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He has nightmares about her sometimes.
Ever since returning from the Fade he had been a better King. Meeting his Father had given him some peace and finally he felt as if becoming King hadn’t been all bad. He regretted many things, the way he had held himself as a ruler and his desire to nonchalantly push off every duty possible. Since returning he had found himself listening to more meetings, making more appearances, and being a better King than he had been before.
But some things couldn’t be changed now.
He had loved his wife. No, he thought rapidly, he still loved his wife. He loved her hair as the wind swept it behind her, her wry smile when he cracked a joke, and the ferocity that had made corrupted dragons fall to her heels. But before she left he had begun to take for granted what they had and the things that they did. It was only a decade ago, he reminded himself as he looked into the mirror, that he thought about sacrificing his own life to prevent her from losing hers.
The wife of King Alistair Theirin was a pretty woman, noble born, talented with locks, and the slayer of the greatest threat to Ferelden in all it’s history. Even the Orlesian occupation looked like a pittance compared to the undead hordes that destroyed all things in its wake. She was the Hero of Ferelden, and the best woman he had ever known. She was also the reason he was a King. He hadn’t quite realized it until speaking with his father in the Fade - but part of him had resented that.
“I don’t want to be King,” he had confided to her at camp one night. She had frowned for a moment, then smiled.
“Alistair,” she had said in the sweetest voice she could muster, “You couldn’t see yourself happy there?”
“No,” he had said hastily. “I don’t know.” He quickly followed. “It’s just- me- king? I’m nothing special like that. I’m a warrior, a fighter-”
“If I said something like that then you’d shake your head at me and then give me some reassuring gesture so I’d know just how wrong I was.”
“You? You? You were born a noble, you lead us all, I’m just-” She had put her hand to his cheek and smiled.
“As important as I am.”
Before he knew it she was declaring him to be King- with herself beside him. At the time he had been both distraught and gloriously happy. He would have to do it and live with something he wasn’t sure about, yes, but he was with her. Their wedding was probably the happiest moment of his life, followed in short order by their wedding night , and he believed he could live with it and be happy as king.
Then the jokes came. He didn’t realize how bitter he was, how he was happier to be on tour, how desperate he was to remember when things were easier- when nobody’s life depended on him because she was the one everyone relied on. So he constantly left her in charge. He would sit slumped while she sat attentive, her regal court gown unwrinkled as she nodded politely when it was required. Go to the Queen if you want answers, everyone said behind his back, and he was fine with that.
“You have to be more attentive Alistair,” she had chided him. “You’re the King.”
“And who is responsible for that?! You didn’t ask me, oh wait, you did! And I said no! This isn’t what I-” He stopped when he turned to her. Her face was stone cold and her lips pursed. He had seen that look before. It was never good.
“I’m sorry-”
She was gone before he could even say her name. She did not sleep in their bed chambers that night, and in fact she did not for the next week. That one week he was in charge of the court on his own, and it had been a nightmare. ‘Maker’s breath Alistair,’ he had thought ‘You slept with Morrigan of all people to ensure this woman could live, and here you are chasing her away.’
When she appeared in his bed chambers again, she was removing bloody armor when he returned. His heart fluttered when he saw her like that. “And if I have my way you’ll be the last. . .” the words from the night they first lay together echoed in his mind. ‘Good job Alistair, you’re already in a job you hate with a life that makes you unhappy, why don’t you just piss off the one thing you do love about your life!’ But her look wasn’t of anger, it was of hurt.
“My love,” he had begun “I am so sorry. I would never. You can’t- you can’t possibly know what you mean to me. I would fight two more Archdemons for you. I would dress up in Antivan silks and sport an Orlesian accent just to amuse you- Maker I would do anything. I wasn’t expecting this life, and even now I wonder what you see in me that could possess you to believe this is right for me.”
“Better than a life where you never stop risking your life. Better than a life where you’re just counting down the days until you run into the Deep Roads - and doing so by spending even more time in the Deep Roads. You can finally have peace Alistair, don’t you see?”
“I know why you wanted this. In a lot of ways I did too, but differently. I wanted every night of torment and toil to be with you. I wanted to be covered in dirt and grime and the grit of life, while with you. I wanted to fight blasted Darkspawn until I couldn’t anymore, and do it with you!”
“Well I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I wanted more for you.”
He wanted to argue that point, but she sounded so hurt as she said it. ‘I wanted more for you.’ He stopped for a second to think. Every moment she was here was one where she was not at risk of dying. Where a blade wasn’t inches from her throat, or an arrow aimed at her heart. Here she was safe, beloved, and capable of handling the intrigue of Ferelden better than anyone. He walked over to her and wrapped her in his arms.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he cooed into her ear.
“I am as well. . .”
Alistair found himself trying to be better than before. If not as a King, as a husband. He started to appreciate her barbed insults that only he would see, how long had she been subtly insulting people for Alistair’s benefit? He started to relinquish his desperation for Arl Eamon’s advices. More and more he at least rose to being at her side, taking in the wisps of her hair as they framed her polite and noble face.
“Yes, she is quite a marvel, my old ball and chain-” he had made a habit of joking. Even in Kirkwall he had called her that. Not the magnificent, glorious, beautiful, captivating, more worthy of devotion than he ever was, funny, talented, graceful, (not even sexy. He hadn’t even said that! Maker’s breath, he didn’t even brag about it!), HERO OF FERELDEN!!! His ball and chain. He knew her better than anyone yet he was the one putting her down. He wasn’t telling anyone about the time she threw her dagger in someone’s face from 50 feet away or the time she got plastered with Oghren and carried him through the camp while he laughed his arse off- nope.
Just ball and chain.
It was another year or so before she left, leaving him a note explaining why she left. She explained further that she could not tell him before she did- he would try to go with her. It was funny that she did it to protect him ‘Someone needs to go about ruling the kingdom afterall!’ It wasn’t soon after that he had embarked on an adventure with two sassy rogues to find his father, King Marric.
Nothing quite set his mind in a different space.
“I’m sure you’d like to meet your daughter in law,” he had jokingly plead as he convinced his father there was more to live for if he chose it. His father’s eye perked up.
“Daughter in law?” He had mentioned being king, ending the Blight- but he had saved her for last.
“Remember that ‘hero’ I mentioned? Well, she is also my wife. You’ve never met a woman until you’ve met her. Courageous, strong, brilliant- and she’s not too bad on the eyes either. She helped me find my way when I thought I had lost everything.” His father had given him a smile.
“Quite the detail you left out. And she makes you happy?”
“More than anything.”
He had both gained and lost his father in that one event. It hadn’t been for nothing- finally knowing his father was worth something. Knowing he had saved him from that awful fate was worth even more. And he had taken to a realization- being angry about being King was not going to satisfy the part of him that had felt rejected for so long. His wife had wanted it for him for his own good- so he could see his own worth.
The days after that were different. The nights even moreso. He would dream of her hair against the pillow and her breaths against his. He would think even more of her skin against his, her lips draped across his own. He remembered every deadpan response to a joke, everytime she bested him in wits (though only the best lest they get to numerous, he had quipped at himself at one point). He thought of her hardened strength on the battlefield and her tender affections alone. He thought of her suffering, as only he could. The terrible nightmares of darkspawn and the lingering feeling of the darkness growing within. She understood his suffering better than any other, and it was easier to forget that because she was safe and well fed inside a castle.
Now she was alone searching for a cure for not only for the two of them, but all of their brothers and sisters. Beyond that- if she found what she was looking for she might cure the Blight from all people. This would be an accomplishment beyond what any Grey Warden can hope. ‘Yes, my wife,’ he laughed to himself, ‘not content to be the Queen or the only Grey Warden to survive killing an Arch Demon, she wants to cure the Blight now!’ But it was incredibly nerve wracking to realize that what she faced now was without him. He could no longer ram into an Ogre to free her from their grasp, he could no longer run through an enemy who might be sneaking up on her. A memory filled his mind often of their hunt through for the Urn of Sacred Ashes.
In front of them was an inconspicuous room that he felt little concern for. The Urn of Sacred Ashes had been a rumor, but where Brother Genitivi had led them seemed to be a great lead. He needed it to be a good one, the fate of the closest thing he had held to a father depended on it. Even if Eamon wasn’t his father, he owed him so much. Letting him die now would be unacceptable. As Alistair filled himself with distracted thoughts The Warden held up her finger and motioned them all to go back. As quickly as the thoughts had come they left when she made a motion. Wynne nodded in understanding and Leliana had moved back before she had said anything.
He snorted for a moment. It had taken him all those years to realize she had only taken people likely to positively view the Andrastian religion with her that day. Normally she would take Sten or Morrigan if she could help it, but not that day. Even in retrospect he missed how clever she could be.
Her eyes were filled with determination as they retreated. He saw her leaning down to disable some sort of trap, and then she was gone. She often slipped from his vision but this had been the first time it felt as if he was looking right at her that she disappeared. He couldn’t follow her footsteps anymore, she was a master. He waited anxiously as a door cracked open, almost as if the wind had done it. He swore he caught the sound of footsteps far away- but they were not hers. They belonged to someone else. Within minutes she had returned, covered in blood and motioning to them. They followed. In several rooms he saw the bodies of dead mages and their guards- hopelessly outmatched by her.
That, he reminded himself, was the woman who was out there. Before she had even killed an Archdemon people cowered in her presence. But to face the Blight alone? He was scared. Alistair bit his lip at the thought as it poured into his mind, an intruder he did not wish to confront. ‘She could die without you ever telling her that you’re happy you are where you are.’ Happy, yes. Leading Ferelden and, Maker be damned, making his Father proud. Leliana was with that fancy Inquisitor closing holes in the sky, Sten was off being a big fancy Qunari leader, and he’d even heard Morrigan was off being a big fancy advisor somewhere in Orlais. With so many people being big and fancy, it just made sense he was the big fancy King of Ferelden.
Well, it didn’t, but he worked hard to make sure that it did more and more everyday. And she hadn’t gotten to see that. She could die out there thinking that he hated everything he was doing and that wasn’t right. If he had regrets it was that. One night as these fears and insecurities about her death grew, he experienced the gravest of nightmares.
The skies were a mixture of alizarin crimson and viridian. Lights shimmered from bright neon greens to amber oranges, the light of exploding spells and the fires they caused. Death and corruption hung in the air like a sticky residue clinging to the skin. Sweat beaded but the heat seemed to turn it to steam. The fires were everywhere, the monsters were everywhere, and the Blight was never ending. Alistair swung his blade and beheaded an Emissary, but not before a bolt of energy hit him in the chest and flung him backwards. The collision between rock and body tore the breath away from him as the padding between skin and metal seemed scarcely enough, metal bruising his muscles as the moment ended. He heard screams from all around - Darkspawn slaughtering men and hauling off women even as they screeched in terror.
Where was she?
He gasped as he stood, trying to shake off the sensations of pain and death. He had seen the death before, when he was shot with an arrow in Ostagar. He had fallen then, sure he was doomed to die along with Ferelden. But she should be here. They should be winning, her leading the charge to victory. He looked to the side and gasped, falling backwards as he saw Leliana’s dead body. She was clutching a bow even to her death, body run through with a sword. How had he not seen her die? Her gripped his shield harder as he turned to look, but she was nowhere. In front of him was another body, this time it was Wynne. Her body was twisted sideways as if she had been thrown and her face showed terror he did not want to think about. Her robes were scattered with blood and he could see the horrific gore of her insides pouring out of her. He almost vomited, but he knew better. He would cry later. He would mourn later, when this was all over. When the woman he loved was stroking his hair and holding her to his chest.
And as soon as he thought of her, there she was. She had been nowhere and then somewhere in a flash as she crept up behind a Hurlock. He was clearly an Alpha and she had the upperhand as she raised her daggers and moved to plunge them into the slits between its armor and its neck. Yet as she did so she was suddenly mauled by an unseen force - a Shriek had followed her tracks and taken her by surprise. He screamed out her name but all that did was further draw the attention of the Alpha. He ran to meet her, to save her, but instead was tackled by another Hurlock. He grunted and squirmed as the monster fought him, struggling to bring his sword up and stab it through his neck. He pulled his shield against the monsters head, a slew of garbled nonsence formed a cry as he did so. The darkspawn gripped his shoulders as he rammed the shield once again into his head. His grip on the shield was worsening as the thing tried to pry it from him, but he used that moment to hurl his knee against it and force it off of his body. He gripped his sword and ran it through the darkspawns neck, the bile and dark oozing blood pouring onto his sword.
He turned his head as he stood, moving to run before he saw it was too late.
She was pinned against a tree now, her body run through by several blades. Had they done it to make sure she was dead, or just to torture anyone who she was supposed to bring hope? Her neck was run through almost to the point of decapitation, but instead it held her form up. He saw her eyes gleaming with a look that only shadowed the presence once within it. His heart sank. She was gone, and he could have stopped it. She was gone and he never said how grateful he was. He screamed her name again and again, as the hurlocks moved to circle him, but his cries fell mute against the sickening sounds of the burning city.
He awoke from that nightmare not with a start, but with a forlorn feeling that seemed to slow his heart and still his breathing. It always felt real when he woke from those nightmares, like he had somehow awoken from death and loss with the rest of the world. Yet he was in his bed, as he always was, and she was absent. Alistair shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, leaning back on his pillow and shifting as if he was sharing it. He could remember her hair against the pillow, tangling and shifting as she moved in her sleep. He could remember when she woke up and peered into his eyes, her lips pursing into a gentle smile. He could sing when she looked at him like that.
Tax collection and wheat variance be damned, he loved her. He loved her and he missed seeing her get out of bed and brush the tangles from her hair, sweep the bangs from her eyes, peer at him from the openings of her boudoir where she became the Queen of Ferelden for the day. He missed the way people looked at her and the way he would hear rumors of how deeply they must love each other. Drawing out of bed from a nightmare where he never got to tell her only made it sting so deeply. He moved to the opening of the room where she would dress, taking in the absence of her scent. He had spent nights in this room taking in the scenes he might never know again. Their absence made it all the more real.
As he dressed for the day he heard a knock on the door.
“Your Majesty,” he heard a familiar voice say, “May I come in?” Arl Eamon questioned tentatively. He paused in a moment of anxiety. He wondered if this would be the day he dreaded, the one where perhaps Eamon tried to convince him not to wait for his wife to return to the throne.
Arl Eamon had been someone he loved more deeply the older he grew. As time had gone on and he had transferred his title to Teagan Alistair found his loyalty both comforting and troublesome. His wife had both adored Eamon’s devotion to Alistair and cautioned him deeply.
“I know you care for him,” she had said during a dispute over the man. “But he did want to depose Anora for Empress Celene.”
“He thought she was barren,” he tried to defend. “It maybe wasn’t the best idea, but she was Loghain’s daughter and-”
“So far I have had no luck either.”
They had mentioned it before being married. It would be difficult to conceive a child, if it could even be done. Perhaps both of them had expected it might happen anyway, if they tried hard enough. At first there was no urgency at all. Each time he found her coiled around himself in bed it was done just for the satisfaction it brought them both. The feeling of her soft skin around him was like silk sheets drafted around the edges of his body. He dipped into pleasure and called out her name, and he could let go of the anxiety of ruling while they were together. But even that was eventually tainted, as he thought of it then, by the thought that they might never conceive and what it might cost his kingdom.
If she was insecure about it, he only saw so on some occasion. He remembered her staring oddly at her stomach once in the mirror. Even though they did not really talk about it the idea was heavy on them once it became an issue. It created a dissonance in his mind when she finally voiced her concerns.
“I am worried,” she said in a surprisingly strained tone. It was as if she was holding it all back from him. “I am worried about the weight of this on you. I am the Queen, but I am also me. I am worried you will not love me if I cannot be everything a Queen should be.” She was staring up at the ceiling as they lay in bed, her eyes like daggers that threatened to pierce even the sky beyond the stone she bore into. He had gripped her chin and pulled her face to his.
“You might be crazy, I think, to believe that for a second I might not love you,” he had spoken softly. “You do kill archdemons, darling.”
“I have heard,” she said reluctantly, “That even in Kirkwall you told their Champion little about me other than being your ‘ball and chain’. Have I. . .failed you? Making you this way? Making you King, yet not providing an heir?”
It had taken him aback. He had pulled her close to him, “You are more to me than any of that. You’re more to the people of this country. You are their Hero, and you are mine as well. You rescued me from a darkness even the Blight paled in comparison to. Even if I grow frustrated, and say things that. . .” he sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s not as funny when you aren’t there to defend yourself, when no one can see how silly the notion of you being anything but the most beautiful and powerful woman on the planet is just ..well, like I said, silly.”
“It’s a joke where there is nothing but the punchline!” she chuckled a little.
“Exactly!” he laughed. “I’m getting very bad at being funny in my old age,” he chuckled back, running his hands down the soft flesh of her thighs. “It really is a shame, seeing as it’s my best quality. This list of those is incredibly short now.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Oh fine fine, I’m King, I’ve got good hair, I have saved your life at least half the amount you’ve saved mine, and I’m still sort of funny,” he responded as if she had forced it out of him through prior arguments many times before.
“You’re also my most beloved person, Alistair.”
“Did I forget to mention the number one thing? ‘Beloved by the most amazing person in all of Ferelden, and especially better than anyone in Orlais’ is definitely my favorite list item.”
She had a smarmy look on her face, as if he had not so much outwitted her but instead kept engaging in a game she had already won.
After that evening he had not broached the topic much with her. There was so much to be said but Alistair was never sure where the things that hurt her began and ended, sometimes. During the course of the Blight she had been the one to hold them all together. She comforted Leliana and solved her issues, found Sten’s sword, found his sister, and even made Oghren at least keep his pants on when they were in public. He had discovered her pain by accident almost every time, like she was a stone statue with slight cracks hidden to the eye. He did not want to burden her with thoughts like ‘do you think Morrigan is going to eat the child we sired together in some sort of evil witch stew?’ or ‘Is it wrong of me to want a child from you, even though I don’t think less of you and never would?’ or ‘Can you please take that shield of perfection off of your face and talk to me as a woman, please?’
He really regretted never talking to her about that last one. He wanted to see more scenes of helplessness, more moments of weakness, more instances where her human beauty shone through. It was hard to shake that she had felt guilty for not being pregnant, for not fixing all of their problems. It was hard to shake feeling like he had not been good enough to her, and it was harder each day as she was absent. The longer she left the easier it was for him to forget each time he caressed her hair lovingly, or gave her flowers, or showed the citizens of his country. It had not all been arguments and anger, but it felt like it was.
But Arl Eamon was a special issue for himself. Eamon had, undeniably, insinuated to Cailan that he should depose Anora because she had not provided an heir. His wife was 30 now, missing, and unless she could solve the issue of the Calling she would not be able to provide an heir either. Eamon had always done things that seemed odd at first, but that always played out positively for him in the end. He cared about Alistair, and Alistair had had very little of that in his life. But if he were to imply that Alistair should leave his wife, he would not know what to say to Arl Eamon.
“Come in,” he said after a second knock rang out, hastily fastening some buttons and standing near the door. After a pause the door opened to the figure of Eamon. His greying beard was slightly shorter than it had been in the days of the Blight, his hair thinning more than it had done so before as well. His wrinkles created deeper crevices on his face, yet his smile remained pleasant all the same.
“Alistair, you look well.” It was not a jest. In the time since seeing his father he had become more dignified, though not perfect, and Eamon was among many at court who had taken this quite positively.
“Thank you,” he responded honestly. It did mean a lot to him, to finally be approved of by Eamon. Becoming King had been the start, but a lot about Alistair had become ‘disagreeable’ to him as he aged, he felt.
“You received a letter, Alistair.” This had to be good. He was the King, that generally meant *a lot* of letters. Even when it was of the utmost importance he didn’t get personal calls in his chamber from Eamon about them.
“If it’s urgent I’ll see to it in today’s audiences,” he said simply. “Unless it’s from Fergus. You tell him having his sister as a wife doesn’t mean much if she won’t show up to the dinner parties, it’s hard looking that pretty and the dresses just don’t wear the same.”
Eamon shifted uncomfortably. “This letter was delivered very discreetly to us. It hasn’t been opened,” he held out a letter to him. It was splattered in some sort of black bile that he was almost positive was darkspawn blood, and his heart sank.
Was this it? Was this the letter he’d been dreading? ‘I’ve gone to face my Calling’ or ‘The Hero of Ferelden, Warden Commander of Amaranthine, has perished, lost to the Blight that we all face.’ Did he have to hear from one Grey Warden to another just how she had died? He remembered the dream from before and many more. Her lifeless face staring at him, the guilt of not being with her gnawing harshly at his gut.
“Alistair,” he said hesitantly. “I am here if the worst-” Alistair held up his hand.
“No- I. . . I will be fine.”
He couldn’t stand the thought. What if Eamon was right there, by his side, and it was true nnd then in a week or a month or even a year he forgot what he owed the Queen Cousland and reminded him it was his duty to provide an heir. Reminded him he had to set his feelings aside and be a King.
“I will let you know.” Eamon seemed to move to protest, but then bowed slightly.
“Your Majesty.”
Alistair sat in her boudoir, trying to take in a scent on the letter that was anything but blood and carrier raven. He looked at himself in her mirror and shook his head. “Look at you, as if opening this letter would make her anymore dead or alive. It’s not any different. She left without you, you can’t blame yourself, that’s what she’d say,” he could just imagine her wrapping her arms around him and kissing his ear. ‘Don’t blame yourself Darling. You know you will always be my most treasured. . .’
He opened the letter. His hands were shaking and the parchment broke haphazardly under his touch. ‘Maker Please. . . ‘
He read the first few words.
‘My Dearest Alistair. . .’
He almost fell from his chair in relief. At least this was from her, whatever it was. The words poured through his mind in her voice, like an echo from far away that he dreamed of grasping for. He heard her voice clear as day, felt the grip of her hand as tightly as his grip on a sword hilt, and he felt the wisps of her breath on his ear as if she whispered the words to him alone. He clutched the letter so tight pieces of it almost ripped. The words weren’t poetic - they were just like they had been all those years ago.
‘That’s a rose,’ she had said blankly so many years ago . He had laughed, and she had laughed. Yes, a rose! Sometimes her answers were so dumbfounded and simple. She was so busy thinking about how to kill a blighted dragon she had forgotten how to respond to normal silly things. He had missed that about his wife, missed her simplicity and the way she got lost in silly things. He felt tears pouring at his eyes. Maker, that’s what he had missed. Not her, but her distraction. He had missed feeling so kindred to her. He had missed knowing that she needed to escape it all too, needed to drown herself in the unfortunate horrors of darkspawn to forget what really troubled her. But as he read he realized that perhaps there had not been so much to miss.
‘When did things ever get to be so hard? Even that mask I wear each day in court drains me so. But I was always happy then, happy because of each joke you would tell after a particularly painful testimony.’
He read on the fourth or fifth page of her letter. The idea struck him so painfully that perhaps all those years she had not been so happy to manage court. She had been thinking about blighted nobles, not darkspawn. But he had been so miserable- so terrifyingly miserable that he convinced himself he was alone when his greatest ally, friend, and lover was right beside him as she had always been.
‘I serve Ferelden because they need me. But I am doing this for us. I am doing this because I want there to be time for us. I am doing this because what we need, what we want, is important too.’
His Father’s image seeped into his mind. How he would have loved her, his wife. Even Loghain had bowed before her shimmering image, like a Griffon soaring into the air. Everyday he had drunk her in and savored her sweetness, but as time had gone on he had forgotten how bitter life was without that.
His Father created this Kingdom. His wife served it. He served it. He looked in the mirror at his tear stained eyes and cursed the Maker for reminding him repeatedly how this was his destiny. ‘No more running, Alistair.’ It had taken the ghost of a man, an arch demon slaying noble woman, the rejection of his sister, and the fealty of endless men to remind him that he was in the right place doing the right thing. He stood, her letter in his hand, and turned towards his own desk. He placed the letter down almost solemnly before reaching into his drawer and pulling out his mother’s amulet. He looked at it, cracks and beaten heraldry, and put it to his forehead. He had chased his father but he could not chase his mother to death.
‘Would you be proud you gave birth to me? Proud like Father, proud like my wife? Would we have dinners and parties and would you dote on your grandchildren, in a different world?’ He took the letter into his hand and moved to put it into the drawer when he heard a knock on the door. He dropped the letter and nearly did the same to the amulet as his head quickly turned towards the door.
“Yes!? Who is it?” he called in as noble a tone as he could muster, still trying to claw his way out of his own head. He put the amulet in the drawer and kneeled down to pick up his papers, only to find there was something curious on the back of the final page. He heard Eamon give him a reply voicing something about concern, but he was drawn to the picture. He gingerly ran his fingers over a delicately etched picture. The artist was no doubt talented and the woman pictured was recognizable despite her changed haircut and her aged depiction. His wife had an artist depict her on the back along with some words.
‘See you soon.’
He couldn’t stop the smile before it came. He stared at the picture as if he was staring at her, and pulled the picture close to his chest.
“See you soon.”
Arl Eamon was calling out Alistair’s name several times before he opened the door. Eamon peered at Alistair’s face and the remnants of tears and for a moment feared the worst- but then he spotted an oddly calm demeanor on the young king’s face. He raised his eyebrows at him, “Well, Alistair? What was in the letter?”
“It is from my wife, as you might imagine with the blood splatter and very poor handwriting,” he motioned to the letter on his nightstand before he closed the door behind him. “The only person with worse handwriting in this whole building is me. And the dog.” Wherever that dog was he didn’t know, but it loved to terrorize the cooks. Even at its ripe old age, that dog was still demanding treats as she told him he always had. Later he would probably let the dog sniff at the letter and rejoice with him. Eamon gave him a puzzled look. “What? It would be a terrible shame if anyone could understand our writing. Then we might have to do it ourselves.”
“No- I mean, Alistair, what did it say?” he licked his lips for a moment as if the anxiety had drawn him to nervous habits. He tended to lick his lips more often in his old age, and it was a huge tell of his thought process.
“Oh she’s fine. Writing about baby kittens, suggesting I bathe daily, all the things a loving wife would do. She also threatened that if I don’t take care of myself she’ll probably be able to arm wrestle me when she gets back. Jokes on her, I already plan to let her win when she comes back so she can feel extra special.” Eamon was quickly exacerbated by the jokes Alistair lobbed at him. However, he did catch important moment.
“When she comes back? Will it be soon then?”
Alistair smiled, for the first time in years he was sure he would see her again. He was positive. The blasted taint wouldn’t take them before they met again.
“Soon enough, Eamon,” he assured him with a calm tone as he rode down the hallways. He headed towards the kitchens only to run into an old tottering dog who almost jumped on him at the sight. He was sniffing Alistair wildly and burying his muzzle in his clothing, all too eager to find the scent he recognized so well. Alistair bent to pet the dog, grinning wildly at him. The dog licked his face and he felt like for a moment someone could understand and agree with his delight.
Soon.
Somewhere far away a grungy blood covered woman sighed as she looked out on the horizon. The sky was darker where she was compared to where her husband was, but she did not know that for sure, she could only guess. But in her heart there was a sense of certainty and importance. Her place in the world was set, and all she must do is find a way to keep it so. She thought of her husband as she stared at the afternoon sky and let a small smile perk onto her face.
“Soon.”