My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  "That's me, all majestic majesty over here. Like a short mountain," he pinched the bridge of his nose to try and steady himself through the never ending howls. "Not going so well, I take it Marn?"

  "It...it is of no concern," Marn answered, folding her arms across her coveted bosom. The queen weighed the potential candidates for weeks before deciding on the woman who'd nursed a good fifteen kids to strapping height. Marn also looked like she could flatten an ogre.

  "Here," he inched closer to the cradle and held out a hand, "let me hold her."

  "You're carrying a sword," Marn snipped, jerking her chin at him while she kept rocking the cradle back and forth, though the owner was having none of that while maintaining her howl.

  Tossing the sword against the wall, Alistair turned back to her and smiled, "Now I'm not. So...baby?"

  The nursemaid glowered down at him, "I do not think this is a wise idea...Your Highness."

  "Come on, she's been screaming for a half hour. What's the worst you think I'll do, drop the only heir down a well?"

  "Anything is possible," Marn was not one easily swayed by fancy titles or threats of beheadings. He rather doubted an axe could get through her thick neck anyway.

  Throughout their standoff, the little princess made her unhappiness evident, the wails digging into his teeth. He was about to shoulder past the nursemaid and pick her up himself - which would probably end in Marn laying him flat out - when the queen appeared. She was draped in thick quilted robes, her face still wan from giving birth and skin almost an ethereal blue by the moonlight.

  "It's all right," she said, her fingers landing across the nursemaid's bulging forearms. "He can try," Beatrice nodded to her technical husband.

  Alistair bobbed a grateful head to his technical wife, "Thank you." Sliding past Marn, he peeked in on the newest mouth to come screaming into the world and planning on keeping it that way. In her first few days of existence, Alistair was terrified of her wonky head and splotchy skin tone. While everyone else remarked upon what a beautiful baby it was, he ached to ask any of the healers if she was suffering from some terrible disease to make her look both purple and red at the same time. Her toothless mouth stretched wide as she screamed for something no one in the palace could understand. It was damn impressive how loud their newborn could get - a good sign of health Eamon declared. Yeah, maybe in the first few days it was welcomed, now those healthy lungs were assaulting everyone.

  Gently, he scooped his hands under her swaddled body. Maker, how did anyone start out so tiny? She fit along the length of his forearm, her screams halting for a moment at the sudden change in her life as she rose through the air into his arms. In her fit, she'd managed to shake off one of the mittens someone knitted for her, leaving her dagger nails out to slice apart anyone else who drew too close.

  "You tuck your arm under..." Marn began, but Alistair glared at her.

  "I get it, hold baby, don't drop. It's not that hard," with one hand cradling her head, he placed her against his chest, her little mouth noshing against his skin as she continued to wail. Drool dribbled down his skin heading towards dark places.

  "Very well," Marn huffed, sliding back to her mistress, "Maker knows we've run out of options."

  The princess' tiny fists thudded against him, and instinctively Alistair bounced her up and down, bending his knees to an erratic beat. Her wails paused again, and he glanced towards the women. "Mind if we go for a walk?"

  "What? No!" Marn shouted, but the queen guided her back.

  "Go ahead." Beatrice smiled at him, and began to return to her bed. Torn between protecting the baby from her would-be father and also worrying about her mistress, Marn wrapped a hand around Beatrice's forearm but took the time to glower at Alistair.

  He ruffled his fingers against the baby's fine hair. It wasn't really hair, they said, at least not the normal kind, but something that'd fall off over time. Which was good, because when he first saw it, he thought the kid was going to have stark white hair her whole life. Her mouth opened wide against his chest, and Alistair steeled himself for another scream, but her tiny nose wrinkled up and she began to gum him.

  "I bet you're just tired of these drab surroundings. Looks like someone died in here," he whispered to her. "Let's go see what there is to find in the castle." Bouncing gently in his arms, he stepped into the hall. It all seemed quiet -- as if everyone grateful for the screaming reprieve vanished off to sleep -- until he'd turn back around and catch heads watching from their rooms. No one trusted him with their only hope for succession.

  Only the baby seemed unconcerned with the future in his hands, her wails halted as she fell to sleep against his skin. "How is that comfortable?" Alistair whispered down to her, his finger caressing her pudgy cheek. "Well, you know how to baby best." Uncertain where to take her while everyone watched from the shadows, Alistair headed to his room on the other wing of the castle. Along the way he pointed out various paintings creating heretical backstories to match each one. The princess remained unamused, her drool endlessly dripping down his chest.

  A strong fire greeted him as he shouldered open his door, one he didn't remember starting. "Give it time," he whispered to her, "they'll get used to there being a baby around and then it'll be 'Oh, you wanted a fire? What, is your crown broken? Get it your damn self.'"

  Like a baby bird squeaking in its nest, the princess roused from her sudden nap. Alistair wrapped his arm around her back and pulled her in front of his eyes. She yawned her toothless mouth, and her eyes opened to reveal a deep emerald to match her mother's. Sniffling at first, the princess waved her hands about as far as her developing muscles could manage.

  "Hey, come on. We're in this together. Don't start crying again or they'll run in here and whisk you back to the creepy room."

  Perhaps something in his tone reached her, or the fact he began to dance and weave to try and lull her back to sleep did, but the burgeoning scream faded away and she tested out her eyelids in sleep. Everyone had chased the supposed father as far from the baby as they could. Sure, he could gaze once at the screaming thing freshly scrubbed of blood from the birthing process to prove "Look, an heir," but ever since then it was all "Hey, your majesty, you don't need to be bothering with that. The women have this. It's none of your concern until she's, I don't know, eighteen or something. Then you can get involved in your daughter's life." Maybe they were trying to all deal with the delicate matter of her creation, or - most likely - everyone was terrified Alistair would try and feed the baby dog food or juggle her with swords.

  While it'd be fun to terrify the people hounding the new princess by pretending to do those things, Alistair didn't want to. A foreign calm wrapped around him like goose down pillows as he watched this tiny human with splotchy skin and vibrant green eyes sleep in his arms. "Did you know we share something in common? Not blood I'm afraid, but we're both bastards. Maybe I shouldn't be teaching you that word now. Cool uncles are supposed to teach you all the good curse words." He paused at the thought of Teagan even saying one much less sharing it with a child. "Being a bastard is, it's like a secret club for people who get punished for their parent's choices. Very exclusive, you have to be born into it. I, I guess it's not so bad. At the very least you're wanted, which is a step up from me.

  "Everyone's so happy you're here, you know. Gonna be celebrating for months if Isolde has her way. We were getting a little worried there. You were in your mother for a long time. So long they brought in every healing mage and surgeon in Ferelden. I almost sent a letter to..."

  Her itty bitty mouth gaped open as a mighty yawn raised up the fragile ribcage of this tiny baby in his arms. All thought drained from Alistair while he watched this simple, everyday occurrence as if he'd never seen it before. Smiling like an idiot from a yawn, he shifted her higher up in his arms to plant a gentle kiss against that squishy baby forehead. "So that's what new baby smells like," he mused, blinking through a mist.

  "Anyway, uh, right..." his eyes drew away from her t
o a burst of red pulsing on the desk beside his bed. Snuggling the baby deeper into his warm chest, Alistair fumbled for the phylactery. As his fingers grazed the glass, he knew exactly where Lanny was - safe, alive, probably happy or that templar was going to be hearing things. Why she gave it to him was surprising, but like all things with Lanny she had her own logic. Her templar had little need for it while at her side, and Alistair did have an army at his disposal should she ever require finding or helping. Perhaps it was her way of showing confidence in him, the kind he never have in himself. Bundling the phylactery below the baby, he trucked both over to the chair by the fireplace.

  Well seated, he lifted her up higher as if she could care about the phylactery of a woman countries away. "Do you know who this belongs to? The mighty Hero of Ferelden. You're named after her, well, one of your names. You've got enough names attached to you people are likely to pass out from lack of air while trying to recite the whole thing." It'd been Beatrice's suggestion with a gentle nodding from the others that it was a good way to honor their fallen Hero of Ferelden. Only Alistair, and one other special Arl, knew the truth - to the rest of the world Solona Amell gave her life saving the world. To her few closest friends, Lanny (or Lana) lived on.

  The princess smacked her petal pink lips in sleep. He smiled even brighter at that. "You don't match your name at all, far too pompous for someone so little. You're more like a... like a potato with your round head and chubby cheeks." Weighing the baby in his arms, he chuckled, a nickname falling into his head. "My spud," he whispered to her. Maker, everyone was going to hate it. Alistair grinned even wider at the idea, Spud cementing in his mind.

  "Where do I begin to tell you about the Hero of Ferelden?" he said while rocking his chest back and forth on the stationary chair. Spud seemed to enjoy that, her eyes fluttering open for a moment and a nug-like squeal escaping her lips. "Lanny's, well, she's something else. Always has been, always will be. She's put up with me for far too long. I hope," Alistair raised his little Spud higher in his arms, his head dropping low so he could whisper over her, "I hope she's found her peace. Maker knows Lanny deserves it."

  His pinkie caressed little Spud's cheek, the baby's skin soft as silk and so warm. Huh... Alistair chuckled under his breath. Leaning closer to his daughter he pressed his lips against her forehead and whispered, "I owe her ten sovereigns too." Regardless of all the nitty gritty parts, she was his child without question in his heart, in his soul. A gentle coo echoed in Spud's tiny throat. "Maybe I should make it twenty," he said, his heart threatening to burst from the abundance of love this little baby grew.

  "Where to begin? How about the beginning? I was a grey warden once. Grey wardens are very stylish warriors who everyone looks up to for our great hair. I met Lanny while I was in the middle of arguing with this grumpy mage..."

  Spud curled tighter to him, her fist burrowing into his chest hair, the little mouth dribbling against him, while Alistair told his daughter everything in his heart.

  Mistakes

  I'm writing to you because...

  This letter is in regards to...

  I never thought that I'd...

  "Maker, damn it all!" Lana cried, digging the quill over every attempted sentence with such vengeance it split open the vellum. Her head collapsed onto the desk and she rotated her forehead against it a few more times for good measure.

  "Lana, are you...?" Cullen's voice echoed from the sitting room. She heard his approach towards the office, the one she took over for the vital task of writing a necessary letter for the past hour, all of which amounted to absolutely nothing.

  Extending her fingers clutching tight to the quill, Lana jabbed her hand in the air but didn't lift her forehead.

  "I am guessing it's not going well," he said. In answer, she rolled her head against the table and moaned more. "Do you have anything of use?"

  Her fingers dug across the desk and lifted up a half dozen scratched and mutilated sheafs of vellum. Cullen flipped through them and sighed. It took two days before they returned to the apartment which was chilled to the bone from the windows being thrown open to allow the scent to clear. Lana's first concern was for the poor Adder's Hiss, nearly covered in frost, its ice crystal dirt dry to the touch. It was the only time she let Cullen water it, as she found it hard to focus on anything.

  The days sharing an apartment with Leliana weren't as long as the nights. She offered up her bed to Lana, said she could easily keep a watch on her, but Lana refused. Sleep once again chilled the blood in her heart. A few hours here and there, she'd drift off while propped up in a chair but Lana hadn't gotten a full night's rest in days. The worst was what it did to Cullen. Not willing to leave her alone, and insisting he didn't need a bed either, he spent every night trying to fall asleep upon one of the benches in the Divine's quarters while clinging tight to Lana's hand. His sneer seemed to be permanent now, as well as a hunch along his knotted shoulders.

  While Cullen was grateful to be back in walls without the Divine and her bevy of clerics, as well as Honor, Lana inched around the rooms terrified that a glance at her failure would send her crashing back to bottom. The cleanup crew did wonders buffing up the walls and scrubbing away all soot and ash. They took the time to replace the burned up rug with a new one and instead of the vanity a new, empty bookcase sat in its place. Cullen chuckled that they'd have it filled in three days.

  She tried that first night. With the help of a sleeping draught from the Divine's personal apothecary, Lana slid into bed beside Cullen and attempted to embrace sleep. For an hour she lay stretched out upon her back glaring at the ceiling and trying to not look over at the hole where the vanity once stood. Snores reverberated from the man who passed out almost instantly, not that she could blame him. She was so hard on him even if she didn't mean to be. Sleep, it was necessary, it would help, but what if...? What if she did it again? What if it wasn't fire or ice, but something far worse that slipped from her fingers? Very few people could combat a death hex from her, much less reverse its effects. Every way she could ruin and maim someone she didn't mean to floated through her mind.

  When Cullen woke, he found Lana curled up on the divan while Honor lay on top of her. He tried to get the mabari off quietly, but it was enough to rouse Lana from her shallow sleep. After making certain she didn't hurt anyone, she apologized for not lasting the night. Books she began to read, then abandoned for others were stacked like small towers around the couch. Which was how she'd spent the last two nights, always starting in the bedroom with the plan to last but trekking out to force Honor to share her favorite sleeping spot. The breaking point was looming ever closer for them both, but Lana had no idea how to stop it.

  "Tell me you know what to write," Lana moaned finally lifting her head. It felt flattened like a pancake from her rolling it around.

  "I'm afraid not," Cullen sighed. "I rather suspect anything I'd have to say to the man wouldn't be taken well."

  Lana snorted at that, a sharp inhale, "As if mine would be any better. Why did Leliana suggest this?"

  "She said this was who you should write to?" he asked uncertain as he watched her fish out another fresh sheet and begin again.

  "No, not exactly. She just kept on and on about how I had to talk to someone. I think she meant her, but..."

  "You can talk to me," he threw out, sliding across the desk. Lana's agitation paused and she glanced up at him. Cupping her hand against his knee, she squeezed tight.

  "I know, but this is...it's not something that, well..."

  "It is a mage thing," he summarized. Gently, Cullen ran his fingers down her cheek and curled around her ear.

  "Non-mages wouldn't understand what it means. You don't, you can't...ah! I don't want to do this!" Lana banged her face back into the desk, causing the ink well to rattle.

  "Are you certain that it'll reach him?" Cullen asked. He seemed to be as much against this idea as Lana was only without voicing anything against it because he was trying to play her cheering squad. Som
etimes she missed his sour moods, endlessly chipper Cullen felt wrong.

  Leliana thought she was helping, trying to get Lana to open up about what drove her to fly fire from her fingers. Unable to shy away from it under cover of trauma, Lana began to crack jokes about who wouldn't want to set that garish vanity ablaze. Which only caused her old friend to sigh and cross her arms. Thank the Maker, for Cullen. He didn't push for her to rise up to her problems and give them a whack on the nose. Granted, he seemed to do about the same thing as Lana did by wadding any pain into a tight ball at the bottom of his stomach and never talking about it. She wondered if there was a market for templar and mage created bezoars at times. Their shared worries bundled into a bolus had to amount for good coin.

  By the third visit of Lana less than deftly shaking off her psyche, Leliana insisted that she either speak to a mage about it or Leliana was going to bring one in to do it herself. And that was why Lana squirreled away in the office to force herself to compose a letter she never wanted to. The other alternative was to face up to a mage of Leliana's choosing. It could be one she knew from the circle, or worse, one as her time as the Hero. Either way, her secret would be ruined, because mages were the worst gossipers she'd ever known.

  "What am I going to do?" she whined. With her thumb, she fluffed up the back of the quill, the pressure increasing with each run until she felt the hollow tip threaten to snap in half.

  "Which part is giving you pause?" Cullen asked, his question drawing her up to look at him. "Who you're writing it to, or...talking about what happened?"

  "Maybe a little of both?" she confessed, staring through the walls. Someone took the time to put up wallpaper around the back room, each section dotted with little diamonds and crowns. If she crossed her eyes it almost looked as if the crowns were coming out of the walls at her.

  Reaching further, Cullen wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tried to tug her up for a hug. The chair she sat in refused to follow, but Lana leaned towards him and gripped back. After placing a kiss in her hair, he smiled, "I'm certain you'll think of something. You always do. Oh, I forgot, there's another letter here for you from the King."