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Alistair stirs from sleep and without even thinking about it, he reaches for the comfortable warmth of her that lies on the other side of the bed, to pull her close, to drink in the smell of her and feel her soft body against his, to be utterly content and satisfied without even opening his eyes yet.
He frowns when his arm hits the mattress and not her warm body.
He tries to think – was she gone on a mission? She never left their chamber without him in the mornings, always waited for him. He props himself on his elbow to see if she’s sitting on the chair she likes to read in – but she’s not there either. Her robe that had been discarded on the floor was also no longer there – and neither is her staff which sits behind the door. Alistair scratched his head and tried to think, she wouldn’t have left on a mission without saying goodbye and she didn’t say anything last night. No, he thinks, something is definitely not right.
Looking around the room, he realises that something is not right about that either. It isn’t just her staff and robe that’s missing – the little case on the mantle she keeps her hair pins there is gone, the vanity is tidier, her brush is gone, the necklace he gave her as an anniversary gift – gone, her boots by the fire are gone and so is her rucksack. And on the pillow, instead of her beautiful face blinking up at him, there is a singular rose, it’s crimson red standing out boldly against the white of the sheet.
Gone. Gone. Gone. Everything was gone. She was gone.
It takes a moment before the thoughts in his head translate to what he should be feeling. A blind panic grips him and he can scarcely breathe. She can’t be gone¸ he thinks, she wouldn’t just leave, not now – there’s no reason for her to leave. Alistair leaps out from the covers and pulls on his breeches before running out his room, not caring about the cold floor on his feet or the state of his undress. He needed to know where she was. Someone had to know.
He does not sleep for two weeks.
No one knows where she went, all these damn guards and personnel and not one person could tell him where she is and no one saw her leave. Alistair always had trouble sleeping when she was on missions, knowing she could be in danger somewhere and him comfortably in the palace always put him at ill ease, but eventually sleep would claim him. But this was different, what he was feeling now was beyond fear, sheer terror filled his every moment. Why had she gone? Where had she gone? And why in the Maker would she not tell him?
These unanswered questions left Alistair with a conclusion he did not like – the mission was dangerous and she would not be expecting to come back, she knew that if she told him, he would be wholly against her going and deciding not to argue, she had left when she felt the time was right. He curses himself for knowing her thought train so well and then curses her for being so damn stubborn and not accepting anyone’s help. That pig-headed, maddeningly stubborn, infuriating woman that drove him insane. That beautiful, strong, brave woman whom he loved with his whole heart.
His whole being ached with her not being near, the bed cold and empty without her to hold, to love. Her scent still clings to her pillow and he breathes it in every night, so he can almost, almost pretend that she still lays beside him, but the empty bed he sees when he finally turns his head brings up crashing back down to reality; she is not here and may not be for some time. This is when he gets out of bed and pours over the books she left behind because, damn it, there must be some trace of where she went. He would find her. He would see her again – he was sure of it.
But the nights continue to be lonely and the bed remains cold. It takes all of a month for his advisors to push new marriage prospects upon him, hoping that with the missing presence of his mistress that he might finally be persuaded to take a wife. Alistair does not, he turns each new prospect down and when his advisor manages to introduce him to three different princesses within a space of a week, he makes death threats and locks himself in his room for the rest of the day.
As always, when he enters the first thing he sees is the rose, now sitting limply in the vase on her small chest of drawers at her side of the bed; the only symbol she had left him with as the room now looked as if she had never lived here at all – save a few books and a locket hanging on the mirror – as the maid was advised to slowly remove her items from his rooms by those trying to arrange him a marriage, in hopes he would forget her.
He could never forget her. She was as much a part of him as his arms, a life essential like the air he breathed.
He picks up the rose gently and watches as the last petal falls, a vain hope in him he knows is useless hopes that the rose was counting down the days until her return. A rose does not normally last such a long time, so perhaps she had bound it to herself in some sort of enchantment to keep him company until her return – where she would arrive triumphantly with a gleaming grin on her face. Alistair would sweep her up in his arms, the members of the court more than used to their displays of affection by now, even though they disapprove. He would lap up whatever explanation she gives him because she would be here and safe and that’s all he needs. He would forgive her for not telling him beforehand, after lecturing her on her safety and how she shouldn’t be doing dangerous things alone because he loves her. And loving someone is forgiving someone when they make a wrong step. She’d be home, they’d be together and the bed would be warm tonight.
He is wrong, of course, and he goes back to a cold bed tonight.