Love's Blush

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  She'd taken up station towards the back of the crowds, her friend on her side as well as Harding. A familiar sheen of disinterest clung to her face, as she attempted to guard the entrance to a broom closet, but at Declan's stomping away in anger it broke a moment. He wished he could say he saw joy, or even relief, but her lips curled up in contemplation and what looked like pain. Why couldn't anything ever be easy? Happiness for a start? Seems like it should be one of those 1+1=2 kind of things, but no, the Maker had to start getting all fancy by throwing in Qunari symbols where letters stood for numbers and Alistair got a throbbing headache.

  "Your Kingness," a voice coughed from beside him.

  He turned to find the Dalish entourage huddling near him. They moved like a group, their backs turned to each other so they could keep a continuous eye upon the humans. It was rather fascinating to watch. "Niala, or do I call you First Niala? Does it get confusing if there's another one in your clan with the same name?"

  "Niala shall suffice, Alistair," she said the name cautiously, her eyes canvassing the room as if expecting a number of shemlan blades to come after her for the slight.

  For his part, Alistair shrugged, "How goes the party? Enjoying all the dancing?" He gestured to the floor hopping as people promenaded back and forth under arms to form a second bridge. While he learned most of the steps, Alistair knew there was a 65% chance he could wind up with a broken nose while attempting it.

  Niala watched it all with a cold eye, same as the rest of the unimpressed Dalish. "It is...something. This is how all humans celebrate?"

  "Not all," he'd prefer a warm pub, a vat of stew, a crackling fire, and a dozen people who sucked at cards. But that'd probably look bad to the gentry he swindled. "How do the Dalish kick back after a week of arguing over who should get grandpappy's best flogging stick?"

  Her eyes glazed over a moment at his musings, before Niala nodded at her other silent elves. They'd barely made a peep during the talks, or at meals. He almost thought they were all mute until walking around a corner and catching two of them laughing like mad at a squirrel with a bag crammed on its head.

  "We would dance by drum and fife around the fire, drink of the various fermented fruits, and in general smile more and do whatever that is less," she gestured to the men and women lightly holding each others hands up and parading around the floor like lost floats.

  Alistair chuckled at that, "For what it's worth, I think I much prefer the Dalish way of celebrating."

  "You are King, are you not? You have no say?"

  "Well, I'm trying to keep the tyrant descriptor out of my name as much as possible. Only for pancake day and if there's one clean towel left," he sighed, wiggling a finger in his ear.

  Most of his people would sigh or groan, but Niala eyed him up trying to judge if he was dead serious or not. "We have decided to turn in now. It will be a long march to the West come the morrow. Are you prepared?"

  "I hope so, packed too. I think. I'll check with Karelle."

  "Good, you will see what has come of the New Dales," Niala pronounced. She said the last part loud enough the other Banns in the room overheard her which earned a groan from Alistair. They spent half their time arguing over the name choice, the Dalish refusing to back down and the humans finding it repugnant for reasons they never fully explained. At this point he wanted to call it Elfy Land for Elves and Those With Pointy Ears, but that might crowd out a map.

  Without bothering to ask for leave much less say goodnight, Niala swept up her party and headed to the doors. Unable to help himself, Alistair waved at their retreating backs and, to his surprise, one returned it. He did need to check in with Karelle, and found the chamberlain swooping along near the fountain. She'd exchanged those fluffy skirt things she wore for one that looked like it could knock a bronto unconscious. When light burst from the back, Alistair could see the outline of a metal sculpture hiding under her dress. He half expected to find points to gouge her enemies with, but then he realized he was staring at his chamberlain's legs and making it all awkward.

  "Karelle," he called out, waving himself towards her, "I had a few questions about..."

  "Maker's sake," she grabbed onto his arm and spun him out towards the dance floor, "you're so far behind schedule I don't know if we can keep up."

  "Schedule? What are you...?" he blinked, trying to follow the woman's lead. It was surprising she wanted to dance with him, but crazier shit had happened that day so why not. Alistair lifted up his hands to try and tent around Karelle's, when she stepped back.

  Waving a hand, she shooed someone out of the audience and a woman grabbed onto her skirts and bustled over. Karelle glared at him, "You have a good dozen and a half dances to get through. We're going to have to cut them short to make this and..." She turned to the band plucking along at a slow waltz, "Speed it up."

  The flautists glanced at each other, their cheeks suckered in before the drummer beat her foot on the floor and the waltz turned into the 'get everyone the hell out the door' waltz. There was probably a special term for a faster waltz, but Alistair knew pretty much that. "What am I?" he blinked in confusion, when the woman latched onto him and Karelle gave a shove like kicking a boat off the dock.

  Alistair went through seven dance partners in record time, not due to his own incompetence, but because Karelle kept snatching one up and replacing her with a new one. They were such a blur all he could ask was "Name, Rank, Favorite Frosting Flavor?" With the beat reaching the erratic heart throb of a man's chest about to burst open, Alistair gave it a 54% chance he was going to die. If not from his legs ripping off at the knee, it'd be due to another couple smashing head first into him while everyone raced to keep up. Shame the Dalish left early, they'd have found this hilarious.

  "Okay okay," Karelle grabbed onto a quiet girl from out by the Hinterlands who mumbled into her hair and refused to lift her eyes. "Next!"

  Used to it, Alistair froze his body in place prepared for another rotating form to fill it, when a hand grabbed onto his and yanked it lower. "Tsk, it is a wonder you Fereldens can master the privy."

  "Ambassador Cherie," he smiled, feeling his cheeks tighten to a rictus.

  "Come, let us get this over with quickly."

  Mercifully, she kept her comments mostly to herself about his terrible posture, stance, dexterity, rhythm, and general existence. All she'd do was cluck her orlesian tongue and on occasion growl if he stepped too far beyond her reach. "If we were in Halamshiral, you'd have been cut down on the spot for crossing during the allemande."

  He could shake it off, take a break from Karelle's madcap routine by downing a glass, no a bottle of wine, but Alistair had had a long couple of weeks and the ambassador finally crossed that line. "Cherie, I dare say something's crawled up your skirts and died."

  "What?" she snorted, her lips curling up below the mask.

  "Don't think it's escaped my notice, nor the new Spymaster's how close you were with Donato. You two always shared that genteel bridge game, right? Every thursday afternoon."

  "You think you have a point?" she tightened up in his limp grip, a snarl pooling over her words.

  "Well, if I were in your shoes, which would be hilarious I'll give you, I'd be rather worried that the King would see it fit to go poking into all my personal business. I mean, if say you'd known about the relationship with Ghaleb and failed to mention it, what other assassiny secrets could you be keeping?"

  Her growl shook away to reveal a small laugh, "Why, my lord, you almost sound Orlesian for a moment there."

  "I'll take that as the grave insult you meant it to be," Alistair joked back. They were looking, of course, but if Harding thought Ghaleb's notes were bad they had nothing on the polite facade of an Orlesian. They were a people who could write a scathing "Get Well Soon" note that managed to cut a person's self esteem to ribbons without using a single good curse word or balgor's taint.

  "Sire, I get that you enjoy playing this little game of spies and secrets the way children do when bored o
n rainy afternoons, but I assure you neither me nor any in my service have connections to these amateur attacks upon your life."

  Alistair felt his steps slowing, the song mercifully breaking so he could let the woman go. Cherie seemed to feel the same, her hand sliding back before the notes finished, other dancers spinning around them. Chuckling, he shrugged, "Then you need not have a thing to fear, madam ambassador."

  "Humph," she snorted, spinning away on her heels to merge back into the dance floor.

  For a long time Alistair wondered what horrible things she did that got her trapped in Ferelden. It wasn't the fact she was someone's second wife's daughter, or allying with the wrong side in the civil war. Nope, he was dead certain now Cherie was dog shite at playing their little Orlesian Game and the family got her as far away from court as they could before she got them all banished or killed. Orlesians...

  He turned, hoping that he was finally done with this madness when five feet of mage slipped into his arms. "Uh, hello," Alistair started, his feet scurrying around like they were on ice to keep from stepping on any ambushing toes.

  Linaya smiled with only the tops of her teeth. "Good evening, Sire," she whispered, her eyes closed to show off glitter dashed along her lashes. That was probably done on purpose unlike the time Spud threw an entire tub of the stuff at him and Alistair, in a hurry, walked through an inspection of the troops with his face glittering like the night's sky at a brothel.

  "Back at you," he said, falling into formation with the mage. This dance he knew well, most of it being of the cling tight and spin around until one of you barfs variety. Mercifully, the band slowed, no doubt the flutists about to pass out from lack of air. Or so he thought, until he spun Linaya around and caught a smirk rising upon Karelle's presumptuous lips. That cheeky chamberlain, he groaned to himself, she must have had whatever damn week it was in the pool. Five? Six? He couldn't remember, though it was growing more pathetic with each passing day as people constantly tried to push the mage into his busy path. Sometimes Alistair would all but stumble out of a door to find the girl standing there bored but prepared to pursue him just to ask a few pointless questions.

  It'd be one thing if Linaya was as sick of it as he was, but she seemed happy to play the ingenue to his supposed white knight. Too bad Alistair was terrible at rescuing the damsels and tended to chase after the ones causing distress. Her fingers drifted lower off his shoulder down his back, drawing Alistair from his fuming. Shaking it off, he fell into the pattern of the dance, something of the old templar training snapping back with it.

  "How is the evening finding you, your grace?" she whispered but in such a way it reached over the crowd. Perhaps there was a spell that could do that... He'd have to ask Lanny about it later.

  "As it usually does, only with a lot more people in fancy dress standing in my living room," Alistair groaned. He'd expected the joke to hit, but the woman practically slipped into paradoxical spasms with laughter. With her braided and curled head tossed back, she let loose with such a giggle, he began to shift back and forth anxiously on his toes afraid a demon was about to burst from her face.

  Linaya must have sensed his abject horror as she paused in her forced laughter and grimaced. "I'm sorry, I've never done this before," she said, for the first time showing a bit of real emotion in his presence.

  "Dancing isn't too hard provided you don't accidentally kick anyone in the nose or split your trousers wide open," Alistair smiled, twisting her around on her toes.

  "Has that happened to you before?" she gasped, her skirts twirling out at the end of one of those arm extend things. It was a bit more fun than pacing about in place.

  "I believe I don't have to answer that under article fifteen of 'The King Doesn't Want To." Very popular charter, all the nations are adopting it."

  Linaya leaned closer, her cherry red lips parting so she could whisper, "You've been working rather hard this past week."

  "Trying to, Kinging's not all ribbon cutting ceremonies and cheese shop dedications -- though Maker that'd make this job a lot nicer. What of you? Heard from the College yet?"

  "I'm afraid the ravens haven't returned since I last sent them, your Highness," she leaned closer, causing Alistair's hand to slide further along her waist.

  Barely noticing the mage closing the gap between them, he pinched his nose and grumbled, "Great, because I'm sure I won't be hearing all about the heathen mages in the savage lands at the control of barbaric elves for the next three weeks. It's almost like I had a reason to invite the Grand Enchanter, which she promptly ignored because...sorry, I should probably stop talking shop."

  "It would help you to relax better," Linaya smiled, taking a deep breath to push up her chest. Someone worked overtime to get all that strapped into place, high and secure under her chin with enough flesh to draw nearly every man's eye to it. Even Alistair wasn't immune, the savage part of his brain gesturing down the cleavage but most of him didn't care. His mind was to busy trying to fix every damn problem that kept popping up across Ferelden. Was that what getting old was, watching your libido desiccate on the shelf because turning in early was preferable to...?

  A giggle drew his attention away from the mage to Beatrice leaning close to Cordell. Someone talked him out of the chantry robes, but he couldn't get far from the crimsons of the cloth, tails dangling off the coat like the hems of his cassock. What she saw in him he'd never get, but then again Alistair didn't get what there was to Beatrice either. Sometimes there was no sense to be found in these pairings, only utter confusion that was enough to bind like glue.

  "The Queen is looking well tonight," Linaya said, doing her best to get his attention back upon her for the fullness of the dance.

  "I suppose, I don't know about that color though. I keep thinking of how much jelly stains will pop on ivory," Alistair chuckled to himself. Spud was carted off to bed after she got in three dances with him, someone making certain to keep the child and her dress as far from anything staining as possible. He gave it five seconds behind closed doors until she was a giant sticky goo monster.

  "It is a shame," Linaya's thoughts kept puncturing through his haze. Alistair turned a confused look on her and the mage continued, "What occurred with the prince."

  "Near thing, no way around it, but..."

  The girl leaned tighter to him, her chest pressing into his, both of her hands circling around his back to pin him tight. Alistair could easily break away from the tiny woman, but he was frozen, blisteringly aware of nearly every damn eye in the castle watching. They were all hoping for him to finally end this damn stalemate and what better way then a romantic twirl at a ball with everyone cinched up tight in their chantry best?

  Linaya raised up on her tiptoes, straining with hope that he'd bend over to meet her but Alistair was frozen. Instead, she turned her head to this side and whispered, "If she'd have perished giving Ferelden a son, you'd be free to marry whomever you wish."

  Her fingers began to circle around Alistair's back, but his body locked off, every muscle tightening to stone as a rage flickering in his stomach. "What did you say?" he asked through clenched jaw.

  "It's no great secret that you and the Queen bear no love for each other. It would be the most noble way for her to exit your life," Linaya explained with a wave of her tiny hand, laying out the logic with a dismissal as if she was some fifty year old dowager who'd played the game her whole life instead of a twenty something girl stumbling into this with half a wit and no plan.

  Alistair didn't shove her away from him, he didn't yank her arms off or shout, he only paused, and with the full force of his body, walked backwards from her. The mage's embrace shattered apart, her hands falling off to land with a smack at her side. "You dare," he began, his finger lifting as if he was about to scold Linaya like she was an errant toddler. No, this was a grown woman who knew what consequences were.

  "You threaten the life of the mother of my children, the Queen of Ferelden to my face," he growled, his voice deepening to the d
epths of rage.

  "Sire, no, I would never," Linaya's coquette facade shattered, her eyes whipping around as if hoping one of her handlers would rush in to save her. But no one was coming. Not after this.

  "Do not...!" he thundered, about to tell her not to lie. "Get out," Alistair hissed, glaring at the woman.

  "My Lord?" she whimpered, tears threatening to tug off her false lashes.

  Alistair lashed out and grabbed her arm, dragging her off the dance floor. She scurried her legs, struggling to keep up as he deposited her at the shocked feet of Karelle. "Get her out of my sight, now. I want her gone. Tonight."

  "Sire, that isn't..." Karelle began in her patronizing voice, when Alistair whipped his face at her and glared. She swallowed back her words and shrunk into the collar of her dress.

  "That's an order, from your King. Or do you not take those anymore? Because if I need to find a new chamberlain as well as Spymaster..." he had no way to end that threat, seeing as how Karelle was the one handling the job search. Alistair wasn't thinking clearly, no, he wasn't thinking at all. White hot rage erupted from his stomach, grabbed his tongue, and fully took over. What he really wanted to shout at the mage would probably turn every Bann's hair stark white, and he had to get her away before worse slipped free.

  "I will..." Karelle glanced down at the whimpering thing struggling to make sense of what happened, "find a solution."

  "Good," he sneered, his fists balling up. Calm down. Everyone's blighted looking at you. Take a breath or something. He shut his eyes tight, struggling to get air into his aching lungs. They burned as if he breathed in dragon fire.

  "Please," the mage whimpered from behind him, "don't do this, Alistair."

  That set him off. Whipping back, he spoke to Karelle, but glared down at Linaya with tears streaking down her cheeks, "Now!" As Karelle hauled the mage up to her feet, he felt every eye in the great hall turning to him, a thousand questions about to drop on his head. But he couldn't answer them, not now, not with his usual flippant no answers. This one obliterated any failsafes he had in his repertoire, leaving the unloved boy exposed to the world. With stiff joints and head held high, Alistair staggered out the door and into the moonlit courtyard. When the door slammed shut behind him, he tipped his head back and screamed incoherently to the uncaring stars.