But, there was no way the King would know of them. Why would he need to? And if she'd inquired of Karelle or anyone else in the castle their very first question would be "Who's the not-potential father?"
Those are all excuses, Reiss, excuses that aren't going to turn back time and fix things. She picked up the bottle, watching the liquid slush back and forth like the foamy waves of the sea. Right. She had to know, if only to come to a decision one way or the other.
Uncorking the bottle, a strange herby smell wafted free off the cork -- a bit like thyme mashed into lemon grass. Blood, it needed her blood. The potential mother's...Maker's breath. Shaking off the urge to run and hide under her bed, Reiss placed down the bottle and inspected her finger. It wouldn't take much to prick, but Alistair would notice and wonder.
Wait, was she not going to tell him? If it was no, then there was no reason to. It wasn't as if a no would have an effect on his life. And if it was a yes...?
Reiss shook her head, she'd slay that dragon when she came to it. An idea struck her, and she ran her finger up the healed scar tissue on the tip of her ear. It had faded to a scabby pink but it wouldn't take much to slice open again. She could blame it on the fall. Yanking out the dagger in her hair, Reiss tugged her ear tight and slit open the edge of her skin.
Pain nipped at the wound, but the superfluous kind destined to fade quickly. Holding the edge of the dagger to her ear, Reiss squeezed up her ear, trying to worry a drop of blood onto the steel. Crimson wobbled upon the tip, her blood, an answer to a question she never thought to ask. Screwing up her courage, she dipped the dagger into the bottle and swirled it around. Her blood twirled through the clear liquid like a dancer of the veils spinning upon the tip of her toes before vanishing from the stage.
With one hand clinging tight to her wound, Reiss placed the bottle down onto the vanity and waited. Blue and she was safe, red and...and what? There were other answers, certainly. Maker knew plenty of other women when faced with such a choice did what was prudent and best for themselves. But...
Curling her knees up under her chin, Reiss watched the clear liquid the way a hawk trails a field mouse. If she carried a child of the King it would change everything in her life. She wouldn't be Reiss, the guard who served in the Inquisition. People would only know her as the whore that birthed the half-elf bastard. And, there's no reason for Alistair to even...
No. Reiss shook the idea away the second it took. He adores his children, all but worships them much to the nanny's consternation. He'd probably love whatever grew inside of her too, but would it be as much? Or would he grow to hate her for bringing a threat to his real children into the world? Maker, and she didn't even think of the Queen. It was one thing to push Reiss into filling up the King's dance card as it were, but she'd have their affair rubbed in her nose every day.
Stupid, it was stupid to even consider the thought. A child? One known to be half elven, even if it came out the spitting image of the father would be ridiculed by the gentry, questioned as being unfit for nearly anything that would normally befall someone with half royal blood in him. And what would become of the mother? People already kept their distance, if she began to bulge with obvious child -- a royal baby no less -- they'd kick her out of the guards. Then what? Would she be the aimless ghost drifting through the castles with only a child to keep her company?
She glanced over at the bottle that remained stubbornly clear. How long was this supposed to take? Merciful Andraste, what if it took hours? Her fingers were already digging welts into her knees, any longer and she'd probably be able to get blood samples off her shins.
The very idea of living under the scrutiny of the palace, of having her entire life upended because of half of her blood mingling with the King's terrified her. And yet... He was so adorable with his children, even the baby that seemed to humor his father. Alistair was right there rocking a crying baby and on occasion changing filthy nappies. He even had a few opinions on which clothing worked best for his son based upon how cold out it was. Mittens seemed to be a special focus.
Out of any man she could accidentally find herself pregnant with, he was perhaps the best she could ever imagine. Reiss' hand wandered away from her knees, the palm cupping over her fluttering stomach as she tried to focus away from the bottle. It was foolish but she couldn't stop picturing a little boy with blonde hair, bright green eyes, and a hint of a tip to his ears, toddling along after a father that kept slowing to let the child wrap his arms around the back of his legs. She knew two things with certainty: the gentry and the noble house would despise any child she could produce and also that Alistair would adore it.
Something began to flicker within the bottle. Her eyes honed away from this rosy future to the rocky present. A color undulated through the clear liquid, impossible to tell at first but as it began to grow stronger it looked like gold flecks sprinkled into the mix. What did gold mean? Was it inconclusive or...? Gripping tighter to her legs, Reiss inched forward off the bed. The gold began to twirl, creating a vortex within the bottle. Bubbles rose and burst at the top of the neck, popping more of the lemony scent into the air as it worked whatever magic powered it.
She practically pushed her face up to the glass as she caught rising up through the middle of the vortex a small speck of color. Catching a breath in her throat, she waited until she counted one, two, five, twelve specks gaining in momentum as the entire cylinder of the vortex turned blue. There was no child. No baby. Thank the Maker.
Reiss collapsed to the ground, her face pressing into the cool stone as she cried every prayer she could think of. She'd been rescued, the problem lifted from her shoulders in an instant. No baby to draw every self assured eye to her. No child rattling the line of succession the way...the way Alistair did.
As Reiss staggered up to her knees, she spotted tears streaking down her copycat in the mirror. Wiping them away with the back of her hand, she tried to smile at the good news, but it flipped over. Unable to reach her eyes, her cheeks sunk in and a dour yellow bloomed across her skin. No, don't be foolish.
She shook it off, sliding back into the bed. She needed to heal. This was the best possible outcome, it was so obvious it was practically written across every inch of her skin. Having a child with the King of Ferelden would be a disaster for her life. Blinking, her eyes darted over to the bottle that was now half blue -- the color of a cloudless sky in summer. But, having a child with Alistair would be...
Would be what?
Snuggling deeper under her covers for warmth and something else, Reiss' hand skirted over her empty stomach. She didn't fall asleep right away, she was too busy making certain that the entire bottle turned blue. Waves like the sea washed over her vision as sleep began to knock against her. Bluer than the deepest ocean, the bottle's vision soothed her with assurances that everything would be all right, but mixed in there was a sandy blonde with eyes as green as the seagrass.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Wants & Needs
She hadn't told him. Alistair was happy to see her up and walking about, happier when she managed to get some broth down, and practically squealing in delight when Reiss said she could handle riding on a horse for a week. How could she puncture through that? He'd been miserable with so many deaths hanging over his head, a cloud of both vengeance and despair working together to drive him to great pains to work off his nervous energy. Instead of bothering the sick woman, he turned his emotional fervor upon the dummies in his room. Reiss could often hear through her door the sound of sword sticking into wood and slicing open canvas.
She thought about talking to him, letting him talk to her, but there were certain things the man refused to broach upon. His fear of death seemed to be a pretty big one, not that Reiss was in any mood to weight her mortality either.
It would be cruel of her to tell him that for a brief window she thought she might be carrying his child. Which, of course, assumed he'd even have wanted one from her. They hadn't known each other long, and had been intimate
an even shorter amount of time. What was she doing thinking that the King would wish anything so permanent between the two of them? He'd probably find it as great of a relief as she did.
There was no reason for him to need to know.
Reiss kitted up for the first time since her illness, taking the time to hone her blade and oil up some of the joints that grew rusty, before returning to her room for the day. She knew the last of the assassins was being led to the gallows that very afternoon -- it was over. Her entire reason for standing behind the King, for sitting in on his meetings, for being let into his life, was about to be ripped from thedas. What was to come next?
"Reiss? You home?" Alistair's voice echoed through their shared door.
"Yes," she chuckled, rising off the bed and throwing open the door. "I am, but where are you?"
"In here," he said, offering no hints to where that here was. Suddenly, his blonde head stuck out through the door at the far end of the room and he waved a hand. "Come on, come on."
It was his bedroom. Reiss had seen the King naked in so many various ways and positions, lay upon him while watching the stars, felt his punch rattle through her bones, but in all the time serving him she'd never walked into his bedroom at his whim. Laying her hands against her still fluttering stomach, she crossed the threshold and took her first great stare around the room.
She'd barely looked around when he fell ill, most of her time spent pacing back and forth outside trying to not worry the floor and herself to death. Alistair was a surprising man in many respects; on top of the shelves and shelves of books -- stocked by the Hero of Ferelden perhaps -- and a few swords and shields stuck to the wall, there were trinkets of every make and type upon shelves, desks, a few even perched upon the floor as he ran out of room. While tchotchkes were a purview of the certain type of wealthy that could afford them, these were not golden antiquities designed to gain in wealth over time. Reiss spotted a hunk of wood that looked like it was plucked out of a river before someone carved a silly face into it. That shared the exact same spot next to a mechanical wonder box where a metal boat rowed upon undulating waves of silver.
Every inch of his room was incomprehensible, nonsensical, and all Alistair. Things without any value were treasured more than the most priceless gem. Reiss laughed at the idea, knowing where she fell in that ranking according to the world.
He turned at that, breaking away from a chest cracked open on his bed. "Sorry, I was getting into the packing zone as it were and didn't hear you come in."
"Packing zone?" she asked, rising up on her toes to try and glance inside the chest. Reiss was surprised it was nothing but clothing. She'd figured on a few of those golem dolls making it inside.
"You know: what do I need? Will it be cold? Will it be warm? Will there be swimming? Should I fear an attack of bears? Always plan for bears, they could be anywhere. Even sitting at your breakfast table sharing a bowl of oatmeal with you."
Reiss cracked up at the certainty in his words. "I shall remember that, though I do intend to bring this," she knocked at the hilt of her sword, "so that should help with any bears attempting to swipe my morning porridge."
"They're sneaky, never know when a bear might suddenly pop up sitting in your favorite chair." Abandoning his packing, Alistair slid a hand around Reiss' waist. He didn't even pause at the cold metal.
Letting herself be tugged into his arms, she gripped onto him and said, "What about when they wind up in your bed? That's the worst of them all."
"Nah, you never get bears in bed. That's too civilized for them. They all lay flat on the ground and pretend to be rugs. So when you're sneaking across one for a midnight snack BAM! Rise up and bite your foot clean off."
"You've put a lot of thought into this."
"A lot of living you mean. Never gonna get caught unaware by another sneaky bear ever again," he sounded so sincere it almost caught Reiss, but then she spotted that ornery grin and with a foolish smile upon her own mouth, bounced a shoulder into him. Chuckling, Alistair placed his lips to her forehead for a quick kiss. "You've cooled down a lot."
"Is that so?" Reiss asked, rising up on her toes to nuzzle deep into him. With a soft peck of her lips, she darted kisses up and down the sides of his neck. Grief plus stomach flu put a damper on her libido that was now begging to be unleashed.
Alistair stumbled at her growing affection, his mouth flapping and teeth chattering as he hung in shock a moment. She moved to free herself, when his mind seemed to have snapped back into his body. Alistair tugged her close for a kiss. Simple and succinct at first, as her fingers dug through his finery to find the muscles flexing below, his lips parted open. An ache echoed up her healing stomach that had nothing to do with her illness. She hungered for him, to have his touch be more than a comforting caress. It could be so much better.
Popping away, Alistair began to chuckle in his uncertain but happy mode, "I'm getting the impression you're feeling much better."
"Mm, you could say that," Reiss clung closer, her fingers skirting under the hem of his shirt.
"Good," he bumped his forehead into her like a clumsy dog, but didn't race to make good on her half offer. "Because we should have plenty of, uh, free time to ourselves at the lodge."
"Free time?" Reiss crinkled her nose in confusion, which drew a sigh to Alistair. Unable to help himself, he pecked a kiss at the side of her broken nose, the man truly enjoying whatever wrinkles occurred because of it.
"You know, free time. A chance to arrange our luggage by color, or inspect the linen count on the beds, or try to mimic every pose in the Love of War book," Alistair's voice skipped up and down, his eyes darting around the room to land upon this supposed book.
It was a crimson cover, which meant it probably wasn't meant to be a proper technical manual for -- well, depended upon what one considered technical. She felt the blush deepen on her cheeks at how adorably he skipped around voicing the hope that there'd be a lot of sex on their vacation. Sex. Right. A dread dropped back in her gut, but Reiss tried to shake it off. She had to ask or the worry would burn through the marrow of her bones.
"About that, um, I was thinking or wondering if perhaps we should use some special timing to prevent any accidents."
Her true meaning obviously missed the mark, as Alistair shrugged, "There won't be anyone for miles to worry about. People go out of their way to avoid me on hunting trips. It's rather nice actually. I don't know why I don't go more often."
"No, it...that's not what I meant. I..." Reiss bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, trying to get the words out. It should be simple, 'I don't want to be pregnant.' But as he beamed his puppy dog eyes upon her, she felt herself falling deeper inside, her inner voice scurrying in fear that she was going to say something wrong.
Staggering away from him, Alistair's smile froze and he held his hands open. Reiss began to pace back and forth while arguing in her head. Silence decimated the easy atmosphere, dragging his hands down until they dangled limply at his side. "Reiss?"
His plea of her name froze her in place. Screwing her eyes up tight, she spat out quickly, "I thought I was pregnant."
Nary a peep echoed from Alistair at her revelation. Popping open an eye, she watched him standing stock still staring at her. "But I'm not. It was my illness, the healer seemed to think it could be a pregnancy but it wasn't. Yet I took the test because I wasn't certain and I keep thinking that...that I should, um...we."
A soft chuckle broke from Alistair and he fluffed up his hair, "Is that all? It's no problem."
"What?!" she rounded on him, every anxiety induced second honing her anger to a diamond edge. "What do you mean no problem? A child would be...it's not as if it'd be your body carrying it. Or, I mean, we'd be stuck together forever because of a baby and..."
Alistair frowned at her last sentence, his eyes flaring, "Would it be so bad to be stuck with me like that?"
"No," Reiss shouted, a strange certainty gripping her tongue, before she backed down to a whi
mper, "I don't know. I mean, we barely know each other and a child, with me..." She felt tears trying to burn in her eyes and snapped her lids tight to stop them. "Where would I even go? None of your advisors or chancellors, nor anyone in the alienage would suffer a half-elven bastard."
"Joke's on them," Alistair whispered to himself. The cavalier attitude rubbed her raw, Reiss shirking back at him. His life wouldn't be little more than inconvenienced to acknowledge another child while hers would be forever changed, perhaps even destroyed and he didn't seem to give one shit for it.
Reading that something was wrong in the air, Alistair shook his head and tried to scrub his face, "Look, I'm not saying the idea wouldn't be a problem in the abstract way. I just mean it's not an issue because if you did get pregnant it wouldn't be because of me."
"What?!" growled out of Reiss' throat. Was he really saying that it was even worse than she feared? That he'd abandon her, refuse to claim the child of his own in order to avoid the stigma of having little bastards running around? He'd turn his back on one of his own children, no doubt sentencing him or her to a life on the streets? Raw fire licked up her throat, the rage bursting with an unquenchable fear at the heart. She thought he was better than that.
"That isn't..." he slapped his hands together and began to pace back and forth. "I didn't mean it like that. It's that, look..." Alistair worried his fingers through his hair and in a broken voice whispered, "I can't have children."
"You have two," she sneered, "one of whom is barely four months on the ground."
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