My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  "What was that?" Alistair asked.

  "Yes," she spat out as if writing her own death sentence.

  "We're supposed to listen to Marn," Alistair said as he lifted his eyes up to the Nanny breathing hard in the doorway. "She knows what's best for us."

  "Since when do you listen?" Marn grumbled, but Alistair smiled sweetly at it.

  "Daddy," Spud groaned, aware that she was about to face a terrible punishment like standing in the corner and waiting, "I want to stay with you."

  Alistair sighed at the subtle manipulation of a three year old, "I know, but you can't."

  "Because..." Marn prompted.

  "I did wrong," Spud answered, not believing a word of it.

  Stepping forward, Marn swept past Fiona to snatch up Spud. "Give 'er to me."

  Clinging tighter to her father, Spud tried the last weapon in her arsenal, "I love you, Daddy."

  Plucking a kiss to her forehead, Alistair sighed, "I love you too, but you're going with Marn."

  The sneer was instant, the sweet princess no doubt planning on turning into a snarling beast at her father for not getting her way, but Marn was quick to shut that down with a glare. Spud still pouted, but silently as she slunk to the ground. Marn kept a tight grip to her pudgy hand while the pair of them toddled to the door. "You, young lady, are in big trouble. Streaking across the castle, hiding in the armor, walking into three different closed meetings and running under the tables..." Marn continued to list Spud's crimes which faded as the door shut behind.

  Trapped alone with the woman who'd never admit to being his mother, the awkwardness circling the air like hungry wolves, drove Alistair to pick at the edge of the chair. He began to notice a crack in the wood that needed to be sanded out. Rather than tell anyone, he preferred to pick at it needlessly when he was supposed to be working.

  "She seems to be rather spirited," Fiona said softly, her eyes gazing past the door she no doubt wanted to run through.

  "She just hit three so spirited is on a good day. It's mostly tyrannical monster but then she'll throw in a sweet kiss or hug or 'I wuv you' to keep herself alive." Alistair swallowed deep at the fear lurking inside him. He'd worried about her from the day he first held Spud, but it was vague fears: what if he dropped her? What if she got a bruise or a sprain because of him? Then it happened, those newly discovered legs causing the barely walking baby to smack right into a wall. It got better. She sometimes seemed to enjoy ramming head first into furniture, much to her father's dismay. But death...his own mortality never came up much for him. Even during the blight, he was willing to take the blow -- his life not worth much -- but Lanny's tears convinced him. It wasn't his only piddly little life he worried about, but leaving her behind to hate him.

  How would Spud take his selfish loss? Not even an if anymore thanks to the taint swirling in his veins. Parents couldn't help hurting their children. As much as he wanted to swaddle her in nothing but cotton, sometimes she insisted on knocking her head into that statue.

  "You know," Alistair whispered to himself, "it's funny. For a long time I had no idea what my birthday was. Eamon told me a month, but no one remembered the day itself. No one cared." He paused to glance out the window, not caring if Fiona listened or not. The day everyone gathered to celebrate his meager existence was one he guessed at based upon when a woman died giving birth in the palace. It seemed the most likely answer and also led him to that woman's doorstep with Lanny in tow. Maker, how did she never give him shit for that mess?

  "All those people getting dressed up fancy, the biggest families in Ferelden stuffed into corsets and tight trousers to stand around on a date I plucked from nowhere," Alistair chuckled at the absurd idea of it all. What did it matter, it was all on ceremony. The chuckles gave way to deeper laughter and he folded in on his stomach, letting the tears wash down his cheeks at the madness.

  As it faded, he staggered up and glanced over at the unamused elf glaring through him. "Maybe it's one of those you had to be there kind of funny things."

  "It was a Wednesday," Fiona whispered to the air. "The day began with rain, a near constant downpour as was typical for Weisshaupt in the fall. Skies black as pitch when labor began."

  Alistair turned over to stare at the woman clinging to her staff as if it was the only thing giving her life. She didn't look at him, her eyes shut tight as she kept talking. "It was the second most pain I've ever been in after the Joining, but...when the healers laid the child upon my chest and pulled open the curtain, a rainbow appeared in the sky. The rains had stopped just in time for the sun to allow me the first sight of my son."

  Fiona maintained a steady voice, but Alistair's eyes burned with a cauldron of tears threatening to bubble over. He pinched his thumbs to keep himself in check. For a moment, Fiona stared off in the distance, a soft smile knotting up her cheeks as if she was...she was staring at a baby. Shaking from the past vision, she focused on the adult in the room and he almost broke down into the same gurgling tears as his daughter, as his own son.

  "Kingsway," she said, shaking off the soft memories and snapping back on her unbreakable certainty, "It was the 12th of Kingsway."

  "I..." he stumbled, wishing to say something. Should he hug her? Beg her to tell him more? Ask why, why wasn't he worthy of keeping after all this time?

  Fiona shook off every clinging hope he had as she drew her shoulders back and said, "My time here is finished. We shall deal with the Linaya issue and then I believe I will retire within the College walls at last."

  Like that, she'd snapped it back shut. Just like his father who would barely look at the boy running around Eamon's estates. Alistair was cursed with two parents who were both saddled with a problem neither wanted to solve which they dealt with by ignoring him. He should be angry, ready to shout himself hoarse with all the self loathing things lurking in his stomach, but Beatrice's thoughts floated through him. All there was in this game was trying your best. Maybe Lanny was right and it was time he gave up on the idea of turning someone into the mother he wanted.

  Nodding his head, Alistair said in a wobbly voice, "Understood." He feared to say another syllable because it would crash into him openly bawling in front of her.

  Fiona looked surprised at his strength of will, her eyes darting over his face for the last time. With no one to hold her back, she turned and lifted the latch to the door. He expected her to yank it open and flee to freedom, but she paused with the door open a crack.

  "The First Warden, he told me to not name the child because I would grow attached and be unable to fulfill my duty. Officially I didn't and left it up to your...the father. But while you took your first nap from the birthing process I named you Caledon in my heart." She turned away from the door, tears clinging in her eyes, "It means the strength of the people."

  Before Alistair could offer up anything, she disappeared from his life, no doubt for the last time.

  ***

  "Maker's sake, I need to get a better mattress in here," Alistair complained as his ass sunk deeper until it struck the wooden planks. "Is this thing stuffed with nug down?"

  "What? Nugs don't have feathers," Reiss chuckled. Her naked body straddled him, giving Alistair a vision of perfection while his ass flattened beyond redemption. His hands wandered up and down her thighs clenching into his sides, lost in the dips of her muscles.

  "Exactly my point," he chuckled at his inanity, glad to have anything other than the events of the day to think about. Luckily, his bodyguard was exceptional at distractions. Gripping onto her waist, Alistair strained to tug her down to him. She giggled at it, but gave in. Forgetting to adjust for the fall, all of Reiss crashed into his ribs, causing a gasp to escape from his lungs, but he rebounded instantly to kiss her. First her lips, so achingly fresh, then down her shoulder, her cheek, up to her forehead -- each one caused another bright laugh and drew a smile to him. This was what he wanted, what he needed after Fiona...

  "Alistair," Reiss whispered, her summery eyes burning with concern.
"What's wrong?"

  "Hm?" he blinked rapidly, his hands sliding up and down her ass while he tried to find an answer.

  "You've been...quiet today. Distant. Is there, was there something you wanted to talk about?"

  "No, no, no," he rushed to assure her as he lifted his head to kiss her once more on the lips. "Just lots of politicking, you know. Can't get enough of sitting around listening to people argue. Joy of my life."

  It'd worked on other people, but Reiss paused above him, those damn perceptive eyes sizing him up. He held his breath, uncertain how he could explain the truth to her. Did he even want to? Did he even want to know anymore? Damn it, did that make Lanny right again? She was going to be so smug.

  Softly, Reiss trailed her fingers across his cheek, each one stepping down like the itsy bitsy spider. But this one didn't get caught in an infernal water spout, this curious creature walked lower down his chest. Savoring a stop against his nipple, her fingers traveled in a circle down each of the ribs, visited with the belly button, and flicked against the edge of his pubic hair before dipping down to circle his excited at being thought of dick.

  They'd been fooling around but hadn't gotten to quite the final end. She did, a few times if he had to take a guess, but he'd been...distant. Damn, he had to stop falling for such smart women. Running his hand over hers, Alistair deftly picked her exploring fingers up and rolled to the side so Reiss would have room to snuggle beside him. He loved playing the big spoon, but right now he wanted to stare into her eyes and lose the hours watching her smile.

  "Am I...?"

  "Wonderful," he said. With one hand he pulled her warm body close, lost in the curves that may drive him to distraction after all. "I was referring to making me sit up and howl, but you're pretty good at other things too," he tacked on, effectively killing the mood. But Reiss, despite his best attempts, smiled brightly and pressed her lips against his. Maker's breath, she was the balm he needed against the open wound -- her tender ministrations suturing up the gap in his soul he once again tore to shreds for no good reason.

  He knew better than to say it, but that terrifying L word drifted deep in his gut. Instead, Alistair skirted her errant hairs back behind her ear and asked, "What was your mother like?"

  That caught her off guard, "I admit I wasn't expecting that. Um...she was my mother. Typical mother like, I guess."

  "I wouldn't know," Alistair admitted, "I never had one."

  "Oh," her warm breath washed over him, lulling him deeper to sleep. "Well, she loved to crochet but hated knitting, which I never understood. She would often pick up odd jobs for people to repair clothes which I'd tried to learn but was never good enough at. And she grew up in an Alienage with my father. I don't know which one as they both hated the cities, called them cramped and dirty."

  "Mm hmm," Alistair let his eyes slipped closed for her tale.

  He felt a hand filter through his own mashed down hair before she turned in his arms. As her back pressed tight against his chest, Alistair greedily scooped a hand along her stomach, trying to hold her even closer than seemed possible. His lips pressed against her shoulders, wishing he never had to leave this bed or her.

  "She loved to sing, all the time. And the little chantry liked her voice so much they'd let her in to participate in the choir, provided she kept to the back at all times. She smelled of cinnamon and clove, her favorite two spices that she'd put in anything she was cooking. Savory meats, sweet desserts, didn't matter. You knew there'd be cinnamon and clove in it. I..." Reiss' voice choked up and she curled deeper to her chest.

  Alistair's wayward hand touched her cheek as he tried to see if she was crying, "It's all right. If it hurts I don't want you to suffer."

  "The blight was a long time ago," Reiss said in a dead voice as if she'd repeated the same chant numerous times.

  "And it still hurts," he said, his skin clinging to all of hers that he could reach.

  "Yes, it does," she sighed, "that's a loss that doesn't...people tell you it'll heal but I think they lie to convince themselves."

  He felt himself nodding along even though, what did he know? While he'd been told his parents were dead he was lied to, twice over, only to have to be the one to finish off his father and watch limply as his mother walked away for good. His pain wasn't the same as hers. She lost people who loved her, cared for her, did everything in their power to make her happy. He lost the idea of parents and nothing more.

  "Thank you," Alistair whispered to her back, the tears slipping off.

  Reiss' hard fought hand reached behind her to grace his cheek. He was quick to hide away the evidence that he was crying, but welcomed her touch as he always did. "It's nice to talk about her sometimes. To remember. Are you sure there's nothing you want to talk about?"

  "Yes," he said. Maybe one day he'd feel strong enough to tell her the truth, all of the truth. Confess how he felt unfinished, the child formed from clay but destined for that damn throne whether he wanted it or not. What knowing that Fiona existed but didn't want him did to him, how it ate him up until he was behaving like a right prig to the mage envoys for no good reason beyond wanting to see her, to hear the truth.

  "Right now," Alistair whispered to her shoulder, "all I want to do is lay here and hold you." Reiss didn't say anything, all she did was reach over to hold back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Fire

  "Milord," a man bowed so low to the ground his forehead brushed across it, "I beseech you for an answer to my conundrum."

  The King sat in his throne, surprisingly, some of the court milling about while Reiss stood guard near the big chair. Alistair cast a quick eye to her and she smiled at the attention. "I believe," the King spoke to the man dressed simply and now flat out laying upon the floor, "that the answer to your problem is the...left passageway."

  Beatrice softly coughed beside him.

  "Right passageway?" he tried again.

  Now it was Karelle who stomped a foot and rocked back and forth on her feet.

  "Bloody hell, what other doors are there? You go left, you go right, either way there's always monsters down them," Alistair complained while picking at a small red stain upon his cuffs courtesy of a day with his daughter attempting to make jam. Reiss was uncertain where it all sloshed down her armor, and poor Brunt bore the, well, his namesake of it across his face and hair. True to his nature, he said not a word while scooping the squealing girl up to her room for a much needed bath even while scarlet jelly wobbled on the top of his head.

  Shaking off her memories, Reiss focused back on Beatrice calmly finishing off a knot in her embroidery. "It's a riddle, dear husband."

  Alistair puckered his face at that, "I hate those even more than giant spiders. Don't tell me, you're actually the day, or time, or lost youth, or a goat. There should be more riddles with goats in them."

  "Ah..." the entertainer lifted up from his nap-bow and yanked off the field hat to worry it in his fingers. Reiss had to give him the costume was close to accurate, even with patches sewn up and down the worn joints, but the pale face couldn't hide a lack of tan. He was a man who never set foot in the sun. "I'm afraid I don't know any with goats in them."

  "See, we are seriously lacking in goat entertainment," Alistair continued as if anyone was listening to him.

  Karelle unearthed a small poster off her lap desk and said, "There's a performing goat group, they do tricks and what not. Leap through fire, jump on people. Supposed to be funny."

  "Not that, well, actually that's not a bad idea for whatever state function we have next. In particular if the Orlesians are showing up," Alistair smiled his ornery twist in the direction of the ambassador. She, in turn, paid it no attention. He'd told Reiss that with Harding on the true tail of the assassins Cherie went from being almost amenable to a total snake in record time. She wondered how he could put up with it all, but he'd shrugged and then claimed it was easier to face the challenges knowing he'd find her at the end of the day. It was silly, but it made her sm
ile like an idiot to herself for days past.

  Lunet's dire warning faded away to nothing more than a whisper on the cold wind. Her life was good, she had a future working with the guards, the potential of a real home, and -- Maker help her -- the care and attention from a man who seemed excited to give it. It wasn't perfect, but what in her life ever was?

  "Sire, should I abandon this riddle or are you going to guess it?" the entertainer asked. He plopped his hat back on, but in the process smeared the thick red grease paint off his forehead. The once strong diamond pattern now looked more like a strawberry swirl.

  Alistair waved his hand and then bounced up and down in his chair, "I don't know. Do whatever you want. I wish Ghaleb was here, that man was ace at puzzles, riddles, that stupid color box that you twist and turn until you want to throw it against the wall."

  "He caught you painting the sides you couldn't get to line up," Karelle said from her side. She rarely looked up from her work, but managed to stay focused on the King's words in the off chance they were important.

  "What?" Alistair shrugged, "How else is it supposed to work? I thought I was being rather clever."

  "By cheating," Karelle finished for him.

  "It's all in your perspective," he smiled, and for a moment his eyes shifted over to Beatrice. Reiss felt uncomfortable at the bare fact hanging in the air, but the Queen didn't glare at him for dragging his infidelities below her nose, only lifted up her work and smiled back. Her attentions broke from her husband, to canvas the various clerics stewing away in the throne room. They'd wanted to hold court in the garden, but when the impenetrable heat beat down upon everyone's bones regardless of age, they all raced to the cooler shadows trapped inside stone walls.

  "Sire?" the entertainer tried again, obviously needing an answer.

  Alistair imparted his wisdom, "Yes, fine, what are you? Or what should you do?"

  Sticking his hat on tighter, the entertainer and occasional poet in his downtime (not that it was paying the bills at the moment) banged a walking stick down on the stones and in a booming voice commanded, "I am the land, fallow and empty, tilled and broken by uncaring hands. I waste all who cross it, desiccating their flesh like tanned leather until naught but bones remain."