17: Nation's Son (Part III)
"What you seek is seeking you."
― Rumi
Every night they would read parts of Hard in Hightown together. She was loath to admit it, but she looked forward to the moment in the evening when she'd finally push away from her desk, her back stiff from leaning over and perusing through reports and briefings, and make her way down the hallway. There was something delightfully clandestine in how they both greeted each other with perfect formality as the guards looked on. The moment after the door closed behind them, however, was a different story.
"What took you so long? I was going to start reading all by myself!" he scolded her, hopping onto the bed.
They shared his bed, each keeping to a side, neither one breaching the implied boundary.
She kicked off her slippers, settling on her side.
"You'd better not! Besides, who would explain the big words to you?" she provoked.
"…Says the woman who thought that 'to be on the lam' involved actual lambs…"
She tapped at the open book with her indicator impatiently.
"Low vernacular was not one of my academic pursuits…Now, do read, my Lord!" she nettled.
"Yes, your Highness," he teased. "Far be it from me to keep you from Kirkwall's seedy underbelly…"
He would read aloud for a while and she would listen, her mind ablaze with the descriptions of a dark, dangerous, and enthralling Kirkwall, rife with intriguingly devious characters come to life.
"Alistair…What do you think people would say if they knew we were reading this every night?" she asked him once.
He grinned.
"I think they'd find it hard to believe."
"Then it's appropriate," she concluded.
He stared at her, expectantly.
"Hard to believe? Hard in Hightown?" she explained, impatiently.
He snorted.
"Does anyone else know how much more disgraceful your puns are compared to mine?
Whenever he read, she'd often interrupt and she relished how exasperated he'd get.
"That makes no sense!" she interjected one night.
He plunked the book down on his lap and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Here we go…"
"If they want to catch the murderer, all they have to do is link the smuggled artifacts found at the crime scene to the ship's manifest! I don't understand why Donnen is staking out the Tevinter estate!"
Alistair shot an incredulous glance at her. It made her giddy. At those times she felt they were just two ordinary people enjoying a story (or trying to, she suspected he'd grumble).
"Of course. Because a crime serial where all that happens is people cross checking a ship's manifest and then arresting some noble a few hours later would make for a much more gripping story!" Alistair informed her sarcastically. "You'd make a dreadful serial writer. Please keep your day job."
"You have to admit there are gaping plot holes…"
"But that's precisely what makes this so much fun! It's not real."
Anora turned sideways to face him.
"I'd like to know when Donnen is finally going to express his feelings to Captain Belladonna."
"You've taken a liking to the pirate, haven't you?" he said amusedly.
"She's a strong, independent woman. I find I can relate to her—"
Alistair smiled broadly.
"I fail to see the humor," she retorted.
"You, the queen, identify with a pirate. Let me repeat that in case any of the spies hiding beneath the bed missed the irony: The Queen of Ferelden sees facets of herself in the marauding—"
"She's a captain. A leader!" Anora insisted.
"Going about Kirkwall wearing no pants…" he added, giving her a side glance to gauge her reaction.
Her eyes widened in surprise.
"Where does it say that?"
He rubbed his face, chuckling.
"Please tell me that you know the term 'skirt' refers to 'woman' and not her 'rags.'"
She looked at him confused.
"Rags are the kerchiefs she wears on her head, no?"
At this he leaned forward, laughing freely.
"Ah…I think…" he continued, wiping away a tear. "I think we are reading two completely different books here…" he burst out laughing.
"Are you done?" She pretended to sulk. "And I so wanted to hear Donnen's confession already…"
"Would you like me to skip straight to the steamy parts?" he ribbed her.
"That's not what I implied at all!" she protested. "Besides, I think the author is just trying to tease the readers and prolong this tension between Donnen and Belladonna for as long as he can!"
She raised her hand to her mouth and yawned.
"I actually feel bad for poor Donnen." Alistair dogeared the book and set it over the nightstand. "Poor guy has no idea this beautiful, dashing captain could ever harbor feelings for him." He shut off the lantern and sank back down into the bed, resting his head on the pillow.
"That was clever," she muttered, sleep starting to overcome her.
"What do you mean?"
"You said 'harbor feelings.' And Belladonna is a ship captain…Do you see it? Harbor?… Captain…" her voice trailed off sleepily.
"Anora...I don't know whether to be amused or completely horrified that you are capable of making such terrible, terrible puns," he censured her playfully.
But she was already blissfully asleep.
One night she was the one who read out loud, instead. He found it very entertaining that she made such a show of it, sitting up on the bed so formally and holding up the book as if she were giving a rousing speech. At first she had stammered over the coarse language, but after a few passages, she was professing the most salty insults with the same aplomb she was used to uttering decrees with. She preferred it when he read, though—she could lose herself in the story, in the rich timbre of his voice, and steal glances at him, his handsome face in wrapt concentration. When she was reading, she was aware of his gaze upon her and it flustered her. Once, as she was about to flip over to a new page, she lifted her eyes from the text to find his lingering over her.
"You have very beautiful hair. You don't like to wear it down? It's so long…so fine…" he marveled.
"It gets in my way," she brushed off the compliment.
He settled back against the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head.
"The other thing you do," he struggled to find the words, "That braid... thingie... is beautiful, also. Although it looks like a lot of work every morning…" he mused.
She inhaled deeply.
"Was that an attempt at flattery?"
He suppressed a grin.
"It was just an observation."
"Good," she glanced back down at the book. "Because that would have been a poor attempt at 'picking woo,'" she stated haughtily.
He turned at her in surprise.
"Pardon?"
"Picking woo," she repeated, her brows furrowing. "Well!…Who doesn't know his street talk now?" she mocked him triumphantly.
She startled as he nearly collapsed from laughing so hard.
"It's 'pitch woo,''" he corrected her between bouts of laughter.
She stared down at the book feeling completely foolish.
The feeling threatened to turn into something more acrid, as harsh thoughts surfaced.
Pathetic, Anora. You are behaving unbecomingly. At least when you behaved as a queen he respected you—
His hand swept across the bedspread and took hers, scattering the sharp thoughts, filling her with surprise. He was still chuckling, but his thumb caressed the back of her hand. She remained still, his hand having trespassed beyond their silently agreed-upon boundary.
"Maker…this book should come with a warning: do not try this at home," he grinned. "You wouldn't last an afternoon on the Kirkwall beat…Keep your—"
"...Day job," she sighed with resignation. "I know."
He released her hand gently and turned his brown eyes to her.
"I can hardly blame you for not knowing the jargon…And I'm sure you always had the 'pick' of any woo you may have wanted," he concluded lightheartedly.
She looked down, pretending to be focused on the book.
"I don't even know what that means," she muttered.
"Apparently Donnen doesn't either," he cracked another grin. "Would you please continue?" he urged her, nodding towards the book.
She gratefully launched into the next page, her voice level and clear even as her face blazed crimson, the warm touch of his hand imprinted tantalizingly on her memory.
She'd had to arrive at the main hall later than usual. An urgent, last-minute meeting earlier that morning had delayed her and she'd had to dispatch a messenger to inform Alistair he should proceed with the morning's business without her. As the herald announced her to the court, all the courtiers bowed and curtseyed as she passed...and yet she could sense the excitement, all eyes upon her as she processed down the aisle—the owner of one pair in particular had not let her out of his admiring sight from the moment she emerged into the room.
For the first time since either of her marriages, her shimmering golden hair cascaded loosely down her back, flowing gracefully behind her as she walked towards the king, who was personally awaiting her in lieu of the seneschal to escort her up the steps to the throne.
Gossip that afternoon told of how the queen was a vision of loveliness, with her fine gossamer tresses.
"My brother's neighbor's sister-in-law's nephew works as a footman for Lady Wulfric, and he said that she said the queen looked as beguiling as a faerie lass," the baker's wife told her customers.
Not one braid could be found in all of Denerim the next day.
Dare I say it?
There's a part IV.
Thank you- I really am loving your reactions to these two. Your comments are welcome and you, smart people, class up the joint. Thanks for indulging and encouraging me as I tell their story, even if it is taking longer than most of the stories here: it can't be rushed, can't be rushed... ;-)
I enjoy a good film noir and Philip Marlowe style detective story- it cracked me up to read Varric's chapters of Hard in Hightown. Bawdy embellishments and lingo are additions by yours truly. If you like the genre too, then you might like to Google this page: "Twists, Slugs and Roscoes: A Glossary of Hardboiled Slang."
I bet poor Anora could use it...