Alistair (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bringspeopletogether) wrote2016-07-14 03:43 pm
bringspeopletogether) wrote2016-07-14 03:43 pm
[oom]
The journal starts with the picture of Kieran.
Alistair plans to lock Ysa's sketch away as soon as he reaches his quarters, but once he gets the chest open, all he does is sit next to it, looking at the unfolded paper, tracing his thumb back and forth at a spot just next to Kieran's face. There's so little of himself that he can see in the child. It's Morrigan's nose -- no trace of that profile Alistair's seen in both the mirror and half the portraits adorning the palace walls -- Morrigan's hair, Morrigan's eyes. The smile, though: that might be his work. He can't quite tell, as good as Ysa's drawing may be.
When he finally places the paper inside the chest and fastens it shut, the lock, despite being as heavy and solid as a stone, feels like it will snap apart in his fingers. He saw Lyna pick open what felt like every lock in Ferelden. What's to say someone else won't do the same? If the court found the picture, it'd be proof of another Theirin bastard. And if it got back to Flemeth -- well.
He already knows what would happen if it got back to Flemeth.
So he devises an extra layer of security. If someone breaks the lock, they'll see the Trollian device -- incomprehensible to everyone else in Thedas -- and a small leatherbound journal. It takes him a couple tries to fold an inconspicuous pocket out of the journal's back pages, but once he does, the sketch easily slips inside. All that's left to do is fill the remaining pages with writing to make it look even more ordinary.
He lights a candle, finds some ink, and...ends up tapping the quill against his desk for a good fifteen minutes. Stuck on what to write, he finally gives up and decides just to scribble down whatever thought next pops into his head.
L,
(That's when he knows he'll have to find something else to write, once this is done.)
I hope you're well, wherever you are. Have you finished traveling and gone back to your clan? How are the new territories?
I wish
(That's when he realizes he has no intention of sending anything he writes, either.)
I wish you were here. I miss you.
--A.
He rips out the letter when he's done, feeds it to the fire, and fills the next three pages with hand-copied passages of the most boring history book he can find in the royal library.
That becomes a common refrain in the torn-out pages. I miss you, he takes to writing, over and over. I miss you. I miss you.
Each time, he hopes it'll bleed a bit more of the ache from him. It never works.
Other times, the letters run longer than that three-word missive.
L, he writes one morning after he returns, bleary-eyed, from sleeping off a hangover at Milliways. Cullen said he's going to look for you back in his Thedas.
I've wondered what might have happened if you hadn't been on patrol that day. Or if your Keeper hadn't contacted Duncan. Or if you'd fought so hard to stay that even a conscription wouldn't have swayed you. Maybe you would've survived, by some miracle. Or maybe someone would've given you a swift, merciful death before the taint destroyed you.
I don't want to think about the third option.
Duncan didn't even give you a cure, did he? He gave you a few more stolen decades, at most. Would you have given them back if you could?
Did you think any of this was worth it?
--A.
A pile of new reports arrives every day, from scouts sent forth by the crown to collect information about the post-Blight state of Ferelden. They don't make for particularly cheery reading. The bigger cities got off comparatively easy, if only because there were more buildings to share the brunt of the destruction. More than once, a report describes a village completely flattened, every inhabitant dead or evacuated.
South Reach's casualty rate hangs somewhere near twenty-five percent. Alistair finds himself reading the document over and over, completely ignoring the advisor who's droning on about something else. There isn't a list of names attached; just numbers. He flips the paper over as if the scout merely forgot to finish the report, flips it back to the front as if the name Rutherford might magically appear this time around.
(If Cullen's siblings even go by Rutherford anymore. His sisters might not. Mia and Rosalie, wasn't it? Not that it matters when all that's there is a count of the current inhabitants next to a census number from before the Blight.)
" -- those who put forth the inquiry have chosen to -- "
Beneath the table, Anora digs an elbow into his ribs. He looks up, confused; she lifts her eyebrows and tilts her head, meaningfully, toward the advisor. Sighing, Alistair sets the paper aside and kneads his temple as he says, "I'm terribly sorry, could you repeat that?"
Anora lets out a barely audible sigh that somehow conveys a whole scream's worth of exasperation.
"Yes, Your Majesty," says the advisor. He clears his throat. "As I said, the individuals who've put forth the request have chosen to obscure their names, but rest assured we are investigating the matter and should have a list of the nobles responsible by week's end."
He frowns. Makes a circling motion with one finger. "No, go back a little further than that."
The advisor hesitates. "It...concerns a rather delicate matter."
Alistair raises his eyebrows.
"They have asked for a formal inquiry into your lineage. They believe you're not King Maric's son."
A stony silence falls over the room. Alistair sits rooted in his chair. He can hear a single fly buzzing against the wall somewhere. His breath scrapes his throat; carefully, he reaches out to splay his fingers over the stack of reports, several inches high, that rests at his elbow.
Very pleasantly, Alistair says, "Do you know what these are?"
The advisor's forehead wrinkles. "I -- believe they're scouting reports, Your Majesty."
"Yes." Morrigan herself, he thinks from a great distance, would shiver at the ice in his voice. It's certainly enough to make the advisor blanch. "Scouting reports. Surveying the damage the Blight inflicted on Ferelden this past year. I'd like you to -- " In a sudden movement, Alistair yanks out a paper near the middle of the stack, sending it winging across the table to the advisor. "Take a look at that one. Southmere, in the Hinterlands. Three-quarters of the homes there suffered some form of damage. Half the village is uninhabitable due to the taint. Lothering -- " He rips another paper out of the pile. "Gone. Completely wiped off the map by a darkspawn horde. From what I understand, the residents who didn't die on the spot had to flee to Kirkwall. Maker knows if they'll ever be able to set foot in their town again."
The advisor stares, wide-eyed. Anora's looking at him strangely, but she's not bothering to stop him. Alistair finds he doesn't care, anyway.
"Every one of these -- " Alistair slams his open palm against the reports, hard enough to make the advisor jump -- "tells the same story. And this is what they're worried about? This. That I lied my way onto the throne." A brittle laugh. "We're trying to piece the whole Maker-damned country back together after an archdemon tore it to shreds and all they're concerned about is whether Maric really fucked my mother two decades -- "
Anora clamps a hand over his wrist, pinning it against the table, and digs her fingers in hard enough to hurt. "My king," she says, teeth gritted in a parody of a smile.
He subsides, jaw tight. After a beat, he pulls himself free of Anora and shoves himself back from the table. "We're done here," he growls.
He doesn't wait for the advisor to leave before he turns and stalks from the room.
L,
(In the few hours this page exists, it only holds an enormous inkblot, the quill run over the same spot over and over until the sentence beneath has completely disappeared.
But before Alistair scribbled it out, there were six words: How could you leave me here?)
Alistair stays in his quarters for the rest of the evening. A servant brings him dinner; he thanks him, courteously, and lets it cool untouched atop his writing desk. For a while, he scrolls through one of the larger posts on the Trollian memo boards. Polite bafflement over something called "dank memes" is far preferable to the lingering anger over the advisor's report.
A knock on the door interrupts him. Hurriedly, Alistair signs off, shoves the device under his pillow, and calls, "Yes?"
"It's me."
He blinks. Stares. Eventually, he rouses himself: Alistair crosses the room, gets the lock unfastened, and pulls open the door to reveal -- "Anora?"
Anora inclines her head. Her attention flicks over Alistair's shoulder before she meets his gaze. "May I come in?"
"Oh, er -- " No married man, he thinks, resigned, ought to sound so surprised his wife wants to pay him a visit. He steps aside. "Yes. Of course. Come in."
He watches her cross the threshold; as she makes her way over to the fireplace, Alistair adds, hesitant, "If this is about earlier..."
"It is."
He tries not to wince. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost my temper."
"Perhaps not." She glances over his shoulder. "But you were right. Even if you were a bit -- " One corner of her mouth rises. "Impolitic in how you said it."
A few seconds pass before Alistair realizes his mouth's fallen open. He shuts it; manages to say, with weak humor, "We might need to declare a national holiday. Or build a monument outside the palace. You -- " he points to Anora, "think I did something right?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
"...Well, yes."
She exhales. Maybe Alistair's imagining it, but it almost sounds like a laugh. "Alistair -- "
And she's -- what -- oh, Maker. She's actually reaching for him, settling a hand on his shoulder. Her smile returns: it looks rueful. It was so small before that he hadn't noticed. "You're less terrible at this than you think."
Dryly, Alistair says, "Oh, well. Nice to know you think so highly of me."
Anora just looks at him. Her free hand trails across his other shoulder. Alistair can feel his cheeks burn. This is...not expected. At all. An upswell of dread chills his stomach. "Um. Anora?"
"There are other parts of being king," she says, quite steady, "that you still need to work on."
Shit. Swiftly, he ducks free of her arms and backs up a few steps. "You know, I was just about to turn in for the evening -- very long day, about to fall asleep on my feet, you know how it is, celebrate the first time I've ever been right with a good nap -- " He's babbling, and can't find the mental lever that will turn it off. "Another time, perhaps? In a few years?"
Her jaw tenses. "Yes," tightly, "I'm sure that will go over well. A king and queen not sharing a marital bed for years."
"It's worked out fine so far, hasn't it?"
The look Anora shoots him could melt steel. "No. It really hasn't. We need an heir, Alistair. Ferelden's gone six years without one -- "
"And you think that will change with me?" he fires back. Impolitic, a tired voice whispers in his mind, but all he can think of is that drawing no one but him will ever see. "Do you know how difficult it is for a Warden to have a child? I may have left, but there's no true un-Joining, you know."
"All the more reason to start trying now." She steps close again, chin held high. One hand drops to the crease of his hip as she adds, a bit acidly, "Unless they cut it off during the Joining. For Andraste's sake, Alistair, it's not like it'll be terrible for you."
You will not hate this quite so much as you believe --
He sees Morrigan's face for an instant, Morrigan's smile, and flinches away, hard, from Anora's touch. Her face darkens; exhaling sharply through her nose, she turns away, arms folded. Low and taut, she says, "If this is still about your Warden, I'd suggest you get over it as soon as possible."
His heart clenches. "It's not -- "
"You're not the only one who lost someone they loved."
"I never said that!" he shouts -- and stops, drawn to abrupt stillness, as he takes in Anora's posture. She still holds her head high, but her back has gone rigid: not from pride, but the precarious effort of fighting to maintain composure. "Anora..."
She's silent.
So is Alistair. With care, as if approaching an unfamiliar horse, he circles to face her. Anora stares fixedly at a spot on the far wall, jaw still clenched, eyes too bright for the fire to be wholly responsible. This is the longest they've ever spoken to each other, he realizes. The most she's ever deigned to touch him.
"Here," he says, very softly. She doesn't look at him. "Could we sit?"
She doesn't move for a beat. Then, stiffly, Anora nods, and moves to take a seat on the bed. Alistair joins her, keeping a foot of space between them, hands folded loosely between his knees.
"I...didn't know Cailan very well." Haltingly. "Not like a brother. Just as my king. Could you..." She's still not looking at him. Alistair flounders, but presses on. "Could you tell me about him, a little? What was he like?"
For a moment, he worries he's said the wrong thing, and Anora will either storm out or sit there like a statue for another hour. But then her expression shifts, subtly -- the brittle tension draining away -- and she closes her eyes, and nods.
As she speaks, Alistair scoots a little closer. Not enough for their knees to touch; just enough to be companionable.
This time, when he reaches to take her hand, she doesn't pull away.
Alistair plans to lock Ysa's sketch away as soon as he reaches his quarters, but once he gets the chest open, all he does is sit next to it, looking at the unfolded paper, tracing his thumb back and forth at a spot just next to Kieran's face. There's so little of himself that he can see in the child. It's Morrigan's nose -- no trace of that profile Alistair's seen in both the mirror and half the portraits adorning the palace walls -- Morrigan's hair, Morrigan's eyes. The smile, though: that might be his work. He can't quite tell, as good as Ysa's drawing may be.
When he finally places the paper inside the chest and fastens it shut, the lock, despite being as heavy and solid as a stone, feels like it will snap apart in his fingers. He saw Lyna pick open what felt like every lock in Ferelden. What's to say someone else won't do the same? If the court found the picture, it'd be proof of another Theirin bastard. And if it got back to Flemeth -- well.
He already knows what would happen if it got back to Flemeth.
So he devises an extra layer of security. If someone breaks the lock, they'll see the Trollian device -- incomprehensible to everyone else in Thedas -- and a small leatherbound journal. It takes him a couple tries to fold an inconspicuous pocket out of the journal's back pages, but once he does, the sketch easily slips inside. All that's left to do is fill the remaining pages with writing to make it look even more ordinary.
He lights a candle, finds some ink, and...ends up tapping the quill against his desk for a good fifteen minutes. Stuck on what to write, he finally gives up and decides just to scribble down whatever thought next pops into his head.
L,
(That's when he knows he'll have to find something else to write, once this is done.)
I hope you're well, wherever you are. Have you finished traveling and gone back to your clan? How are the new territories?
(That's when he realizes he has no intention of sending anything he writes, either.)
I wish you were here. I miss you.
--A.
He rips out the letter when he's done, feeds it to the fire, and fills the next three pages with hand-copied passages of the most boring history book he can find in the royal library.
That becomes a common refrain in the torn-out pages. I miss you, he takes to writing, over and over. I miss you. I miss you.
Each time, he hopes it'll bleed a bit more of the ache from him. It never works.
Other times, the letters run longer than that three-word missive.
L, he writes one morning after he returns, bleary-eyed, from sleeping off a hangover at Milliways. Cullen said he's going to look for you back in his Thedas.
I've wondered what might have happened if you hadn't been on patrol that day. Or if your Keeper hadn't contacted Duncan. Or if you'd fought so hard to stay that even a conscription wouldn't have swayed you. Maybe you would've survived, by some miracle. Or maybe someone would've given you a swift, merciful death before the taint destroyed you.
I don't want to think about the third option.
Duncan didn't even give you a cure, did he? He gave you a few more stolen decades, at most. Would you have given them back if you could?
Did you think any of this was worth it?
--A.
A pile of new reports arrives every day, from scouts sent forth by the crown to collect information about the post-Blight state of Ferelden. They don't make for particularly cheery reading. The bigger cities got off comparatively easy, if only because there were more buildings to share the brunt of the destruction. More than once, a report describes a village completely flattened, every inhabitant dead or evacuated.
South Reach's casualty rate hangs somewhere near twenty-five percent. Alistair finds himself reading the document over and over, completely ignoring the advisor who's droning on about something else. There isn't a list of names attached; just numbers. He flips the paper over as if the scout merely forgot to finish the report, flips it back to the front as if the name Rutherford might magically appear this time around.
(If Cullen's siblings even go by Rutherford anymore. His sisters might not. Mia and Rosalie, wasn't it? Not that it matters when all that's there is a count of the current inhabitants next to a census number from before the Blight.)
" -- those who put forth the inquiry have chosen to -- "
Beneath the table, Anora digs an elbow into his ribs. He looks up, confused; she lifts her eyebrows and tilts her head, meaningfully, toward the advisor. Sighing, Alistair sets the paper aside and kneads his temple as he says, "I'm terribly sorry, could you repeat that?"
Anora lets out a barely audible sigh that somehow conveys a whole scream's worth of exasperation.
"Yes, Your Majesty," says the advisor. He clears his throat. "As I said, the individuals who've put forth the request have chosen to obscure their names, but rest assured we are investigating the matter and should have a list of the nobles responsible by week's end."
He frowns. Makes a circling motion with one finger. "No, go back a little further than that."
The advisor hesitates. "It...concerns a rather delicate matter."
Alistair raises his eyebrows.
"They have asked for a formal inquiry into your lineage. They believe you're not King Maric's son."
A stony silence falls over the room. Alistair sits rooted in his chair. He can hear a single fly buzzing against the wall somewhere. His breath scrapes his throat; carefully, he reaches out to splay his fingers over the stack of reports, several inches high, that rests at his elbow.
Very pleasantly, Alistair says, "Do you know what these are?"
The advisor's forehead wrinkles. "I -- believe they're scouting reports, Your Majesty."
"Yes." Morrigan herself, he thinks from a great distance, would shiver at the ice in his voice. It's certainly enough to make the advisor blanch. "Scouting reports. Surveying the damage the Blight inflicted on Ferelden this past year. I'd like you to -- " In a sudden movement, Alistair yanks out a paper near the middle of the stack, sending it winging across the table to the advisor. "Take a look at that one. Southmere, in the Hinterlands. Three-quarters of the homes there suffered some form of damage. Half the village is uninhabitable due to the taint. Lothering -- " He rips another paper out of the pile. "Gone. Completely wiped off the map by a darkspawn horde. From what I understand, the residents who didn't die on the spot had to flee to Kirkwall. Maker knows if they'll ever be able to set foot in their town again."
The advisor stares, wide-eyed. Anora's looking at him strangely, but she's not bothering to stop him. Alistair finds he doesn't care, anyway.
"Every one of these -- " Alistair slams his open palm against the reports, hard enough to make the advisor jump -- "tells the same story. And this is what they're worried about? This. That I lied my way onto the throne." A brittle laugh. "We're trying to piece the whole Maker-damned country back together after an archdemon tore it to shreds and all they're concerned about is whether Maric really fucked my mother two decades -- "
Anora clamps a hand over his wrist, pinning it against the table, and digs her fingers in hard enough to hurt. "My king," she says, teeth gritted in a parody of a smile.
He subsides, jaw tight. After a beat, he pulls himself free of Anora and shoves himself back from the table. "We're done here," he growls.
He doesn't wait for the advisor to leave before he turns and stalks from the room.
L,
(In the few hours this page exists, it only holds an enormous inkblot, the quill run over the same spot over and over until the sentence beneath has completely disappeared.
But before Alistair scribbled it out, there were six words: How could you leave me here?)
Alistair stays in his quarters for the rest of the evening. A servant brings him dinner; he thanks him, courteously, and lets it cool untouched atop his writing desk. For a while, he scrolls through one of the larger posts on the Trollian memo boards. Polite bafflement over something called "dank memes" is far preferable to the lingering anger over the advisor's report.
A knock on the door interrupts him. Hurriedly, Alistair signs off, shoves the device under his pillow, and calls, "Yes?"
"It's me."
He blinks. Stares. Eventually, he rouses himself: Alistair crosses the room, gets the lock unfastened, and pulls open the door to reveal -- "Anora?"
Anora inclines her head. Her attention flicks over Alistair's shoulder before she meets his gaze. "May I come in?"
"Oh, er -- " No married man, he thinks, resigned, ought to sound so surprised his wife wants to pay him a visit. He steps aside. "Yes. Of course. Come in."
He watches her cross the threshold; as she makes her way over to the fireplace, Alistair adds, hesitant, "If this is about earlier..."
"It is."
He tries not to wince. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost my temper."
"Perhaps not." She glances over his shoulder. "But you were right. Even if you were a bit -- " One corner of her mouth rises. "Impolitic in how you said it."
A few seconds pass before Alistair realizes his mouth's fallen open. He shuts it; manages to say, with weak humor, "We might need to declare a national holiday. Or build a monument outside the palace. You -- " he points to Anora, "think I did something right?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
"...Well, yes."
She exhales. Maybe Alistair's imagining it, but it almost sounds like a laugh. "Alistair -- "
And she's -- what -- oh, Maker. She's actually reaching for him, settling a hand on his shoulder. Her smile returns: it looks rueful. It was so small before that he hadn't noticed. "You're less terrible at this than you think."
Dryly, Alistair says, "Oh, well. Nice to know you think so highly of me."
Anora just looks at him. Her free hand trails across his other shoulder. Alistair can feel his cheeks burn. This is...not expected. At all. An upswell of dread chills his stomach. "Um. Anora?"
"There are other parts of being king," she says, quite steady, "that you still need to work on."
Shit. Swiftly, he ducks free of her arms and backs up a few steps. "You know, I was just about to turn in for the evening -- very long day, about to fall asleep on my feet, you know how it is, celebrate the first time I've ever been right with a good nap -- " He's babbling, and can't find the mental lever that will turn it off. "Another time, perhaps? In a few years?"
Her jaw tenses. "Yes," tightly, "I'm sure that will go over well. A king and queen not sharing a marital bed for years."
"It's worked out fine so far, hasn't it?"
The look Anora shoots him could melt steel. "No. It really hasn't. We need an heir, Alistair. Ferelden's gone six years without one -- "
"And you think that will change with me?" he fires back. Impolitic, a tired voice whispers in his mind, but all he can think of is that drawing no one but him will ever see. "Do you know how difficult it is for a Warden to have a child? I may have left, but there's no true un-Joining, you know."
"All the more reason to start trying now." She steps close again, chin held high. One hand drops to the crease of his hip as she adds, a bit acidly, "Unless they cut it off during the Joining. For Andraste's sake, Alistair, it's not like it'll be terrible for you."
You will not hate this quite so much as you believe --
He sees Morrigan's face for an instant, Morrigan's smile, and flinches away, hard, from Anora's touch. Her face darkens; exhaling sharply through her nose, she turns away, arms folded. Low and taut, she says, "If this is still about your Warden, I'd suggest you get over it as soon as possible."
His heart clenches. "It's not -- "
"You're not the only one who lost someone they loved."
"I never said that!" he shouts -- and stops, drawn to abrupt stillness, as he takes in Anora's posture. She still holds her head high, but her back has gone rigid: not from pride, but the precarious effort of fighting to maintain composure. "Anora..."
She's silent.
So is Alistair. With care, as if approaching an unfamiliar horse, he circles to face her. Anora stares fixedly at a spot on the far wall, jaw still clenched, eyes too bright for the fire to be wholly responsible. This is the longest they've ever spoken to each other, he realizes. The most she's ever deigned to touch him.
"Here," he says, very softly. She doesn't look at him. "Could we sit?"
She doesn't move for a beat. Then, stiffly, Anora nods, and moves to take a seat on the bed. Alistair joins her, keeping a foot of space between them, hands folded loosely between his knees.
"I...didn't know Cailan very well." Haltingly. "Not like a brother. Just as my king. Could you..." She's still not looking at him. Alistair flounders, but presses on. "Could you tell me about him, a little? What was he like?"
For a moment, he worries he's said the wrong thing, and Anora will either storm out or sit there like a statue for another hour. But then her expression shifts, subtly -- the brittle tension draining away -- and she closes her eyes, and nods.
As she speaks, Alistair scoots a little closer. Not enough for their knees to touch; just enough to be companionable.
This time, when he reaches to take her hand, she doesn't pull away.