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Kenley bounds at full speed into Fianait, knocking her to the ground. She’s too exhausted to shove him off, so Fianait lets him lick her face clean.
“Looks as if somebody missed you,” Leliana chuckles.
“I just wish his greetings weren’t so forceful,” Fianait grumbles.
Sten grabs the mabari by the scruff, dragging him off Fianait. Getting to her feet, she doesn’t even bother to brush off the dirt (it’s more natural to her than a coating of blood).
“I did not mean Kenley.” Leliana smiles wryly, sashaying away to help Wynne settle in.
Fianait scans the camp, following Leliana’s line of sight; her eyes fleetingly catch Alistair’s.
No sooner do their eyes meet then Alistair looks away, tending the fire as though no task were more important. Fianait bites her lip to fight back against the rising heat.
She shouldn’t feel this way. Not so soon after her disrupted wedding and certainly not for a human. She should be in mourning or maintaining a safe distance. But her heart sings every time he’s near and while her heart carries a tune, her tongue is tied.
She’s just faced down demons and abominations without flinching, yet she cannot share a glance with Alistair without blushing.
She watches him prod the flames with unnatural focus. Fianait swallows; she has walked in the Fade, she can speak to Alistair.
Released from Sten’s grip, Kenley pounces on Alistair, waking him from his daze. Obviously relieved for the distraction, Alistair rewards Kenley’s behavior. Repeating, ‘Whoosa good boy?’ as he rubs the great beast’s belly.
Clearing her throat, “I said you were better suited to being a dog owner than me.”
“How could you say that?” Alistair fakes offense. “We just missed you is all, didn’t we?”
“We?” Fianait fixates on the self-inclusion, confirmation of Leliana’s teasing.
He fumbles to explain, “Well, you know – Morrigan’s not the greatest company – and I couldn’t let Kenley be miserable all by himself. And you’re so missable – that came out wrong –”
Between the shadow of night and the glow of the fire, Alistair is redder than a rose. Fianait’s heart and Nelaros’s rings pound against her chest.
The rose Alistair gave her sits delicately at the top of her pack, full and beautiful. When Fianait fingers the petals, she feels light and alive; the cold rings about her neck are a heavy weight.
She nearly sacrificed her heart once for her elven duty, an act that would have trapped her in the alienage for a lifetime. If she ignores the beating of her heart now, she may as well be trapped there again, looking out on green pastures.
Quietly, “I missed you too.”
Alistair’s eyes rise to meet Fianait’s for just a moment; the tips of her ears burn.
Then his eyes dart back to the ground, “You don’t have to say things that aren’t true for my sake. You probably had too much to do to miss anyone –”
“But I did!” she insists. Fianait doesn’t know which hurts more. That he doubts her sincerity or that he believes he is unworthy of her attention.
She wonders what the sloth demon would have tempted him with. If she could have drawn him out of the dream.
“When we were trapped in the Fade, I didn’t know it was an illusion because the demon tried to convince me Duncan was alive. I didn’t want it to be real. I didn’t want it to be real because you weren’t there…”
Her voice trails away under the gaze of Alistair’s wide eyes, brimming over with wonder.
Fianait can’t bear it any longer. She grabs Alistair by the straps of his armor and pulls him toward her.
Their colliding lips are met with surprise, then excitement. Alistair controls his flailing arms by wrapping them about Fianait’s waist.
In an abrupt moment of shock, Alistair rips himself away.
Fianait’s fingers are left curling around thin air. Genuinely confused, “What’s the matter?”
“Your – your rings,” Alistair stammers. “You’re promised or married or something – I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
Alistair only shamefully turns his head.
“Can’t kiss me? Talk to me? Look at me.” The last is as much a request as it is a question. Holding the rings in her fist, “These don’t make me someone’s property.”
As if given permission to ask a question that’s plagued him, “What do they mean?”
“That in another life – before the wardens, before you – I was engaged. A duty to my people, I accepted.”
Meeting her eye is still a challenge; Alistair stares at her clenched hand instead.
Fianait gasps in realization, “Are these why you’ve been so distant?”
And awkward. And fumbling away from her at every opportunity ever since he gave her the rose. When she pressed the rose to her nose (sweet as Alistair), she thought she had imagined the gold reflect in his eye.
“I didn’t know if you’d welcome my advances – not if you had someone waiting for you.”
Sighing and laughing lightly, “Rest assured, I would never have kissed you if there was someone else.”
At last, Alistair’s confused frown becomes a grin, “Perhaps I need further convincing.”
Fianait cannot help but beam as Alistair kisses her unrestrained.
----------
Alistair suggested the arl’s support; he’d hoped Fianait would only consider it as a last resort, but the road bends toward Redcliffe and they follow it.
Maker, Alistair doesn’t even know if Arl Eamon will lend his aid to them.
Even if the arl does agree to raise his army against Loghain’s, what then? Is his claim to the throne strong enough to lead Ferelden against the archdemon? Alistair desperately prays that it is; he’d rather not consider the alternative.
Alistair’s been content these last months to live without the crown hovering above his brow. Fianait, Morrigan, Leliana, the others – they don’t need to know.
But the arl will surely tell them – worse, he might insist on the alternative. What then? What will his companions think? What will Fianait say?
Alistair buries his face in his palm. (What a royal mess he’s gotten himself into.)
The castle sits high above it all, perched on the cliff-side, ever vigilant against danger. Alistair’s run out of time. There are no excuses he can make to turn them back.
Better from him than from the arl – that much he’s sure of.
Fianait laughs (how Alistair wishes this was all a great joke).
Her face falls (his gut twists tight).
He tries to make light of his birth; she grows cross.
Fianait brushes past him to speak to the approaching guard. Alistair’s arms hang limply at his sides (that went about as well as could be expected).
Their companions stare at him. Leliana reappraises him. Morrigan’s lip quirks cruelly (she adores to see him make a fool of himself).
There is no opportunity to speak to Fianait alone. Alistair watches for a spare moment, but readying Redcliffe takes priority and, perhaps for her, is a distraction from the admission of his birth. Fianait acknowledges him when it suits the village’s needs; ignores him through the rest.
At sundown, they ready themselves. Fianait takes a whetstone to her sword. Alistair bolsters his courage.
He reaches out to stay her hand, “You have to believe I never asked for this.”
Jerking away, “Nobody ever asked for privilege. They are just born with it.”
“Being the king’s son never gave me anything.”
“Didn’t it? You didn’t benefit from Arl Eamon’s special attentions? He didn’t see to it you received an education? Training?”
“Those things don’t matter to me.”
Fianait shakes her head, “They should. Do you know what I would have given for opportunity like that? I fooled myself into thinking you were different, but you don’t understand what it’s like to be spat on because of the shape of your ears.”
“That’s not true. My ears have suffered plenty of mockery, though it’s nothing compared to what my nose has had to endure –”
Fianait’s eyes narrow dangerously, a warning to hold his tongue or lose it to the tip of her sword. She won’t hear an apology, not now.
She coldly gives him his orders, “Hold the left flank. If you need assistance, Leliana can provide suppressing fire. Otherwise, keep away from me.”
Fianait turns sharply on her heel.
The sun sets; the last of the daylight doesn’t linger on the lake for long and the undead waste no time. Battle is no place to feel sorry for himself.
Despite her orders, Alistair can’t help but keep an eye out for Fianait; he couldn’t bear it if any further harm befell her. But she defends the village better than him, and Morrigan doesn’t allow her to be overwhelmed.
By the end of the night, the greatest wound Fianait received was dealt by Alistair.
----------
The arlessa clucks over her son, neither thanking nor acknowledging the mages for sparing them a gruesome fate. First Enchanter Irving doesn’t appear to mind, but Fianait must swallow her indignation.
Bann Teagan is the first to turn from the scene, a practical mind at work, “Redcliffe is saved, for the moment, but the arl is still gravely ill. Without him we cannot hope to put an end to Loghain’s treachery.”
“Do you know anything else about the magic behind his condition? Whatever you can tell us could help us find a way to break the enchantment,” Fianait suggests.
The arlessa tsks, attention diverted from her son, “The Urn of Sacred Ashes – it is the only way!”
A fool’s errand. The Urn is a legend, no more real than the tall tales of werewolves or talking trees she was told as a child.
She intends to say as much, when surprisingly Alistair speaks up. “Beg your pardon, Arlessa, but even if the Urn exists, it may take decades to discover.”
Fianait watches the arlessa’s nose crinkle in distaste, “Faithless, ungrateful boy. This is how you would repay the man who brought you up?”
Fianait is more taken aback than Alistair; she must control the reflex to snap ‘ungrateful’ back at the arlessa. She wonders that Alistair does not do it himself.
She turns her head to look at him, recognizing the same blank stare she wore to allow human insults to gloss over her. Alistair expects this sort of abuse from the arlessa.
“Teagan! You must go! Only you will be able to save my husband!”
Bann Teagan shushes the arlessa with a finger. “Then who would protect Redcliffe? No, my lady. We must trust in the Grey Wardens.”
Fianait’s skin prickles under the arlessa’s suspicious glare. She still feels the arlessa’s eyes like needles at the nape of her neck when they return to camp.
Taking up their usual places beside the fire, Fianait and Leliana divest themselves of their equipment. Morrigan settles on the outskirts. Only Alistair does not set himself at ease, though Sten and Zevran have the watch; he hovers somewhere awkwardly between fireside and fringes.
Kenley whines, torn between his master and the man he knows snuck him a lamb bone from the kitchens; they do not usually stand apart for him to choose.
Out of the corner of her eye, Fianait watches Alistair shift his weight from foot to foot. Fianait finds her heart is not as stiff as it was; it aches with understanding (and longing).
From her pack, she digs out the amulet she found in the arl’s study. Turning it over, she contemplates what to say.
She knew, the moment she found it, what it was and that she’d have to return it to Alistair, but she could not bring herself to give it to him. At least now she can return it to him along with reconciliation.
Alistair’s expression changes from lost to befuddled as Fianait approaches.
“Hold out your hand.”
Alistair does and Fianait dangles the amulet by its chain into his palm.
“I don’t believe it,” he whispers. “Where did you find it?”
“In Eamon’s study. I should have given it to you then, but I was angry –”
“You had every right to be.”
“No, I didn’t. You were telling the truth – I should have believed you. I’m just so used to humans hurting people like me; I overreacted.”
Hopeful, “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
Fianait knits her brow, “You can’t be forgiven who being who you are, but I do forgive you for concealing it. I understand a little about that.”
She reaches for the hair that’s no longer there – the hair she used to shield her ears and herself behind. No point in hiding anything now.
Alistair closes his fist around the amulet and smiles softly. “I still can’t believe you found it – that you remembered.”
“Of course, I remembered. You’re special to me.”
Something bubbles in her chest as the words form. She doesn’t know where she found the courage to say it.
Reaching out his empty hand, Alistair strokes her cheek, “Thank you, Faun. You’re special to me too.”
A pleasant shiver runs down her spine, finally shaking away the last of the arlessa’s hostilities. She cups her hand around his, grateful her anger has abated and transformed into something else, something unexpected.
She tests the name, “Faun. I like that.”
Since all this madness begun, she hasn’t felt quite herself. That her name belonged to someone else, another life.
Fianait was just another helpless city elf. Faun is a Grey Warden.
He smiles even more warmly, “Then I’ll continue to use it.”
----------
Leliana is better company while they wait then Alistair initially appreciated. Though he could do without the knowing, coy look in her eye every time he glances in the direction Faun and the others disappeared.
At least, she does not make lewd suggestions like Zevran. Even those do not make him squirm half as much as Sten’s protective glares or Wynne’s clucking. (When there’s enough privacy, Alistair might even ask the assassin’s advice on how to proceed.) But nothing is worse than Morrigan’s stony silence and sharp snaps.
He casts another glance down the path leading deep into the forest.
“Have you told her yet?”
“Huh? Told who what?”
Leliana smiles sweetly, “Have you told Faun you love her?”
For a bard who claims romantic ballads are made up of nothing but clichés, Leliana has made a horrible habit of playing matchmaker.
“I – that’s completely beside the point!”
Morrigan snorts, removed from the conversation as she is. Alistair marvels how she never misses an opportunity to mock him. He would retort back, but for some inexplicable reason, Faun considers Morrigan a friend, and Alistair will behave himself for Faun’s sake.
He silently notes Morrigan is their only companion who does not use Faun’s nickname. Leliana adopted it immediately. Zevran and Wynne use is interchangeably with fond uses of her full name. Even Sten in his deep, menacing tone says ‘Faun’ as if he were speaking to a halla. Not Morrigan though. Alistair cannot determine if it is out of spite or if she does not return Faun’s friendship.
“So you haven’t told her yet?” Leliana pries yet again.
“Of course not!”
“But you do love her,” Leliana teases out.
Alistair laments that he is so easy to read.
“What are you waiting for,” Leliana encourages. “We could be set upon by darkspawn and all die horribly before Faun returns and she’d never know how you felt!”
“It’s just – I –” Alistair begins feebly.
Truth is, Alistair’s a lot more afraid of Faun’s rejection than her never knowing the extent to which he cares for her. The whole bastard prince thing already makes Faun uneasy. Asking her for any more than she’s already given, may just push her away.
When she spoke of her Dalish brethren, her reverence for them was beyond compare. These parts of themselves they cannot change, draw them apart. Only Alistair resents the duty he never chose and Faun – well, she’s made it clear what her culture means to her.
If there’s anything elves hate more than humans, it’s elves who couple with humans.
Fortunately, he does not have to come up with an excuse for Leliana; Faun, Wynne, Sten, and Zevran return from the woods.
While the others immediately divest themselves of their armor and massage their sores, Faun leans heavily against a tree. Her body cannot hold itself up; her expression is inscrutable.
Alistair unconsciously rises to go to her. His feet planted firmly in front of her, Faun falls into Alistair’s chest. Unsure why she cannot support herself, Alistair is at least certain he can give better comfort than a tree, and wraps his arms around her shoulders, holding tight.
“I wish I had never met the Dalish,” Faun croaks at long last.
Alistair’s brow furrows, “But they’re your people…”
“Not to them. To the Dalish, I may as well have abandoned everything it means to be elvhen by simply being born in an alienage.” She exhales shakily, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Even though she can’t see it, Alistair nods. “What about the treaties? Did they agree to help?”
Faun chuckles darkly, “Only after we broke the curse of their revenge-hungry keeper.”
All-in-all, the Dalish were a disappointment to Faun. It would be unfair of Alistair to express his relief, but he is sorry they were not what Faun hoped they would be. At least, the treaty is intact.
Even more incredulously, “I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but I’m beginning to think the Urn of Scared Ashes might not be a myth.”
Alistair laughs outright, “What made you change your mind? Did you meet a werewolf?”
Pushing herself off his chest, Faun looks very grave, “Worse. A talking tree.”
Unable to control himself, Alistair laughs til tears roll down his cheek. Even Faun finally cracks a grin.
“Well, that settles it then. The Urn of Scared Ashes must be real,” he still chuckles lightly, but there’s hidden awe in his tone.
There is truth in the things they were taught to believe (holy relics, ancient magicks, clichéd songs).
Contemplatively, “Stranger things have happened.”
Alistair refocuses on Faun, “Such as?”
“Such as an elf from an alienage falling for a king’s bastard.”
Alistair’s sure his mouth hangs open. Faun is steadier on her feet than him now. Her eyes brim with certainty, even if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
Licking his dry lips, “Would it surprise you to know that the king’s bastard regards the elf as the most beautiful and courageous woman he’s ever known?”
Apparently, it’s Faun’s turn to be flustered. She averts her gaze; her cheeks glow bright pink.
“I love you, Faun.” Their eyes meet instantly, but Alistair cannot read hers. “It’s not wrong of me to say, is it?”
“No. It’s not,” Faun shakes her head, her expression softening. “It’s just what I needed to hear.”
He may not understand what, but something happened to Faun in the forest. As if an impassible wall to her heart was torn down, allowing Alistair in further than she was willing to before.
“You’re not still uncomfortable with my being human – Maric’s son –” Alistair stops as her face twists into amused expressions.
“That’s just it. I’ve been rejected by my own kind – I don’t care anymore. I’m a Grey Warden. I can do as I chose – love as my heart wants.”
For once, Alistair’s heart is at ease around Faun. No uncontrollable throbbing, his heart is steady and true. Certain. (Hers is the same.)
But it races again as she splays her hands across his chest. “That is – if you want to.”
It takes a moment for his head to catch up. “N-now? With the darkspawn on our heels, death awaiting us at every turn? Sure, why not? Hot.”
He laughs to disguise that last word. Though he won’t deny he hoped this moment would arise; in his head, he was always smoother, more articulate. Not this bumbling mess. (Faun wouldn’t trade him for anyone else.)
“I think this is as right as it gets,” she offers hesitantly. “Did you want something else?”
“I don’t know,” Alistair panics he is frightening her. Taking Faun by the hand, “I’m willing to… give it a shot, if you are.”
The trees come alive to shelter them from prying eyes as they withdraw from the camp.
Later, Alistair only recalls Faun, the soft forest bed, and a clap of thunder above the canopy of leaves, though despite what he was taught, lightning does not strike him from the heavens.
----------
Morrigan’s fingers linger on Faun’s.
It is fleeting, but not even Alistair’s hands have caressed her so gently (as if she would melt from the most delicate touch). Though the comparison is unfair, Morrigan’s hands do not have the same calluses as Alistair’s.
Behind her, Faun senses Alistair stiffen.
Their fingertips graze until the grimoire has slipped from Faun’s grasp into Morrigan’s.
She takes a moment to find her voice, “I – I know not how to thank you. I did not consider you would heed my request.”
“Why wouldn’t I? We’re friends.”
Morrigan steadies herself with the breath, “Indeed, we are. I thank you, Faun. I have never known such kindness. If you’ll excuse me, I would like to study this immediately.”
With Morrigan sufficiently out of earshot, Alistair huffs.
Faun sighs, “Don’t start.”
Clueless, “Start what?”
“You don’t like Morrigan, I understand. But I trust her.”
“It’s not that!” he protests, but Faun doesn’t believe him.
The pair of them have been nothing but nasty to each other from the beginning – since their first encounter in the Wilds. Faun hoped they would overcome their distaste; they are, after all, trying to achieve the same goal.
At her skeptical brow, Alistair insists. “It’s not!”
“Then what is it this time?” Faun is tired of their childish grudge against one another.
“She called you ‘Faun’.” His tone is affronted and matter-of-fact.
The significance is lost on her. “Everyone does. Isn’t that the name’s purpose?”
“Yes, but Morrigan’s never called you ‘Faun’ before.”
Faun’s brow knits, trying to recall; it has always been ‘Fianait’ to Morrigan. But then Faun still introduces herself by her given name. The nickname is reserved for their compatriots.
Though Alistair correctly observed, Faun is not certain either of them understand Morrigan well enough to guess at her change of heart.
“Does it bother you?”
Alistair shrugs, “Not really. I suppose I was surprised. I’m liable to jump out of my skin if anyone calls me ‘Al’.”
As Alistair is struck by a protective surge over the name he gave her, Faun wonders if something more than the grimoire did not pass between her fingers and Morrigan’s as well. If it did, Faun is sorry but only Morrigan felt it.
----------
That blood isn’t pooling in Faun’s mouth is something of a miracle. She bites her tongue so hard, she must have punctured it.
The arl dares her to speak with a look.
She strenuously keeps her face blank. Even as a warden, it is not her place to challenge Arl Eamon in his own house.
“Then it’s settled,” Eamon declares. “I will lend my support to Maric’s son and Cailan’s rightful successor and the Landsmeet will follow. They must follow.”
Alistair is drained of color and fight, subservient to his lord’s will. Faun loathes witnessing him like this. It reminds her of Shianni in the hands of Lord Vaughan, stripped of dignity and choice.
The arl sits at his desk as if his word is final (their cue to leave). But Faun’s tongue is loosed from her teeth, ready to defend the choice which ought to be Alistair’s.
“What if the nobles won’t crown a bastard? What if they’d rather Loghain, a proven commander, lead them?”
The arl speaks slowly, as if she will not understand, “This is not a matter of what they want, Warden Fianait. Alistair is the rightful heir; they will do their duty. As will Alistair and as will you.”
His teeth are as sharp as hers and bared directly at her heart. Eamon knows.
Faun and Alistair have restrained themselves under the arl’s roof, but Faun is certain he knows. Something in the way Eamon looks at her, as if she has lured Alistair from the Maker’s righteous path (Eamon’s controlling grip).
She wonders if the arl is more determined to tie Alistair to the throne or to rip them apart.
“You may go.” An order, not a request.
Faun wants to root herself to the spot and shout until her voice is raw. Alistair’s light touch at her elbow is enough to ensure she is not so foolish.
She needs to hit something. Every elven servant she sees on her way to the training ring draws up more indignation. It would not matter what they disagreed on; Eamon would rather see her scrubbing floors than wielding a blade.
The practice dummy does not fare well against Faun’s frustration. Alistair watches on, unnaturally quiet.
The dummy hits the ground, kicking up a great cloud of dirt.
Faun breathes ragged, “You could have spoken up for yourself.”
Alistair only looks ashamed.
Faun tosses her sword across the yard. Perhaps unarmed, Alistair will be willing to speak to her.
“You should have made it clear you don’t want the throne.”
“What difference would that make?”
His resignation does not sit well in her stomach. This is the sort of misery she wished on him when he told her who is father was. Not now. Not any longer.
This time, Faun knows Alistair’s mind and his heart, and loves him for them. She will not sit idly by and watch him be snatched away by hands hungry for control.
Alistair exhales, “Arl Eamon will bring Maric’s son to the attention of the Landsmeet, whether I consent or not.”
He sits on the fence, staring at his boots and waiting for chastisement. But that is the furthest response from Faun’s mind.
More than anything, Faun wants to take him in her arms and assure him things will turn out alright with a kiss to the brow. But the arl would surely find out and she will not give him the satisfaction of throwing her out of his house.
Instead, Faun sits beside Alistair; her fingers covertly coax his fist to open for her hand. She feels his muscles tense as he fights the urge to raise the back of her hand to his lips.
“There must be another solution,” Faun whispers, though she does not know what.
Every route she can think of is a dead end. Her focus is too divided to find a new one; Alistair is not her only concern in Denerim.
The quarantined alienage has plagued her since they came to the city in search of Brother Genitivi. Something is far sicker in this city than the elves are claimed to be.
A patrol passes by; Faun and Alistair automatically let go of each other’s hands.
“I believe you, Faun. I trust you.”
Faun prays to the old gods, the Maker, anyone who will listen that a solution presents itself; she will not let his faith in her be misplaced.
Her confidence is snatched away in as many words, “But I don’t underestimate the arl either.”
----------
Seething anger is not something Alistair’s felt before. He can safely say now he’s not fond of it, but it sustains him when Morrigan, Zevran, and Sten return with Queen Anora but missing Faun.
“It was a trap from the start, though I do not think they were anticipating us to get quite so far,” Zevran darkly praises how they managed to dispose of Arl Howe.
Arl Eamon steeples his fingers, “We can use this to our advantage in the Landsmeet. More lords were afraid of Howe than they are of Loghain. That Loghain supported Howe’s methods will turn more of them against him. And imprisoning the queen will make him even less popular. If Queen Anora –”
“What about Faun?” Alistair cries out.
As a boy or even a few hours ago, Alistair would not have dared speak out of turn. Back then, a beating was too high a price for disobedience. He’s not willing to risk Faun’s freedom now.
Sternly, “Warden Fianait knew the consequences. She made a tactical choice –”
“So, we leave her in Loghain’s clutches?”
“Discrediting Loghain at the Landsmeet will ensure Warden Fianait’s safe return, but for now we must focus our efforts –”
“We can’t just leave her!”
“Enough!” The room quakes and then is suddenly still. “Enough. Alistair, you will not go after that knife-ear under any circumstances.”
No one moves a muscle; Alistair stands frozen, mouth agape. He’s confused. The arl he knows would never – could never. Arl Eamon is different from the rest.
Alistair swallows, his throat dry. He should have fought to go with Faun and not be left behind, but they thought better of taking Alistair out of the arl’s sight. If he had gone, Faun wouldn’t be alone and Eamon would do something to get them back.
Alistair yearns for Faun’s hand in his, lending him her strength. He cannot believe the arl will do nothing to help her. Not after all she’s done for him.
Arl Eamon shakes his head, his voice low and controlled again, “Excuse me. I spoke rashly. More is at stake here than you realize. Alistair, I would prefer if you remained in your chamber until the Landsmeet. Loghain would not miss an opportunity to capture you as well. I will see what can be done about your warden friend and inform you when I know more.”
Exhaling, Alistair releases the tension in his shoulders and nods, before doing as he’s told.
He is not so fortunate that Eamon does not put an armed guard at his door. The others are not allowed to see him; he awaits any news.
Hours pass. Nothing.
There’s an oddly familiar crowing outside his window, a flap of wings, then Morrigan stands before him. She raises a finger to her lips and listens.
Alistair does too, but doesn’t know what he should be listening for. He hisses, “What are you doing here?”
“There is no time to explain. Any moment now, the guard will be disposed of and the door unlocked. Leliana awaits you in the stables. Not even you could lose your way to Fort Drakon.”
“You planned an escape and rescue?” Alistair does not know how to hide his incredulity.
“Twas not me,” she waves a hand. “And tis only an escape plan; the rest is up to yourself and the bard. Do not squander our efforts.”
“But the arl promised he would send someone after Faun –”
Morrigan scoffs, “I would not trust that man’s word any more than I would Flemeth’s.”
Alistair blinks. The arl cannot be as deceitful as the witch; it’s impossible. But Morrigan has never exaggerated her mother’s treachery. She would not undercut it either.
Bracing himself for the rest of the plan, “What if Arl Eamon suspects –”
“He will suspect nothing.”
Alistair jumps, hearing Morrigan’s voice from the mouth of a perfect mirror image of himself.
“I cannot hold this form for long, but long enough.”
Alistair cannot help but criticize, “The voice sort of shatters the illusion.”
“It is not difficult to recreate your moping.” Morrigan haughtily lifts the shape of his nose in the air in a way entirely too reminiscent of herself, before shifting into her own form.
Ordinarily, Alistair would return the insult, but he is too astounded by her willing participation to be locked in a room, pretending to be him for who knows how long. ‘Thank you,’ does not convey his gratitude.
“I will not forget this.”
Morrigan goes rigid, mouth agape.
Whatever response she might have had is interrupted by a patterned knock.
“Go now,” she hurries Alistair on his way. “Do not waste time.”
Outside the door, Zevran winks at him under a guard’s helm. Sten merely grunts, uncomfortable in the too small armor. (Their disguises will not fool anyone.)
There are no other guards in sight; Alistair’s path to the stables is clear.
“Oghren and Wynne will have half the guard under the table by now,” Leliana remarks offhand, pulling a hood over her head. Alistair follows suit; sword back at his hip, shield on his back.
Through the city streets, no one would pick the pair of them out of a crowd. Inside the fort gate, they do not make it past the entrance before the alarm is sounded.
Their path to the dungeon is direct. Their blades are quick.
After dispatching a particularly large berserker, Leliana pulls Alistair into an antechamber. She listens for incoming guardsmen while Alistair catches his breath.
“Great work with the escape. Your rescue planning could use a little more work,” he wheezes.
“My planning? This was Morrigan’s idea.”
Alistair blanches. Morrigan lied. In spite of how much they hate one another, she could not bear to have him indebted to her, any more than he could her.
“Someone’s coming,” Leliana whispers, drawing Alistair back to the mission at hand.
In the hall, a heavily armored guard tiptoes in their direction. On Leliana’s count, Alistair leaps out the door. His sword clashes with the guard’s midair, eyes and blades lock.
Alistair can barely comprehend, overjoyed, “Faun.”
Their swords clatter to the ground. Embracing, Alistair lifts Faun off her feet.
Chuckling in his ear, “What took you so long?”
----------
Alistair is cautious of Eamon’s thin smile at their safe return, cordial veneer restored when Faun steps over the threshold.
The others look rather smug for the part they played in Faun’s rescue; they embrace her in turn.
Their attention turns to the Landsmeet.
Queen Anora asks to speak with Faun privately. Alistair doesn’t let go of Faun’s hand until the last second.
He waits impatiently outside the chamber, worried the queen will ask Faun to walk into another trap. If it were him, Alistair would not believe another word from her lips.
Faun emerges, worn but relieved, “Anora wants us to support her claim in the Landsmeet.”
Alistair bites his lip. He knows Faun – her disregard for the word of nobility. Anora must have given Faun some reason to trust her.
“I thought this would be good news.”
It should be good news; Alistair doesn’t understand his hesitation. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
Leliana catches up with them, a knowing spark in her eye. “The alienage; it’s been unbarred.”
A lump rises in Alistair’s throat. He can only imagine Faun’s anticipation.
Their gear is slung over their shoulders, Morrigan and Leliana falling in behind. He almost misses the grateful nod Faun sends Anora’s way. Anora raises her chin.
Alistair doesn’t know what he expected, walking into the alienage. The stench hits his nose before he lays eyes on the crumbling buildings, piled atop each other. Though he resists the urge to scrunch his face in disgust, Morrigan and Leliana are not so successful.
Faun is too preoccupied to notice. She runs her hand along boarded doors and windows. Her shoulders sink, “What’s happened here?”
The alienage appears abandoned, save the rats scurrying through the dirt. Alistair’s heart twinges; despite all she’s said about it, he had no idea.
Glass smashes at the other end of a narrow alley; they follow the sound to an unruly crowd of elves, attempting to force their way into a building the least collapsed on itself. Oddly robed and armed humans push back against them.
“There is no plague!”
“Let our friends and family go!”
“You’re not wanted here!”
Alistair fears for their group’s safety. Before a riot breaks out in full, he extends a hand out to draw Faun away, but she is beyond reach.
“Shianni?” she says with startled delight.
“Fianait!” In a flash of red, Faun is enveloped in a tight embrace by the apparent ringleader. “I never thought I’d see you again!”
“I didn’t think I’d ever come back,” Alistair’s not sure if he imagines shame hidden in Faun’s tone. “What’s going on here? Where’s my father?”
The look in Shianni’s eye is as worried as it is angry, “After you left, things went from bad to worse. The teyrn enforced a curfew and restricted our access to the city. Then rumors started that there was some sort of Blight-related plague contaminating the alienage. That’s when the magisters arrived and quarantined us, snatching up anyone who so much as sneezed. But there’s no plague! Your father and Valedrian started asking questions – Fianait, they took them…”
As Shianni explains, Alistair watches the agitated crowd. Every word the Tevinter guard says puts them more on edge. He shifts in his boots, anticipating the bursting of the dam. Morrigan and Leliana do too.
While Faun processes, Shianni hugs her again, “I still can’t believe you’re here. Somehow, I know you’ll make things right, cousin.”
Faun gnaws her lip, “We’ll do everything we can, but please – get everyone to safety.”
For the first time, Shianni seems to notice there are others with Faun. She looks at them with a fire in her eye.
“No.” She crosses her arms, immovable. “This is our home. We have as much cause to fight for it as you!”
The louder her voice gets, the more attention Shiannai attracts. The magister’s head jerks in their direction at the word ‘fight’; his eyes narrow. Alistair swallows.
Tapping Faun’s shoulder, “We’ve got company.”
Her frown turns into a scowl. Alistair’s muscles tighten, poised to draw his blade.
“You’ve no business here, serah! Move along!” The guard addresses Alistair over Faun and Shianni’s heads.
“He has more business than you. No one asked you to come,” Faun snarls.
Shivers shoot down Alistair’s spine. Even when she wasn’t speaking to him, Faun has never been this cold. It frightens him. Morrigan and Leliana flinch away from her.
“I am here by request of –”
Shianni thrusts her elbow into the man’s gut and the tension is snapped.
Blades flash in daylight. Defenseless flee. A few, like Shianni, brawl with their fists; though unarmed, numbers are in their favor. They are lucky no one is hurt worse than scrapes and bruises.
Alistair dispatches of a few, but Faun fells them as easily as darkspawn. She shows them no mercy; it disturbs Alistair how little he is bothered by her ruthlessness. She pierces the final magister before they can lunge at Shianni.
Breathless, Shianni takes Faun by the hand, “That’s the second time you’ve come to my rescue, cousin. Perhaps, you’re right – I’m not prepared for this.”
Faun wraps her arms around the other elf, laying her fears to rest, “We’ll find them.”
“I know.”
“I love you, cousin.”
“Stay safe.”
Faun gives another squeeze before letting go.
When she turns to Alistair and the others, her eyes are hard. Hatred fills them; determination sharpens them.
Alistair doesn’t recognize the woman in front of him as the women he loves, but he raises his shield ready to fight at her side. Morrigan twists the grip on her staff.
Only Leliana’s expression matches Faun’s. A natural disposition to shield and protect, overtaken by murderous instinct.
----------
Father hugs her tighter than he has since mother died. The combination of shock and joy too much for him.
They cannot refuse his invitation to supper.
Faun looks down at the meager feast and worries Valora has used up all their pantry stores on her and her friends. She can only bring herself to eat a few spoonfuls.
While she has difficulty swallowing her family’s further reduced circumstances, they offer her friends everything they have. Father encourages them all to eat more, barely touching the plate in front of him. Shianni, Soris, and Valora deliberately direct the conversation away unpleasant topics: the alienage and the war.
Her friends return her family’s efforts. Alistair catches Faun’s eye across the table; beaming, he pats his stomach and proclaims himself stuffed before Soris carves up more chicken. Leliana leaps to help Shianni clear the table; Morrigan awkwardly offers her assistance as well.
Leaning over to catch her ear, “It’s good to have you home again, my dear.”
Faun smiles softly at her father. She hopes he understands this isn’t permanent; she cannot stay forever.
“I’m proud of you, Fianait, for making your own way. Your mother would be too.”
She valiantly holds back a wave of tears (an altogether more trying battle than cutting down slavers).
Though her family remains unconvinced their guests have had enough to eat, Faun and the others gather their belongings.
“You’re leaving us? So soon?” father sounds heartbroken.
Faun is as anxious to stay as she is to leave. Polite as they’ve been, the others edge towards the door. The exhaustive generosity they’ve been shown makes them uncomfortable.
Shianni chimes in, “You can’t leave now anyway, cousin; the curfew is still in effect.”
“Hang the curfew,” Morrigan suggests, growing more agitated by the minute.
Despite the cramped quarters and insufficient food, guilt gnaws at Faun for bringing Morrigan here. A loving home and family are more than Morrigan’s ever had.
Alistair and Leliana knew some warmth in their childhoods, but they do not shrink from new people and do not cringe at open affection as Morrigan does.
Faun sympathizes with Morrigan’s desire to leave, but Faun’s selfish yearning to cling to her family encourages her to be swayed by Shianni.
The bedrolls are laid out. Father looks at them, dismayed, “You are our guests. You should not sleep on the floor.”
Faun rests a hand on his shoulder, “We’ll be fine. We’re used to worse.”
But father insists; he will not see his only daughter’s friends curled up on rotting floorboards. He gives up his bed to Morrigan, more perturbed than before. Soris and Valora relinquish theirs to Leliana, who accepts with grace. Alistair is given Shiannai’s unframed mattress; Faun is tempted to climb under the thin blankets beside him out of two habits.
One: she’s grown accustomed to the feel of his breath on her neck. Nights under the arl’s roof have been restless without him; beneath stars or canopy of branches, Faun could sleep anywhere so long as Alistair was with her.
Two: that is the same cot Faun shared with Shianni for nearly all their lives. The same one where they lifted up each other’s dreams and comforted each other’s nightmares.
But Shianni lays down on the floor and Faun feels the pull of kinship. She and Alistair may have many nights to come; this will be her last beside the cousin she holds as dear as any sister.
“Are you still a blanket hog?” she whispers, slipping next to Shianni.
“You’ll have to tell me, it’s been a while since I’ve had anyone try to share with me.”
“You always did want your own bed.”
“Until the day you left.”
Long buried guilt resurfaces. Faun couldn’t stop Vaughan from forcing himself on Shianni and she couldn’t be there for her afterwards. Their goodbyes were too short.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up. I know why you had to go, but – the world could end tomorrow and I’m more worried about never hearing from you again, Fianait.”
Both could be true, but the reality of a final battle with the archdemon is too close; Faun feels her days are short and numbered already.
“But you don’t go by ‘Fianait’ anymore, do you, cousin?” Shianni changes the subject.
“I’ll always be ‘Fianait’ to you, father, and Soris.”
“Yes, but you have to tell me where ‘Faun’ came from – Alistair thought of it, didn’t he?”
Faun flushes in the dark. How easily Shianni figured it out. All her family’s heads turned when she responded to the nickname, but only Shianni would notice Alistair’s particular tenderness.
“I knew it!” she gloats, triumphant. “Are you in love with him?”
The answer is a word, but the word cannot convey how Faun feels about Alistair. And she wants Shianni to understand.
She wants to share it all with Shianni – explain how it all happened (that lacing her fingers through Alistair’s make the pair of them invincible, a phalanx no army can break). But she fears her cousin’s condemnation (that she’s broken with tradition and turned her back on her people).
She wants Shianni to understand that she loves Alistair more than the things which divide elves and humans, servants and nobility.
“Would it bother you if I said we are?”
“It wasn’t exactly subtle on his end, not the way he was looking at you during dinner. He’s smitten; that’s not what surprises me.”
There’s the hesitation Faun feared, “But you are surprised by it.”
Shianni sighs, “I knew there was little chance you’d fall in love with Nelaros, but whoever you did fall for would be worthy of it. I just never thought they would be human.”
“Neither did I,” Faun says truthfully.
Briefly, she considers teasing Shianni, telling her she resisted her attraction to Alistair in favor of Zevran’s charm. But even though the rogue is an elf, he never had a chance of stealing her heart (and despite his constant flirting, he would never dare).
She does not make the joke; it would be unfair. She can still feel Morrigan’s fingertips like ghosts on her hand.
“Does he make you happy?”
Despite the darkness of her life since her expulsion from Denerim, Alistair has brought Faun endless hope. Between their fights and all the unhappiness, Alistair’s brought Faun unparalleled joy.
As father used to tell her, Faun recites, “Love is not as simple as happiness, but – yes, Alistair makes me happy.”
Shianni nods, “Then I won’t question it further.” Then she giggles, “He certainly is handsome.”
Faun dissolves into giggles as well.
Across the room, a boot is chucked in their direction and Soris’s voice, “Would you two be quiet. Honestly, this is worse than when you were children.”
Faun and Shianni stifle their laughter, now significantly more difficult.
When all is quiet once more, Shianni asks in a hushed tone, “Is being a warden what you thought it would be?”
Nothing is like Faun thought it would be (the reality she’s come to accept). Love, family, duty. Each of them would have been different if she had stayed – nothing would have ever changed.
She wonders if mother ever regretted not leaving with Duncan. If she would have been happier fighting darkspawn rather than the injustices of the city. If Faun could have been.
She supposes it’s pointless to ask herself these things.
“It’s… different. But I imagine it isn’t like this all the time; there isn’t a Blight or a bounty on my head every day.”
“Are you scared?”
“Not as much as I was, but wardens have dreams of the archdemon. They can be… vivid and they’re more intense the faster the darkspawn mobilize. I’m sorry if I wake you during the night.”
Shianni shakes her head, “Don’t you worry about that. This may be my only chance to protect you. Like you’ve protected me.”
Faun buries her face into Shianni’s back, grateful for her cousin. She sleeps soundly and when morning comes she has Alistair’s hand to hold.
----------
A bottle appears over Alistair’s shoulder.
“Here,” Faun shakes it a little to grab his attention.
Accepting the bottle, “Where’d you get this?”
Faun shrugs, “Nicked it from the kitchen. Shianni and I used to steal ale all the time when we worked as scullery maids.”
“You should have been a rogue.”
Faun shrugs again, “Shianni was always better at it than me.”
Alistair toasts, “To Shianni.”
Their bottle clink together.
Ale pours down Alistair’s throat and warms his stomach, the most he’s felt since Arl Eamon summoned the Landsmeet. Good thing too; he’s not sure how much more of this numb sensation he would have been able to take.
He still doesn’t trust Anora. He knows Eamon to be persuasive enough to sway others to support a bastard’s claim. He suspects Loghain is not through with his treachery.
All this and he still can’t comprehend the two sides of Faun he saw in the alienage. One brutal, unforgiving, and vengeful; the other warm, kind, and doting.
Humans have hurt elves far more than Alistair realized. Damage beyond repair; it’s no wonder Faun hoisted all that blame onto him. But love exists in that desolate place. Love beyond reproach and compare, as deeply rooted as the vhenadahl tree.
Alistair will never deny Faun’s more hateful self (Maker knows a darker side of him exists as well), but it is the part of her which her family brings out that Alistair fell for unconditionally.
“Thank you,” Faun utters between sips of her ale.
Alistair halts his, “For what?”
“Helping me rescue my father, putting an end to the slavers’ ring. I couldn’t have lived with myself if anything had happened to them.”
Reaching out, Alistair stays her bottle.
“You saved Redcliffe, Connor, Arlessa Isolde, and Arl Eamon. You helped me find my sister, though you could have refused. I only did what I could to help you in return, my love.”
His free hand finds its way behind her neck; the short ends of her hair tickle his palm. Faun leans her head on his shoulder.
“Do you think we’ve done enough – to ensure the vote at the Landsmeet?”
“There’s not much more damning evidence than allowing Tevinter mages to conduct slave trade on Ferelden soil. I think, Loghain’s doomed himself.”
“You’ll have to remind me to thank Anora for unbarring the alienage to discover it.”
Alistair blanches, suddenly understanding why Faun is willing to trust Anora so.
“When she is queen, I will thank her myself.”
Faun snuggles closer, “I know you are wary of her. Truth is, I am too. I am not comfortable deciding the fate of Ferelden’s monarchy.”
“I know.”
It’s a sick irony that the responsibility falls on Faun. Sicker even than his illegitimate birthright.
What a pair they make, throwing away power with both hands and grasping each other’s instead to wait for the Blight to swallow them whole.
“We should get some sleep.”
Alistair swallows, “You go. I don’t think I’ll be able.”
Faun nods, but doesn’t move, “I’ll stay with you.”
His arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders, Faun drifts off quickly. Alistair cannot imagine how tired she is.
Neither of them has had much rest since Ostagar, but the strain on Faun is wearing her thin. And one of them must keep watch before the toughest battle they’ve yet fought.
----------
It feels foolish to grin so, Loghain’s blood dripping from Faun’s sword, but Duncan is avenged.
Anora squares her shoulders and stifles the tears for her father. Ferelden should consider itself lucky she is queen, and Alistair is not king. He would not be able to pull himself together so quickly.
There is no time for a formal ceremony now, troops must begin the long march to Redcliffe, but Anora makes Alistair foreswear any claim to the throne. He does. Gladly. For himself and the descendants he’ll never have.
Something unfamiliar lurches in his stomach when Faun catches his eye at the end of his oath.
For a moment, he can see it perfectly. Their family, whole and loving. Alistair passes a bundle to Cyrian, his first grandchild. Faun’s smile is radiant. A dream that could never possibly come to pass.
Her expression is very different now: somber and contemplative, but accomplished. She appears made of stone, like the grand statues of Andraste.
Unnoticed since Anora took command of the hall, Eamon bristles next to Faun. His plans dashed across the blood-soaked floor.
Alistair knows better than to assume the arl will not blame her for this. He can already hear the arl’s outrage.
For once, he is unconcerned. He is free, no crown will sit upon his brow. Alistair can dictate his life has he sees fit.
His gaze shifts back to Faun; she is watching him back, still stoic. She is the one thing of which he is certain. His future, heart and soul.
Alistair’s smile turns from gloating to hopeful.
Her lips turn to match, soft and lovely.
----------
Wiping her sword clean, Faun wipes away old doubts.
The march to Redcliffe begins with a renewed sense of purpose. The burden of command shifts from Faun to Riordan; she is an average Grey Warden at long last.
Walking beside Alistair is not only out of a desire to be near him, but a symbol of fighting as brother-and-sister in arms. Everyone they’ve met has called her ‘warden,’ but she hasn’t truly been one til now.
Even with this new energy surging through her, Redcliffe does not sit like a sanctuary on the horizon. Faun attributes her dread of seeing it again to her prior unpleasant prior; she may care less for the castle than she does its master.
Alistair unconsciously grabs her hand. It chases the black cloud over Faun’s mind away.
Kenley leaps up between them, breaking their link then pouncing adoringly on Alistair. Faun laughs for the first time in what feels like ages.
The portcullis is raised for them on sight; rooms are prepared for each of their party. Despite the hospitalities they are shown, Faun does not feel welcome. She shivers when she sees the chamber meant for her (bigger than the home she grew up in).
“My husband’s savoir shall receive no less in this house,” the arlessa says with pinched politeness.
There is no rest for Faun or Alistair, they are immediately summoned to the great hall to plan the battle in earnest.
Morrigan stiffens as they pass. Alistair’s longer strides don’t give her a chance to lash at him, but she delays Faun a moment.
“When it is possible, might I have a word with you, Fianait?”
Faun blinks at her. “Is something the matter?”
“The Blight threatens us all, tis that not matter enough?”
“If you have something to contribute, something you learned in Flemeth’s grimoire –”
“Tis not a subject I wish to discuss with lords and commanders.”
“Of course, Morrigan.” Faun glances down the passage where Alistair has disappeared. “I will find you later.”
“As you say.”
Faun joins the council, thoughts muddled. She can’t put her finger on what disturbed her so about her encounter with Morrigan.
Below the table, Alistair laces their fingers together. Faun finds she can focus, deciding it is the castle that haunts her, not Morrigan. There are reasons enough for her mind to be plagued and restless.
They sit on the precipice of a battle near a year in the making after all.
----------
Their legs hang over the edge of the ramparts. The wind carries dark clouds over the lake; thunder rolls like the voice of the Maker.
Alistair feels unclean. He holds Faun as close as possible and doesn’t want to touch her, for fear of rubbing off on her. She shouldn’t want to touch him.
One hour of one night on the eve of battle; three lives are spared. Alistair can’t convince himself it was worth it. But they made the decision together.
Together they’ve spared Riordan’s life; he deserves life as much as either of them. They owe it to their fellow warden. (Don’t they?)
In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. (In love, sacrifice.)
“If it were Duncan, we wouldn’t have given it a second thought,” Faun croaks guiltily.
No, Alistair admits to himself, he doesn’t think he would have.
Selfish, the wind hisses, whipping the banners above the keep.
Faun shivers.
“Would you like to go in?”
Faun vigorously shakes her head, “I can’t go back there.”
Resting his chin on her head, “I don’t think I can either.”
Lightning flashes across the lake, followed by a thunderous roar, Doom.
This is not the way they were meant to meet their fate, sleepless and heartsick. The darkspawn will overrun them for sure and none of this will have mattered. Three more wardens will lie dead on the battlefield, nameless; Ferelden will turn to ruin and the horde will pillage Thedas.
“I feel sorry for Morrigan,” Faun’s voice is so soft, the wind all but carries her words away.
But they sink like a stone in Alistair’s stomach. This is Morrigan’s fault – Flemeth’s ritual. She did not have to abide by her mother’s plot. She should have kept it to herself and left well alone.
“She’s alone in that place.”
Alone. Another stone plummets into the depths.
Though the witch could leave tonight, she stays. She stays in that miserable bed chamber and for what?
He’s always suspected, never said. (Who would know better than him the admiringly way she gazes at Faun?) That’s why Morrigan could not stay silent. If there was any chance of losing – of saving Faun’s life, he would have taken it too (he did).
Perhaps, he and Morrigan understand each other better than they care to admit.
He wonders if Faun suspects the same. She read him all too easily, only he wears his emotions on his sleeve; Morrigan is closer to the cuff. But then, even Alistair can read Morrigan where Faun is concerned.
Trying to remain neutral, “She made her choice.”
Flemeth’s plot over Faun. (Faun’s life over Flemeth’s.)
“So did we,” Faun’s tone is mournful.
Too late to second guess. One night to pray it was the correct choice. Relief and regret can then follow them for the rest of their tainted days.
A fresh gale passes over them. Faun shudders harder than before, even though Alistair shields her as best he can. The wind dies and Alistair realizes it is not the cold which makes Faun shake.
Tears roll down her cheeks. Alistair lifts her chin to wipe them away, unsure how to comfort her when he feels like weeping himself.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I just can’t stop thinking about the baby.”
The baby. The abomination.
Alistair pushed it from his thoughts. He couldn’t think of it – to imagine Morrigan, not Faun, with the only child he will ever father.
Alistair chokes up. Their child, his and Morrigan’s, not his and Faun’s.
“I didn’t realize how much I wanted us to have a family until Morrigan said there would be a child. And now…”
Alistair’s heart snaps like a dry twig (they can both picture what they will never have). Water spills onto his cheeks, though the sky has not yet yielded a single drop.
----------
Alistair’s arm is slung over Faun’s hip. He and Kenley snore in sync.
Faun bathes in the warm sunlight streaming through the window. Inch by inch, she feels life teaming through her body.
She’s alive. She survived the battle. Alistair survived. The archdemon is defeated; darkspawn scramble back to the Deep Roads. Faun revels, for once, her life is taking a turn for the better.
It only mildly irks her that she spent the night in the royal palace (the queen would hear of nothing less for the Hero of Ferelden).
She is eager to be on their way, but that does not mean she will not enjoy this moment of peace while it lasts.
Contemplating the rays, Faun doesn’t notice that Alistair’s snores are no longer in harmony with Kenley’s. His fingers trace her side; a trail of light kisses follows behind.
Faun laughs and squirms helplessly as his new stubble brushes against her bare skin. His lips make their way to her collarbone and Faun smiles brightly as their eyes meet.
She scratches Alistair’s chin, “You should have tickled the archdemon to death.”
“And we would never have to put up with darkspawn again. Brilliant plan, my love,”
Alistair’s grin is as great and goofy as the man himself.
Faun pecks his nose. She watches the pleasant shiver it shoots down his spine, satisfied knowing only she can make him quiver so.
Too many nights, they’ve spent apart. Even the eve after the battle, they found little comfort in each other’s arms; blood and grim covering their hands, exhaustion sinking into their bones before they could fall into each other.
The distance they’ve kept makes Faun’s need all the greater. “You know, I don’t think we’ve ever had the luxury of taking the time to get out of bed.”
Alistair looks like Kenley when Zevran tells the mabari he will sire many pups. Faun crooks and suggestive brow before he takes her meaning.
Alistair’s pounce startles Kenley awake, who thinks the masters’ need a giant hound lying across their laps.
Winded, Alistair chuckles, “Dog pile.”
The attempt is pathetic, but Faun snorts anyway.
She shifts uncomfortably under Kenley’s weight, the elbow of one of his front legs digging into her lower stomach. A painful reminder of her barren womb.
Jealousy thrusts a knife into her, twisting at the emptiness. Faun wonders if Morrigan realizes what a gift she bears. Not because the child is Alistair’s, but that she may be a giver and nurturer of life.
Soft rapping at the door turns her thoughts quickly. Wynne informs them breakfast is served and the pair of them reluctantly rise from their bed.
“It will be a beautiful day,” Faun cheers, looking out at the blue skies.
“It will be a glorious day,” Alistair’s kisses the nape of her neck.
Glorious indeed. Wherever Morrigan is, Faun hopes she knows she will not squander the gift she’s given them.