her tight. All her love for her precious little girl made her chest constrict, her heart aching.
"Hello, beautiful."
Eleanor pulled back, beaming. "Guess what I did today!"
Taking both of Eleanor's hands, Elissa smiled. "What did you do?"
"I beat Rory in a duel!"
"Did you?" Laughing, Elissa took Eleanor by the waist and lifted her, spinning about in a circle. "Good for you!"
"Momma!" Elissa turned around, smiling at her son. He pouted, crossing his arms, looking so much like his father. "It hurt."
She clucked her tongue, setting Eleanor on her hip. "Is that how a warrior responds to another one putting him in the dirt?"
He huffed and turned up his nose. "No."
"How does a warrior respond?"
"He gets back up," he said, long-suffering and sighing. "And hits back harder."
"That's right." Elissa bent and set Eleanor on the floor. "You two go change for dinner. We have very important guests coming tonight, you know." Their eyes widened, mouths forming little o's. "Yes, yes, Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt. Now go."
With a little smile, she watched them hurry to their room, calling for Amethyne. She leaned back, knowing Alistair was behind her without having seen or heard him enter, and his arms came around her waist. His fingers laced over her abdomen, he set his chin on her shoulder.
"Hello," she said, leaning her cheek against his.
"Isn't this wonderful?" he asked, squeezing her lightly.
She nodded. "Mmm. Yes." But something wasn't right. She watched the children run across the doorway, and they were somehow blurry. They lacked something.
"Don't you want this?"
Fear squeezed her heart, and her eyes went wide. "Let go of me."
"Don't you want this? I can give this to you."
She shuddered in the demon's arms, pulling at its hands on her abdomen, trying to free herself. "Let go."
It held her tighter, dragging her against its body, and she saw her husband's lightly tanned skin turn an ugly shade of bruised purple. "Let's make a deal, slayer of Urthemiel. Make a bargain with me." It used Alistair's voice, and that made her sick.
Lurching into motion, she twisted free of the demon's hold and grabbed a sword off the wall. She remembered the Fade, remembered the rules it ran on, and she lifted the blade. "I will run you through," she hissed.
Clucking, the demon glided toward her, its hips swaying. Revulsion swept through her, and she lifted the blade higher. Heat at her back made her swing around. Two rage demons oozed from the room the children had run into, and horror made her skin crawl.
"But I can give you the children you want," the desire demon said, all but purring the words as it swayed closer.
Elissa swallowed her gorge, shuddering. "I will make no deals with you."
"No? You will never bear children without outside help. Let me help you."
She thrust the blade forward, stabbing at the demon. "No!"
The demon vanished as its minions swarmed her, screaming.
Elissa twisted, slashing at them, her movements clumsy. She was no good with a single sword. Unbalanced and uncertain, she ducked under one of the rage demons as it attacked only to be struck in the back by the other.
Hissing, she stumbled to the ground. The dress didn't help, either.
Daggers. She needed her daggers.
Her fingers closed around the familiar hilts and she lurched to her feet, in light leather armor instead of the hampering skirts, and she lunged. Her blade caught the first in the throat, ripping through it. The demon fell back, gurgling, but didn't die until she leapt on it, driving her daggers through its skull.
"That's not nice," the desire demon purred, catching her face in its fingers. It tilted her chin up, and Elissa lashed out. One dagger drove into its eye, and when it fell back, screaming, it took her dagger with it.
Whirling, she sought out the second rage demon. With only one weapon, she knew every strike had to count. She couldn't waste her blows and leave herself open.
It lunged at her and she ducked to the side, gasping when its fire whispered over the skin of her back. The burn scalded her nerves, and she stumbled to the ground, trying to catch her breath and control the pain. She narrowly evaded the demon's next strike, trying not to think about what the fireball scorching the ground could have done to her face.
She lurched to her feet, feinting to the left. The demon, stupid thing it was, followed her feint, leaving itself open. She slashed it across the throat and then stabbed it through the chest, where a heart ought to have been. Readying herself for another blow, she drew back and the desire demon caught her about the waist.
It flung her about, dropping on top of her and holding her to the ground.
Her dagger was still in its eye.
"I am still willing to deal," it hissed, its hand sliding to her throat. "And I want so little from you."
Loathing turned Elissa's stomach – disgust at the demon, at herself for wanting so much that she drew a demon's attention. She reached up, ripping the dagger from the demon's eye. Recoiling with a howl, it pressed its hands to its eye, blood dripping from the wound.
Elissa moved swiftly to her feet. Dropping her shoulder, she slammed into its stomach, and it fell back, moaning piteously. "Please," it begged, lifting one hand. Its good eye filled with something that might have been fear or remorse. "Let me go, and I won't bother you. Please, mercy, I—"
"Mercy?" Elissa scoffed and drove the dagger through the demon's neck. Yanking it free, she sliced across its throat, cutting so deep it could no longer speak. Blood bubbled from the wound and it made awful, gasping noises.
As it died, the dream faded, and she woke to hands on her shoulders, shaking her roughly. A body loomed over her, and her mind, unable to distinguish reality from dreams, recognized it as the desire demon – how was it alive – masquerading as her husband. She snapped her head forward, connecting solidly with its nose.
It wheeled back with a roar of pain, and as she scrambled out from under it, it shouted her name. Throwing herself from the bed, she reached under the mattress for her daggers, her fingers closing around the family hilts.
As she surged to her feet, the tapestry over the door flew aside, and two well-armed men, weapons drawn, rushed in. The demon – was it? – on her bed shouted something at the men, and then it threw a robe over her shoulders, all in a single, fluid motion. Its hands were flesh colored, peachy and warm and rough from calluses. She stared at it – him – Alisair – and she—
He ordered the guards out, snapping at them. "Maker, she killed an Archdemon while I held back the horde; you'd think they'd trust us to take care of ourselves." He turned to her as ice swept through her veins, replacing the heat of adrenaline. Concern on his face, he ducked his head, watching her with worried eyes. "Elissa?"
There had been something in the demon's face, something unnatural and other, too sharp features and alien eyes, that was missing in Alistair's. Relieved, she rushed into his arms, holding him tight about the waist.
His lips brushed her hair, and he gently unwound her arms from his body, plucking the daggers from her hands. He tossed them onto the bed and tugged her to the floor as he sat. Dragging her into his lap, hardly difficult as she went willingly, he curled around her, a wall against the world.
He didn't ask, didn't push, just sat with her until she finally spoke.
"A desire demon came to me." She whispered the words, as though speaking them too loud might bring it back to life and let it through the Veil.
He stilled, and she felt his tension in the arms around her body.
Guilt gnawed at her as she told him her dream, and her voice cracked at the end. But she refused to let herself cry. She forced back the tears as they burned her eyes, unwilling to display any further weakness.
"Elissa," he murmured against her hair. "Elissa, this—" He broke off, and his silence condemned her more than any words. Because, Maker, he was right. There was something wrong when her desire for a child brought a demon on her.
His mouth brushed over her cheek, his hands warm and steady and kind on her arms and back. "We'll find another way," he said. "And we'll put off the Bannorn. You—I don't want you to—" He sighed, the sound dredged up from somewhere deep within him. "Did I do this?"
She pulled away enough to stare at his face, so wrought with uncertainty. "What?"
"Did I… have I put this pressure on you?" His expression broke her heart. Tenderness filled his eyes, made his features soft and beautiful. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing back and forth over her cheekbones.
Shaking her head, she closed her hands over his wrists, anchoring herself to the world by holding him. "No, Alistair, no." She leaned forward, and he met her halfway, their foreheads touching. Their breath mingled in the space between their mouths, swirling and warm against her lips. She trembled just the slightest bit, overwhelmed by him and how much he cared. "This—it's hard to explain."
"Please," he whispered, "try." She understood. He needed her to explain. "Is this an all-consuming obsession?" She couldn't fault him for the question.
"No, it's—" She sighed. "Having a child, your child, would be a statement. This is how much I love you, that I would sacrifice the autonomy of my body for another. That I wouldn't be a warrior, a fighter, for nine months." She turned, kissing his palm. "They whisper in the halls, saying I'm your wife out of convenience, out of some plot the Wardens hatched to control Ferelden."
He snorted, and she echoed the derisive sentiment in a soft, baleful laugh.
"But I want… I want to give you an heir. I want to make something, someone, between us, from us. I want to hold that child at my breast and know that our country has a future that isn't war and strife."
He moved forward, his lips touching her in the barest hint of a kiss. "Alright," he whispered. "But don't let this eat you up inside."
"I drove my knife into its eye and slashed its throat." She hoped he understood the significance of that.
Chuckling, he threaded his fingers through her hair. "That's my girl."
Alistair rubbed his forehead, trying to read another missive and comprehend it. The letter suggested more unease between Orlais and Nevarra, and mild unrest in Orlais itself, and he didn't have the patience or frame of mind to concentrate. Let both countries burn for all he cared.
Except that would be a bother for Ferelden.
Groaning, he dropped his quill into the inkwell and thanked the Maker, once again, for taking the Nevarran ambassador off his hands at last. Why the man thought it necessary to leave in early spring, when the mountain paths would still be impassable, Alistair didn't know. He didn't care. The man had been gone a day, and the mood in the palace was already considerably lighter.
Someone knocked on his door.
Eamon, more likely than not.
Stifling a groan, he lifted his hand to gesture him in before remembering the door was shut. "Come in," he called.
Elissa slipped in. Her face was curiously stiff, muscles taut and strained. She must have come from Wynne.
Rising, he circled around his desk, concerned. Maybe they should just stop trying. Maybe they should take a break from having sex to have a baby and—
His eyes narrowed. She didn't look quite sad. The corners of her lips kept twitching like…
"Elissa? What is it?" He touched her cheek lightly.
She made a choked noise.
"We're done," he said quickly. "We'll stop. This is hurting you too—"
"Alistair." She pressed her hands over his mouth.
Was—was she laughing?
He made a muffled sound against her palm.
She leaned close, standing on her nose until her nose brushed his, and she gave him the most brilliant smile he'd ever seen. "Good work, Dad."
It took his brain a full minute to realize exactly what she'd said. And then they were moving, his hands on her waist as he picked her up and spun her, clutching her against him and laughing so hard his sides hurt. He put her down, caught her face in his hands, and kissed her fiercely. Then he spun her about again, laughing with her, holding her close.