Davina has learned to value fine cutlery and table manners from her many adventures, and she really appreciates this nice little dinner that Alistair prepared for her. Roast beef was her favorite, and it went well with the wine.
In the yellow light of the dozen candles, it seems that the years had been kind to the king as well. He looks handsome, in a distinguished way. The grey of his hair is deftly hidden among the gold, and the lines on his face are reduced. The maroon of his embroidered shirt also adds to his sartorial regality, but the fact that it is made of heavy cotton, not expensive brocade, announces that he is the king of the commonfolk.
She decides to focus on finishing her food before she is reduced to a love-struck maiden again, and wonders why she and Alistair have never been together. Until she remembers. He is a king, and she is but an elf. Elves and monarchs do not go together—as the example in Orlais has shown.
"You never told me why you aren't married," Davina remarks oh so casually after dinner.
Alistair is drinking from his goblet when Davina spoke. He nearly chokes, and Davina heartily laughs.
The kind of laughter that signifies true merriment, unlaced by sarcasm or malice.
"I guess I never found the right woman," Alistair says, giving Davina the same answer he always has to prying nobles.
Davina continues laughing, disbelief and merry mischief in her eyes. "The handsome king, still unmarried at that age. One might think you have… other inclinations."
"Well, since you've decided to ask the evil questions, you evil, evil woman," he says with a chuckle, "I might ask you the same. Why didn't you ever settle down?"
"I guess I never found the right man." Davina mimics him perfectly, and she eyes the empty wine bottle. "Or the right woman, for that matter. Do you have more wine?"
Alistair nods. He disappears behind a cellar, and is gone for a while. But returns smiling, with another bottle of wine.
"Leliana sent this… Shay-rash, from Orlais," he declares, and points at the note glued to the bottle. "Says it's good with steaks."
"Shee-raz," Davina corrects him slowly. "Shiraz. How come a lowly elf knows Orlesian better than the King of Ferelden?"
"Because that lowly elf has travelled the world and this king was raised by flying dogs from the Anderfels?" Alistair continues, pleased at her mirth.
"Ah, the very devout and pious Andrastrian dogs from the Anderfels," Davina plays along. She has missed their playful banter. "The ones with the unholy obsession for cheese. Yes."
Alistair surely has servants, but where are they? Why are they not waiting on him as he eats? Or as his guest of honor eats?
The elf watches her royal companion open the bottle and pour their wine. How many times has this golden king poured her wine—or brandy, or fruit juice, or even water? Too many, but tonight is the first time Davina truly notes that.
Davina swallows, her happy mood halved. Did he perhaps think I'm not good enough to waste servants' efforts for?
"You'll note the hint of fancy Orlesian fineries?" Alistair says nasally, in bad imitation of the Orlesian accent.
Davina only nods, and accepts the wine. She tastes it, and thinks it bitter.
Alistair sees how Davina's mood has deteriorated, and he can't help but be affected by it.
"How have you been, Dav?" he asks her, his voice modulated, no longer playful. "You've been gone for so long."
"As good as can be, given the circumstances." Davina says. Her eyes avoid his, and she withdraws her hands from the table.
Alistair is fluent enough in Davina to know that despite her accolades and her travels, and the noble title he has bestowed upon her, she still has a terrible inferiority complex. She deems herself ignoble, he sadly thinks. After all this time, does she not know how highly I value her?
He watches her take another sip of the bitter Orlesian wine.
And then she answers. "I've seen a lot of marvelous things. How's life at court?"
"Could be better," he answers her, truthfully and seriously. "Some banns are hardheaded, but I'm not without support. There's Teagan, Eamon, Alfstanna, Fergus and Bryland. You like them, right? And I'm doing better, I think, than the Orlesian empress or the late Viscount of Kirkwall."
"I've heard about them," Davina says. "You should be careful."
"Do you think Ferelden is in danger?" Alistair asks.
But it is a question within a question.
He knows that Davina knows more than she lets on, or more than she cares to admit. Being an astute traveller, she has seen the world first-hand. And the king does not need to hear from his diplomats abroad that Davina is gifted at diplomacy—he has seen it firsthand during the Blight. Davina could pacify even the most implacable of enemies and make them work together, if she put her mind in it. Or, he realizes for the first time, if I ask her for it.
Davina takes another long sip from her wine, and seems to seriously ponder the question.
"Yes," she finally answers. "But not from overt civil unrest, like in Orlais, or an invasion like in Kirkwall. You still have the support of your nobles and I don't see a Qunari fleet anywhere near us."
Another pause, and he sees her eye travel to her now-empty wine glass. But he does not refill it—he does not move, lest he break Davina's momentum.
"You know, I've never really thanked you for making our lives better," Davina continues, and Alistair remembers the myriad of stories she has told him over the years about her travels. "For thinking that elven lives matter—that non-noble lives matter. It's not the same in the rest of the world."
"I've you to thank for that," Alistair answers. "You gave me the crown and enabled me to do all of this."
"Well, yes, there is that," Davina says, and her face lights up in a smile again. "But there's also your good heart, which is something that no amount of gold or politicking could buy."
Alistair is relieved. He hopes that he is now back in her good graces, especially since she places her hands on their table again, and resumes her meal. And judging from that twinkle in her eye, she must appreciate her food.
Alistair reminds himself to thank his chef, a middle-aged elf from Redcliffe, and to give him a bonus.
Davina feels lighter now, all bad thoughts gone and replaced with fondness. Nor did the lack of servants bother her right at this moment—instead, she felt rather intimate with her old friend. Any other person in the room would ruin their moment.
It has not escaped her that for the first few years, Alistair was unhappy with his crown. Back then, it was evident in his eyes—and that was partly why she left, because she could not stand how sad he was, in that throne, and that was her fault. But that's over now. He is no stranger to power now, and she knows that putting Alistair on the throne is her best decision ever.
"I'm rather glad you don't hate me for it now," she says.
"What?" he asks her, a lopsided grin on his face.
"The crown," Davina answers. "You used to hate it."
"I did it for you," he tells her simply.
She thinks him very handsome at that moment. Her eyes travel to his golden hair, his kind eyes, his regal bearing. No, I refuse to be a love-struck maiden, she tells herself. He is a good king who takes care of his people. And I am but a wanderer.
She does not want to admit it now. She has denied herself for years, and convinces herself she can continue to do so. Alistair has her heart, and her wanderlust is her excuse to avoid entanglements with him.
For years, she has declared that she will kill even gods who threaten Ferelden. She said it in front of the Landsmeet, and again in front of the masses.
But her heart knows, it is not for Ferelden that she would kill gods for. It is for Alistair, its king. And even if he weren't, he would still do it, because he is Alistair.
Davina decides to leave before her heart betrays her. She stands up, intending to bid her dearest friend good night, but instead he takes her hand.
"Dav, I've something to say to you that I should have said many years ago."