#valesh aeducan

[laurelsofhighever]

For the OC questions, 15 for Rosslyn, 21 and 45 for Valesh and Kira? 😊 or for anyone if you think they better suit somebody else 💕

I’m having such fun answering these, and getting a chance to flesh out my two dwarf ladies is great - thank you!

15. Are they good at cooking? Do they enjoy it? What do others think of their cooking? Rosslyn isn’t exactly a natural cook, and she’d never be able to cook a full meal to the standard she’s used to eating in the castle, but both her parents made sure she learned how to forage and feed herself in case the worst should happen and she ended up in the wilds (lucky for her). It means she’s pretty good at field dressing game, and enjoys trying different herbs and greens, but she’s not too fussed about presentation. As long as it’s edible and filling, she’s content - and bonus if she can set whatever it is going then tend to some other chore until it’s ready. Because of this, the people she travels with are pretty happy when it’s her turn to cook. She’s got the refined tastes of a noblewoman (which suit Zev and Leliana) she knows how to avoid burning or overcooking anything, and she knows how to stretch their supplies into decent protions (which Sten appreciates). And of course, Alistair declares her food is his favouritest ever, which makes her smile.

21. Do they have a temper? Are they patient? What are they like when they do lose their temper? Valesh never shows her temper. She was always meant as a court ornament, and eventually a trophy for whichever of her family’s followers gained the most favour, and partly as a defence mechanism she decided to be content with that, and play a long game of politics. The fact that she can fight makes her a bit of an oddity among noble caste dwarven women, but since nobody can ever rile her up about it, they can’t use it against her. If she ever were to lose her temper completely, she wouldn’r waste time with posturing. It’s a bad idea to get on the wrong side of any Aeducan, but especially this one.

As for Kira, she’s never not angry about something. Being born casteless, with an alcoholic mother and her own destiny taken out of her hands, she has plenty of reasons. It does mean she has no patience, and is likely to shank anyone who really gets on her nerves because most of her associates would do the same to her. She saves really losing her temper for when she’s in battle, though. That’s when she goes full beserker, and it’s what makes her valuable to the Carta before she winds up accidentally winning the Proving.

45. How do other people see them? Is it similar to how they see themselves? Most people see Valesh as an object, or a prize. They think she’s beautiful and accomplished like a noble caste woman should be, dutiful to her house even if training as a warrior is a borderline taboo when she could be more, ahem, productive as someone’s wife, and aloof when nobles try to curry favour. She, of course, sees herself as a complete and actualised person. For most of her life she’s ok with the assumptions people make about her and the direction her life is going, but once she goes beyond Orzammar and sees the wider world, she starts to want people to see her as an individual, rather than just an extension of her family ambitions, and - Stone preserve her - she starts to want things for herself. She starts to realise she didn’t really have a self before, so she has a lot to explore, especially after she meets Kira, who is the first person to admire her strengths instead of pretending they’re not there.

The first thing people (dwarves) notice about Kira is her brand. She’s casteless - worthless to anyone who isn’t looking for someone to exploit, and then only as a means to an end. Where her sister survived by being sweet and becoming a noble hunter to earn protection from someone in a higher caste, Kira survived by becoming fast and brutal, to the point where most of the Carta became nervous around her and even Jarvia treated her with a certain kind of respect. There’s a lot of self-esteem issues she’s internalised because of that, and they go deep, but even though she does have times where she thinks of herself as worthless, and not as good as her sister, more of a weapon than a person, she also believes herself to be strong and good at surviving. Once she’s out of a situation where everything is about survival, like Valesh the way she sees herself starts to change because there are facets of her personality that surface when they were never given the chance before. That Valesh is the first person who seems to value her as a person rather than a thing helps her a great deal in seeing herself as a person.

--

detailed oc asks

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon’s Last Letter

In the hours before escorting the king’s Orlesian mercenaries back over the border, Rosslyn Cousland pens a letter to Prince Alistair, explaining things.

This letter is written during the events of Chapter 44 of The Falcon and the Rose, but for those who’ve finished the story, you’ll know that’s not when its contents are revealed.

Minor spoilers, major angst ahead

--

28th Harvestmere, 9:31 Dragon

Alistair –

I have stumbled with the wording of this letter, but dawn is already on the horizon and when it comes I will have lost the time I had to say what I must. If you are reading this, then I am dead. I cannot say whether this will be your introduction to the news or if you will have heard already through other means, but whichever it is, I could not allow the echo of this last silence between us.

Cailan has entrusted me with the task of taking Baudrillard to the border in Gherlen’s Pass, and since this parting is little more than a veneer for his disgrace, I fear he will betray us, and that in doing so will set in motion a chain of events that could put all of Ferelden at risk. I will not have it said that I did not do my duty to defend my country, yet that does not mean I do not have regrets – of things left unsaid, or undone. I hope you will forgive me for it. Before anything else, you must know that I love you, that I have loved you, fiercely, since before I could even comprehend the scope of what that meant. The kiss we shared on Innse Gaillean – that first one, in the dark of the guesthouse – still lives in my memories, with your eyes shining in the firelight and the warmth of your arms around me, and the thought that I may not live such a moment again makes me wish we had never left.

I will not speak of the proposed contract between you and Valesh Aeducan. If it is your choice, freely made, then I have no right, only dashed hopes that it might have been me, that we could have built a life together. We might have lived in Highever, and rebuilt it. Such confessions as these ought to be penned with grace, I know, but this war has asked so much of me I feel entitled to at least a small amount of bitterness, if you’ll pardon it. As it is, I wish you happiness, even as I wish more dearly that that happiness could have been mine as well.

It is my hope you never read this letter, but if this has reached your hands then please know I fought with my every breath to live, to come back to you as whatever you would have wished of me, and I am sorry. Know that you are in my thoughts, and will be to the last. Live well, my love.

In my own hand, I am yours.

Rosslyn

[laurelsofhighever]

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Fereldan Politics, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels,  Hurt/Comfort Chapter Summary: Eamon faces the consequences of his actions, and Cailan reflects.

--

Nineteenth day of Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon

The trial began an hour before noon. The guildhall had been cleared on the order of the king, and the guildmaster had reordered what furniture there was into a more suitable arrangement: the largest, most ornate chair she could find at the far end opposite the doors for Cailan himself, a set of smaller to his left and right for officials and the few nobles in attendance – Alistair, Rosslyn, Ferrenly, Loren, Franderel; and plenty of space remained in the middle of the room for the accused to feel isolated. Rain pattered on the roof as the large double doors groaned open to admit Arl Eamon, not in shackles, but still flanked very closely by the two guards who walked behind him. Such banal duty ought to be beneath Captains Morrence and Mhairi, but Cousland Blue flared next to royal Red all the same, the pair of them having decided that the honour of watching Eamon fall should belong to no one else but them.

Cailan, dressed with utmost formality in red velvet and a trimmed mantle of finely tooled leather, shifted in his seat as Eamon bowed, ignoring the scratch of the scribe in the corner, and cleared his throat. “This judgement is convened today to answer charges against Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, who stands accused of acts amounting to treason. Ser Brantis, if you would read out the specifics.”

The old chamberlain did not rise from his seat. The summer’s campaign had taken its toll on him, leaving his hair thinner than ever and pitching his voice at a faint nasally wheeze that every now and then broke out into a cough. Every one of Cailan’s attempts to ease him into retirement at Redcliffe had been brushed aside with an efficient exasperation perfected over almost three decades of royal service. After all, he had argued, nobody had a finer understanding of the law than him, and he did not need stout legs to exercise it.

“The accusation against Arl Eamon Guerrin is on three counts,” he announced now, the scroll shaking in his hand. “First, that he did in full knowledge of his actions intercept and waylay royal correspondence. Second, that he did lie on multiple occasions to a member of the royal family about the aforementioned interference. And third, that he did withhold information from the Crown pertaining to State affairs in order to promote his own interests. Such acts, should my lord be found guilty, would together constitute an act of treason, with the punishment to be determined by His Majesty, in attendance.”

An uneasy silence descended over the hall, all eyes on the king, all breaths held for his response.

“Well, Arl Eamon, what do you say to this?” His voice, usually so light, fell like a stone into a still pool.

Eamon lifted his chin. “I have a right to know my accusers.”

“You know very well who we are,” Rosslyn snapped from her place on Cailan’s right. “Answer the question.”

“Peace, Your Ladyship. We are waiting, Uncle.”

Glancing at his audience, the old arl rolled his answer over his tongue, his cheeks sucked in sapped bellows beneath the neatly groomed length of his beard. “All I have ever done has been done for the benefit of Ferelden,” he declared. “Whether that be shedding blood in the rebellion that ended the Orlesian occupation of this country, or through the use of diplomatic skill to prevent bloodshed in the first place.”

“Your record on that count is somewhat less than perfect, my lord,” the king answered coldly. “Given the current political climate. Is this a denial?”

Eamon bristled. “Berate me if you must, but I am no traitor.”

Silence again. Someone shifted on their feet, uncomfortable, and still the rain came down upon the roof. Cailan sat in his chair with the cornflower blue of his eyes hardened on the defiance seething in the man before him. The outcome of the trial was more formality than anything; he already knew the story, and the parts of all the players.

“We will hear the evidence, and decide,” he said at last, and turned away. “Ser Brantis, the witnesses, please.”

The chamberlain nodded and called the first name on his scroll, and looked up as Eamon’s valet appeared in the escort of another guard, wringing his hands and refusing to look at his master as he came to stand before the king. Cailan opened his mouth, but the man pre-empted him. Stuttering, he spilled testimony about conferences overheard between Eamon and the king of Orzammar that discussed ‘progress’ with an unnamed venture where the names of both the dwarf princess and the human prince were dropped; he recounted a time he witnessed Alistair put a letter directly into Eamon’s hand for inclusion with the post, only to have the arl tuck it away in a desk drawer once the Prince was out of sight; he even mentioned the keenness with which his master praised His Highness’ decision to take lessons in the Shaperate, and plotted excuses to first meet with him and Valesh Aeducan and then leave them alone together.

“It was not my place to ask,” he wailed. “Bt it was clear he was trying to engineer a match between them. I offer this testimony now to try and repair the damage wrought in part through my ignorance, to a most honourable lady.” He offered a trembling bow to Rosslyn, who gracefully returned the gesture with a nod.

“Tell me what happened on the final morning before your departure,” Cailan ordered.

The man shot a worried glance at Eamon, but despite the twist of his lip, the arl remained stoic and only waited for his judgement.

“The tradition in Orzammar is for a servant to sleep outside their master’s chambers, you understand,” he began. “I was woken early by his Highness storming into my lord’s quarters, but he ignored my protest. I’ve never seen a man in such a fury, and with Warden Commander Duncan behind him – with that way Grey Wardens tend to have about them – all I could do was follow. His Highness demanded to know the whereabouts of the letters from Her Ladyship, and then threatened to have his guard search the place when my lord did not answer. My lord then took two stacks of paper from his desk, and from the look on His Highness’ face, they were what he was looking for.”

“Did His Highness confront Arl Eamon about his possession of these letters?” Cailan asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And?”

“He… he called His Highness selfish and foolish, Your Majesty.” The valet gulped. “And spoke openly about separating His Highness and Her Ladyship in favour of… other matches.”

Alistair glanced at Rosslyn. She had taken hold of his hand during the questioning, heedless of the eyes already upon her, squeezing his fingers so tightly he felt the tendons shifting beneath her skin. Her resolve remained undaunted in the set of her jaw, but the scrutiny of so many interested parties grated on her, the intimacies of their relationship pared away and batted about as evidence to be quarrelled over, like dogs fighting for bones, and then fed into the rumour-mill for the gossips to thread and weave into whatever tapestry they liked. The letters, after all, sat at the heart of the matter. Eamon’s true condemnation lay within their lines, buried among private hopes and despairs that could too easily be turned against them.

“I have the letters,” he declared now, stepping forward out of her reach and missing the grip of her hand. His other held the evidence aloft for the watchers to see. “Her Ladyship’s last, in her own hand sent with Warden Commander Duncan, speaks of having received no correspondence from me for months prior to the letter’s date, when in fact I wrote many, and asked a number of my contingent to see them delivered to the messengers.”

“You may read it out, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn supplied, as the unassuming slip of paper was pressed into Cailan’s hands. “The beginning of the second paragraph deals with the current concern.”

The king’s gaze lingered on her for a moment of sympathy as he unfolded it. “Dated on the ninth of Harvestmere, and it is in Her Ladyship’s hand. The first paragraph recounts the fall of South Reach. The second… This is the last letter I will write. It is clear either you aren’t receiving my letters, or are ignoring them, and time will tell which is the truth. Fortune has allowed me one final chance, and so I am sending this to you with a messenger I can trust, rather than through the usual channels, and he promises to see it safe directly into your hands. This messenger was Warden Commander Duncan?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. His Wardens happened to be passing through the Southron Hills tracking a party of darkspawn and heard what happened at South Reach.”

Cailan refolded the letter. With the scribe’s pen still scratching out the moments, he shifted in his chair so he could lean his chin on his fist, his frown directed at a whorl in one of the floorplanks at his feet.

“The evidence is damning,” he said at last. “However, before I pass judgement, I wish to know the motive. Why would one who supposedly values loyalty to the Crown above all things go to such lengths to undermine its authority?”  His voice rose with every word, outrage matched by incredulity. “What could be gained from making the private affairs of two people the subject of sport? Am I to declare war on King Bhelen in retaliation for meddling in the affairs of Ferelden’s crown? Answer, my lord Eamon. Those were not rhetorical questions.”  

Faced with the king’s true, righteous fury, Eamon at last let his mask of indifference drop. He hung his head, lacking the contrition of a true apology, but enough to admit defeat. “I accept all responsibility for this matter,” he said. “I proposed the matter to King Bhelen, and he took the understanding that Your Majesty endorsed our actions. No reprisal is necessary for his part.”

“In that, at least, you retain your honour,” Cailan allowed, sighing in relief. “But it still doesn’t answer why.”

“I thought the two of them a poor match,” came the slow reply.

Rosslyn advanced. “And what right does an arl have to determine suitability between a teyrna and a prince who bear no relation to him?”

“Your Ladyship –” Cailan warned, but Eamon was already snarling back.

“The right of a king’s advisor with enough experience to foresee and want to avert disaster. Forgive my candour, Your Ladyship, but you have proven yourself to be rash, even brutal in your approach, and such wildness ought not to be left unchecked. His Highness is easily led –”

“Now wait just a –”

“– and when I saw your undue influence over him I sought to stop it, to save him from the bull-headed determination of a child entirely too used to getting her own way in everything, who came into power –”

“Enough!” Teagan was standing. He had stayed silent as the court revealed the evidence against his brother piece by piece, but now the wan surprise had fled in favour of anger as he stared down the man he had toddled after as a young child. “Eamon, you go too far.”

“No,” Rosslyn interrupted in a light voice, as full of promise as the first breath of winter. “It’s good to finally hear the truth. My lord is all concern for the wellbeing of his country and his charge, naturally. I’m sure it’s merely coincidence that had his interference succeeded, he would have benefitted from a very lucrative trade deal with an untapped foreign power, and would have in the same blow regained his usurped place as His Majesty’s closest advisor. How much more difficult it would have been for Prince Alistair to voice his disagreement, trapped under a mountain with a new wife to anchor him there.” She flashed a feral smile. “And of course, there is the threat of an independent Highever, loyal not to the crown but to the teyrna who has shed blood for them, who herself has too much of the Clayne in her to ever submit to any authority but her own. What better way to deal with her than ambush her into a marriage of convenience that would secure power in the north and condemn the actions of a traitor?”

Eamon glared at her.

She folded her arms and shifted her weight onto one hip, an easy stance to betray the sarcasm dripping from her words. “Of course, such considerations never entered my lord’s head. His thoughts are only for Ferelden, after all.”

“As they always will be,” he growled.

As the pair stared each other down, Loren whispered to Franderel behind his hand, and others in the room craned forward, eager to see what would happen next, noting how Alistair moved closer to Rosslyn, as if to shield her from the ire cast in her direction.  

“At this stage, isn’t motive a moot point?” he called across the silence. “Arl Eamon has confessed – to everything.”

Nodding, Cailan sat forward and steepled his fingers, deep lines creased between his eyes. When he began to speak, his voice barely rose above a mumble, as if he had forgotten everyone else around him. “Once, l would have thought my uncle incapable of such manipulation, but this action does have precedent.” His gaze shot to Eamon. “I should have checked you before when I caught your meddling in my affairs, and perhaps we might not have come to this. But it is treason, for all the worst effects have been avoided. The punishment for that is death.” He sighed. “Arl Eamon, if that were the ruling, would you accept it?”

The old man steadied himself. “So long as my wife and son do not share that fate – they had no part in this.”

“Connor is safe in the Storm Giant’s court, and Isolde is not on trial. Ser Brantis?”

“Mitigation relies on intent, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain replied in his reedy voice. “And it is clear there was intent here to unduly influence those outside his guardianship.”

“I am left with a difficult choice, then. A man with decades of loyal service to his name, and an example to make of him.” Cailan sat back. “However, I am not the injured party. Brother, Your Ladyship, what do you have to say?”

Startled at being addressed, the pair glanced at each other, a silent conversation passing between them in the strength of their gazes, and the small, soft curve of a smile for reassurance. Rosslyn touched Alistair’s arm.

“He should be punished according to the law,” she said. “And yet, whatever remains of his life, I would have him spend every day contemplating that whatever his intentions, his actions amounted to nothing. He lied baldfaced to all of us for months, and all he has to show for it is this. I will defer to your Majesty.”

“So will I,” Alistair agreed. “I’ll always hate myself for not doing more to expose what was going on, but now we’re here, and everyone knows.” He turned and took Rosslyn’s hand, raising it to his lips. “I have all I need.”

Such a public display of affection was unexpected. Cailan looked away and rubbed at his lip, and for a moment, silence fell once more.  

Then Teagan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, may I speak?”

“Always, uncle.”

“A wise king shows mercy when it is due, and there has been enough killing. Both His Highness and Her Ladyship have advocated for my brother to live – with his guilt, and the knowledge he has lost your respect.”

“We have nowhere to hold him,” the king pointed out.

Teagan shook his head. “Not imprisonment. Exile.”

“Exile is a legal equivalent of death,” Brantis mused. “Estates and titles are passed as normal to the next of kin, unless the entire line is barred – and Your Majesty has already said that will not be the case here.”

“A death that is not a death,” Cailan repeated slowly. “Very well. Arl Eamon, given the weight of evidence against you, and your own testimony, you are found guilty of all charges. Be assured, your long years of service to my father are the only reason the sentence is not a summary execution.” He stood. “You will be escorted to Redcliffe and there given a month to set your affairs in order, and by Wintersend, you will be beyond the borders of Ferelden, never to return under promise of death. Do you understand?”  

The look Eamon narrowed at him had yet to relinquish its defiance. “You’re more like your mother than I realised,” he offered. “Maric would have acted more impulsively, as he did with everything.”  

“Get him out of my sight.”

As one, the two guard-captains saluted and took an elbow each to haul the disgraced arl from the room. Even before they made it through the door, Cailan was moving, slipping away with surprising quiet for a man so used to being the centre of attention, making the side door before Brantis finished rising from his chair. Alistair watched him go with a frown, wanting to follow but distracted by the hand that settled on his arm, the comforting warmth radiating from it. Rosslyn leaned into him, the concern in her grey eyes revealing that she, too, had noticed the parting glare Eamon had shot his way when he mentioned Maric’s name.

“It’s over,” she breathed, and he couldn’t tell if it was a question.

He tucked an arm around her waist and drew her against his side, pleased when she dropped her head against his shoulder. “It’s over,” he agreed. “You were incredible.”

“I couldn’t let him stand there and insist he did it for the greater good.”

“I should go after Cailan,” he murmured, without moving.

A sigh. “And I still need to organise the preparations for tomorrow. All I want to do is sleep.”

“That does sound tempting.” He chuckled. “We could sneak away…?”

“No,” she replied, in the same amused, drawn out syllable she used when she caught her dog eyeing a plate of food that wasn’t his. “Duty first. Otherwise Eamon would have been right.”

“Ugh, fine, you win.” He pulled back to make sure she could see his pout, and couldn’t help brushing a hand along her cheek. “You make too much sense and I love you too much to argue. But no more hiding.”

She stilled his fingers so she could turn a kiss onto his palm. “None at all. I’ll find you later.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

She threw him a smile over her shoulder as she walked away, and after a moment more watching her, he tore his thoughts guiltily away from the lithe sweep of her legs and went in search of his half-brother. He ignored the chatter in the hall, Franderel’s congratulations and Loren’s platitudes, breathing a relieved sigh when he made it into the deserted side corridor that wormed its way through the recesses of the guildhall.  The vestibule where Cailan had donned his formal clothes was empty of all but his valet, who tutted over the haphazard way the king had scuffed the leather and crumpled the goldwork in his hastily discarded mantle.

The valet bowed. “The king has gone to the yard, Your Highness, if you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you, Villers. Did he, uh, take his greatsword with him?”

“I was otherwise occupied, Your Highness,” came the reply, with a meaningful nod to the mantle.

“Of course, that’s probably –”

“Your Highness!”

He turned to see a young man not much older than him in a plain suit of mail, holding out a waxed paper package.

“The report you asked for, Ser,” the messenger said. “I would’ve had it to you sooner, but the trial –”

“I’ll take it now,” he said, holding out his hand.

And that was how the rest of his day started. Two more messengers found him in his office before he had finished going through the first report, one with a requisition form, and the other with an update from the quartermaster, and he pored over his desk until the fading light forced him to stand and retrieve the glowstone from over the fire. Someone else knocked on his door, but before he could tell whoever it was to go away, the guard turned the handle to admit a servant carrying a tray.

“Teyrna Rosslyn said if you hadn’t eaten, I was to bring you some lunch,” he explained, as Alistair’s stomach rumbled. He spotted bread fresh from the oven, two apples, and a round of the soft goat’s cheese laid down the previous spring. “She also said to say yes, she’s remembered to eat, too. She sends apologies, but there’s been an injury among the archery stands, and her assistance is needed.”

The gesture warmed him more than the pot of herbal tea the servant left with the rest of the fare. He picked at it for the rest of the afternoon, only a little sorry for the crumbs he spilled over the papers, until at last, with Ferrenly’s clockwork striking the fifth hour, his door burst open once again and Cailan wandered over the threshold. Mud still caked his boots, his hair frayed loose from the braids at his temples, and he had stripped down to a plain linen shirt and simple coat to keep out the chill. Eyeing him as he sank into one of the chairs by the hearth, Alistair rose from the desk, shuffled his papers, and called for Lloyd to see them to the right people, before crossing to the dresser in the corner where Ferrenly kept his stash of brandy.

“Ho! Now there’s a good idea.”

“It’s been a long day,” Alistair offered, along with a full glass, and sat down opposite in the opposite armchair.

Cailan snorted. “Truth be told, this whole business has left me rather wrong-footed.”

“I’m sorry it came to this.”

What else could he say? After the revelation that Eamon had been hiding his letters, and the fraught escape from Orzammar, he had spent the hours between fighting demons and organising an army in introspection, where he recounted every slight of his childhood. The new understanding had soured him, leaving little energy to spare to feel anything more than relief. Rosslyn was safe, and he was free.

But Cailan was shaking his head, his eyes lost on the fire. “My problems with my uncle began long before this. If not for him, this war might never have happened.” A wry smile tilted in Alistair’s direction. “Did you never wonder where Loghain got the idea that I would forsake Anora? It’s a little ironic that if not for the commotion he caused, I would never have considered it at all.”

“What will you do now?” Now that Rosslyn turned you down flat, he did not add.  

The fire cracked. Instead of answering, Cailan sighed and took a long pull of the brandy, grimacing at the burn as he swallowed. It felt odd to ask such a casual question at all, given that not even a year ago, Alistair might have been cuffed around the ear for deigning to even sit in the king’s presence. He couldn’t tell if it was the low light or the cold outside, or even just the wear of the day’s events that dulled the edge of formality that always stood between him and the king, but the air felt open, easier to breathe, and Cailan himself cut a sympathetic figure, haggard and drawn and removed of all the trappings of his station. Like he was just another person, like an equal.

Like family, he thought, and dropped his gaze to his drink.

“I don’t know what I will do,” his brother murmured. “Truly. My feelings for Anora are… well. There is love there, of a sort, but our fathers always meant us for each other, and now I cannot help but wonder how much of my affection arose because it was easier to craft those feelings than forge my own path. You can make a man envious of choosing, you know,” he added, with the ghost of a rakish smile that faded quickly. “I have not been the best husband, over the years, but with time and distance…”

Alistair waited and Cailan drained his glass.

“I was not ready to marry when I did. I barely remember any of that month Father died. He wasn’t old. And suddenly there I was with a kingdom and voices in my ears telling me to lay aside my grief to do what they said he would have wanted, and before I knew it, the deed was done and my life was no longer my own. On two fronts.”

“I’m sorry.” An uncomfortable squirm of sympathy stirred in his chest, but he had little else to offer. When Teagan had told him about Maric’s disappearance, the hope that his wrecked ship might still be found and Ferelden’s hero saved, he had been stung by a feeling that wasn’t quite grief but which ached all the same. His distant dreams of one day being acknowledged for his merit had vanished like smoke in the wind, but he had still had the training yard, his duties as a knight, and Teagan’s respect. Nobody had ever had any higher expectations for him.

Cailan swatted away the apology, and regarded him closely. “I wanted better for you, you know,” he confessed. “It’s why I did not simply order you and the Aeducan princess together. When Eamon suggested it, I remained adamant that it must be your choice, freely made. If I had known the steps he would take to engineer such a choice…” A curse escaped his lips. “I am sorry, brother, for everything I’ve done.”

They lapsed into silence. Thoughts swirled in Alistair’s head, each buzzing with their own insistence like flies on a hot day. It had never occurred to him to ask what Maric was like, either as a person or as a father, because until that moment nobody had ever spoken if him as anything less than a figurehead, an idol so remote he could never be truly real. How much of that remoteness had been crafted by Eamon, so that he would never ask for more than the scraps he was given? How much, in the end, had the old arl taken? As a child, the possibility of another life had never occurred to him; he had assumed his lot was that of all bastards, once he was old enough to understand the concept. It was only years later under Teagan’s guidance that that belief began to erode away, but even then he hadn’t wondered how things might have been different if he had been acknowledged from the beginning. He could see parties, galas, grand hunts in his mind’s eye, and hours of lessons in statecraft and history, so readily handed to him he would find them boring. He would have met other noble children, played with them, learned how to rule. He might have gone to Highever, would have met…

“Where would Rosslyn have been in all of this?” The question was rude, but thought of her woke a shade of jealousy in him, something big and dark and prowling that hovered around the image of her like a guard dog by its master’s gate, regardless that she didn’t need it of him. “You said you wouldn’t have made me marry Valesh, but what about her?”

His suspicion must have leaked into his voice, or else the question was just insulting. Cailan gave him a long, flat look.

“I would never have forced her.”

“I wasn’t suggesting –”

“She is happier with you,” his brother snapped, and sagged. “It’s a relief to see her so.” For a moment, his eyes glazed beneath his frown, thoughts far away, and something clicked in Alistair’s mind.

“How bad did it get over the summer?”

“Bad.”

He remembered, from her letters, I must really be low if even His majesty has noticed. Perhaps exile was too light a punishment after all.  

“You really do love her, don’t you?” A note of wonder crept into Cailan’s voice, matched by the speculative, almost wistful tilt of his head.

The words to reply stuck in Alistair’s throat, his muscles tensed without quite knowing why. Shortly, the answer was yes, but such a small word could hardly encompass the way his chest tightened whenever Rosslyn smiled at him, the calm when he touched her, the singing in his blood on their first night back, when he had kissed her neck and drawn that lovely, desperate noise from her tongue…

“I…”

“Good,” Cailan chuffed, as he poured them both another drink. “Because if you only wanted to bed her, I’d have had to send you away to Kirkwall in disgrace.”

“What? I don’t want – I mean –” A glass was pressed into his hand. “Maker’s breath, please tell me we won’t be talking about this.”

His brother only smirked. “So you haven’t made it that far, then?”

“Cailan, you asked her to marry you. Don’t you think it’s a bit inappropriate to talk about – about that?”

He hated how high his voice went, but that spark of anger got lost under the certainty that Rosslyn would not want them discussing the subject – discussing her – in such base terms. After the conversation they had shared in the meadow, he wanted to be worthy of the trust she placed in him, even if it meant losing whatever strange rapport he found himself building with his only living relative. He braced himself for whatever lurked behind the soft pity in Cailan’s eyes, but before he could say anything, the door opened and a clatter of claws signalled Rosslyn’s arrival, with Cuno at her heels.

“There you are!” he cried, rising to greet her. He hoped his blush could be blamed on the alcohol, that she hadn’t been waiting in the hallway and overheard. “Your hands are like ice.”

“Ah, but I’m not drenched today,” she replied. “Which is an improvement. Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“You know the sky won’t split open if you call me by my name.”

“Even so.” A smile touched her features as she watched Alistair chafe her fingers between his own. “I’m not staying – I met Lady Raina in the hall and promised to tell you dinner won’t be long.”

“You should at least warm up a little before you go,” he insisted.

She let herself be pulled closer, smiled at the tender hand settling against her waist.

“There are only two chairs,” she pointed out.

Cailan winked. “Don’t worry, Alistair can sit in my lap if he likes.”

“What?”

Rosslyn laughed. “I’ll spare you both the chivalry, I think. There’s a fire in my room, I’ll be warm enough.”

“You’re sure?”

Amused, her gaze darted to his mouth, a still-cold hand at his jaw. “I’ll see you later. And Your Majesty – you may want to get changed, since I hear Lady Raina has made a special effort for our last night.”

“I am rather dishevelled, aren’t I?” Cailan allowed, glancing down at his bare shirt and muddy boots.

Alistair wished him gone. Between one thing and another, he had barely seen Rosslyn all day, and never then alone. He wanted to kiss her, wanted her fingers laced in his hair as he warmed her up head to toe. He wondered if, without their audience, she could have been coaxed towards the hearth, and down into his lap, to let him lay more of those gentle, open-mouthed kisses against her neck. In the morning, they would push onward into territory controlled by Howe, and after that, only long days of marching and battle awaited, with no time for softer, quiet moments. Everyone sensed the nearing end to the war, but Loghain would never truly be brought to bay until Highever could be retaken to cut off his escape, and she had the scent in her nose like a hound on the hunt, implacable. It was his job to make sure she survived.

“See you at dinner,” he murmured, because there was nothing else to do. Her touch lingered against his skin for a moment, but then she was gone. He only realised he was still stood in the doorway, staring after her, when Cailan grunted and hauled himself up from his seat. The king drained his glass and set it on the desk.

“That’s my signal to move, as well. I’ll see you at dinner, and –” He hesitated as he stepped close, but shook off whatever reservation lurked in his mind and laid a broad hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “This is a strange situation in which we find ourselves, with… one thing and another. I will not pry, but if you ever wish for advice from a married man – even one whose marriage started a war – you will always have my ear.” He offered a brief smile. “We are brothers, after all. I think of you as such.”

“I’ll… Thank you.” Alistair faltered, struck by a sudden wave of affection for the man he had spent most of his life resenting. He wanted to repay the sincerity, but didn’t know what to do with it. “I don’t know about – about marriage. Isn’t that something I should talk to Rosslyn about, first? I don’t even know if she wants…” His mind flashed to an image, hazy and indistinct, of Rosslyn, smiling, with white flowers woven into her hair, and his heart stuttered.

“There is time,” came the steady reply. “We’ve a war to win first, after all. I was, uh, thinking along slightly different lines, actually. To… get things, uh, moving along, if you…”

“Maker’s breath.”

“Well –” Cailan’s face blotched crimson. “It’s not like Teagan would be much help! And there’s ways – not at all like the boasts in the guardhouse – and you… you both should –”

“There’s a book!” Alistair squeaked, if only to make him stop. Please, please let her not be listening outside the door.

“What?”

“It was on the shelves of my room in Orzammar. I was curious.” When he had first found it, he had thought it a mistake, but saying something would have meant admitting he had peeked inside, and by the time that embarrassment had worn off, his squeamishness had given way to a certain kind of fascination. “It’s very thorough and… it has diagrams.”

Understanding dawned on Cailan’s face, delight mixed with no small amount of relief. “You still have it. You stole it!”

“After I found out what was going on, I wanted to be petty,” he admitted. No doubt the book had been placed there to encourage his infatuation in an entirely different direction, and by the point of leaving, he’d had hope again. “It seemed like the best way.”

“Well,” Cailan tried. “Huh. And here I thought you got up to no mischief at all. Has she seen it?”

“She – she doesn’t know about it. Yet. I haven’t mentioned it. I don’t know what she’d say.” I always thought people were exaggerating, she had told him, like it was a game and I was the only one who didn’t know the rules.

“As much as they like to make us think otherwise, women cannot read our minds. Talk to her, let her know what you’re thinking, so you can both be happy.”

There was so much fraught behind that simple advice, subjects that weren’t Cailan’s business, despite the sincerity in his eyes. Alistair had no plans to confess his conversation with Rosslyn in the meadow, or the interrupted one in her room when they had stood so close and she had leaned closer into him still, but overlaid with that sweetness was the shadow of fear that his wanting would go too far.

“What if I ruin everything?”

“Brother…” Cailan sighed. “She loves you. There’s no better place to start than that.”