#queen coulsland

[sscolariwords]

Fort

Ah, the great library of Denerim palace. A bastion of learning, collection of the great classical works of Ferelden's history, one of Alistair's favorite places to never visit. Why visit the library, when there were the kennels or the kitchen? The kitchen has cheese, after all. A question for the ages, one he fully intended to posit to his wife, whom after a solid two weeks of camping out in a fortress of Dwarven tomes (guides on customs and etiquette, as well as a lengthy map of Orzammar's financial history) composing her self described magnum opus of trade agreements, had elected to return to her cavern and post guards at the doors.

After shattering a window with the improvised missile of the Dwarven envoy's hat, that is.

Alistair admittedly missed all but the aftermath, cheese and dog related matters holding his attention (at his wife's own insistence, to be fair. She had, after all, just spent the better part of a month studying up on the nuances of Dwarven culture and relations). And yet Eamon likened his beloved to a High Dragon in the wake of her rampage back to the palace library.

"By order of the Queen," barked one trembling guardsman as the last of the Theirin line approached, "None are to be admitted into the Chamber of Repose."

"Keep up the good work, Lads," Alistair replied and strode into his Queen's sanctum.

Or tripped, rather, over the desk that had been propped against the door. Regardless, he made it into the room, though not without going ass over tea kettle. Her Majesty, Elaine Cousland, did not look up, as he came crashed in. She did not look up as he clambered back to his feet and shut the door proper. She did not look up when he called her name. She just kept curled up by her spot on the windowsill, legs wrapped up in her arms and hair draped about her like an oaken waterfall as she continued to glare out into the Denerim skies.

"Elaine?" her king called again, "My love, what exactly happened?"

"I'm abdicating, Alistair," she growled, "Just done. Going to just get the dog's leash and go live in a shack in the Free Marches somewhere."

Alistair trotted over, setting down heavily on the seat beside her. Calloused hands rose to brush aside a lock of hair, finding a pale cheek once carved by a Hurlock's blade.

"I'm sure, dearest," he answered, "I'll even build it for you. But why don't you hold off on packing for a moment and tell me what went wrong?"

She threw up her hands, gesticulating wildly.

"After all that preparation!" she snarled, "Weeks spent drawing up a trade agreement, learning Dwarven, making sure the bloody decor was right, and the damnable King sends an envoy weeks and months, hundreds of miles, just to say he's not bloody interested in trading with us!"

Alistair blinked. "He didn't."

"He most certainly did! Ungrateful half pint of a shit; it's not he owes us his whole sodding job."

"What a complete ass."

"The biggest and hairiest!"

"And how did it escalate?"

"When I calmly and rationally pointed out that King Harrowmont was wasting not just my time, but his own, that squirrelly runt had the nerve to derogate me and my ‘sky-addled mud town’ for even daring to think their King wasn't simply the best thing to ever be shat out of the stone! So I... showed him where he could stick his bloody stone sense and bloody royal decree."

"He's still wiping ink off his tongue, you'll be happy to know. How did the broadsword get lodged in your throne?"

Elaine glowered. "I don't wanna talk about it."

The King took her hand in his and began to knead the soft spots between her knuckles. "I'm genuinely curious."

"He called the guards soft."

"Soft?"

"Soft! He said they'd never been tested in any proving, because they had no paragons to aspire to! So I gave them something to 'aspire to'. I'd like to see that runt crack stone like me."

"I imagine most folks would like to crack stone like you. I'm sorry, my dear." "Yeah, I'll bet 'the Royal Envoy is too. Bastard."

"The largest. Come now, shall we go build that shack?"

"No."

"Darling..."

"I'm not leaving this room, Alistair."

The King watches her a moment. Then he stands and starts gathering up some books from the shelves. Elaine watches him, an eyebrow quirks in befuddlement as he begins to arrange and stack the volumes.

"What are you doing?" she asks, though her husband doesn't answer. He just continues building, until a neat little bungalow stands proudly on the floor. At which point, the King of Ferelden lowers himself onto his rump and scoots into the shelter, before beckoning to his lady love.

Elaine still wants to set fire to Orzammar. She'd like to drop kick Harrowmont right into the blackest pit in the deep roads. But, for the moment, she smiles in spite of herself, and climbs off the windowsill.