Chapter 18 ~ Nation's Son (Part IV)
"...as long as nothing happens between them, the memory is cursed with what hasn't happened."
― Marguerite Duras
One morning she remarked his countenance appeared far healthier than it had in days.
His eyes were brighter and he seemed well rested. She observed him, trying to glimpse any of the signs the malaise still lurked, waiting to manifest itself as the day changed into afternoon and gradually slipped into evening.
That same night she made the nocturnal procession to his quarters and he greeted her as usual, but that night he did not strike her as burdened, tired, or even pale. He had not changed for bed yet and she had the distinct impression she was intruding, as she stood before him in her dressing gown.
"You seem recovered from your affliction," she noted, still hesitating in his parlor.
"It appears to be lifting...at least until the next time it strikes," he surmised, waiting for her by his office door. "It comes and goes."
She nodded, relieved, but also feeling a tug of regret over the significance of the revelation.
"I am glad to hear you feel better," she told him cordially. "And since that is the case… I should leave you at your leisure."
"You are leaving?" Alistair's face clouded. "Already?"
Silence between them had always been exactly that: quiet. It was a mutual agreement not to intrude, restraint so that certain thoughts remained insubstantial, far away from words that were best never uttered. But that night the silence between them roared. They had reached an impasse and did not know how to extricate themselves. He watched her with a pained expression as she hovered by the parlor's door.
"You have no need for a distraction now that you feel better," she finally explained.
"Well, my…my head!" he pat his forehead. "It still aches a bit."
He was lying, of course. She could tell very easily and as much as she wanted to offer him one of her customary signs of reproach— a short huff, an eye roll— she couldn't. She found his attempt to stall her departure endearing. It made her want to stay…and if she remained, what did it mean? She had, after all, said she would leave once he recovered.
"Good night, Alistair."
"Good night?" It sounded more like grief over an unexpected turn of events than a question.
She moved determinedly towards the door, unable to grasp why the thought of returning to her own rooms flooded her with a disheartening dread.
"Wait!" he called to her.
She found him standing by the bedroom entrance brandishing the copy of Hard in Hightown at her.
"Won't you stay?...We should at least finish reading the book."
He stared at her expectantly.
"Very well," she eventually agreed, stepping back into the room. "We really should finish it…"
It was a most reasonable request, she told herself, reviving at the thought.
The book was drawing to its inevitable conclusion. There were only a few last chapters left—only a matter of pages. She observed him leaf to the final chapters with trepidation.
"Alistair," she interrupted him, knowing they were about the reach the next-to-last chapter. "I don't know that I want to read tonight," she declared pensively, to his surprise. "Why don't you put the book away and perhaps we could do something else," she suggested.
He promptly slipped the book over his nightstand.
"Do you know any games?" she asked.
" 'Coin, Beggar, Satchel'?" he suggested.
"That's a young child's game!" She raised her eyebrows at him.
"I happen to be quite good at it," he said, slightly offended.
"I have no doubt… Do you play any board games?" she tried.
"Never really learned properly," he admitted. "I was never a templar― or Grey Warden, for that matter― of leisure." He rubbed his chin. "What about cards?"
"I can play some games. I am excellent at King's Knot."
"Hmm…That requires four people. What about… Do you know how to play Wicked Grace?" he asked offhandedly.
"Never learned it. It's considered beneath the court, you know," she sniffed. He rose from the bed and began to search through the drawers in his desk. "What are you doing?"
"I am going to teach you how to play. Now, I never learned to play as well as the two rogues who taught me back in the day, but I can hold my own...I had a deck here somewhere―it has come in handy a few times during longer layovers..." he told her.
"I heard it's an ignoble gambling game that requires very little intellect."
Although her tone suggested mild disdain, her heart was racing.
"Hmm..."he nodded, pulling out a deck of cards in a small case from a drawer. "Then I am sure you think you will have no trouble defeating me."
She narrowed her eyes at him.
"Is this a challenge?"
"Just a remark..." he said casually.
"Let's see, then," she acknowledged the cards in his hands with a businesslike nod.
For a couple nights they played cards. On the second night, Alistair had goaded her into wagering not coin, but obligations.
It was how Anora swiftly found herself saddled with two christenings, a Chantry charity event, and a dinner with delegates from the Free Marches ("You can tell them all you've learned about Kirkwall!" he'd riled her as he collected the cards after his victory). She had the impression Alistair was using the card game to foist his calendar of social duties on her.
"I am done playing this game," she told him, peeved at her latest loss. "I am not cut out for this."
"It is a shame," he told her. "I still have a few events I can't wait to get out of..."
He stashed the cards away and leaned back in his chair.
"What would you like to do now?"
The book loomed ominously next to them.
"I suppose we should finish Hard in Hightown," she sighed resignedly.
He looked at the book uneasily.
"Yes...we should," he agreed with an equal measure of gloom.
She climbed on the canopied bed, leaning comfortably against the pillows. He handed her the heavy tome.
"Here, you read tonight," he declared almost despondently.
She took the book and paged towards the final chapters. He also rested over the pillows on his side of the bed, watching her attentively, taking in her eyes, as azure as the sky on a spring day, her hair, flaxen and wavy over her shoulders, and her full rose lips as she began to read.
As reticent as she'd been to read the book, it was a good chapter―Donnen and Belladonna were in pursuit of the main suspect through the labyrinthine streets of Lowtown. At one point they found themselves in an abandoned warehouse, their suspect managing to elude them through a back door. Donnen began to express his anger and frustration and Belladonna simply cut him off mid sentence with a kiss.
"Finally!"They both cheered, interrupting the reading.
She glanced back at the page, hoping to read a proper confession from either one of them, but instead found that the author had eschewed dialogue for description.
Very explicit description.
Her eyes browsed the passage and she found herself unable to read beyond Donnen tearing Belladonna's corset off and flicking his tongue over her aroused—
"Alistair, I can't read further," she faltered, her cheeks stinging.
"Too blue?" he wondered, his face betraying some amusement.
He took the book from her hands and sought the passage she had interrupted. He read to himself in silence, his eyes boggling at the subsequent pages. "Maker...the author pulled out all the stops..." he mumbled in mild shock. "I don't think I can read this out loud either," he told her, rubbing his cheek, bewildered.
She exhaled impatiently while contemplating his face.
"It's a shame… We've waited so long for those two to finally sort out their feelings," she mused. "It's not very satisfying if we just skip over it either, is it?"
"They have been through enough," he agreed. "They do deserve a happy ending."
Anora contemplated him seriously.
"Then…Why don't you give me an idea of what happens?" she suggested.
"What? Like a summary?" he wondered, glancing back at the pages of the book.
"No," she said in a low voice, slowly removing the book from his hands, placing it aside, and sliding nearer to him. "Show me," she whispered. They were so close she could feel the warmth of their breaths mingling for a few inebriating moments before he crushed her to his chest and sought her lips lustily.
"This might possibly be the best book ever written," Alistair murmured later, languidly caressing her smooth naked back as she lay peacefully in his arms.
Psst: There is Chapter V and that's the truth.