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Chapter Text

The darkness surrounded her, filling every corner of her vision until even her own body retreated from her. The darkness called to her, enveloping her in its cool embrace, soothing the fire coursing through her veins. The darkness was inside her, nestling itself deep within her mind, expelling all else: memory, language, feeling. 

Its song was so enchanting, the haunting melody consuming her every thought. Touch, sight, and sound had all fallen away. Sleep now, begged the darkness, let go of the waking world. No one needs you, no one will miss you, if you just rest…

The song was the only thing she knew, and every muscle in her body fought to obey its command, fought any impulse to stay awake. All, that is, except one. Her heart pounded strong in her chest, the continuous thud of its beat matching the song note for note. Her heartbeat grew stronger and stronger, thumping louder and louder, until the song of the darkness began to fade, its call quieting into a whisper, and then into nothing at all.

But she was still lost, for without the song she had nowhere else to go. Without the song she was a wisp, an echo of a spirit that was slowly fading away. Her heartbeat continued to pound but she knew not what for. Was she even alive? Had she ever lived? Did she even have a name? She drifted endlessly in the dark, all sense of time and place completely gone. It could have been months that she wandered or mere minutes. 

She was beginning to lose all hope of ever escaping the shadows when a beam of light burst into her vision, so bright it nearly blinded her all over again, illuminating her entire body. Suddenly she had hands again, and feet, and eyes staring into the light, trying to find its source.  “Sybil!” a voice called, different from the way the darkness had called to her. “Sybil, where are you!?” This voice knew her, this voice loved her, it was real, if she could just find her way to it! Staring harder into the light, she began to make out a silhouette in the distance, the edges of its form blurry. The light was so brilliant that she could not make out a single feature. She tried to call out a response, but her shout died in her throat, her lungs too weak to form anything more than a hoarse whisper. The figure in the light began to move towards her, calling her name like a chant over and over, Sybil, Sybil, Sybil. As the figure grew closer, the light grew ever brighter, filling Sybil with warmth.  The figure was nearly within reach, what looked like a hand stretching towards her. “Sybil,” the figure said again, softly this time, and her name on its lips sounded like a revelation. She was so close now, sure that all she had to do to be free was reach out and–

Sybil bolted upright, gasping wildly for air. Stimulation flooded her senses – the harsh coolness of stone against her skin, witchlight illuminating the room and burning her eyes, the guttural rasping of her own breath in her ears.  She felt a pair of hands grasp her arms, someone in the room trying to calm her disquiet. Blinking away tears, she was able to focus on the concerned face staring back at her. It was Paidel, the elven mage who served as Avernus’ assistant researcher. Looking around the room, she recognized the laboratory at Soldier's Peak, where she had spent much of the last seven years. She sat upon the stone table where Avernus had conducted his experiments. Memories came flooding back to her: finding the Architect, connecting the last missing pieces of the puzzle with Avernus, agreeing to test out their solution. “Well?” asked Paidel impatiently, shaking her shoulders slightly. “Did it work?”

Sybil held out her hand in front of her, turning it over slowly. She examined the veins in her wrist, disappointed at first when she saw no discernible change. Then, she noticed the oddest sensation in her muscles as she moved her arm to and fro. It felt lighter somehow, as if a burden that she had been unknowingly carrying had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. In that moment, she had her answer to Paidel’s question.

“We did it,” Sybil whispered incredulously, nearly unable to believe what she was saying. “The Taint is gone.”

Chapter Text

The Royal Palace stood tall amidst Denerim’s skyline, its imposing turrets and harsh brick facade looming over Sybil and Fergus’ carriage as they filed slowly towards the entrance gate. Their groom, Peter, had deftly navigated their simply adorned horses behind a growing row of other carriages, presumably carrying the lords and ladies of the Bannorn from their far flung estates to gather under the auspices of the Summerday festival. Peering out of the window, Sybil took in her surroundings nervously, feeling as though the mere sight of the castle would hasten the moment in which she would be forced to step through its gates. Many of the nobles’ carriages were decorated lavishly, their standards and sigils emblazoned on almost every available surface. Flags of every shape and color fluttered in the summer breeze, and the faintest sounds of music drifted through the air. There was something of a crush happening closer to the gate itself, no doubt caused by some overly particular noble or perhaps a spooked horse. The delay had resulted in several nobles emerging rather irritably from their carriages to proceed on foot, bemoaning the continual lack of consideration that the wretched servants displayed for their betters. A particular noblewoman seemed to be especially put out, her indignant voice carrying clearly over the general commotion into Sybil’s carriage. 

“Maker take these pitiful servants! Don’t they know that these shoes likely cost me more than a year of their wages? Every year it’s the same mess and disorganization. They know we are coming, yet they can never plan our arrival any better! Oh, my poor aching feet! How shall I make it all the way up to the castle from here? You there! I insist you carry me from here to the Great Hall!” The older woman accosted some harried looking groomsman, grabbing him about the soldiers and forcing him to hoist her onto his back. At the sight of such a pathetic display of privilege, Sybil turned back to Fergus with a wary expression upon her face.

“Please tell me not all of the Banns act like that,” Sybil asked her brother, pressing her fingers into her temples with an exasperated sigh. At her question Fergus chuckled, reaching over to press his hand comfortingly into Sybil’s knee. 

“Fear not, little sister. That’s just Lady Roisin, from the West Hills. She’s actually in fine form today- on some occasions she’s refused to move at all until a litter is sent down to carry her from her carriage,” Fergus explained with a wry grin, which grew wider at the sight of Sybil rolling her eyes derisively. “But no, most of the Banns at least have the decency to walk themselves into the Palace.” Their carriage had come to a complete halt now, and more and more people were walking past on foot, muttering to themselves about soiling their finery on the uneven dirt path. 

“It looks like I’ll be able to take us no further, my Lady, your Lordship,” called Peter from his seat at the front of the carriage. 

“I guess we’ve got to make a break for it, or we’ll be stranded here permanently,” said Fergus, straightening his doublet and leaning over to open the carriage door. Sybil stared back at him with wide eyes, her throat suddenly drying up.

“Fergus, wait!” Sybil called, panicked, as Fergus stepped into the open air. She shifted uncomfortably in her new dress, the fabric bunching under her fingers as she gripped its sides tightly, desperately trying to ground herself before her anxiety got the better of her. Fergus leaned toward her and took both of her hands into his own, as their mother had often done for them as children. 

“Look at me, Sybil,” Fergus murmured softly, the warmth of his hands slowly helping to stop Sybil’s heart from racing. She reluctantly met his gaze, and found some form of relief in her brother’s blue eyes, so much like their father’s. “You have faced down all manner of beast and evil in this world, more than I’m sure you’ve cared to admit to me. Darkspawn, dragons, darkspawn that are dragons… Surely, these stuffy nobles must be a nice evening stroll compared to all that, yes?” At his words, Sybil smiled softly in spite of herself. It was this that she had missed most about Fergus in their long years apart: his ability to quietly reassure her and make her feel as though the things that worried her were not so dire after all. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Sybil nodded, and allowed Fergus to help her out of the carriage. 

She teetered awkwardly on her heels for a moment, unused to wearing the tight slippers that were sufficient for little more than lounging about a castle and receiving gentlemen callers. She missed her sturdy Grey Warden armor and her hiking boots, but there was little she could do about that now. She examined her reflection in the glass of the carriage’s window and pressed anxiously on the pins holding her long dark hair into the many braids that were the new fashion for noblewomen. She had grown out her hair from the harsh shoulder length cut she had worn as a Grey Warden, to the delight of her handmaidens upon her return. Adorned with her mother’s fine bejeweled necklace and circlet, she could nearly pass for a perfectly genteel noble lady. Nerves had made her pale skin even more stark than usual, so she pinched her cheeks in an attempt to bring some color to them. After she fussed for a few more seconds, Sybil accepted that her tall, gangly figure looked as good as it could and turned away from the carriage. Reaching out to take Fergus’ arm, the two of them set off in lockstep towards the castle gate, thanking Peter for his deft maneuvering of their carriage as they passed him by. As they joined the crowd of nobles making their way through the arched gateway that led into the main courtyard of the Palace, whispers and murmurs began to swirl around them, slowly increasing in tempo and volume. Sybil tried to greet the crowds as politely as she could, smiling placidly in response to their gasps of recognition. 

“Is that truly the Hero of Ferelden?” “Has she returned after so many years away? Does the King know?” Sybil heard all of these things and more exclaimed aloud, those gathered seeming to care little that she was well within earshot. 

“Don’t pay them any mind, sister,” said Fergus, patting her arm in an attempt to give comfort. “You deserve to be here, and I’m sure the King will be glad you’ve come.” Sybil touched his hand on her arm absentmindedly, acknowledging his words while lost in thought. She often wondered whether her decision not to send word to the court of her impending arrival was the right one, or whether she was simply giving in to her own cowardice. Everything that had happened in the past year – finding the cure for the Taint, surviving the cure itself– had taken almost everything she had. The idea of being rejected out of hand by the court - by him - after all that had been more than she could bear. So maybe she had taken the coward’s way out by foregoing a formal response to the summons they had received at Castle Cousland, instead choosing to surprise the entire court by arriving unannounced to the calling of the Banns with Fergus. Scandalized though the nobles may be, Fergus had the right of it: only one person’s opinion on her presence in court truly mattered. 

This was the real source of Sybil’s anxiety, whispers and glares from the nobility aside. If the King did not wish her to remain at court, if he viewed her disappearance or her resignation from the Grey Wardens as a dereliction of her duty, he could send her from the Palace and there would be little she, Fergus or anyone else could do about it. From what she had been able to gather from Fergus during the journey to Denerim from Highever, the King had withdrawn considerably from the social dealings of the realm for over a year, ever since the loss of his wife, Queen Alice, and their infant child in childbirth two winters ago. Sybil could not blame him for having lost the patience to deal with courtly intrigues and squabbling among the nobility and freeholders, but she worried that it meant he would have even less inclination to welcome her, practically a stranger, back into his court. Would he even accept her oath of fealty? Dark possibilities began to appear in her mind’s eye, images of the King turning her away, regarding her with the same cold, unfeeling expression he had worn the day he had separated Teyrn Loghain’s head from his shoulders.  As they neared the Palace steps, Sybil was brought out of her imaginings by a shout from somewhere behind them, a deep male voice ringing out over the noise of the crowd.

“Ho there, Teyrn Cousland! How was your journey from the North?” Sybil and Fergus turned to see Arl Teagan striding towards them, his welcoming smile quickly transforming into a shocked stare as he realized who exactly Fergus was escorting. “Warden Cousland! I can’t believe – that is, what a pleasant surprise to see you here!” Teagan’s eyes blinked rapidly as if he were trying to convince himself he was truly seeing Sybil standing in front of him. She supposed she ought to get used to this kind of reaction to her presence, as Teagan was sure to be the most polite of all the members of court she had yet to greet. 

“Greetings, Arl Teagan. It is good to see you as well. Please, call me Sybil,” Sybil replied graciously, though in truth Teagan’s apparent awe at the mere sight of her was beginning to grate on her already frayed nerves. She cast around in her mind for an excuse to forgo her title of Grey Warden without giving too much away. “I would hope that the years have not diminished the closeness of our friendship?” Sybil flashed the most charming smile she could summon, reaching out to touch Teagan lightly on the arm, and the awkwardness between them melted away. Sybil hoped that his show of warmth was genuine.

“Of course not, my lady, of course not! I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you have joined us again after so long! We had all thought… Well, that hardly matters now.” Teagan straightened his shoulders and turned to someone who had been standing just behind him. “And I do not believe you have met my wife, Arlessa Kaitlyn!” Teagan stepped aside to usher a familiar-looking woman closer, shaking hands with Fergus as he did so. Arlessa Kaitlyn curtsied shyly, her hands going to her face to tuck her short blonde hair behind her ears. The motion sent a wave of recognition coursing through Sybil’s body, as she remembered the young woman who had once stood crying out for her brother in Redcliffe’s Chantry during the siege of the undead, so many years ago. 

“Oh, but I believe we have met! I seem to recall purchasing a very fine sword from Kaitlyn before we fought off the undead from their attack on Redcliffe. How good to see you are well.” Sybil reveled in the way Kaitlyn seemed to light up at her words, the first signs of a smile appearing at the corners of her mouth. At least there would be one person here other than Fergus who she could be sure was entirely happy to see her. 

“I am so honored that you remember me, Lady Sybil! My brother still talks of our encounter with you all these years later whenever he gets a chance,” Kaitlyn said excitedly, smiling fully when Sybil moved to climb the stairs at her side as Fergus and Teagan went ahead of them, catching up with each other animatedly.

“Well, you can tell him that I kept my promise to slay many beasts with that sword. It was particularly helpful against the drakes that infested the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Sybil recalled, fighting back the memories that bubbled to surface when she mentioned one of her many adventures during the Blight. His grin as he teased her for foolishly disturbing a nest of dragon eggs deep in those frigid caves swam across her vision for a moment before she shook the memory away with an almost imperceptible jerk of her head. Luckily, Kaitlyn was too busy proclaiming her excitement that her family heirloom had been used to retrieve Andraste’s Ashes themselves to notice anything different about Sybil’s strained countenance.  

The group had finally reached the top of the staircase into the Great Hall, and the sinking feeling in the pit of Sybil’s stomach grew even more intense. They had to enter in a single-file line so that the first footman could announce each noble’s entrance aloud, giving Sybil a brief reprieve before they would usher her back into court, back into everything she had spent the last nine years running from. As Teyrn, Fergus took precedence over Teagan, so Sybil reluctantly moved forward to take her place at his side once again. She placed her hand on his arm, and was sure he noticed her unusually tight grip. How could she have thought this a good idea? Had she lost her senses completely? She opened her mouth, half determined to insist they turn around and abscond back to Highever, when they reached the front of the line. 

“Good day, Teyrn Cousland! May I ask who you are escorting to the festivities today?” The footman asked pompously, the Theirin livery bearing the same twin mabari that she had spent many nights staring at when she lay at his side in their tent, after they’d retrieved Cailan’s shield from Ostagar. She tore her eyes away from it and stared ahead, avoiding eye contact with the footman. She was relieved that he didn’t recognize her, for it meant the common folk had mostly forgotten her face. It would make excursions into the city much easier to undertake unnoticed. 

Sybil ducked her head awkwardly, leaving Fergus to exasperatedly proclaim, “Could you not guess, man? This is my sister, Lady Sybil Cousland. Perhaps you know her as the Hero of Ferelden?” Sybil scoffed at that, elbowing Fergus in his side. She hated that title most out of all the various names she had been called over the years. How could it be true now, when she’d been as good as dead to the entire nation for the better part of a decade? The footman began to sputter incredulously, taking thirty seconds before he regained the ability to form a complete sentence. 

“M-my apologies, my lady! Right this way!” The footman stepped aside, and Fergus guided Sybil through the main doorway. Finally, she stepped into the Great Hall of the Royal Palace, taking in the tall columns that arched over the crowd, the standards bearing the Theirin sigil hanging from the ceiling, and the balconies from which even more people looked down at the guests filing into the room. fifteen magelights glowed from perches in the alcoves, honoring each year of the King’s reign. Just as she turned her gaze to the opposite end of the hall, and the person sat upon the throne in the center of the dais, the footman called out, his voice echoing around the entire hall. “Teyrn Fergus Cousland of Highever, accompanied by his sister, Lady Sybil Cousland, Warden Commander of Ferelden!” The footman needed to keep up with his Warden politics, Sybil mused as every person in the hall turned towards her at once. She hadn’t been the Warden Commander of Ferelden in years, but she wasn’t surprised Nathaniel Howe had done little to proclaim his new title. 

 Instead of the loud outburst of gossip and bewilderment she had been expecting, a hush fell over the crowd. She saw expressions of shock, surprise, and even anger on the faces that looked back at her, but no one dared to speak a word, or even move at all. It was as if time had frozen in place, the only thing grounding her to reality her firm grasp of her brother’s arm. Against her better judgment, her eyes sought the man at the other end of the room. The rest of the hall had fallen away, and he was the only thing she could see. Her heartbeat became a thunderous pounding in her head, drowning out any coherent thoughts in her mind.  The King leaned forward, his nostrils flaring slightly as confusion and shock rolled across his face in equal measure. He rose from his throne slowly, his expression morphing into something unreadable. Some childish part of her bristled at that, that somewhere along the course of the years since they had last seen each other, she had lost the ability to tell what he was thinking from the smallest of movements from his brow or jaw. She raked her eyes over his body, drinking in the sight of him at long last like she had found an oasis in the midst of a barren desert. Everything between them had changed, yet so much of him remained familiar: his honey-brown eyes, meeting her gaze with a stoic determination, his tanned skin, now bearing new lines she hadn’t seen the last time they met, his wide shoulders, around which his royal regalia hung so elegantly. She took one slow breath in, then another, the rest of the room slowly returning to her peripheral vision. All eyes in the Great Hall were now upon the King, waiting with bated breath for his reaction to her arrival. His brow furrowed for a moment, and then he gave a single nod, acknowledging their presence briefly before turning back to speak with a manservant to his left. At this, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate at once, the gathered crowd turning to each other to speculate on this latest development. 

Turning her gaze away from the King at last, Sybil tried to school her features into an expression resembling confidence as she walked further into the room at Fergus’ side. Thank the Maker that Fergus seemed oblivious to her inner desire to flee the room, because it was only his cheerful greeting of different people around them that maintained any semblance of normalcy. “Well, as far as entrances go, I think that went alright, don’t you agree?” Fergus turned his head towards her, expecting a response, but Sybil was too busy trying to quiet the noise of blood rushing in her ears to notice. When had she become such a nervous, jittery mess? She had faced down this same crowd in a much more hostile situation during the Landsmeet that decided Ferelden’s ruler, and she had not felt nearly as unsettled then as she did now. She spied a table at the side of the room that bore small pastries and glasses of something sparkling, and steered Fergus towards it a tad aggressively. She snatched up a glass and downed almost all its contents in one swig, earning herself a few displeased looks from passersby, but Fergus just chuckled to himself. “Needed that, did you?” he grinned, picking up a glass of his own and taking a more measured sip. Sybil finished the rest of her glass, set it down with a resolute thud, and plucked a pastry and another drink from the table before turning back to her brother. 

“Does one not always need a stiff drink to deal with these kinds of events?” she replied thickly, already feeling the warmth spreading in her chest as the alcohol settled into her system. Fergus simply rolled his eyes and moved down the table, in search of his preferred type of meat pie. She turned her back on him and cast her eyes around the room, now feeling more inclined to take in the gathering and its guests. “Is that Lord Eddelbrek? I’m surprised he can still make it all the way out here in one piece,” Sybil muttered to Fergus under her breath. 

“You should go greet him, Sybil. We can’t hide away stuffing our faces all night,” said Fergus, busy piling pies onto a plate. 

“You suggest I throw myself to the wolves so casually,” said Sybil, glowering at her brother.

“I mean it, Syb. What was the point of coming at all if not to start making up for lost time?” Sybil didn’t quite know what he meant by that, but she didn’t get a chance to ask as he continued. “Just try to make an effort, at least. We can’t let the Cousland name become associated with bad social graces.” This conversation was beginning to verge on a lecture, so Sybil gave a melodramatically heavy sigh as she used to when he got the better of her in lessons and admitted defeat. 

“Dear brother, with you for our Teyrn, that could never happen,” Sybil answered sarcastically, eyeing the pastry crumbs that were already starting to settle in Fergus’ beard. “But I will do my very best to make sure I don’t let the side down.” She pushed a serviette into his hand and turned on her heel, determined to find at least one person she could talk to without embarrassing herself. 

This quest turned out to be in vain, however, for she had no control over who she spoke with the second she approached the throng of nobles in the center of the room. They all swarmed to her instantly, clamoring for her attention. So many people appeared before her both new and familiar, it was all she could do to keep a pleasant smile upon her face and nod enthusiastically at every new introduction and renewed acquaintance. She tried to sneak a glance in the direction of the throne from time to time, but the King had disappeared from his place atop the dais. As time passed and all of the arriving guests had finally made their way into the hall, the crowd turned expectantly towards the throne, looking around to see where their King had got to. Sybil situated herself behind Teagan and Kaitlyn, hoping the Arl’s height would fend off at least the nobles in that direction. Fergus appeared at her shoulder, a not insignificant number of young women trailing just behind him, giggling. “Acquired a fan club, have you?” Sybil teased, bumping her shoulder into his gently. 

“Please, don’t remind me. And mine’s nowhere near as big as yours.”

“That would have been hilarious if I were a man,” Sybil joked. Fergus scowled and moved to her other side, putting Sybil in between himself and the gaggle of noblewomen staring after him. Sybil was about to needle him further about his eligibility as a bachelor when a murmur went up throughout the crowd. The King had reentered the room and stood in front of the throne, Eamon Guerrin to his left, an unfamiliar Revered Mother to his right, clearly about to address the gathering. As he looked into the crowd, their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and she sucked in her breath involuntarily. Fergus sent her a questioning glance but she ignored it, looking down at her feet in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. The King raised a hand, and silence fell in the room. 

“My lords and ladies of the court, I thank you for gathering here today. I hope that your journeys were easy, though I’ve heard that Bann Telmen’s multiple carriages caused something of a dustup in the courtyard. Perhaps you could all join me in praying for his poor groomsmen.” The crowd laughed heartily, as Bann Telmen himself sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “Fifteen years I’ve held this throne, each one of them made easier by your distinguished personages. It is thanks to the unity of our people that Ferelden has prospered so greatly after we defeated the Blight. No matter what troubles come our way, together, we shall see another fifteen years of peace in these lands through the richness of our soil, the strength of our soldiers and the Fereldan blood that courses through all our veins!” The crowd burst into applause and cheering, and Sybil joined them in clapping at his rousing words. His skills as an orator had certainly improved since her brief stint as Chancellor, though she suspected that speech had been carefully prepared by Eamon many days in advance. She noticed he threw Eamon a smug look, as if to say, see? After a few moments the King opened his mouth to speak once again, and the crowd grew quiet. 

“To you, my people, I pledge to lead with wisdom and justice, to always find victory against our enemies, and to protect the interests of our realm above all other matters, political and personal,” the King vowed, hesitating slightly on the last word. He turned to Eamon, who handed him a ceremonial dagger, its hilt inlaid with a pattern of silver, encrusted with a large sapphire. “So I say in the sight of the Maker.” He turned to the Revered Mother, who held a bowl adorned with the same pattern on the hilt of the blade. He drew the dagger across his palm, leaving a thin line of red in its wake. He moved his hand over the bowl, curling his fingers into a fist so that a few drops of blood fell into it. He held that position for a moment, squeezing his hand tightly as if he meant to rid himself of all feeling in his hand. Looking up suddenly, he nodded to the Revered Mother, who said a blessing over it as the King handed the blade back to Eamon. The crowd applauded once again, more solemnly than before, and Eamon moved to kneel in front of the King. 

“I, Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe, Regent of Ferelden, do swear that I shall always follow and obey you in matters of life, limb, and earthly honor. I shall never raise a hand against you or your heirs in rebellion. This, I promise in the sight of the Maker. If this oath should ever be broken, let this holy iron pierce my heart.” Eamon mirrored the King’s drawing of the blade across his palm, and rose to his feet to allow his own blood to fall into the bowl. The King shook Eamon’s hand, signaling that he accepted his oath of fealty. The nobles gathered in the hall now began to shift and jostle for position, each wanting to be the next to have their moment in front of the King. Eamon turned to face the crowd, his eyes scanning the faces in front of him until he landed upon Sybil’s. Oh Maker, thought Sybil, he isn’t going to– 

“Will the Hero of Ferelden not be the next to declare her oath?” Eamon called, causing everyone in the room to turn towards her once again. “Maker’s breath, really,” Sybil muttered, but Fergus’ hands were already at her back, pushing her forward so that the nobles in front of her cleared a path to the dais. Not wanting to seem reticent, she found herself striding forward, lifting her skirts to glide gracefully across the room. Perhaps it would be best to get this over with quickly, she thought, easiest to say a simple oath and find the King again another time. Before she knew it she had reached the top step of the dais, standing directly in front of Eamon and… him. He avoided eye contact with her, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out over the crowd behind her. She took the ceremonial blade from Eamon, feeling its weight in her hands, unable to take her eyes off the King’s face. He was trying to maintain a pleasant affect of neutrality, but his jaw spasmed uncomfortably. Standing so close to him, close enough to touch, she suddenly realized she could not bring herself to merely utter the customary oath. She had to say something, to try to begin to explain– but her train of thought was cut off by Eamon's surreptitious clearing of his throat. She looked over her shoulder to see Fergus and the rest of the gathering staring up at her expectantly. Fergus gave a tiny nod of his head in encouragement, and she turned back to face the King. She slid down to one knee in a smooth, fluid motion, holding the dagger with both hands in front of her chest.

“I will swear my oath, but I will not do so as the Hero of Ferelden, nor as its Warden Commander,” said Sybil, trying to block out the murmurings of the crowd that began at her words. “For those are titles I have no claim to any longer. I have left the Order of the Grey Wardens, and I have been… neglectful in my duties to the realm.” This caused an even louder exclamation from the crowd, and now the King looked down at her sharply, the corners of his mouth tightening. Looking up into his eyes, finding no trace of the warmth and care he once saved just for her, she continued, “I will swear upon the only title I have left to me… my name.

“I have been a daughter, warrior, Grey Warden, Hero, Commander. I am not quite sure what I am as I kneel before you now. But know you shall always have by enduring fealty as my King. I, Lady Sybil Cousland of Highever, do swear that I shall always follow and obey you in matters of life, limb, and earthly honor. I shall never raise a hand against you or your heirs in rebellion. This I promise in the sight of the Maker. If this oath should ever be broken, let this holy iron pierce my heart.” She drew the blade across her palm, but her hand shook as she did it, slicing deeper into her hand than she had intended. She rose to her feet grimacing, biting her tongue to hold back a curse in front of the Revered Mother. A drop of blood slid through her fingers and fell onto the stone floor, directly between her feet and the King’s. She looked up apologetically, about to move her hand towards the bowl, when she felt his hand close on top of her own, interlocking his fingers with hers. The sensation of his skin on hers jarred her as if she’d been shocked, her breath hitching slightly in her throat. He pulled her hand towards the bowl, turning it so her palm faced down, his hand resting on top of her knuckles. “I’m so sorry,” she breathed, blushing slightly out of embarrassment and a different sensation in her chest that she would not name. 

“We can’t have you bleeding everywhere, can we?” said the King, taking the blade from her other hand and passing it off to Eamon. His expression had softened slightly, the faintest hint of a smile playing upon his lips. He did not remove his hand from hers until the bleeding had stopped. He reached into the pocket of his breeches and produced a handkerchief. “May I?” he asked, taking her hand once again. She nodded, allowing him to tie the handkerchief around her palm gently. Clasping both of his hands around her injured one, he inclined his chest slightly and raised her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. She knew it was customary, but she still felt the heat of blush on her cheeks.  “Thank you for coming back,” he said under his breath, dropping her hand as he took a step back, her oath of fealty accepted.  There was a lightness in his expression now, his eyes brighter after having held her hand. Sybil allowed herself the smallest of smiles, just as the light of the midday sun burst into the hall through the stained glass windows behind them. It bathed them both in golden glow, illuminating the blondest strands of his hair, set off against the luster of the crown atop his head. He blinked at her once, then twice, his lips parting slightly as he took a sudden breath in. Something shifted in his gaze, and then, as if by magic, the King of Ferelden disappeared. In his place stood the man who had once been her comrade, her best friend, her lover.

Her Alistair. 

Chapter Text

The drums sounded in time to the beat of the soldier’s footsteps, their percussive rhythm drilling into Sybil’s skull. She stood amidst a crowd of nobles on the Royal Balcony of the Palace, all gathered to watch the soldiers of the Fereldan army on parade. The balcony traversed almost the entire western facade of the palace, allowing all who stood upon it to gain a view of the soldiers in the courtyard and the massive crowds that had gathered outside the palace gates. The military band played directly beneath them, and Sybil had to resist the urge to place her hands over her ears to drown out the piercing whistle of the fife. She turned to complain to Fergus, but he had been whisked away from her side into a conversation with two noblemen she didn’t recognize. She sighed and began to make her way through the crowd towards the railing of the balcony. If she was going to be strong-armed into attending these frivolous events, she was at least going to get a good view. 

 After she had sworn her oath at the calling of the Banns, she had asked the King for a private audience to discuss what she had called “urgent Warden business.” She had hoped to propose the meeting discreetly, but of course Eamon had been right by the King’s side, listening. The King had seemed fine with the idea, but before he could accept, Eamon had insisted that she be present at the military displays and the ensuing festivities of the next day, in exchange for the King “making time for her in his busy schedule.” The King had done nothing to rebut Eamon’s assertion, merely shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his feet awkwardly, and so she had had no choice but to accept the stipulation. It meant more time squeezed into a corset and tight slippers, but she hoped that all the fuss would eventually be worth it. She was sure Eamon had some ulterior motive in forcing her to attend, but she had no notion of what it could be. Regardless, she had a feeling she would soon find out. 

She had nearly made it to an open spot along the railing on the westernmost end of the balcony when Eamon himself appeared before her, almost out of nowhere. He bowed deeply, and she returned it with a small curtsy. She could never remember the level of deference she was supposed to show him, she a Teyrn’s sister and he the King’s closest advisor. Judging by the way his eyes tightened, she had guessed wrong. “Lady Sybil, how good of you to come,” he said, “and on time, too.” This was surely a dig at her perpetual lateness when she had served as Chancellor, a fault that Eamon had clearly not forgotten. It had hardly been her fault that other than being a way to support the King in those early days of his rule, serving as Chancellor had been wholly uninteresting. 

“Well, since you asked so nicely, Lord Eamon, how could I not be here?” Sybil said through her teeth, barely maintaining the placid affability that all nobles treated each other with in public. 

He made a small hum of assent, then said, “Come, my dear. You’ve a place in the center next to where the King will stand.” He brushed past her and headed towards the center of the balcony. Next to the King was the last place Sybil wanted to stand, but she didn’t think Eamon would let her get away with lurking in the corner like she had hoped to. Fergus had warned her not to make trouble, and Eamon had clearly planned this day out down to the smallest detail. She reached the center of the balcony, where Teagan, Kaitlyn, and two other noblemen she actually recognized stood together making conversation. As she approached the group, they all turned to her and Eamon and bowed deeply. She knew the man closest to her by his immense height and long hair that reached down to his shoulders, though it had considerably more grays than when she had last seen him. 

“Arl Bryland,” said Sybil as she greeted the nobles with a curtsy.

“Lady Sybil,” he replied, “we are all so glad to see you back at court.” He gave her a warm smile, though his tone was still a little apprehensive. Sybil gave Teagan and Kaitlyn a polite nod and turned to face the last nobleman, barely restraining herself from grimacing. The elderly man spoke first, in a high-pitched tone that reminded Sybil of a dying nug. 

“We had all thought you dead,” he said suspiciously. “Why have you come back now?”  Bann Ceorlic asked, ever the pompous snoop. 

“Charmed, as always, Bann Ceorlic,” replied Sybil, who chose to ignore his question in favor of eyeing the way the sun reflected off the top of his bald head. 

“Now now, Ceorlic, this isn’t the time for such questions,” said Eamon, clapping him on the shoulder. “The Hero is here to celebrate the King, as we all are!” Sybil winced as Eamon referred to her with the title she so despised.

“Well, where is he? I’ve been here for half an hour and I’ve yet to see hide nor hair of the man!” Ceorlic grumbled, his cheeks nearly as red as the doublet he was wearing. Sybil looked over her shoulder into the Palace to search for the King herself, but she saw no sign of him amongst the golden drapes covered in Crystal Grace that framed the entrance to the balcony. She could, however, see Fergus being accosted by a young woman with long ginger hair that clashed with her bright pink dress. Sybil watched as the woman latched onto Fergus’ arm, seemingly asking him to squire her through the day. Fergus was able to extract himself from the woman’s grip, but he seemed unable to come up with a sufficient excuse to avoid her, as she began to chatter excitedly in his ear. Grinning, she turned her back and left Fergus to his fate. 

“The King will arrive shortly,” said Eamon, his tone reproachful.  He tapped his foot impatiently, and Sybil could tell that this meant the King was indeed running late. She supposed some things never changed. 

She made polite conversation with Teagan, Kaitlyn, and Leonas Bryland for a short time, all the while countering Ceorlic’s pointed interjections with trite platitudes. Eamon eventually left the group and went back into the palace, ostensibly in search of the King. The crowd of commoners outside the gates appeared to be getting impatient, as Sybil could hear shouts of “We want the King!” beginning to echo around the crowd. None of her companions save Ceorlic seemed particularly bothered, so Sybil tried to quell the concern that was slowly rising in her chest. “The King is certainly going to make an entrance,” she joked to Teagan, and he responded with an exasperated roll of his eyes. 

“He’s probably inside somewhere arguing with Eamon about today’s schedule,” said Teagan. “He’s been less prone to follow exactly what Eamon tells him to say lately, and it’s only caused trouble.” 

“I for one am glad our King is standing up for himself more,” said Arl Bryland optimistically, “if it means he will return to taking politicking more seriously, as he did before Queen Alice died. The Banns have become unsettled as of late.” The mention of Queen Alice sent the rest of the group into a measured silence, none of them making eye contact with each other. It seemed clear to Sybil that Alice had been well-loved among the nobles, as all of them seemed to be deeply affected by her passing. Something unsettled her about this realization, but she couldn’t figure out why. She considered whether to offer some word of condolence, but part of her felt like it wouldn’t be particularly appreciated coming from her, absent as she had been. Still, it wouldn’t do to appear as though she didn’t care at all, would it? 

Sybil looked away from the group and out over the courtyard and said, “I was sorry to hear about Queen Alice’s death. She sounds like she was a wonderful woman.” She hated the way the words caught in her throat; what kind of a person would be jealous of a dead woman, one who’d died in childbirth, no less? 

“You could have met her yourself, if you’d come to our wedding,” said a voice from behind her that Sybil recognized immediately. The crowd of nobles on the balcony parted as the King strode up to them, Eamon trailing just behind him with a scowl on his face. The group all bowed and curtsied before him, and Sybil felt the heat of shame begin to burn the back of her neck. The King was looking at her with a sort of bemused expression, as if he was trying to figure out what she was doing there. As she glanced around at the others, she realized that they were all looking at her, expecting her to say something. How could she explain now that she had in fact been there that day nine years ago, in Denerim’s cathedral? That she had been too cowardly to show her face, to congratulate him as he married another woman? She would have no idea how to make him understand, and certainly didn’t want to get into it in front of everyone. Instead, she chose to demur as deftly as only those who had grown up among the Fereldan nobility could pull off.

“I was sorry to miss it,” Sybil said, her eyes on the ground. “I was… preoccupied with Grey Warden duties at the time.” The King just raised an eyebrow in response, and the motion was so familiar and distant at the same time that it sent a pang of hurt through her chest. An awkward tension settled around them, no one wanting to speak first. Silence was the one thing she had never come to expect from the King, no matter the situation. He would always have some quip or sarcastic aside to throw her way, but now a dreadful emptiness filled the air between them. Sybil felt as though she was rooted to the balcony itself, unable to move or look anywhere other than her own two feet. Sensing the growing awkwardness, Eamon said impatiently, “Well, your Majesty, you had better greet the crowd, before they grow so restless they decide to find some other way to entertain themselves.” 

The King stepped forward, awkwardly pushing his way past Sybil, and approached the railing of the balcony. As he did so, Eamon surreptitiously guided Sybil forward as well, making sure that she stood directly at the King’s left side. A large cheer went up among the crowd as the commoners below shouted their approval at the sight of their King. The military band struck up a new song, and Sybil recognized it as the anthem of the Fereldan army. The soldiers below began to march in a new formation, and the King held up one hand in greeting, sending another chorus of cheers through the crowds below. The sunlight reflected regally off of his golden armor, the very same set that she had helped him retrieve from the ruins of Ostagar. Sybil noticed how much more comfortable he seemed in it, no longer burdened by its weight and its history. He had schooled his features into a proud, warm expression that seemed to charm everyone around him. The other nobles gathered on the balcony clapped for him proudly, and she could count far fewer looks of apprehension or disdain directed his way than she had used to find at social events like this one. By all appearances, he had been born ready to rule his people, ready to bear the responsibility she had placed upon him. As Sybil watched him, though, she noticed that he held one hand behind his back, clenched tightly into a fist. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, just as he used to do right before he launched himself at an oncoming wave of darkspawn. However well the King was conducting himself now, Sybil knew that he still did not feel entirely at ease. She felt a nudge at her side, and looked at Eamon to see him gesturing for her to wave at the crowds as well. She narrowed her eyes at him and considered protesting, but she remembered Fergus’ warning and reluctantly raised her hand, giving a tepid wave. She prayed that no one in the crowds below actually recognized her.

“The soldiers have been outfitted well, have they not?” asked Teagan, who stood next to the King on his right. The entire group peered down to look more closely at the men marching below. The armor they wore shone brightly, and no weapon appeared dinghy or run-down. 

“They had better be, with the Bannorn’s taxes so drastically increased this year!” Bann Ceorlic whined, and Sybil saw the King’s shoulders stiffen. “The crown has demanded too much from us!”

The King turned away from the crowd, about to say something to Ceorlic, but before he could, Sybil blurted out, “Are you opposed to making sure our army has the proper equipment, Bann Ceorlic? Or are you just concerned that their armor shines even more brightly than your forehead?” She shot a glance in the King’s direction, and saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

 Ceorlic sputtered indignantly as his face morphed into something resembling a squashed tomato. The others all exchanged scandalized looks, but no one, not even Eamon, spoke up in Ceorlic’s defense. He looked around for support, but everyone either looked away or coughed to fill the stunned silence. 

“Why, how dare you!” he rasped, and marched away from Sybil, disappearing into the crowd. As soon as she lost sight of Ceorlic’s retreating back, she let out a sigh of relief. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking into the shocked faces of Teagan and Arl Bryland, “but you all have to admit he had it coming.” They simply stared at her incredulously, but after a beat she heard a familiar low chuckle coming from her right. The King was shaking his head, trying and failing to suppress his laughter. 

“You can’t know how long I’ve wanted to shut him up,” Alistair wheezed, placing one hand on his chest to steady himself. The others all cracked smiles, the tension between them slowly dissipating. 

“I don’t know how you’ve lasted this long,” replied Sybil. “The man could whine the Archdemon to death.” She met his gaze, and her pulse quickened when she found it full of mirth. She fought to keep a straight face, but the light in Alistair’s eyes was making it harder by the second.

“What a strategy that would have been! We should have pushed him onto the roof of Fort Drakon and locked the door behind him. The battle would have been over in minutes.”  

“We could have had an entire battalion of seasoned malcontents. Sten and Oghren would have led them true.” Sybil couldn't resist smiling now, despite the bewildered looks they were getting from the others. 

“What would I give to see that! We could still make it happen. Though I suppose Sten would be too busy now, what with the whole being the Arishok thing. Oh, well.” Alistair sighed dramatically, as if he were truly sorry the idea would never come to be. His auburn eyes glimmered as he looked down at her, giving her the same sly look that had often accompanied the little inside jokes they shared at council meetings. The simple glance made her feel lighter than she had in weeks. 

“If you two are quite finished,” said Eamon wearily, “we ought to head down to the courtyard, if we are to begin the procession on time. And we will have to come up with a way to apologize to Bann Ceorlic later.” He threw a frustrated look at Sybil, who ducked her head and moved aside as Eamon pushed past her, heading back into the Palace. She and Alistair exchanged chastened grins and followed after Eamon. Other nobles crowded around them as they walked, each one offering an insipid remark or question about the week’s events. They made their way down to the courtyard, where the soldiers had lined up into rows, standing at attention in perfect silence. The crowd outside the gates surged forward as people realized the King was close by, and Sybil could see what must have been hundreds of people waving their arms and shouting, all desperate for a brief acknowledgement from their King. The King approached the nearest row of soldiers to inspect their lines and thank them for their service to the crown. Sybil hung back, not sure what she ought to do, but Eamon soon appeared to drag her into more posturing, as he had been doing all morning. Eamon led her along the same path the King had taken, and she tried her best to thank the soldiers graciously. She remembered how many men had sacrificed themselves for her during the Battle of Denerim, how many young boys just like the ones that stood before her now had gone willingly to their deaths to give her a chance to reach the Archdemon. There were a few older men present who had fought in that very battle, and their veneration for her upon realizing who stood before them humbled her.  Her chest ached with the reminder of just how many she had failed by retreating from the world the way she did. 

As word began to spread among the ranks that the Hero of Ferelden was among them, the news quickly reached the commoners outside the gates. Cheers of her name began to intermingle with those for the King, and the crowd grew even more rowdy. Sybil saw Eamon break into a self-satisfied smile out of the corner of her eye, and she realized then that this had been why he was so insistent on her attendance at these festivities, why he had made sure she stayed glued to the King’s side. It seemed her popularity among the people had only grown in her long absence, and Eamon was determined to capitalize upon her return to the crown’s benefit. She had half made up her mind to march over to Eamon and berate him for using her without her consent when she caught sight of the King on the other side of the courtyard. He had knelt down to speak with a young boy dressed in simple peasant’s clothes who’d seemingly climbed the Palace gates to get to the King. The boy chattered excitedly about something, and the King laughed, ruffling the boy’s hair, while the other nobles around them muttered, disgruntled by the child’s presence. The King seemed much happier talking to the peasant boy than he had been surrounded by those that were his supposed social equals. As she watched him play with the little boy, her anger at Eamon slowly melted away. She knew that despite their differences, they both wanted what was best for the King, and how could she begrudge him that?

Before she had time to talk herself out of it, Sybil walked closer to the gates and waved enthusiastically at the crowd. “It’s true!” she heard someone shout, “The Hero of Ferelden has returned!” Sybil did her best to smile and play the part of Hero, as she had on the day of the victory celebration after the Blight was ended. Though she felt a little rusty, she managed to make a good impression on the gathered commoners. She entertained the people until they had their fill of her, and the frenetic energy of the crowds calmed as some began to move away from the gates. Satisfied, Sybil made her way back to where Eamon stood, who gave her an appraising look as she approached.

“Well done, my lady,” he said, nodding his head approvingly. “That will surely help endear the people to our side.”

“I am not part of any side,” Sybil responded indignantly. “I only wish to see the day go smoothly, for the King’s sake.” Eamon gave her a look that seemed to say, if you say so , but didn’t say anything more as the King walked up to them, the little boy running back towards the gates. 

“Well, I’ve kept my foot out of my mouth so far! Those soldiers provided far better conversation than listening to Bann Bettina talk about her daughter’s wedding plans.  I think it’s all gone well, don’t you think, Eamon?” the King proclaimed confidently, and there was something in his tone that seemed to suggest Eamon had doubted him. 

“Quite well,” said Eamon, and clapped the King on the shoulder. “Shall we begin the royal procession? Lady Sybil will be joining you in the main chariot.” Sybil had no plans of doing any such thing, and nearly said something to that effect when she saw the way Alistair’s face lit up at the suggestion.

“You will?” he asked, and the last remnants of Sybil’s resolve crumbled as she looked into his hopeful face. 

“Why not? Every king needs his valiant lionheart, right?” she replied nonchalantly, but she couldn’t help but notice the way his cheeks reddened slightly at her words. 

“Excellent,” said Eamon, and he ushered them both into the center of the courtyard, where the soldiers and the military band were now lining up behind a massive golden chariot pulled by two regal white stallions. Sybil couldn’t help but stand in awe of it for a moment. If Eamon had wanted to display the crown’s wealth and power, he had surely succeeded. 

The King mounted the chariot smoothly, the breeze tousling his hair to give him an almost reckless appearance. He stood basking in the sun for a moment, his eyes closed and the smallest peaceful smile on his face.  As she took in the sight of him, still so dashing in his armor and surrounded by the white flowers that adorned the railing of the chariot, she found herself wishing for one of Wynne’s ice spells to freeze the moment in time. Part of her wanted nothing more than to live in this very instant forever, never having to face the consequences of her past. But the moment was over as quickly as it had begun, and the King opened his eyes to look around for her. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked, and offered her his hand. Sybil forced herself to move forward and take the King’s outstretched hand to climb onto the chariot awkwardly, unused to the physical limitations of her dress. She stumbled onto the floor of the chariot and bumped directly into the King’s chest, still gripping his hand tightly in her own. As she flailed in her unbalance, his other hand swiftly came up to the small of her back and he leaned forward to catch her, his arm the only thing preventing her from falling flat on her back. Sybil’s face was so close to his that she could feel his breath on her neck, and the sensation threatened to drive her mad. She spun out of his arms and held onto the railing of the chariot while she took a few deep breaths and hoped she wasn’t blushing too terribly. 

“Thank you for not letting me fall,” she murmured, and turned back to face him with an apologetic smile. 

“Never,” Alistair replied, with a slightly dazed expression on his face. Sybil thought their sudden closeness to each other must have made him uncomfortable, because he quickly turned away from her. He took up the reins of the chariot in one hand and gently spurred the horses to begin walking forward.  The Palace gates opened ahead of them, and the crowd of commoners moved to the sides of the path to allow the royal procession through. The chariot proceeded to make its way through the winding walkways of the Palace district, the streets lined with hundreds of people all turned out to see their King. The people looked hale and hearty, the city having fully come into its own under the crown’s efforts to rebuild. She had been the architect of the beginnings of those plans, and it was satisfying to see they had come to fruition in her absence. The King was boisterous and energetic in front of the crowds, which only spurred them to cheer him even louder. However many nobles disliked him or foreign dignitaries he may accidentally offend, the people of Ferelden clearly loved their King. It made Sybil’s heart swell with pride to see that the young Chantry boy who had once been so afraid to take the crown had grown into a man that the kingdom could be proud to have sit on its throne. Sybil could not hope to match his energy, but she tried her best to engage with the crowds, and the people seemed just as happy to cheer for her presence at the King’s side. Flowers and streamers were being thrown to them from all sides, though Sybil wasn’t having much luck actually managing to catch any of them.

“You’re better at this than you used to be,” said Alistair, raising his voice so he could be heard over the crowds. “Don’t tell me you’ve been practicing, wherever it is that you’ve been.” His tone was light, but Sybil could still hear the undercurrent of hurt in his words. She couldn’t bear to face it, though, so she tried for deflection instead.

“Of course I have! The darkspawn in the Deep Roads made a captive audience for me to practice my wave, my curtsy, and especially my table manners. The dinner parties I would throw are legendary!” She tentatively glanced in his direction, and saw him crack a smile with a shake of his head. 

“What does one serve at a dinner party with darkspawn? Wine made of ichor? Roast hurlock?” Alistair asked, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“You know, I don’t think darkspawn actually eat. I was just in it for the conversation,” Sybil replied with a laugh, glad he played along with her joke.

“Oh, I see. Well, I must admit it was probably more entertaining than dinner alone with Eamon.” His expression became dour at the mere thought.

“Is it truly so tedious? Even after all this time?” She turned to face him fully, the crowds around them forgotten for a moment. 

Alistair sighed and shrugged, looking off into the horizon. “We’ve become closer, but… we just haven’t been seeing eye to eye as much lately. He just can’t understand that I might actually have thoughts of my own, opinions and ideas that I think are better than his. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t trust me, or if he thinks I’m still too fragile after–” he cut himself off, reluctant to say more. “But you don’t want to hear about all of that.” The excitable energy he had carried at the start of the procession had faded slightly, and his shoulders slumped. 

“I’m sorry,” said Sybil in a low voice, moving closer so he could hear her. “I shouldn’t have asked. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been–”

“You don’t have to do that, Sybil. You weren’t here.” It was the first time he’d said her name aloud since she’d returned, and hearing it on his lips after so long was like taking the first full breath of air after being submerged underwater. 

Silence fell between them, and a shadow clouded Alistair’s face. Desperate to relieve the pall of gloom that had been cast over their conversation, Sybil added, “For what it’s worth, I believe in your ideas. Don’t be afraid to take charge more. You are the King, after all.”

His gaze softened as he looked into her eyes. “Every day I strive to be the King you made me. It’s no small feat, I tell you.”

“If this day is any indication, you’re doing a fine job. I mean it,” she said, as he gave her a doubtful look.  He seemed to accept her words, and the confident set to his shoulders returned. Sybil released a breath, glad she was able to boost his confidence. “Now, shouldn’t we get back to our adoring public?” she asked sarcastically, and turned to wave overenthusiastically at a young woman on the street corner. The woman gasped, giddy to be acknowledged, and tossed several flowers towards Sybil as the chariot passed by. She leaned forward and tried to reach them, but a gust of wind sent the flowers flying in Alistair’s direction. He deftly plucked one out of the air, and was halfway through handing it to her with a flourish when he stopped in his tracks, his face frozen. Sybil’s eyes traveled down from his shocked face to the flower in his hand, and she let out a small gasp when she realized what he was holding. The flower was a brilliant red rose, nearly identical to the one he had given her a lifetime ago. He held the rose up to his chest between the two of them, and looked down at it curiously. Sybil couldn’t move or say anything as the memories of that night came flooding back to her: how he had stammered and blushed his way through his speech, the breathlessness in his voice when he had called her rare and wonderful, how badly she had wanted to kiss him right then and there but held herself back. They both looked up at the same time, and Sybil could see clearly that his thoughts swam with memories as well. She tried desperately to think of something, anything to say to break the tension, but her mind was impossibly devoid of her usual silver-tongued words. She doubted whether it would be a good idea to take the rose from him. Suddenly, he cleared his throat, and extended the rose towards her slowly. 

“For you, my lady,” he said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. There was a passion in his eyes that she had not seen since the day she broke his heart, and she found herself reaching for the rose, her fingertips brushing Alistair’s hand ever so slightly. 

“Thank you,” she breathed, holding the rose to her chest with both hands. For a few precious moments, neither one could tear their gaze away from the other, but their reverie was abruptly broken by a shout from the street. A man clad in the armor of the King’s Guard approached the chariot on horseback. 

“Your Majesty, my lady! You have reached the end of the planned route for the procession. My men can take the chariot from here, and around the corner there is a carriage to take you home.” The man spoke in an authoritative voice, and more guards appeared behind him, ready to take the chariot from them. 

“Thank you, Captain. Your men have done well today,” the King thanked the soldier and turned to help Sybil down, but she had already taken off, moving as quickly as she could in the opposite direction that the soldiers had come from. “Sybil!” the King called out for her, but Sybil was already disappearing into the crowds. The King called her name again, yet she did not look back, for if she did he might have seen the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. 

Fifteen Years Earlier

Sybil stood next to her chestnut mare, Frida, as she packed everything she would need on the road into her saddle bag. Storm clouds obscured the first tendrils of light from the rising sun, so she bent close to the saddle so she could see what she was doing in just the torchlight. Rain drummed against the roof of the royal stables, and small leaks dripped onto her hands as she worked. She focused all her energy on tallying the mental list of items in her head, desperately trying to drown out thoughts of anything else. She repeated it to herself like a mantra: waterskin, dagger, lockpicks, bandages, the list went on. After a few minutes, having double and triple checked everything, she turned to retrieve her pack of rations when she saw the last person she wanted to see standing in the entryway. She wasn’t surprised he’d found her there, even though she had not explicitly told anyone she would be leaving today. He had always been able to read her like a diary to which only he had the key.

 Alistair’s hair was soaked from walking in the rain, turning it nearly as dark as the expression on his face. He hadn’t bothered to don his usual leathers that he wore around the palace, and he seemed so vulnerable dressed only in a white tunic and simple trousers. The sight of him, despite everything, still made her want to pull him into an empty stable and have her way with him right there in the hay. But the time for that had passed, so instead she wordlessly turned back to Frida to latch her rations onto the saddle. 

“You don’t have anything to say?” he asked, moving closer to her. “Were you really just going to leave without a word?” His voice was a desperate whisper, and Sybil’s heart ached to hear him sound so despairing. 

“The last time we spoke, you didn’t let me get a word in edgewise anyway,” she replied without looking at him. “I figured it would be easier for you if I just left.” She didn’t add that part of her had known he would come.

“Don’t patronize me,” he said as more heat crept into his tone. “It’s easier for you , to run away from this, from us, without facing the situation.” 

“You don’t understand, Alistair. It has to be this way, for both our sakes.” She still refused to look at him, for she was afraid one look into his eyes would crumble her resolve, as it had so many times before. 

“Then make me understand! Make me understand how you can just announce, ‘I’m going to Amaranthine and I’m not coming back,’ and expect me to be okay with it!” 

“You know why I’m making this decision! You said yourself after the Landsmeet that it would be better to break the bond between us then, and I should never have convinced you otherwise! It was selfish of me,” she said, and finally turned to face him, trying to keep her face as stoic as possible. “I was selfish to hold on to you for as long as I did. All of this would be so much easier if we had just–”

“It would never be easy to lose you,” he growled. His glower in the flickering torchlight was almost menacing. “Don’t you ever say any of this could be easy. And I was wrong after the Landsmeet. We don’t have to end things between us. I won’t have to marry for some time yet, and even when I do–”

“If the word ‘mistress’ escapes your lips, I will punch you, King Alistair,” she interjected, her hands clenching into fists. “I’ve told you that is not the path for us. You have to accept my feelings about that.” 

“Then damn it all, Sybil, let me marry you! Let me marry you, and you could go to Amaranthine as Warden-Commander afterwards. As Queen you would still have the freedom to come and go as you please,” he said, but Sybil was already shaking her head.

“You know we can’t do that,” she said under her breath. “You need a wife who will be there for you, help you manage the royal court, and bear your children. I will never be able to do those things for you.” He just shook his head at her, stubbornly refusing to see reason. Sybil could feel her temper rising, and she paced away from him into the stableyard. The early hour and the weather meant it was still empty for the moment, but she knew that it would soon fill with grooms starting their day. She needed to be away well before that happened. Alistair had followed her into the yard, the rain pelting both of their faces as he stood next to her. Neither of them spoke for a moment, just allowing the silence to sit between them uncomfortably.

“I won’t stay here, Alistair. I swore a vow. Not when there is important work to be done elsewhere,” she finally said. Not when I’ll have to give you to someone else one day , she thought to herself. 

“We both swore vows, Sybil. I know you have to go.  I’m just asking you not to completely abandon me. Please. I can’t do this without you,” he begged, and for a second Sybil thought she saw a tear mixed in with the raindrops running down his face. But his words belied exactly why she felt she must leave. He would always rely on her, always look to her for advice before coming to a decision, unless she took away the crutch she had become for him. Her emotional presence was just as much of a hindrance for him as her physical one would be. Sybil didn’t know why he couldn’t see that.

Her irritation at his persistence began to boil over into genuine anger. “You can do this without me, I promise. You just need to realize it for yourself! You’re still relying on me for everything! Man up and be the King, for Andraste’s sake!” The words left a bitter taste in her mouth, and Alistair recoiled from her as if she’d slapped him across the face. 

“You don’t really think that,” he said, displaying once again his uncanny ability to know what she was thinking.  Her heart cracked in two at his words, and as she looked into his pleading eyes she nearly gave in. But she couldn’t admit that to him, not when she needed him to finally let her go.

“I do,” she replied harshly, and his eyes widened in shock. “I can’t be your crutch anymore.”

“When you made me King, you promised me you would help me. You promised you would teach me how to deal with the nobles and dine with Orlesians without embarrassing myself. We were supposed to be in this together! What’s changed? Or don’t you love me anymore?” Alistair reached for her hand, his eyes desperate, but she pulled away and turned her back on him. There it was: the only thing she could tell him to make him give up on her for good. She knew what she had to do, but she couldn’t quite gather the strength to say the words. She closed her eyes and hugged her arms to her chest, wishing the rain would wash her away along with all of her troubles. 

“Sybil..?” Alistair’s voice broke as he said her name, and Sybil winced but did not turn around. 

Every passing moment was like a thousand knives piercing her skin, but she managed to whisper, “You should go, Alistair.” 

She heard him suck in his breath. “Look at me and say it,” he said, his voice flat. “If you want me to leave, look me in the eye and tell me to go. If you can do that, I’ll leave, and I won’t follow after you. You’ll be free of me forever.” He sounded utterly broken, and it took all of Sybil’s strength not to fly into his arms and beg him for forgiveness. She took a deep breath, and hardened her heart against all the turmoil she felt churning in her stomach. 

She turned to face him one last time, the drumming of the rain pounding in her ears. She said coldly, “Go, your Majesty. You’ll be late for the morning council meeting.” His face screwed up in equal parts anger and devastation. He looked down at her despondently for a few moments, and she thought for a moment he was going to continue arguing, but a sudden noise caused them both to jump. Two grooms had banged open a gate and come into the stableyard, but they had both stopped in their tracks upon seeing Sybil and Alistair standing before them. 

“Apologies, your Majesty,  milady! We didn’t mean to disturb you!” The grooms, neither of them much more than a boy, fell into overly deep bows. 

“Don’t worry boys,” said Alistair, falsely cheery. “I was just going.” He gave Sybil a gut-wrenchingly hard look, turned on his heel, and disappeared back into the stables. Sybil couldn’t help but let out a gasp when she lost sight of him, knowing a piece of her heart had gone with him. She didn’t think she’d ever get it back.

The memory of the day she broke things off with Alistair had overtaken her once she’d stumbled her way into a randomly chosen back alley just off the Market District. They had made their peace with each other at Divine Justinia’s ascension several years later, but her words to him that day still caused her pain. She still held the rose the King had given her during the procession tightly in her hand, for she hadn’t yet been able to bring herself to simply toss it aside somewhere.  She leaned against the wall of the tenement building that formed one side of the alley, and wiped her hand over her face to clear away any tears. She realized she had been foolish to think she could idly spend the day with the King without any consequences, emotional or otherwise. The past has a way of haunting the present, no matter how much time has passed or how hard one tries to run from it. The rose that had been a reminder of the good in her past only served to bring the bad back to the surface. She grit her teeth, and walked out of the alley into the market. It was quite busy due to the parade, and a little girl dashed towards her, chased by two little boys. The girl giggled and ran straight into her, and grabbed at her waist to hide behind her legs. Sybil smiled and indulged the child, holding her skirts out to the side to give the girl more cover. The two boys ran past them blindly, failing to notice their friend hiding behind Sybil. They continued around the corner and quickly were out of sight. “They’re gone,” said Sybil, and the little girl emerged from behind her. 

“Thank you, milady,” she said sweetly, and gave her the most adorable little curtsy. “I’m definitely going to win!”

“I’m sure you are,” replied Sybil. She considered the rose in her hand for a moment, then knelt so she was eye-level with the girl. Sybil felt a pang in her heart as she looked into golden brown eyes that were just like Alistair’s. “How would you like this as your prize?” She offered the rose to the girl, whose face lit up right away.

“Oh thank you, thank you! It’s so pretty!” She clapped her hands in delight and took the rose from Sybil. 

“Off you go then,” said Sybil. “Make sure you win, for us girls.” She winked at the girl and watched her run off back into the crowd. She felt a strange sense of loss as the girl left, though she had only known the girl for a few seconds. She sighed and shook her head, and began to make her way back to the Cousland estate to get ready for her meeting with the King that evening. She hoped he’d be understanding of the way she had taken off so suddenly, but if he wasn’t it probably wouldn’t matter either way. It was the least of the things he would never forgive her for. 

Chapter Text

Sybil trailed behind the footman leading her through the palace, trying to prolong the moment that she entered the King’s study as much as possible. She had treasured their time together that morning, and she knew that once she explained everything she had done over the last few years, once she opened that door, there would be no going back. That light that she had seen come into his eyes when he looked into hers at the calling of the Banns would disappear, and there was no telling when it might come back again, or if it would return at all. She lingered over each new portrait or tapestry they came across, pretending to have great interest in the way the King had redecorated since she had last spent time at the Palace. She found his tastes to her liking, his chosen decor giving the imposing castle a warmer and more inviting atmosphere. She had slowed down her pace so much that the footman had to wait at the end of the corridor, tapping his foot impatiently. It wasn’t as if Sybil needed his help to find her way – she had lived in this place as Chancellor for half a year after the Blight ended, after all. Nonetheless, she had yet to be allowed to find her way anywhere without the express aid of a servant, an annoyance that she was sure Eamon had something to do with.  

Finally, she caught up to the footman, turning the corner and seeing the door to the King’s study at the end of the hallway. “Thank you sir, I can find my way from here,” said Sybil to the footman, stopping in her tracks and smiling politely, trying her best to indicate she wished him to leave. She watched as the footman gave a reluctant bow and retreated back down the corridor, finally disappearing around a corner and leaving Sybil alone. She sighed and shuffled the many papers in her hands.  Notebooks containing records of her and Avernus’ experiments, spells and runes that they had tested on themselves, letters she had sent to Soldier’s Peak from her expeditions into the Deep Roads, and finally, laid out in strikingly simple terms, the process through which one could cure themselves of the Taint. It was all here: everything she had worked so hard to discover, all she had been forced to keep secret.  She had painstakingly gathered each page with Paidel before leaving Soldier’s Peak and transcribed anything not already written down, determined that there should be a physical record of her discovery. Part of her wondered if her meticulous notetaking had really been so that she would not have to do the hard work of explaining everything to Alistair herself. Perhaps it would be better to drop off her notes and then scurry off home like the coward she knew she was.

 Looking up from her papers as she approached the study door, Sybil gave herself a start as she suddenly saw her own face reflected back at her in its polished bronze embossment. She didn’t know what she would have expected to see, but the person she saw in the reflection felt foreign to her somehow. It wasn’t that she was wearing a corseted dress and circlet instead of her Warden armor; she had come to terms with her new wardrobe. The person in the reflection just seemed so much… older, with lines around her eyes and a tired, exasperated sort of expression. She ran one hand through her hair, tugging at the braids by her temples, giving in to her vanity for a moment. Did she just spot a gray hair? Sybil leaned in closer, trying to see, when the door flew open, making her stumble forward clumsily. Her papers slipped from her hands and landed all over the feet of the person who had opened the door, Arl Bryland. He silently raised an eyebrow at her as she bent down, hastily gathering her notes as she heard a voice from within the study. “I beg of you to reconsider this, my King. What would the van Markhams think of you having a private meeting with an eligible Fereldan noblewoman?” Bann Ceorlic’s unmistakable whine set Sybil’s teeth on edge. Rising to her feet, she gave Arl Bryland an apologetic smile and curtsied awkwardly in the doorway, cursing herself for skipping out on her mother’s comportment lessons as a child. The King sat behind his desk, running his hands through his sandy hair in annoyance and rolling his eyes at Bann Ceorlic, who was sitting in the chair in front of him, leaning both hands on the King’s desk. Sybil wondered who the van Markhams were, but didn’t feel that this was the moment to ask.

“If the van Markhams have any brains at all, they will realize that I am taking a meeting with my former Chancellor and Grey Warden comrade, not just any noblewoman,” he replied sharply. Alistair caught Sybil’s eye and shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if to apologize for Bann Ceorlic’s words. “Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to be alone with Lady Sybil.” 

“Come, Ceorlic,” said Arl Bryland, waving the other man over. “Let’s find ourselves something to eat, eh?” He bowed to Sybil and the King, then shepherded the still grumbling Bann Ceorlic from the room. The door closed behind them with a clang, then Alistair and Sybil were finally alone. The two stared at each other awkwardly for a moment, neither one sure who should speak first.  

“You –” started Alistair.

“So –” began Sybil.

They both laughed, their clumsy attempt to begin conversation reminding Sybil of the way they had once stumbled around talking to each other. Sybil shivered slightly, her nerves not being helped by the chill she felt in the room. Her dress, a flimsy, loose thing, didn’t make matters much better. Alistair immediately noticed the way she hugged her arms to her chest uncomfortably, and stood from his seat behind his desk.

“Are you cold? I can start a fire, if you wish. Please, sit.” Alistair gestured to the fireplace in the corner of the room. 

“That would be nice, thank you,” replied Sybil, pulling out the chair in front of her while Alistair got up to start the fire. “I’m sorry for the way I disappeared on you this morning. I was just… in the mood for a walk.” The excuse was terrible, but Alistair nodded, humming in assent.  “I hope Bann Ceorlic wasn’t giving you too much trouble because of me,” she said softly, as she watched him bend down to grab several logs from a basket next to the fireplace. 

“No more trouble than when he refused to support us at the Landsmeet, at least,” said Alistair, chuckling to himself as he tossed the logs into the hearth. “You know he always finds a way to complain about something in his old age,” he continued, smiling to himself gently, only to look up to see the slight look of confusion on Sybil’s face. “Or, I guess, you wouldn’t really know that. Since you haven’t been here in a while.” Alistair’s face became downcast, and he turned back towards the fireplace. 

Sybil’s suppressed emotions came flooding to the surface at his words. She regretted leaving Alistair to rule by himself so deeply, but what could she tell him that wouldn’t just sound like an excuse? She still believed in her heart it had been the best thing for them both, but it was a hard conviction to hold true to when she was confronted with Alistair himself. Once again, she wondered if coming back at all had been the best idea. Hadn’t avoidance been the goal, when she let him think that she no longer loved him all those years ago? To put Alistair as far out of her mind as possible, so that they both had a chance to move on? Yet as she watched him fiddle clumsily with the flintstone, she wanted so desperately to pour her heart out to him, to unload all of the burdens she had been carrying these past years with no reservations. At the same time, she also knew that that couldn’t possibly be fair to him, or the struggles he had faced ruling alone for fifteen years. She could not bring herself to drag him back into the tragedy that was their doomed relationship. So instead, Sybil took a deep breath, and answered him in the most measured tone she could muster, “Yes, well. It doesn’t seem that so much has changed since I left. Except for your excellent new decorator!” She had been going for levity, a way to ease into conversation, but Alistair’s face dropped once again at her words. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, seeming to steady himself before answering. 

“Queen Alice redid all the decor after we married,” he said, and struck at the flintstone harder, finally succeeding in bringing the fire to life. “She had much better taste than me.” Alistair stared into the fire for a moment before getting up, his expression much harder than it had been a moment ago. Sybil opened her mouth to offer her condolences, but the King held up a hand, silencing her. The mention of Queen Alice erected a wall between them, the ease of their conversations that morning gone with the setting sun. He settled back into his seat behind the desk, his posture perfect, suddenly every bit the imposing ruler she imagined many a noble and foreign dignitary had seen from her place across from him. He leaned forward, his brow furrowed, and asked, “So, shall we begin? I assume you asked for this meeting to explain where you’ve been all this time, and why you’re back now.” His bluntness caught Sybil off guard, and she stuttered for a moment before she could respond properly.

“Oh – yes – well, that is – you see, I – oh, it’s no use.” Sybil shook her head, tossing her pile of papers onto his desk in exasperation. It seemed that breaking her news to him slowly was out of the scope of her abilities. “I might as well just come out and say it,” she sighed, pushing strands of hair that had come loose from her braids out of her face. “As you know, I left the Grey Wardens under the command of Nathaniel Howe some years ago. I did that because… I wanted to focus on finding a cure for the Taint. I announced at the calling of the Banns that I have left the Grey Wardens because I have since discovered that cure.” She clasped her hands together in her lap to stop them from shaking, and watched as the King recoiled from her in shock. He rose from his seat incredulously, then began to pace the room back and forth. He raised both of his hands to grasp the sides of his head and shook it vigorously, as if trying to snap himself out of a dream. 

“Say it again,” the King said, turning back to her suddenly. 

“I found the cure for the Taint,” Sybil repeated. She knew he would need time before her news truly sunk in. “It was no easy task, and we lost much, but we succeeded in the end.”

He let out one short, harsh laugh, pacing the room with an even greater fervor. “And you’re sure it works? You’re absolutely sure?” He almost skidded to halt in front of her, but his eyes darted all around the room, his mind clearly racing. When Sybil nodded, he laughed again, the same brusk sound that was decidedly unlike him. He was clearly still in disbelief, but even so, there was something unsettling about the almost bitter expression he had taken on. It was not the initial reaction she had been expecting, to say the least.  The King began pacing again, slower this time, lost in thought. Finally, he looked up. “But how did you do it? Where did you find it?” 

“I didn’t just find it, exactly. We created it. At Soldier’s Peak,” said Sybil haltingly. The conversation was starting to head into dangerous waters now. This was it. The moment she’d been dreading ever since she had stepped into the Great Hall at the Royal Palace, ever since she’d left for Denerim, ever since she’d found the bloody cure. Her stomach began to churn. 

“Soldier's Peak? Isn’t that where we found that blood mage who’d been keeping himself alive by experimenting on his fellow Wardens? Aver-whatsit?” He stopped pacing as he slowly turned to look at her in confusion. 

“Avernus, yes. He and I –”

“You worked with him? The blood mage that betrayed his friends?” He cut off Sybil’s attempt to begin an explanation, his voice rising in disbelief. He took several slow steps towards her, but his hands balled into fists at his side. Sybil stood as he approached, determined to stand her ground long enough to finish the whole story. 

“I needed his expertise to be able to find the cure. His knowledge of the Taint alone was invaluable in our research–”

“And what research was that, hmm? More nasty blood magic experiments?” he said, half-joking, but upon seeing Sybil’s hesitant expression he shook his head in disbelief. Alistair’s cheeks grew flushed, and his eyes flashed dangerously. “Sybil. Tell me exactly what you did to create this… cure. Now.” 

“We never tested anything on anyone who didn’t volunteer! Avernus and I – we always made sure to use the least amount of blood possible when we tried out new spells. And there were plenty of other Wardens who wanted to rid themselves of the Taint just as badly as I did!” Sybil’s voice pitched defensively, and her hands began to shake in spite of her attempts to keep them still. 

Alistair’s jaw dropped in shock, his face utterly bewildered. “We? You talk as if you cast the blood magic spells yourself! Maker, Sybil, You aren’t even a mage! Don’t tell me you found some way to–”

“Alistair, don’t be ridiculous, I’m not a blood mage! Avernus and his assistant would cast the spells and I helped craft the theory behind them based on what the Architect told me he’d discovered. The Architect is–”

“I know who that is. It’s the talking darkspawn that started the Blight. I do read the Grey Warden reports sometimes, you know,”  Alistair said derisively. “You tracked him down?” 

“I had to! I had to chase down every lead I could think of if I wanted to stand a chance of curing the Taint. It took me years to do, I traveled all over the Deep Roads, and without his help we never would have figured out the missing piece, why our spells kept going wrong.” Sybil desperately wanted him to stop looking at her like she’d just killed a mabari puppy in front of him. She could feel her composure beginning to slip.

“Going wrong? What happened when your spells failed? Did people get hurt?” Alistair crossed his arms over his chest and took a step back from her, his expression cold. Sybil closed her eyes, sighing. When she opened them, Alistair had taken another step away from her, as if he would be tainted by merely being in her presence. “Sybil, tell me what happened, please,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. His face had contorted with fear, clearly dreading her answer to his question.

Sybil turned away from him and moved closer to the fire. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth to his face. “One of us… Warden McGrimmie. He joined us after we saved Amaranthine from the darkspawn, but he was the oldest of all of us. He was hearing his Calling, the true one, not the false one sent by Corypheus. He was so desperate for a way out, a way to go home to his family… I told him we weren’t ready, that we needed more time, but that’s the one thing he didn’t have.” As she mentioned the Calling, she heard Alistair’s sharp intake of breath behind her. She wondered for a moment how bad the false Calling had been for him, if he’d had the same relentless, horrific nightmares she did, before carrying on. “He begged and begged for us to try something on him, anything, if it gave him even the slightest chance… and like a fool, I eventually agreed. We began the ritual, and for some time it seemed to be working, but…” she trailed off, not wanting to go into the details of McGrimmie’s death. It had been hard enough to live through once. She could still hear McGrimmie’s death rattle as he choked on his own blood, could still feel the heat of his funeral pyre on her face. She looked back at Alistair, and his face was thunderous, all traces of fear wiped away.

“He died!? You killed one of your friends!? How could you let that happen?” Alistair growled, his tone devastatingly accusatory.

At this, Sybil felt color rising to her cheeks, struck by a wave of anger crashing over her. “Right, because I set out to let one of my comrades die! I did everything I could to convince McGrimmie to wait, but–”

“You are no better than Avernus, Sybil! You used blood magic – you experimented on people – and just thought, what? That you’d come back here, after abandoning all of us for years to do this , and I’d be grateful? Did you honestly think I’d want anything to do with any of it?” He gesticulated in her direction wildly and seized a fistful of his hair with his right hand, as he was prone to doing when truly upset. He let out another humorless laugh. “I don’t know what I expected when I realized you’d come back. You’ve always come and gone whenever you pleased, with no mind to how it affects the people around you. When we became Grey Wardens we swore to protect people, not use them as pawns! How could you have forgotten that?” Alistair asked, and his eyes searched her face, but if he had been looking for shame or regret there, he would have found none. 

Sybil scoffed and shook her head, narrowing her eyes as a fury resonating from deep within her chest overtook her desire to remain civil. Through gritted teeth, she snarled,“How dare you judge me? You, who stands to gain the most from my discovery! You know nothing of what I’ve been through, or the sacrifices I’ve made!” She pointed her finger at him accusingly, taking several menacing steps toward him. “You haven’t been a true Grey Warden in over a decade, but you claim to know what’s best for us? That we deserve to suffer the Taint forever, if the means to escape it requires blood magic? So quickly you play the judge, safe here in your Palace!” Sybil spat the last sentence bitterly, and Alistair’s eyes widened in shock and hurt at her words. She hadn’t planned to rise to his inevitable condemnation of her methods, but something in her had simply snapped. Everything she had suppressed until this moment, every feeling of loss, isolation, and despair all coalesced into a torrent of emotion that threatened to drown her. 

The rage that she felt within was now reflected on Alistair’s face. With a voice full of venom, he replied, “You sound just like Teyrn Loghain did! At least I didn’t become the very thing we fought against! How many blood mages did we kill in the Circle Tower? One nearly killed Eamon, but you would just forget all of that so easily?” In one step, he moved close enough to loom over her.

“ I don’t allow grudges to stop me from acting in the name of the greater good.” She hurled the words at him like her daggers, and their weight hung in the air, neither one of them able to say anything more. The logical part of her regretted using his insistence on executing Loghain against him, after all this time, but she did not take it back. It was his fault he’d decided to raise the specter of Loghain in the first place.

They stood glaring at each other in silence for a few moments, their faces inches away from each other. Sybil could feel her cheeks burning, the heat of the fire and her anger making her desperate for some fresh air.  Alistair’s face was drawn, and he shook his head slightly, casting his eyes to the ceiling. They were both breathing heavily, struggling to reign in their emotions. “Whatever you might think of me,” he began, “I cannot condone what you’ve done. I cannot use blood magic to cure myself of the Taint, no matter how badly I want to be free of it. I can’t just take risks without thinking of the consequences anymore.” Alistair took one more deep breath, and his features returned to the stoic and imposing expression he had worn at the start of their conversation.

Sybil sighed, looking down dejectedly upon hearing his words. She knew he was referring to that dreadful night on the eve of their final battle, when she had forced him into Morrigan’s bed to save both of their lives. She knew the consequences of that choice must haunt him to this very day, for they certainly did her. She had always known this was a possibility, that he might refuse to take the cure, but hearing him say it felt like losing him all over again. As she lifted her head to meet his gaze, she saw in his eyes a resolution that meant his mind was made up, that there was no use trying to sway his course. “I didn’t come here seeking your approval,” Sybil said, her voice shaking slightly. “I only wanted you to know the truth. To know your options. I owed you that much.” She took a step back from him, raising her hands in surrender. “I’ve done what I came here to do. I won’t stay here and argue about it with you any longer.” She looked over at her papers on his desk and wondered whether she ought to take them back, but decided to leave them where they were. 

“I’ll leave for Highever this week. We needn’t see much more of each other in the future,” Sybil continued flatly, her anger having dimmed to an ache in her chest. She felt as if he had taken a carving knife to her body and hollowed her from the inside out.

The King clasped his hands together behind his back, and replied in an equally dull tone, “I think that would be for the best.” The hole in Sybil’s chest grew into a yawning cavern, and she desperately wanted to escape the study, which was becoming stuffier by the second. 

Sybil gave a quick curtsy and said, “Goodbye, your Majesty. For what it’s worth, I wish you well.” She turned her back on him and pulled open the door, and she was nearly through it when she heard his voice from behind her.

“Sybil, wait!” he called out, and she turned her head over her shoulder to raise one eyebrow at him, her right hand still on the doorknob. He didn’t make a sound for a moment, just considered her with his brow furrowed like she was a curiosity in a traveling exhibition. Finally, he spoke.

“What is it like?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. Sybil shook her head at him, not understanding his question. 

“Being… cured. Living free of the Taint. What’s it like?” 

“It’s…” Sybil struggled to find the words to describe it, unsure if she even could. Eventually, she said, “Everything is just… softer. My body, my mind, the outside world… It’s like I had been walking on coals for the last fifteen years, and now I’ve finally reached the sand.” 

The King nodded, taking in her words. “I see. Thank you for– well, thank you for telling me.” He wouldn’t meet her eye any longer, and he slowly crossed the room to stand in front of the fireplace. As he looked into the fire, he said, “Farewell, Lady Sybil. I wish you well, too.” He spoke with a finality that indicated to Sybil she could take her leave. Sybil stared at his back as she briefly contemplated saying something else, but her better instincts won out and she kept silent. She let out a shaky breath, set her shoulders, and walked away, closing the door behind her with a purposeful thud. 

She tried to restrain herself to a brisk stride instead of a run as she made her way through the corridors, afraid of bumping into any noblemen or Maker forbid, Eamon. The sun had nearly set, and the last embers of twilight cast shadows around each corner. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she blinked them away aggressively. What little remained of her composure dangled over the edge of a cliff, but she couldn’t break down in the middle of the palace, she absolutely refused. Finally, she made it to the courtyard, which was blessedly empty of anyone save a few grooms tending to the horses that pulled the royal carriage. They bowed to her as she passed, but she only gave them the briefest of nods before hurrying out of the gates. She regretted telling Peter that he didn’t need to wait for her with her family carriage, now faced with the prospect of walking all the way back to the Cousland estate alone. She had thought she would be appreciative of the time to herself, but it was getting harder and harder to breathe in her dress, her corset pressing tighter on her ribcage with each passing moment.  The hot tears that she had been able to hold back until that moment began to fall, and Sybil had to stop walking to press her hands into her face, sobbing into them in devastation. She couldn’t get the image of Alistair’s disgusted face out of her mind, couldn’t stop hearing his words of rejection over and over. He’d looked at her like she was a stranger, and in a way, she supposed they were. It had never been more clear that the distance between them had grown into a vast, impassable ocean. She had always known this was where the path she had been on was leading, but it didn’t make her arrival there any easier to bear. She felt utterly adrift, completely lacking in any purpose whatsoever. 

Sybil eventually composed herself, and continued traipsing down the northern road toward the Cousland estate. She silently thanked the Maker that the buildings surrounding the Royal Palace were the property of other noblemen and women, so there was almost no one else on the streets with her as the sun had now set. No one was around to bear witness to how foolish she must look, walking alone after dark with tear tracks running down her face. She allowed her melancholy to consume her, paying hardly any attention to her surroundings.

 Eventually, she made it to the Drakon River. The light of the moons shone so brightly she could see the moons and stars reflected in the surface of the water. She stood by the water’s edge and traced the constellations in her mind, each one reminding her of a different night on the road she had spent teaching Alistair its position in the sky. She realized she was directly beneath Sacrifice, the constellation of a young girl, sent into the skies by her father to escape a mage who wished to take her for his own. Part of her wished that she too could escape into the stars, wandering peacefully forever with her head in the clouds. She much preferred the sound of that to the idea of returning to Highever to play second fiddle to her brother, the beloved Teyrn. Everything she had done from the time she had set out to discover the cure for the Taint had been to get to this moment– find the cure, share it with the other Wardens, let the King know. Not once had she stopped to consider what she might do with herself once she achieved those goals. The mere idea of finding the cure had seemed so distant, so impossible, that planning beyond it hurt to even think about. She turned her gaze to the stars once again, and hoped that she might find some inspiration in the midnight blue depths of the sky. 

She didn’t know how long she spent staring at the stars, pondering the best way to make a real life for herself as Lady Sybil Cousland. Eventually, a chill began to form in the air, and as she had nothing but her dress to protect her from the elements, Sybil decided she had better make it back to her estate. Her head at least somewhat cleared, she took a few steps in the direction of the bridge to the northern half of the city when she heard a sudden noise from behind her. She spun around, looking for the source of the noise, but the cobblestone streets and dark alleyways seemed as empty as they had been when she first reached the river. She could have sworn she heard the metallic slice of a sword being removed from its scabbard, but there was no one in sight. She turned once again and began to head across the bridge, when she felt the cold sting of a knife at her throat.

Chapter Text

The knife pressed into Sybil’s skin, its sharp edge a hair away from tearing open her throat. She felt a hand squeeze her left arm, pulling her flush against someone’s chest. A man’s voice snarled in her ear, “Move one muscle, and I’ll carve you a new smile to go with those pretty lips of yours.” Sybil jerked her head away, the man’s hot breath on her neck sending shivers down her spine. She tried to struggle against the man’s grip in vain, but he just cackled and gripped her harder by the waist, pinning her arms to her sides and rendering her immobile. Two more men appeared from the shadows, clad in rough leathers and armed with daggers that glinted menacingly in the moonlight. 

“Well done, Miguel! You’ve caught us such a pretty fish tonight! Just look at how her scales shimmer!” The man who had spoken stepped further into the light, his wicked smile revealing several missing teeth. His weather-beaten skin wrinkled around his eyes as he smiled, one of which was crossed by a jagged red scar. He crossed the bridge to stand directly in front of Sybil, and looked her up and down as if eyeing a piece of meat in a butcher's shop. He reached over and plucked Sybil’s circlet from her head, and turned it over in his hands to admire the craftsmanship. “Ah, but these are fine jewels indeed! Do you not think so, Rayzel?” He turned to the third man, who was still lurking on the other side of the bridge.

 At his words, Rayzel responded, “Oh I agree, Fiero. We should make sure she isn’t hidin’ any more of ‘em!” Fiero grinned slyly, his face lighting up at the idea. He stashed the circlet in his pack, then seized Sybil’s hips and began to paw over her sides, as if he expected to find jewelry underneath the folds of her dress. 

“You’re making a huge mistake,” growled Sybil. As Fiero bent to grope further down her legs, she lifted her knee sharply, hitting him squarely in the jaw. She was a fool for walking the streets at night without a blade, but she would be damned if she wasn’t going to put up a fight anyway. Fiero staggered back with a yell, flailing his arms, but Miguel responded by pressing his knife harder into her throat. Sybil was forced to tilt her head back awkwardly to avoid cutting herself on the blade. 

“You stupid bitch,” spat Fiero, as he stood up straight once again and rubbed angrily at his jaw. Rayzel had come forward when she kneed Fiero, and the both of them loomed over her while Miguel held her ever tighter from behind. “I know you’re hiding your money somewhere. You nobles never leave the house without a purse full of gold. We didn’t follow you all the way from the Palace for nothing!” 

It surprised Sybil to hear they had followed her that far. Taint or no, she was usually able to tell when she was being tailed. She silently cursed herself for allowing her emotions to consume her so completely. In the fifteen years she had spent fighting off all sorts of horrors as a Grey Warden, she had never once been caught so unawares. There was only one small consolation– the thieves would find nothing else of value to rob from her. The circlet was the only jewelry she wore, and she had had no need of a money purse to carry on her person that morning. The thieves, however, didn’t need to know that just yet. Her only advantage lay in the fact that they were desperate for money, and had no idea she could defend herself if she got ahold of a weapon.

“I’ll never tell you where it is,” sneered Sybil, in a haughty voice that she hoped made her sound like the wealthiest person in Denerim. “Even if you strip me bare, it would still be hidden right under your noses.” Rayzel and Fiero exchanged a skeptical glance. 

“I guess we’ll just have to see if you’re lyin’ then, won’t we?” Rayzel smirked and grabbed the sleeve of Sybil’s dress, pulling it down so her shoulder was exposed. 

“Wait!” she interjected, and allowed a note of fear to creep into her voice. “I would rather preserve my honor and dignity, if you please.” The thieves grinned at each other in satisfaction. 

“Well, then! Show us the money, little lady,” said Fiero impatiently. 

“Your friend here will have to remove his knife from my throat if I am to retrieve it,” said Sybil, “For it is in a rather… delicate place.” All she needed was a split second of freedom to grab one of Fiero’s daggers from his belt, then she stood a chance of giving these thugs what was coming to them. Fiero looked at Miguel uncertainly, then sighed and waved his hand to signal Miguel should release her.  Miguel took a step back and let her go, even doing her the favor of sheathing his dagger at his side. Sybil bent down to her feet, and tried to surreptitiously take in her surroundings to find the best escape route. She pretended to fiddle with her petticoats, but shifted her weight forward onto her toes, prepared to strike. 

“Hurry up, woman! We haven’t got all night,” grumbled Fiero, and crossed his arms over his chest. Seeing her chance, Sybil leapt to her feet, and snatched the dagger out of Fiero’s belt. She struck at him with the blade as hard as she could in the side and he doubled over in pain, then fell forward into Miguel’s chest. Rayzel lunged to try to grab her by the wrist to seize the stolen dagger, but Sybil darted out of his reach with a quick step to his right. She took advantage of his momentary loss of balance to swipe at his feet with her left foot, which sent him crashing to the ground. His chin made a rather satisfying crunching sound as he collided with the pavement. Miguel, who had managed to shove Fiero aside, brandished his knife and stepped forward. He was the tallest and bulkiest of the three men, and Sybil knew she would not be able to trip him up as easily as she had the other two. He snarled and launched himself at her. With only one dagger, it was all Sybil could do to parry his attacks, but she managed to hold him off. The clanging of their blades echoed across the bridge, and the harsh metallic sound made Sybil’s heart race. Rayzel clambered to his feet and Fiero began crawling towards her, clutching his side, blood dripping through his fingers. Sybil knew she would be in real trouble if she didn’t find an opening to make her escape. She had little hope of taking on all three of them at once, even with Fiero injured, as experienced a fighter as she was. 

“What’s the matter, big guy? Can’t handle a silly little woman?” Sybil taunted Miguel, trying to bait him into striking at her more aggressively. With a loud roar he charged towards her, and she only just managed to dodge his strike, his knife missing her cheek by inches. But her plan had worked – Miguel had overextended his reach in his charge. Sybil grabbed hold of his shoulders and threw herself towards the ground – and between his legs. She dropped to her knees underneath Miguel’s crotch as he tumbled over her head and stumbled into Rayzel in the process. Her path to the other side of the river now free and clear, Sybil rose to her feet and raced across the bridge, finally free of her attackers.

 At least, that’s what she would have done if she hadn’t felt a hard yank on the folds of her dress as she took her first step. Sybil yelled as she pitched forward and flung her hands out to catch herself as she fell. The dagger went flying out of her hands as she landed on her hands and knees. She grimaced and looked over her shoulder to see Fiero on his knees, grinning triumphantly with a fistful of her skirts in his outstretched hand. She heard footsteps on the bridge, and within moments Rayzel and Miguel stood over her, glowering. Miguel yanked her head up by her hair, and Sybil let out a cry of pain as the others laughed cruelly. “So, the pretty little noble knows how to use a blade, hmm? Too bad you’re not very good,” Miguel mocked, as she tried to bat him away with her hands to no avail. Rayzel kicked her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her completely. She gasped for breath and darted her eyes around wildly, desperately trying to find a way out of the predicament she was in. She swore to herself that if she made it out of this, she would have the hems on all her dresses taken in two inches, stylishness be damned.

Fiero managed to bring himself to his feet, though he still clutched at the wound she’d left on his side. “Tried to con us, did you? I’m almost impressed,” he wheezed. “But now, I’m out of patience, little lady. I think we’ll just search you ourselves!” 

“Maybe we should just toss her in the river and be done wi’ it,” said Rayzel. “What if we don’t find nothin’? Sybil paled at the idea of a late night swim in the Drakon River. Its currents churned rapidly beneath their feet. 

“No! I swear to the Maker we’ll get some use out of her. If we can’t find her purse then we’ll take her with us for ransom,” Fiero said angrily. He reached down and yanked at the strings at the front of her dress, and its neckline fell away to expose the shift she wore underneath. Sybil swung her head back and forth in a desperate attempt to keep away from Fiero and Rayzel’s grasping hands, but it was no use.

“You’ll regret this,” Sybil muttered darkly, and closed her eyes, ready to accept her fate. Just as the two men were about to tear her dress away from her chest, the sound of hoofbeats could be heard coming from the other side of the bridge. Sybil opened her eyes to see a man in full armor on horseback riding up to the four of them. Sybil realized he must be a city guardsman or a knight on patrol, and hope suddenly sparked in her chest.

“What is the meaning of this!? Unhand her at once!” The man leapt down from his horse and removed his helmet to reveal light blond hair, a thick beard, and a stern expression. Fiero and Rayzel quickly stepped back from Sybil, and Miguel released his grip on her hair. 

“We didn’t mean her any harm, Ser,” said Fiero, all swagger gone from his voice. “We found her like this and were just trying to lend a helping hand! You know how these… women of the night are,” he said to the man conspiratorially. Thankfully, he looked unconvinced. 

Still, Fiero’s bald-faced lie enraged Sybil, and she shot to her feet. “These lying thieves were trying to rob me,” she announced to the man. “I am of noble blood and I demand you render me aid.” She tugged at the strings of her dress to cover her chest, and realized her state of relative undress did not exactly make her look less like she belonged in a brothel. She straightened her dress and looked at the blond man imploringly. She did not want to declare who exactly she was in front of the thieves, so she had to hope that the man would recognize she was indeed a noble on his own. As he considered the strange group before him, she saw Rayzel creep behind the man, and slowly begin to reach for the sword at his side.

“Look out!” Sybil cried out, and pointed to Rayzel. The man spun around, his hand already pulling his sword from its sheath. Fiero and Rayzel both drew their weapons and faced the knight, and Miguel tried once again to grab Sybil from behind. Ready for it this time, Sybil swerved out of his grip and sent a punch crashing upwards into Miguel’s nose. It connected with a sickening snap, and Miguel groaned in pain, staggering backwards while clutching his nose as it gushed blood. His head hit the parapet of the bridge with a thud, and Miguel slid to the ground with his eyes closed. 

Sybil ran to pick up the dagger she had dropped when Fiero tripped her. The knight had taken on Rayzel and Fiero at once, and he sliced his sword through the air between each man while the other was kept at bay with his shield. He parried each strike from one of the thieves with keen and precise movements, his form impressive. Sybil waited for the right moment to join the fray, and readjusted her grip on Fiero’s dagger anxiously. Suddenly, Rayzel managed to get behind the knight, and kicked at the back of his knees. The man gave a shout and fell to one knee, and Fiero bashed the side of his face with the hilt of his dagger. The man lowered his shield for a second, but it allowed Fiero to snatch it out of his hands and toss it to the side. Rayzel laughed, and seized the man by the neck. He lifted his blade, about to draw it across the man’s throat, when Sybil launched Fiero’s dagger directly at Rayzel in a desperate attempt to head off the man’s untimely demise. End over end, it arched perfectly through the air, and it buried itself soundly in Rayzel’s chest. He clutched at the dagger with both hands, and a small gasp issued from his mouth. Free from Rayzel’s clutches, the knight launched himself at Fiero and tackled him to the ground. Blood began to bubble from Rayzel’s lips, and he convulsed as he fell to the ground on his side. All three thieves subdued, the knight got to his feet and wiped at the side of his face that Fiero had struck. He leaned over Fiero, who lay helplessly on the ground beneath the man’s feet. “Do you yield?” he asked, placing one foot atop Fiero’s chest. 

“I yield, I yield! Please sir, don’t hurt me!” Fiero whined, pathetically groveling for his life. 

The knight turned toward Sybil, who had been staring down at Rayzel as he sputtered and gasped, his blood pooling on the cobblestones. She was used to killing beasts and darkspawn, but every time she had to claim a man’s life it transported her right back to the day she had watched Arl Howe die at her hand. The desperate gasps for breath that would not come, hands clawing at the wound as the body shook and spasmed – death could find a person in many ways, but the end was always the same. Her face must have looked stricken, because the knight called out to her, “My lady? Are you alright?” 

Sybil snapped out of her reverie and met the knight’s eye. She realized there was something familiar about the sound of his voice, but she couldn’t quite place it. “Oh, yes. I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” She moved away from Rayzel, who had gone deathly still, to stand next to the man. 

“You are the wounded party, my lady. What would you have me do with these ruffians?” As the knight spoke he dug his heel deeper into Fiero’s chest, who whimpered pitifully. Miguel groaned from his spot a little further up the bridge, and held his head in his hands. Sybil realized that she did not have the energy to deal with dragging the thieves to the city guard or explaining to any authorities how she had been caught unawares. 

“For Andraste’s sake, just let them go. They didn’t even manage to do any real harm,” said Sybil. A bone-deep tiredness had taken over her body, and she wanted nothing more than to make it back to her estate for a hot meal and the warm embrace of her bed. 

“Are you sure, my lady?” asked the knight, his hesitant tone clearly suggesting he thought that course of action unwise. “Who knows what else these thugs might get up to if we let them go!” 

“I’m sure,” replied Sybil. “I’d just like to go home now.” The knight let out an exasperated sigh and pulled Fiero to his feet. Fiero looked around sheepishly, his eyes passing over Rayzel’s unmoving body without concern. Clearly that had not been a particularly close relationship, Sybil noted, shaking her head. Miguel managed to get to his feet as well, but he swayed awkwardly and leaned on the parapet for support. 

“The lady does you a kindness that I would not offer,” remarked the knight. “I recommend you make good use of it and don’t let me catch you at this ever again. And take care of that.” He pointed at Rayzel’s body without looking at it. 

“Of course, ser knight, of course. A thousand blessings upon you, my lady. I thank you most humbly.” Fiero sank into a bow, and began to back away from them down the bridge while Miguel lurched over to where Rayzel lay. 

“Ahem,” Sybil cleared her throat loudly. “I think you are forgetting something,” she said, and stretched out her hand expectantly. 

Fiero frowned for a moment, then suddenly realized what she was talking about. “Ah! Of course,” he chuckled, and reached into his pack to retrieve her circlet. “Here you are, my lady.” Sybil took the circlet from him, inspected it to make sure all of its jewels were still there, and rather pointedly placed it back around her forehead. “Now, we will take our leave, yes? Come, Miguel!” Miguel hauled Rayzel’s limp body over his shoulder, and the two men retreated down the bridge. Sybil and the knight watched them go until the two thieves and their dead friend disappeared into the shadows. 

The two of them looked at each other a moment, neither sure how to respond to what had just happened. In spite of her exhaustion, Sybil started to chuckle. It grew stronger and stronger until her sides ached from a full on belly laugh. The knight stared at her incredulously, then he too began to laugh, a deep-throated guffaw that only sent Sybil into more fits of laughter. She tried to get out a few words of thanks, but each time she opened her mouth to speak she was quickly overcome. The utter absurdity of the past day only sank in right at that moment. Leading a royal procession with the King, arguing with him about blood magic, and being accosted by thieves – Sybil could never have predicted that this is what she’d be doing with her time mere months ago. Part of her thought she would never have cause to come to Denerim again, and now, here she was fending off random thugs as if she was a young girl running errands for the city guard once again. Except this time, the damned fools had nearly gotten the better of her! Sybil Cousland, the great Hero of Ferelden, had nearly ended up walking the streets in the middle of the night in nothing but her smallclothes! The thought only made her laugh harder, so hard that she had to bend down and place her hands on her knees. Sybil looked up at the knight, whose mirthful expression made him seem much younger, and managed to say between each burst of laughter, “Those… were the worst thieves… I’ve ever… seen!” 

The knight smiled widely, and replied, “Is it often that thieves persist in their attempts to rob you when confronted with even the slightest resistance? No doubt they made the mistake of thinking you were easy prey.”

“Well, they did nearly have me. If you hadn’t come along, none save the Maker could have gotten me out of that.” Sybil shook her head, embarrassed to remember how easily they had overpowered her.

“They nearly had me, too! That dagger throw was most well-timed, indeed.” The knight rubbed the back of his neck, just as embarrassed as Sybil was. 

“So they managed to bring both of us to our knees, and yet they still didn’t make off with a single thing! I’ve never seen a more uncoordinated gang of thieves in my life,” Sybil said, laughing again. 

“Well, they can’t have been all that bad, if they managed to surprise the great Hero of Ferelden,” replied the knight, giving her a knowing look.

 Sybil straightened up, and gave the knight a wry grin. “So you recognize me, do you? That hardly seems fair, as you have yet to properly introduce yourself.” 

“My apologies, my lady. I suppose it was foolish of me to expect you to remember me, having only met you in a… similarly inopportune circumstance. I am Bann Oswyn, of Dragon’s Peak.” 

Sybil grasped his shoulder as she gasped in recognition. More memories of Arl Howe’s dungeons flashed through her mind. She remembered with sudden clarity the young man that she found strung up on the racks. The man standing before her was more strapping than she remembered Oswyn being, but she realized as she considered his face that he had the same piercing blue eyes. “Of course! That was a day I’ll not soon forget. I am certainly grateful that you were able to rescue me, as I once did you. You have my thanks,” said Sybil, inclining her head politely.

“I would hardly call it a rescue, my lady, but I appreciate your words all the same. It was lucky I happened to be returning to my estate at this late hour.” His tone was pointed, and Sybil looked away, not particularly interested in explaining why she had been walking the streets alone so late at night. 

Eager to change the subject, Sybil asked, “Did you say Bann Oswyn? Isn’t your father, Sighard, Bann of Dragon’s Peak?” 

Oswyn raised his eyebrows slightly, his smile fading. “He was, my lady, until he passed on just a year ago. I am the master of Dragon’s Peak now.” 

Sybil squeezed his shoulder, and tried to come up with something comforting to say. “I am so sorry, Oswyn. Your father was a good man.” Not her best work, but it would have to do.

Bann Oswyn shook his head and sighed, “Far too good a man, to have put up with a son such as me.” He shrugged his shoulder out of Sybil’s hand and looked down at his feet. An awkward silence settled between them, and Sybil wasn’t sure what to make of Oswyn’s admission. A cool breeze blew across the bridge, and they both shivered slightly where they stood.

“You don’t suppose I could trouble you for a ride to my estate?” Sybil asked, and turned to admire his chestnut stallion, which had been waiting patiently at the other end of the bridge, unphased by their skirmish with the thieves. She now recognized the crescent moon and stars on its saddle blanket as the heraldry of Dragon’s Peak. 

“Of course! You must want to be getting home,” said Oswyn, and he walked over to his horse to adjust its reins. Sybil approached the horse more slowly, and considered the best way to mount it in her dress. Seeing her frown, Oswyn quickly mounted the horse himself and extended his arms, offering to lift her onto the saddle. Sybil bit her lip for a moment, then raised her arms and allowed him to lift her by the waist onto the horse in front of him. 

“Thank you,” she said, “I shall try to not thump you with my head too often.”

“I don’t know, my lady. With a head as large as yours, that may prove a difficult task,” Oswyn joked. 

Sybil let out a scoff and slapped the hand he held the reins with, though she was glad he seemed to have cheered up. He clicked his teeth and the horse began to head down the bridge. Sybil pointed him in the direction of the Cousland estate and they were off. They chatted amicably for a bit, Sybil asking him what he thought of the festivities and him asking the typical questions about the Blight. Eventually, they trailed off into a comfortable silence, and Sybil let her eyes drift closed, the motion of the horse underneath her lulling her to sleep. She felt the most at ease she had been since she arrived in Denerim. 

Before she knew it, Oswyn was shaking her awake as they approached the gates of the Cousland estate. He dismounted first, then offered her his hand as she slid out of the saddle. She was aiming to land in front of him, but misjudged and ended up jumping directly onto his foot. He groaned in pain and doubled over, clutching his injured toes. “Oh, Maker! I’m so sorry!” Sybil tried to suppress her laugh but a small giggle ended up coming out anyway. 

Oswyn sighed and stood up. “Such a graceful dismount you have there,” he said ruefully. 

“What can I say? I am the picture of sophistication and poise,” said Sybil, and she sank into an overblown curtsy. “Thank you very much for the ride home, but if I linger any longer I shall fall asleep where I stand.” 

“You are most welcome, Lady Sybil. Until we meet again.” Oswyn bowed, then mounted his horse once more. Sybil raised her hand in farewell, and watched as he rode out of the gate and down the street, slowly disappearing back into the darkness. The night had certainly not ended how she thought it would when she had left the estate that evening. Perhaps her stay in Denerim had not been a complete disaster after all. Not having the energy to ruminate on it any further, Sybil turned to answer the call of the soft downy blankets on her bed.

Chapter Text

Sybil spent the next three days preparing for the journey back to Highever. She had technically been invited to various events and dinners that were part of the extended Summerday festivities, but she had avoided them all. She was not in the mood for dealing with a crowd of nosy noblemen or potentially running into the King. Fergus had pestered her constantly about how her talk with the King had gone, but she had been tight-lipped. He hadn’t known what exactly she’d needed to say to Alistair, just that it was important Grey Warden business, and she had no intention of giving him any more details. He had tried to convince her to stay in Denerim longer, but it had been to no avail. She wanted to get on with the business of creating a life for herself back in Highever, and she saw no reason to delay her departure. The city had always represented the nexus of all the forces that had acted on her life against her will; it was the seat of the realm for which she had sacrificed everything. As much as she would not change any decision she had made, she was loath to linger among the constant reminders of how much had been taken from her. 

She had made one excursion into the city, to visit the Grey Warden compound. When she had been Warden Commander, she had decreed it be used as lodging for messengers to the crown, and its archives kept up for record-keeping. It seemed it was still being used similarly, but it had been devoid of any other soul when she had stopped by. This, she was glad of, for it allowed her to carry out her plan in peace and solitude. In the compound’s library, there was a statue of Andraste, ostensibly to confer her blessings over the Wardens’ undertakings in the city. She had lit a candle in front of it, and said one last prayer for all her Warden brothers and sisters: those that had been lost and those that still persisted in their duty. When she extinguished the flame, the chapter of her life she had spent as a Grey Warden went with it. She removed the amulet that she had worn around her neck for fifteen years, and placed it in the vault. “I’m sorry, everyone,” she whispered, then left the Warden compound behind. She didn’t look back. 

Sybil now stood over her trunks, double-checking to make sure she had everything she needed. She had managed to fit books from her father’s library into them, and a few of her mother’s dresses and jewelry as well. She had never thought she would have need of either, but faced with the prospect of being a Lady of Highever she found herself clinging more tightly to memories of her parents, as if in their things she would find the guidance she desperately needed. She collapsed onto her bed with a sigh, glad to have finally finished her packing. She would leave Denerim tomorrow, and if she had her way, she’d never come back. 

She watched the sun set over Denerim’s rooftops through her window, and had just begun to ponder what the cook might be making for dinner when the housekeeper, Imelda, burst through her bedroom door. She looked supremely harried, out of breath and her usually tight bun unkempt. Sybil bolted upright in her bed, bewildered by the sight. “Imelda? What on earth’s the matter?”

“The… the… the King!” Imelda gasped, wringing her hands. 

“The King? What about the King? Has something happened?” A thousand possibilities flashed through Sybil’s mind, each one more wild than the next: an attack by assassins, a political coup, death by cheese overload. She leapt out of her bed and grasped Imelda by the shoulders. “What is it, Imelda?”

“He’s here! The King is here!” Imelda pointed to the window with a shaking hand. Sybil’s gaze followed her outstretched finger, and out the window she saw a carriage pulling into the courtyard. Sybil ran to the window to get a closer look, and saw the unmistakable Theirin heraldry emblazoned upon the carriage’s door. As she watched, a groom hopped down from his place at the front of the carriage and opened the door. Sure enough, out stepped the King of Ferelden himself. Sybil spun away from the window, her heart racing. What could he be doing here? Did he need Fergus for some political matter? Surely, he hadn’t come to berate her any more about blood magic, had he? She tried to calm her breathing and clear her head, but Imelda’s obvious panic wasn’t helping matters. 

“Imelda, listen to me. Why don’t you go downstairs and prepare the sitting room? I’m sure the King just wants to talk to Fergus about something,” said Sybil, trying to convince herself as much as Imelda. Imelda nodded, clearly still frazzled, and left the room, muttering to herself about being expected to entertain royalty on a moment’s notice. Sybil took a deep breath, and tried to decide whether she should go downstairs to greet the King. She knew Fergus would handle it, but she didn’t want to sulk in her room like a child, either. She sighed, smoothed down her dress, and headed to the foyer. One more day, Sybil thought to herself, one more day and then she would be free of all this. When she made it to the top of the stairs, the King and her brother were already there, talking about something she couldn’t hear. As she made her way down the stairs, the King’s eyes went straight to her, whatever conversation he was having with her brother falling away.  

She made it to the two men, and curtsied before the King, her breath unsteady in spite of herself. “Your Majesty,” she said, and she kept her gaze lowered. “Have you come to speak with my brother?”

“Well, actually, it’s you I’ve come to see,” said the King, and Sybil thought she detected a note of anxiety in his voice. 

Sybil raised an eyebrow, and shot a curious look at Fergus before simply saying, “I see.” The trio stood in an uncomfortable silence for a beat, but Fergus broke it quickly. 

“Why don’t the two of you go to the sitting room? You can talk privately there.” Fergus gestured to a door on the far side of the room. 

“That sounds perfect, thank you Fergus,” said the King. Sybil turned on her heel and walked into the sitting room, without saying goodbye to her brother or waiting for the King. Imelda had already lit the fire and set tea and biscuits out on the table, but Sybil ignored them. She went to the window and leaned against it, her back to the door. She heard the King’s footsteps as he entered the room, and heard him close the door behind him. She had not expected to be alone with him again for a long time, or ever again at all, for that matter. She kept her back to him, and waited for him to speak. 

“I know that you’re probably still angry with me,” he began, his voice halting and unsure. “I would be too, if I’d been spoken to the way I spoke to you. Sybil, you have to know I didn’t mean the things I said that night. I’m… so sorry.” 

Sybil sighed, already exasperated by where she saw this conversation going. “I don’t need your contrition, Alistair. You made your feelings very clear, and I accept them. We don’t need to drag this out any longer.” She turned to face him, and saw that he was biting his lip nervously. 

“I didn’t come here to apologize to you!” Alistair said hotly, then his face blanched. “Wait, that isn’t what I meant. I did, I do want to apologize, but that isn’t the only reason I came here.”

“Isn’t it?” asked Sybil, her eyebrows raised in confusion. 

“No, I–” Alistair took a step towards her, his hand reaching in her direction, and she took a step back impulsively. He stopped in his tracks, and a flash of something unknowable darkened his face for the briefest moment. He sank into the chaise in front of the fire, and after hesitating for a moment, Sybil sat in the chair opposite him. The firelight illuminated his face, and Sybil could make out faint dark circles under his eyes. She wondered if he’d been getting much sleep since they’d talked. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking these past few days,” he said, and trailed off once again.

“Oh? Someone alert the Landsmeet.” The words were out of her mouth before she truly considered them, her habit of teasing him still second nature. She held her breath a moment, afraid she had offended him, but his eyes crinkled as he smiled, shaking his head. 

“Wow, I’ve never heard that one before,” his tone dripping with sarcasm. His honey eyes sparkled in the firelight, and Sybil had to look away before he noticed her staring.

“I’ll have to work on my material,” she said, and he laughed, finally more relaxed. “Why did you come here, then?” She was curious to know what had brought him to see her if it wasn’t some self-flagellating desire to seek her forgiveness. 

“I heard Fergus mention you were leaving tomorrow at court,” he said. “I had to talk to you before I lost my chance.” Sybil made a mental note to berate her brother for spreading her business around the entire court as he continued, “When I said I didn’t mean the things I said… I didn’t just mean the things I said about you.” He leaned forward, his gaze suddenly intense. “I read your notes, and… I will do your ritual. I want to be cured of the Taint.” 

Sybil leaned back in shock, as she felt all the blood leave her face. She was so taken aback that she had to stand, and began to pace in front of the fireplace. He didn’t say anything more, just watched her silently. Of all the possibilities, this had been the very last thing she expected him to say. Finally, she stopped pacing and went to stand behind her chair so that some distance was maintained between them. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Three days ago, the mere suggestion of using blood magic to cure the Taint was unimaginable to you. Now, not only are you okay with the idea, but you want to do it yourself? Explain that to me.”

Alistair sighed, and threw his hands up as if he wasn’t sure where to begin. “I still despise blood magic, but… I’ve been doing this King thing for fifteen years. And I’m not sure if you noticed at the calling of the Banns, but I’m not half bad at it nowadays,” he said with a wry smile. 

“You may have given a particularly rousing speech,” admitted Sybil, returning his smile. 

“I did, didn’t I? And all by myself, too. So you see, the kingdom would absolutely fall to pieces without me. It’s my duty as King to make sure I stay on the throne for as long as possible.” 

“And you don’t want to die in the Deep Roads,” she added.  

“And I don’t want to die in the Deep Roads,” he agreed. 

“So that’s all it took to change your mind? Your love of the kingdom wins out over your disgust for blood magic?” Sybil asked dubiously, not entirely convinced he was telling her the full truth. 

“Well, Eamon said–” he began, but he was cut off by Sybil’s loud exclamation.

“You spoke to Eamon about this!?” She was incredulous that he would even dare discussing blood magic with Eamon after what had happened during the Blight, what she had done to his wife.

“I had to get advice from someone. I couldn’t exactly talk to you about it, could I?” Sybil raised her eyebrows at him, still unsure. “Whatever you think of Eamon, he has remained loyal to me throughout everything we’ve faced since I became King. I trust him,” Alistair said. When Sybil scoffed and crossed her arms, he continued, “And I didn’t tell him all of it. I just implied that curing the Taint would require some magic of… questionable moral legitimacy!” 

“Well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose,” laughed Sybil. “What did he have to say to that?”

“He said that my father sometimes bent the rules when hard decisions had to be made,” said Alistair, his face growing solemn at the mention of King Maric. “Especially when the kingdom was at stake. And… that if the Maker owes anyone one transgression, one selfish act that is for themselves and no one else, it’s me and you.” Her eyes widened at his words, her smile fading, and he held her gaze, more self-assured than he had been when he first walked into the room. He rose to his feet and began to slowly move towards her. This time, she didn’t back away, but placed one hand on the back of her chair to steady herself. “I can see now in your eyes the way you’ve been beating yourself up over this, Sybil. Maker forgive me, I know some of that’s my fault. I should have been more understanding, should have tried to talk it through with you instead of flying off the handle like a child. But I’m here now, and I…” He didn’t finish the sentence, his voice barely more than a whisper. He stood close enough to her that his body cast its long shadow across her own. His face was so racked with guilt that she wanted to reach out and cup his cheek with her hand, but she just gripped the back of the chair even tighter.

“You what?” Sybil whispered back. Her mind had gone blank, his scent filling her nose, just the same as it had always been, like the last embers of a campfire and pine needles floating in an autumn breeze. 

Alistair took a deep breath before responding, several strands of hair falling over his eyes.  “I want you to take this demon off your back,” he answered, his tone insistent. “Stop carrying this burden around by yourself, or at least, let me share it with you.” She opened her mouth to protest, still unsure that this was really what he wanted to do, but he sent her a knowing look that gave her pause. “I’ve thought this through, I promise. But I can’t do it alone. Will you help me?” He briefly glanced down at her hand, as if he were considering taking it, but he didn’t move. His expression was still pained, yet he looked into her eyes so intently that Sybil’s breath caught in her chest. She knew then that she could not refuse him this nor anything else he could ever ask of her, no matter how much she wanted to run from the consequences of her decisions. She was doomed to love him until her dying day, even if she would never tell him so.

“All right,” said Sybil. “I will help you be cured of the Taint.” She exhaled as she said it, hardly able to believe the words were coming out of her mouth. If he believed this was the best thing for Ferelden, despite his clear misgivings, then she would not stand in his way. After all, this was what she had come to Denerim to do.  

Alistair nodded, grateful, and made a strange abrupt movement with both hands, as if he had been going to do something but thought better of it. He awkwardly stuck one hand out between them, and it took Sybil a moment to realize that he wanted to shake hands. She tentatively took his hand in her own and they shook once, sealing the pact they had just made. The formality of it felt unnatural, but she supposed it was a far sight better than shouting in each other’s faces. His hands were still as callused and rough as they had been during the Blight, and it occurred to her that he must not have let his sword-training lapse completely. Perhaps she had overestimated how much he had withdrawn from Grey Warden duties. “I’m sorry for saying you aren’t a true Grey Warden,” she said, realizing that she had not yet apologized for her part in their argument. 

“Don’t be,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not, am I? Just because I ride out now and then to chase a few darkspawn out of a freehold doesn’t make me a Warden.” He looked down and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, as she had seen him do countless times before, usually after being scolded by Eamon for speaking inelegantly in front of a foreign dignitary. 

“You’ve upheld the motto, haven’t you? In peace, vigilance? You’ve been more of a Warden than I have in years, and it was unworthy of me to suggest otherwise,” she said, and gave him the same look he had given her moments before. 

“All right, you win,” he said, smiling slightly. 

“I always do,” she replied. 

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment before he cleared his throat conspicuously and took a step back from her. Suddenly full of nervous energy, he began to babble, “So, what now? Is there anything you need me to do? If the ritual is really gnarly, we should wait until after the Summerday festivities end this week. Or maybe we should find somewhere else to go– I think we could get away with going to the royal hunting lodge by Dragon’s Peak, but we’d have to be really discreet. Unless we–”

Sybil cut him off, knowing that he would talk himself to death if she let him. “It will take some time for me to prepare everything we’ll need. I’ll have to send word to Avernus that we are going to conduct the ritual again. I also don’t think it’s wise to leave the city to do it. It would create much more gossip if the King were to disappear from court right after celebrating his fifteenth anniversary.”

“Right, right. How much time do you think you’ll need?” he asked, and walked over to the table where Imelda had set out biscuits to pop one into his mouth. It seemed to settle some of his nerves. 

“I’m not sure, really. I’ll have to see what Avernus says. It could be months.” She watched him pick up another biscuit and bite down on it, closing his eyes to savor its flavor in the middle of their conversation. A burst of fondness blossomed in her chest, and for a moment they could have been back at their campsite near Lake Calenhad, sharing stolen cookies with Sten. She walked over to him and picked up a biscuit for herself, the memory warming her heart.

Alistair finished his biscuit and asked, “So, now that we are working on this… project together, you’ll be staying here, right? You can’t help me do this all the way from Highever.” 

“No, I can’t. I guess I’ll have to stay in Denerim for a while longer.” She wrinkled her nose slightly at the thought. Denerim was still one of her least favorite places in Ferelden. 

“Oh, cheer up. Denerim isn’t so bad,” said Alistair, reading her mind. “You just have to find something to do.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Your Majesty ,” she said, and a slight edge crept into her voice. She was glad that Alistair wanted to take the cure, but she was not at all enthused by the prospect of spending weeks, maybe even months stuck being forced to wear fine dresses and jewelry everywhere, constantly minding her manners, and dodging nobles at every turn. 

“Come on, Lady Sybil, if there's anyone who could find something worthwhile to do here, it’s you. You’ll figure it out.” He said it so confidently the words sounded like a command, and she almost believed him. 

Sybil shook her head and muttered, “I’m sure it will just be the usual. Making trouble, sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, and embarrassing myself in front of the nobility.” 

“Well, I’d say that’s a good start. It’s about what I get up to on an average day, anyway.” Alistair chuckled, and Sybil smiled in spite of her anxiety. She might have said something more, some word of thanks or encouragement, but before she could they were both startled by a loud knock at the door. 

“Your Majesty? Lady Sybil? Will you be needing anything more before I clean up for the night?” Imelda’s voice could be heard from where she stood outside in the hall. Sybil was sure she was only asking so she had an excuse to eavesdrop, but Alistair looked around sharply, suddenly aware of how much time had passed. 

“Is it that late already? I really ought to be getting back to the Palace,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You’ll let me know when you have news to share, right? It won’t be too long?” He looked at her hopefully, his eyes round. 

“Yes, I will,” she promised. Alistair nodded, and Sybil offered to walk him out. In the hall, they thanked Imelda and told her they had no need of anything. After they watched her disappear back down the stairs to the kitchens, Sybil walked Alistair to the front door. “Thank you for coming,” she said, echoing his words to her during the calling of the Banns. She opened the door, and the cool night air sent a shiver down her spine. 

“It was worth the trip,” he replied. “Good night, Sybil.”

“Good night… Alistair.”

She leaned against the doorframe and watched him walk across the courtyard and climb into his carriage. For the second time in three days, her night was ending completely differently to how she had pictured when she woke up that morning. As the royal carriage pulled out of the gates of the Cousland estate, she began to allow herself to feel the hope that she had been shoving down ever since she discovered the cure. She did not know what the future held, but she could face the coming days knowing that she had done everything she could to seize control of it.

Chapter Text

Sybil pushed open the grand set of double-doors that led into the Royal Gardens and blinked rapidly as harsh rays of sunlight filled her vision. As her eyes adjusted, she realized the sun was so bright because she stood at the top of a grand white marble staircase that led down into the gardens. The gardens themselves were a vast expanse of tall hedges, winding paths and overgrown bushes, stretching as far as the eye could see. Every kind of flower and leafy plant imaginable was present, and to her right a greenhouse stretched along the northern wall. The main green was currently dotted with tables and chairs covered in white lace, and the noblewomen of the Fereldan court sipped on tea and dined on finger sandwiches. A string quartet played a charming tune that made the whole scene feel very cozy and quaint. She had received the invitation to this gathering after first arriving in Denerim and promptly disregarded it, but since she had decided to stay in the city the night before, she decided to attend. Getting in the good graces of the noblewomen at court would help her learn more about the current state of the city, and how best to work on behalf of the people and the crown. If she could work her way back into courtly life at the Palace, she could extend her own political power and maybe use it to actually do some good while she waited for a response from Avernus. 

Unlike her other engagements, when she had let Imelda dress her in whatever she felt best, she had carefully chosen her outfit for this occasion. Her dress was velvet of the deep navy blue of the Cousland heraldry, her jewelry was more ostentatious than she usually opted for, and her hair was wrangled into a primly braided low bun, just like her mother used to wear. She needed to fit in with these women if she had any chance of them opening up to her, but she still wanted to stand out. Sighing, she smoothed down the front of her dress and made her way into the gardens.  As she walked among the tables on the grass, looking for a seat, she didn’t fail to notice the stares that followed her, or the conversations that suddenly stopped as she passed by. She could see a few familiar faces, like Arlessa Kaitlyn and Bann Alfstanna, and figured they would be good people to sit near. The only open seats that she could see were either right in the center aisle, surrounded on all sides, or in the southern corner, isolated from anyone of any importance. She had hoped to give herself a slightly gentler start, but hiding in the corner wasn’t an option. In a move she knew Leliana would be proud of, she stood up a little bit taller and headed for the center table. The women sitting at the table all rose as she approached, but none of them spoke.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” said Sybil cheerfully. “I thank you for inviting me to this gathering. It has been too long since I have been at court.” 

The ladies all exchanged hesitant glances with each other, and Arlessa Kaitlyn piped up, “Oh Lady Sybil! None of us thought to see you here, after you have been missing from court all week! Let me introduce you to everyone.” Kaitlyn quickly went around the table, giving a quick introduction for each of the six women that stood around the table. She thanked Kaitlyn and took her seat, and launched into over an hour of her most enchanting self. She listened to the noblewomen’s opinions about the Summerday festivities, commiserated with them about petty complaints like stained shoes or needing a new handmaiden, prodded them for gossip whenever something interesting came up, and most importantly, she flattered them constantly. According to Sybil, they were all dressed beautifully, told the cleverest jokes, and had the sharpest opinions on everything from the latest fashions to the politics of the kingdom. She had feared that her time sequestered in Soldier’s Peak would have diminished her skill at socializing or her powers of persuasion, but in almost no time the women were laughing along with her and lamenting that she had been absent from court for so long. She could tell that some of them were still wary of her intentions, but even they could not help but be charmed by her silvertongue. From her conversations she managed to learn that though the women were all titled gentry, some clearly wielded more power than others. Those like Bann Alfstanna, still unmarried after all these years, truly ruled their lands and were interested in how Ferelden was run. Others, like Bann Cordelia of Fischer’s Hold, were content to let their husbands rule and were far more concerned with social climbing. It was clear that certain women would be more useful as allies. Eventually, the group finished eating and broke up as the servants came to clear away the tables, leaving the women to stroll around the rest of the gardens. 

Sybil continued to make idle conversation and tried her best to discover as much useful information about the latest goings-on in court as she could. Somehow, she found herself quite surrounded, as more and more women decided they wanted to be introduced. She received invitation after invitation to tea parties, balls, hunts, and even a soiree that sounded a lot like some kind of sex party. After chasing down a servant to fetch her a glass of something to help her shake off that mental image, she stood talking to Kaitlyn and Alfstanna when a sudden hush fell over the entire group. All the women had turned to stare at a young girl who had appeared at the top of the stairs. The girl looked around nervously before making her way into the garden, her long blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight. 

“That must be Katharina van Markham,” said Alfstanna, lowering voice in the way one does when about to start gossiping. The name was immediately familiar to Sybil; it was the same family that Bann Ceorlic had warned the King about the day she told him about the cure. 

“Who is she?” Sybil asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. 

“She’s the daughter of a Nevarran duke, I hear,” said Kaitlyn, her eyes still on Katharina. “Her father has been here for weeks as an ambassador to the Fereldan court, but Teagan has long suspected Lord Eamon has been pushing the King to marry her as part of a new trade deal or alliance.The entire court has been waiting to see if the Duke will send for her. If the Duke has brought her here, it might be true.” Sybil felt the blood rush from her face as her heart began to pound in her chest. Bann Ceorlic sat on the King’s council; if there was a plan in motion to marry this girl to the King as part of some new alliance, he would know about it. His warning to the King earlier and his hesitation for the King to be alone with another woman all but confirmed the rumors. She didn’t mention this to Alfstanna and Kaitlyn, and instead tried to calm the churning she felt in her stomach. She fought to maintain a neutral expression as she looked back at the girl against her better judgment. Katharina was pretty in a waifish, dollike way, with a small face that was mostly taken up by her large blue eyes. She was so thin it looked as though a strong breeze would knock her over.

“Of course, a more formal alliance with Nevarra would certainly be very beneficial to us,” said Alfstanna, blissfully unaware of the storm raging inside Sybil’s chest. “I would support the marriage if such a thing were to be proposed.” 

“But what if she would make for a terrible Queen?” blurted out Sybil. “You don’t know anything about her.”

“I know that she is from a highborn family, and probably has a dowry large enough to help keep our army equipped and our people fed for the foreseeable future,” said Alfstanna matter-of-factly. “She’s young enough to give the King plenty of heirs, and with her comes the assurance of more support from Nevarra should tensions with Orlais rise any higher. Any other qualifications she may possess would simply be an added bonus.” Sybil knew that Alfstanna was right, but the thought still made her want to kick something. In matters of marriage among the nobility, it always comes down to the wealth of one’s parents and the fertility of one’s womb. 

“We should introduce ourselves,” said Kaitlyn excitedly. “Especially if she might be our new Queen!” Kaitlyn grabbed Sybil’s hand and marched her over where Katharina was standing alone, biting her nails. She glanced around nervously as she saw Sybil, Kaitlyn, and Alfstanna approaching. “Lady Katharina,” said Kaitlyn, “I am Arlessa Kaitlyn. This is Bann Alfstanna and Lady Sybil. We are so pleased to welcome you to Denerim!” Kaitlyn pulled Sybil down into a curtsy with her, which Alfstanna mirrored. Standing closer to her, Sybil realized that Katharina was a tiny thing, only as tall as her shoulder.

 Katharina gave them a bubbly smile and a curtsy herself, then replied, “A pleasure to meet you all!” The four of them made polite conversation for a while, and eventually the other noblewomen made their way over to introduce themselves to Katharina. No one directly brought up the fact that she could be courting the King, but it was clear that Katharina was being evaluated for her readiness for the crown. The other ladies peppered her with questions about her upbringing, her hobbies, how many languages she spoke, and her opinions on a vast variety of topics relating to Thedosian politics. Katharina’s answers were not always overly eloquent or clever, but she maintained a cheerful attitude and did not waver too much under their scrutiny. Despite the way the idea of her set her teeth on edge, Sybil found herself quite impressed by Katharina, though she was a little shallow. Once the ladies tired of badgering the young lady, the conversation turned back to the other most interesting topic of the day: Sybil’s arrival at court. 

“You must find court frightfully dull compared to your travels, Lady Sybil,” remarked Bann Cordelia. “I know I should love to spend more of the year abroad!” 

Sybil found Cordelia’s characterization of her past few years as “travels” highly amusing, and responded sardonically, “It truly was amazing. The Deep Roads near Jader are a wonderful holiday destination in the summer, hardly any darkspawn!” Cordelia blushed bright red, embarrassed she had forgotten herself, and the other women tittered in amusement. 

“You’ve been to the Deep Roads, Lady Sybil?” asked Katharina, her eyes even larger than usual. 

“Lady Sybil was a Grey Warden,” answered Kaitlyn for her. “She is the hero that defeated the Fifth Blight with King Alistair!” 

Katharina gasped in shock, shaking her head in disbelief. “You are the Hero of Ferelden? Truly?”

“That’s me,” said Sybil, shrugging her shoulders. “Though I’d much prefer it if you called me Sybil.” Katharina stared open-mouthed at her as if she was a mythical creature from a fairytale, and it made Sybil slightly uncomfortable. 

“Of course, Lady Sybil! It’s just that I’ve heard the tales and songs about all of your adventures back in Nevarra, and I never dreamed I’d meet you in person one day. It’s such an honor to meet you!” Katharina clasped one of Sybil’s hands in both of her own, squeezing it tightly. Sybil tried to smile back at her, but she could feel that it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“I’m sure you haven’t heard about all my adventures,” said Sybil. She certainly hoped that the finer details of her exploits during the Blight hadn’t made it into the songs. Katharina launched into a near-frenzied recap of everything she had heard of Sybil and the Grey Wardens in Nevarra. She talked of how she would ask the bard that played in her family home to sing songs about the Hero over and over, and how she would pester her tutors to bring her any materials about the Blight they could find. It was all quite overwhelming, and Sybil wasn’t sure how she felt about being the subject of someone’s childhood fantasies. Katharina’s fascination with Sybil wasn’t impressing the other noblewomen either, who began to shoot each other bewildered looks. In an attempt to save some of Katharina’s social standing, she interrupted Katharina to say, “Perhaps we could talk more about this some other time, my lady? I’m sure everyone else does not wish to discuss the Blight during our afternoon tea.” Katharina opened her mouth to respond when she was cut off by a wave of excited murmurs echoing through the gathered crowd. None other than the King himself had entered the garden. 

The King was immediately swarmed by the other noblewomen, all of them hoping to gain the tiniest crumb of social clout by having him acknowledge them in some way. The King slowly made his way through the crowd, and he was heading in Sybil’s direction. She stepped forward, expecting him to greet her, but he was not looking at her. Sybil followed his gaze and realized that it was not her he was coming to see, but Lady Katharina. Katharina was looking down demurely, her hands clasped behind her back. As the King approached them, he acknowledged Sybil with a brief nod in her direction, his eyes lowered, before turning Katharina. He looked tense, his back ramrod straight and his fingers tapping at his sides. “Lady Katharina,” he began haltingly, “Greetings. Would you like to accompany me on a turn about the gardens?” 

Katharina looked up, blushing ever so slightly. “Of course, your Majesty. I would be honored.” The King seemed to hesitate then, and Sybil could have sworn his eyes flicked in her direction for the briefest second before he offered Katharina his arm. She took it, tucking her hand in the corner of his elbow, and the two of them began to walk deeper into the gardens, still in full view of everyone at the gathering. 

The rest of the noblewomen instantly burst into excitable chatter at this new development. “Well, that settles it,” murmured Kaitlyn next to her. “The King never comes to these women’s gatherings. Calling her out like this in front of everyone is akin to a declaration of their courtship!” The words made Sybil’s stomach sink through the floor. As everyone gossiped around her, she found herself at a loss for words. It would be hard enough just to be back at court while she helped Alistair take the cure, and the thought of being forced to watch him court Katharina while she did so was entirely off-putting, to say the least. Perhaps, though, it could present an opportunity to right a previous wrong. She had not had the strength to support his marriage to Queen Alice, but she would be remiss to deny him that a second time, as much as it would pain her to do so. As the resolution settled in her heart, Sybil became desperate for a distraction of any kind. The conversation around her had turned to Bann Cordelia’s ball that was to be held the following evening. The women were debating whether Crystal Grace or Prophet’s Laurel would be the flower of the social season and Sybil let out a barely restrained snort. Several of the women gave her unappreciative glares, and Cordelia raised her eyebrows haughtily.

“This must all seem so unfamiliar to you, Lady Sybil, as… out of touch as you have been for so long! Do not fret, if you wish I can certainly provide you with an education so that you may make up for your social deficiencies,” Cordelia simpered, her eyes alight with malice. She was clearly trying to get back at Sybil for the way she had embarrassed her earlier, but Sybil wasn’t one to take any insult lying down. 

“I should hardly think that necessary, Bann Cordelia. For one thing, it should be obvious to anyone that the flower of the season will be Crystal Grace! Anyone paying attention would have seen it all over the royal balcony on the day of the Grand Procession. Or weren’t you invited to stand on the balcony with the King?” Sybil maintained an affable smile while Cordelia gritted her teeth. “But at my ball, I will be sure to provide something more original for all you ladies.” This sent the entire group into a stir. 

“Y-you will be holding a ball, Lady Sybil? But no one has received any invitations,” Cordelia sputtered, her eyes wide. 

“Well, I just thought I’d announce it here to you all first! You’re all invited, of course. The Cousland estate is certainly large enough to accommodate everyone!” Sybil laughed genially, and the sight of Cordelia clenching her fists in barely suppressed rage filled her with satisfaction. The announcement sent all the other women flocking to her, asking all kinds of questions about her planned color scheme and the food she planned to serve and countless other inane details. Sybil tried her best to answer them, and hoped that Fergus would not be too angry with her spur of the moment declaration. While putting on a ball would be a pain, it would be a good opportunity to bring more of the nobles under the Cousland influence. In all the commotion, Sybil failed to notice that Katharina and the King had rejoined the group, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the King’s voice ring out over the din of high-pitched noblewomen. 

“What is all this excitement about, ladies? Has some tantalizing new scandal erupted while my back was turned?” Sybil noticed the way he refused to even glance in her direction and she felt her breathing become uneven. For all the progress they had made when he agreed to take the cure, the distance between them still felt as wide as the Brecilian Forest. She realized then it had been naive to hope otherwise.

His joke earned a few giggles from the women, and Kaitlyn answered, “No, your Majesty. Lady Sybil has just announced she will be holding a ball at the Cousland estate by the end of the summer social season.” The King raised his eyebrows in surprise, his eyes meeting hers properly for the first time that day. She couldn’t resist giving him a coy smile, and he swallowed awkwardly and looked away. 

“But of course, that should hardly matter to you, my King,” said Bann Cordelia slyly. “Since you never attend balls that aren’t held at the Royal Palace.” Sybil wasn’t surprised to hear this, when even on his best day during her time as Chancellor the King despised large social engagements. Of course he had managed to wriggle out of the vast majority of Denerim’s social calendar. 

 “Ah, yes, well. There’s barely enough room on my schedule for all my duties as it is,” mumbled the King. This made Sybil let out an amused scoff under her breath. That excuse might work on everyone else, but she knew that spending multiple evenings a week surrounded by the nobility was the King’s idea of torture. 

 “Will you truly not go, your Majesty? I so adore balls. Especially one held by the Hero of Ferelden! Won’t you consider it?” Katharina looked up at the King with her big blue eyes, and Sybil had to restrain herself from rolling her own. 

 Sybil sighed and began,  “His Majesty is under no obligation to–”

“Alright,” said the King suddenly. “If my presence is so desired, I will attend. That is, if Lady Sybil will have me,” he said, and he looked at her nervously. 

Sybil hesitated, then said breathlessly, “Of course I’ll have you.” His gaze lingered on her face for one electric moment, then he turned back to Katharina. 

“Then it’s settled,” he said, and smiled at the young lady wanly. Katharina squealed giddily and clapped her hands together. The other women tittered excitedly at the news that their King would be attending another ball, and Sybil knew that half of them were plotting a way to make him show up to their balls as well. She found herself suddenly feeling very hot in her heavy dress, but whether it was due to the bright sunlight or Alistair’s presence she did not know. She made her excuses to Kaitlyn and Alfstanna, and retreated from the group to head back to the Cousland estate. She did not attempt to bid farewell to the King nor look for him as she passed, so she did not notice the way his eyes followed her all the way up the marble staircase and into the castle.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed in a blur of tea parties, trips to the market and the Chantry, and gatherings at the Royal Palace. Keeping up with the comings and goings of the court proved to be more challenging than Sybil had thought, but Arlessa Kaitlyn proved to be a fast friend and willing to explain any elements of courtly intrigues that Sybil did not understand. It had taken an hour of impassioned convincing and the promise of several favors before she finally talked Fergus into agreeing to host a ball at their estate. In exchange, Fergus insisted she accompany him to a dinner at the Royal Palace that was being thrown to formally welcome Lady Katharina to Denerim. She had begged for any other favor to perform for him, but Fergus had shot her a look so full of their father’s stern fortitude that she had been forced to acquiesce. 

The dinner passed rather uneventfully, much to Sybil’s relief. Lady Katharina was the undoubted center of attention, and Sybil got the chance to meet the  Nevarran ambassador, Duke Dominik. He was a shrewd if a bit pompous man who talked endlessly of the horses he bred and raced back in Nevarra. Lady Katharina seemed to be immensely impressed with Denerim, and went on at length about her travels in Orlais, which seemed to unsettle many of the other nobles. Sybil was glad to see Bann Oswyn there, and sat next to him when they settled down to eat. He seemed to be quite nervous, and after some gentle prodding revealed that this was the first dinner at the Royal Palace he had attended since taking over his father’s title. Hearing this, Sybil declared it her personal mission to make him laugh out loud as many times as she could. It was easy, and the endearing way he clasped his hand over his mouth to hold back a chuckle was a worthy prize for her game. Her proudest moment came when Duke Dominik started going on animatedly about his efforts to breed a particularly restless mare with one of his prized thoroughbreds. She saw her opportunity, and had to take it.

“You are quite right, Duke Dominik. We fillies are always a challenge to mount.” This earned her scandalized glances from half the room, but Oswyn let out his loudest laugh yet, then immediately shut his mouth, his eyes glued to his food in front of him. Dominik just gave her an uncomfortable nod and turned away, and Sybil snickered to herself. She patted Oswyn on the arm apologetically, then looked up to the end of the table to see the King’s eyes on her. She couldn’t read his expression, but he certainly wasn’t happy, the corners of his mouth pulled down in displeasure. His eyes narrowed, and it confused her. He wasn’t one to look down on ribald jokes, so what could be bothering him? She looked away, puzzled. She felt shamed, as if she had done something wrong somehow. She resolved to make up for whatever blunder she had committed by talking up the King to the nobles that surrounded her.

 When discussion turned to the King’s rule, Sybil did her best to convey her satisfaction with the safety of the Imperial Highway and bountiful growth she saw in Ferelden’s fields. This earned her a curious look from Lord Eamon, who was clearly wise to her attempts to bolster the King’s popularity among the attending nobles. She shrugged it off, for she had little interest in Eamon’s judgements, good or bad. Eventually, the food was cleared away and the party broke up into smaller groups to continue socializing. 

Though the dinner had gone about as well as one could hope, the endless drinks and out-of-touch complaints about taxes and hiring new servants had begun to wear on Sybil’s nerves. The men had all settled around a table to play Wicked Grace, their purses clinking with gold pieces to be so callously won and lost. Some of the women were content to watch their husbands play, while others had retreated to a corner to gossip. Sybil knew she ought to observe the game– gambling always managed to loosen people’s tongues, and she was desperate to know which of the nobles supported Eamon’s plan to ally with Nevarra. The King led the game with a carefree ease, jovially teasing Teagan and her brother as he relieved them of their coin. She was surprised to see him do so well, for the memory of his confused face after her poor attempts to explain the rules to him as she played with Isabela in the Pearl was as clear as it had been only yesterday. His kind laugh echoed around the room, the slight guffaw just as endearing as it had been when he was still an awkward Chantry boy, scandalized by her and Zevran’s vulgar wisecracks. The familiar sound of it filled her chest with a warmth that she knew did not come from the ale in her cup. Sybil sighed and tore her eyes away from the King, trying in vain to focus on the other noblemen. Try as she might, she could not bring herself to watch the noblemen argue over who cheated who or drink themselves into a stupor, even with Bann Oswyn’s comforting presence. The noblewomen were no better, for their hot topic of conversation was an in-depth analysis of the best and worst outfits that had been on display at Bann Cordelia’s ball, the inaugural one of the season. Feeling as though her brain would melt into sludge if she stayed in the room a minute longer, she rose from her seat and slipped out of the dining room. She made for the Royal Library in search of some mental stimulation. 

Sybil found the royal collection quite impressive. She was content to wander the shelves, admiring the vast rows of books, research journals, and notebooks on any topic she could think of. Late as it was, the library was devoid of any other soul. She had spent so much of her time the past few years poring over dusty tomes dug up from ruins that the act was comforting to her in a way. If she closed her eyes, she could be back in Avernus’ laboratory at Soldier’s Peak with the few Wardens that had chosen to follow her on her impossible endeavor. While she was glad to have found the cure, part of her missed the comforting familiarity of solitude. In Denerim, everyday was an endless barrage of new people and activities to navigate, and it was taking some getting used to. Eventually Sybil stumbled across a shelf full of Brother Genitivi’s works, including his account of their discovery of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She pulled the book from the shelf, lit a nearby lamp, and settled into a chair to read it, allowing herself to get lost in the memories of their strange encounters in the town of Haven. She had heard about its destruction by the strange red templars that followed Corypheus, and regretted that she would never be able to revisit that particular chapter of her adventures during the Blight. The tale was well written, and Sybil did not know how long she spent absorbed in its pages. 

She had just come to the part where Genitivi uses Father Eirik’s amulet to reveal the Temple when she heard voices enter the room. Not in the mood to be forced to strike up a conversation with a pair of drunken nobles, Sybil quickly rose, extinguished the lamp, and darted behind a bookshelf. She spotted a side door that would allow her to escape back to the dining room, and was about to make a break for it when she stopped herself. Eavesdropping on the nobles’ conversation could prove useful, especially if they had come into the library thinking they would not be overheard. Sybil drew further into the shadows, and two people came into the room. She could just about make out their silhouettes through the gaps in the bookshelf she hid behind. One broke out into a lilting giggle, and Sybil realized with a jolt that it was just some couple, likely looking for somewhere to get frisky away from prying eyes. She nearly stepped out from behind the bookshelf to reveal herself before they started doing anything she’d rather not see, when the man spoke. 

“You can’t possibly have more questions about the Blight, Lady Katharina. What more can you possibly want to know?” The voice was unmistakably the King’s, and Sybil’s breath caught in her throat. He sounded somewhat exasperated, and Sybil couldn’t blame him, if Katharina had been pestering him the way she had her. She couldn’t help but wonder why the two of them had come into the library alone.

“I just find it so fascinating that you were actually there , your Majesty! I’ve never met anyone who fought in the Battle of Denerim, let alone actual Grey Wardens,” Katharina gushed, her tone almost giddy. “Won’t you tell me what it was like?”

“I suppose I should find it gratifying that you are more impressed by that than the fact that I am the King,” he muttered in response. “Hardly anyone else is.” He sighed loudly, and Sybil watched him run a hand through his hair. “It was a dark time for all Fereldans. The darkspawn ravaged the south, undead laid siege to Redcliffe village, and the civil war took up precious resources that could have been used to save innocent lives.” He sounded more solemn than she had heard him since arriving in Denerim. “The odds were completely against us, we had no allies, and we were constantly dodging assassination by a certain power-hungry teyrn. But through all of that, we managed to pull through…” He paused, and seemed to consider his next words carefully. “The Hero of Ferelden led us through it all out of the darkness. I… The nation owes her a great debt.” Sybil strained to hear the slightest hint of emotion in his voice, but hidden as she was she could not make out much. 

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like,” said Katharina softly. Sybil thought she saw her reach out to place her hand on the King’s arm, but the pair had walked further into the room, and her vantage point was blocked by a stone pillar. “How brave you all must have been.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really think of it as any great act of courage. We were just doing what needed to be done.” The King’s tone grew wistful, and Sybil could picture the way the ends of his mouth turned down as they did whenever he was trying to be humble. 

“So you must be glad to have Lady Sybil back at court, then? To have a friend from before you were the King?” Katharina prodded lightly. The question was posed casually, but Sybil knew in her heart that this was what Katharina had been working towards the whole time. 

The King sighed before answering, and turned away from Katharina to face a portrait of King Maric that hung on the wall opposite them. His back was completely to Sybil, and she wished desperately that she could see his face. Finally he said, “I’m not sure. Sometimes I look at her and see my… my friend, and sometimes I feel as if the woman I knew fifteen years ago is long gone,” and trailed off awkwardly into silence. At his words, Sybil’s heart dropped into her stomach, and she clutched onto the bookshelf for support. It was as if the wind had been knocked out of her, and it was all she could do to stop herself from running past them out of the room.  Instead she froze in place, barely able to breathe.

 “Oh, I see,” said Katharina, and there was a happiness in her expression that hadn’t been there a moment before. “Well, fifteen years is a long time to be parted from someone. Perhaps you can get to know her again! Since she’s a member of your court now.” Katharina had no idea just how long those fifteen years had been, Sybil thought darkly. The King turned back to face Katharina, and he gave her a tight smile was all teeth. 

“Maybe,” he agreed, but he looked down as he said it, torchlight casting a shadow across his face. The two stood in a tense silence, and Sybil prayed to the Maker for an opportunity to escape, for her heart was about to pound out of her chest. If it had beat any harder, it surely would have given her away.  

“Weren’t you going to show me the framed Grey Warden banner?” asked Katharina suddenly, clearly trying to change the subject. 

The King looked up, and whatever inner turmoil he was struggling with slowly disappeared from his face. “Ah, yes. It’s this way.” He gestured towards a door at the far end of the library, and Katharina walked past him, back to chattering excitedly about tales she had heard of Grey Warden exploits throughout history. Alistair watched her go, but stayed where he was for a moment. Under his breath, so quietly Sybil wasn’t sure if he’d truly said it, he whispered, “Forgive me, Alice.” He then gathered himself and followed after Lady Katharina, and Sybil was left alone once more. 

She fought back the urge to collapse to the floor that very instant and weep, and settled for leaning against the bookshelf, one hand pressed to her chest. The more logical part of her mind told her that she had heard nothing she didn’t already know. Of course the King felt he didn’t know her– nor did she know him anymore, not really. Of course he still thought of his first wife, who had only died barely more than a year and a half past! Just because she still became weak at the knees everytime she looked into his eyes did not mean that he felt the same way. But even as these ever so logical thoughts ran through her mind, her heart ached terribly. To hear him declare her a stranger and call out to another woman still felt like a knife in the gut, no matter how much rationalizing she could talk herself through. Her thoughts unsettled, she knew that she would no longer be able to quietly read in peace, nor would she be able to return to the dinner party. She decided she had better head for home, before her frayed nerves ended up making her get in a fistfight with Bann Cordelia. Quietly as a mouse, she crept out of the library and towards the palace gates, hearing the laughter from the party guests fade slowly behind her.

Chapter Text

Several days after the dinner at the Palace, Sybil sat at the dining room table with Fergus, eating her breakfast and absentmindedly listening to Fergus describe his plans for the day. He was trying to convince her to join him, Arl Teagan, and the King on a stag hunt later that week in the forests to the south of the city, but she firmly refused. The idea of traipsing through the countryside with only other noblemen for company sounded horrible, no matter how fond she was of her brother. She was about to spell this out for him when Imelda came into the room, brandishing a sealed envelope in her hand. 

“This just came for you, my lady,” she said, and handed the letter to Sybil before clearing away her finished bowl of porridge. The black seal bore a simple “A” carved into the wax, and she knew it was the response from Avernus that she had been waiting for. She tore open the envelope as her brother raised an eyebrow at her, but she ignored it. Sybil quickly scanned the words on the page, her heart racing. To her surprise, there were few words on the page. In fact, it wasn’t really a note at all. The only thing written on the piece of paper were directions to an address in Denerim, on a street that she knew to be close by to the Alienage. She darted out of her seat, squeezed her brother’s shoulder in farewell as she passed by, and went up to her room to change into the spare set of commoner’s clothes she kept in her trunk. 

The directions on the note Avernus had sent led to a small shack at the end of an alleyway behind the Pearl. It was a well chosen place for clandestine activity: to anyone not looking for it, it almost blended into the larger buildings behind it. Sybil drew her hood over her eyes as she approached, taking care to avoid making eye contact with a group of men lounging at the Pearl’s back door. She reached the shack’s front door and raised her hand to knock, but couldn’t yet bring herself to do it, instead laying her palm flat against the wooden door. She trusted Avernus, but she had no idea what his plan was for helping her put Alistair through the ritual. What if it required Alistair to do something he wouldn’t agree to, or couldn’t be done within the city walls? What if the act of participating in a blood magic ritual made him hate her even more? Or worst of all, what if it didn’t work this time around? Once she opened that door and discovered what was behind it, she would be starting down a road that would be very hard to come back from. Sybil took one breath to steel herself, and tried to shake off her pessimistic thoughts. She had told herself when she started her quest for the cure that she would do whatever it takes to save herself and those she loved from a terrible fate. If it meant losing Alistair forever, then she was willing to pay that price. 

Sybil knocked on the door three times, and waited with bated breath for an answer. Thirty seconds passed and Sybil heard no answer. She knocked again, harder this time, and she still heard nothing from within. She rattled the door handle aggressively, trying to enter, but the door was locked. She sighed in frustration and raised her leg, about to kick down the door, when she heard thumping footsteps from within, as if someone was running down a staircase. Suddenly the door flew open, and Sybil found herself staring at a familiar face. It was Paidel, Avernus’ assistant at Soldier's Peak. He looked much the same as when she had left him there several months past: long dark hair streaked with gray that fell to his shoulders over his pointed ears, dark brown eyes narrowed, his slender nose turned up at her in derision. 

“Would you be quiet? Your banging will alert the entire street,” he grumbled, and ushered her inside. The dusty room was sparsely decorated, but was covered in assorted magical paraphernalia. A jet black staff with a large red crystal affixed to one end leaned against the fireplace, and in the center of the room was a table covered in spellbooks, notes, and various potionmaking ingredients.  Several trunks were strewn all over the floor, clothes spilling from them as if a whirlwind had blasted through. It seemed Paidel’s lack of typical organization skills had followed him to Denerim. There was a trapdoor in the far corner, propped open against the wall, and Sybil realized why he had taken so long to answer her.

“It’s nice to see you too, Paidel,” said Sybil. “I assume Avernus sent you when he received my note?” 

Paidel nodded, his brow furrowed. “Sent me all the way here with nothing but my wits, lugging all these Creators forsaken tools and notebooks halfway across Ferelden! Whoever we’ve cooked up this new ritual for had better be worth it, I’ll say.” He threw himself into a chair near the empty fireplace and covered his face with his hands. Paidel had always been prone to dramatics, but Sybil was in no mood to indulge them that day. 

“What do you mean, new ritual? What’s changed? Did something happen?” Sybil paced forward and bent down to seize Paidel about the shoulders. “Tell me!” 

“Alright, alright!” shouted Paidel, batting her hands away. “Always so touchy,” he said ruefully. 

“Paidel…” Sybil warned. 

“Look, I’ll explain! You didn’t think we’d stop experimenting once you left, did you? There were others who wanted the cure. And considering you nearly died when you went through our ritual, well… there were improvements to be made, for sure. So at first Avernus and I thought that a tincture of dragon’s blood might–”

“What improvements?” Sybil asked through gritted teeth. She had no time for a long-winded explanation of magical theory. “Come on, Paidel, give me the short version! You’re killing me, here.”

Paidel rolled his eyes, put out, but sighed and said, “Fine, fine. The short version is that what was once one ritual is now two, conducted at least two weeks apart. This allows the Warden undergoing the ritual to be subjected to less intense magical influence, and the required blood loss is considerably less. Thus, the Warden has a far greater chance of survival.” He straightened his posture with a self-satisfied grin on his face. 

Sybil considered the implications of his words for a moment and sank into the chair opposite Paidel. On the one hand, it was excellent news that the risk to Alistair was considerably lessened. She was glad that his survival would be one thing she did not have to fret over. On the other hand, she did not think Alistair would be particularly enthused about participating in not one but two blood magic rituals. She had needed a solid week to recover after hers, and though Paidel’s news meant that for him it might not be as bad, she was still wary of the idea. “Have you tested these new rituals yet? Has anyone undergone them successfully?” 

“Warden Namora, yes. She handled it well, and was even on her feet after only a day after both rituals. It is a good sign, yes? We have well and truly done it!” 

“And there’s no catch? No element you haven’t told me about?” Sybil asked, and her concern only mounted when Paidel bit his lip and looked away. She gave him an imploring glare, and he threw his hands up in defeat.

“Well… there is one small thing. Blood magic often draws on the power of sacrifice, yes? The greater the sacrifice, of blood or even a life, the stronger the magic. So we realized–”

“You had better not be about to tell me these rituals require the sacrifice of a life, Paidel,” she spat, and loomed over him menacingly. 

“It is not truly a life, by any means! Or have you come to care for the darkspawn while you’ve been away?”  

“Darkspawn? The ritual requires the presence of a live darkspawn?” Sybil asked incredulously. “How exactly are we supposed to get one of those things into the city without being discovered?” She could barely believe what Paidel was saying. She knew for a fact that Alistair would have issues with it, at the very least. 

“It doesn’t! Not the physical presence, anyway. I have discovered where darkspawn souls reside in the Fade,” Paidel said happily, as if he had just told her he was planning a holiday to Antiva. “They linger in certain places just like normal spirits and demons do, if you know what you are looking for. I can draw one to me using the Warden’s blood. By destroying it I receive the power I need to purify the Warden undergoing the ritual without nearly letting him succumb to the Taint entirely, like you almost did.” 

Sybil stared at him open-mouthed, trying and failing to process what he had just told her. “Don’t be absurd. Darkspawn don’t have souls.” 

“Come now, Sybil, how can you believe that? Our friend the Architect would be most offended indeed,” he said with a knowing grin. “It was he that helped us make the discovery, in his quest to know more about his own kind.”

The thought of the Architect didn’t do much to calm Sybil’s nerves. “Alright, fine, whatever. We use a darkspawn soul to power the ritual. I won’t even question the theological implications of that. But how is that a catch, then?”

Paidel pressed his fingers to his temple. “It… may be that such a summoning often attracts the attention of lesser spirits and demons. It was quite a task fending them off for Warden Namora.”

Of course the ritual would now require fighting off demons. Why had she expected it to be any different? The path she had been set on had never been easy, not since Duncan had dragged her away from Castle Cousland. “And do you think you will be able to pull it off this time?”

 “I think that this is where you come in, Sybil. If you could procure me more lyrium, and I mean a lot more lyrium, I could cast a barrier before we begin that should prevent anything else from coming through. It just takes more magical power than I have on my own to do both at once.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Lyrium overdoses are real, you know. Remember when you–”

“I’ll thank you not to bring that up, if you please,” interrupted Paidel, his cheeks reddening. “I have since perfected my means of lyrium intake, and if you would provide it to me, I will take care of the rest.”

Sybil eyed him doubtfully for a moment, then decided to let the matter rest. In truth, acquiring lyrium would not be the easiest task. As far as she knew, the Chantry still strictly controlled the lyrium trade, even though the Templar Order no longer truly existed, and what remained was independent of the Chantry. Therefore, she would need to turn to black market sources to obtain the lyrium with any haste at all.  “I shall have to think on how to pull that off. In any case, it will certainly take some time.”

“I have all the time in the world, my dear. Just let me know when you’ve figured something out.” Paidel leaned back into the chair and pulled a pipe out of the pocket of his robes. He summoned a spark to light it, and closed his eyes as he smoked, sinking deeper into his seat. “That will be all,” he said, dismissing her as he used to from his study in Soldier’s Peak. 

“Alright,” said Sybil slyly, knowing she still had one way to pull one over on her tiresome friend. “But when I bring King Alistair here for the ritual, you had better be on your best behavior.”

Paidel jerked upright, his pipe flying from his hand. “You’re not serious. The Warden in Denerim – the one you sent for me to cure – is the King himself?” 

Sybil watched him sputter in shock for a moment before replying, “Yes, he is. So you must swear to the utmost secrecy, Paidel. If anyone finds out that the King is doing secret blood magic rituals, it will cause an uproar that could lead to civil war.” She fixed him with a hard stare that she usually reserved for enemies before she struck them down. “Got it?”

“I swear,” said Paidel and gulped nervously. “Though some warning might have been appreciated!”

“True, but where would the fun be in that?” Sybil went to the door as Paidel watched her with a dazed expression on his face. “See you soon, my friend. And thank you.”

Chapter Text

As it turned out, acquiring lyrium hadn’t been as difficult as she thought it would be. The next morning, Sybil visited the Royal Palace to listen to the King hold court, where he would hear petitions from nobles and businessmen on matters often so trivial Sybil could hardly believe they were being discussed. She had hated the entire affair while she had been Chancellor, but she couldn’t resist going to see how the King handled it after fifteen years of experience. She arrived about halfway through the session, and settled herself into a corner of the room to watch, taking care to blend into the crowd. Though the King still cracked his usual jokes and earned quite a few eye rolls or disgruntled scoffs from various nobles, he conducted the proceedings with an impressive confidence that Sybil was growing more accustomed to seeing from him. He dealt with the petitioners with a fair and even keel, and he took on advice from Eamon and his other advisors without leaving all of the decisions to them. Satisfied by what she had seen, she didn’t try to make herself known to the King when the court adjourned, and she was trying to slip out of the palace unnoticed when she walked straight into Bann Oswyn. 

Sybil apologized profusely for tormenting him at Katharina’s dinner, which Oswyn accepted with an easy laugh. 

“Please, don’t apologize to me, my lady! I should have been ten times more nervous had you not been there to joke with me. I was only sorry that I could not find you to wish you farewell at the end of the night,” he said. “I felt rather ungentlemanly.”

“It wasn’t your fault! I always prefer to slip away from these things without a fuss,” she replied. She didn’t explain that she had practically run from the dinner after what she had overheard in the library. “But what has brought you to court today?” The two began to walk together out of the palace.

“I am a sponsor of the new College of Enchanters in Ferelden, my lady. My sister Ilanna is a mage, you see, and so I have always taken an interest in the fate of the mages. When the College was formed, she asked our family to help provide them with the necessary resources. My father only took a cursory interest, but since I have become Bann I have been trying to negotiate for more support from the crown on their behalf.” 

This immediately piqued Sybil’s interest, and she tried to maintain a casual affect as she asked, “How fascinating! What kind of support are the mages in need of?” Her mind began to race, and she prayed that he would answer in a way that would be useful to her quest for lyrium. 

“Coin, mostly. Men to help young new mages make their way to the academy they’ve built near Redcliffe.”

“I see,” said Sybil, slightly disappointed. Perhaps Oswyn wouldn’t be of help after all.

Then he continued, “But the crown has mostly been willing to provide those things. What’s more difficult to obtain are trade permissions and routes for lyrium and other goods. The Chantry still has a tight grip on many of the dwarven lyrium importers, and the King is hesitant to draw their ire. We’ve had to become rather creative in our efforts to keep up a good supply, but if the crown took a more direct hand in our dealings with Orzammar, things would ease considerably.” He made a disgruntled noise and clasped his hands together behind his back. “King Alistair is… reluctant to take a stronger stance. Part of me thinks…” he trailed off, suddenly avoiding her gaze. Yet Sybil couldn’t let the topic go, for she saw before her a grand opportunity to solve her lyrium problem. 

“Thinks what?” Sybil asked, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

“I wouldn’t wish to speak against the King. I know he has had a trying year.” Oswyn pushed open the palace doors and they crossed the threshold into the courtyard. Sybil reached out to take his arm, and sent him a look that she hoped was both charming and conciliatory.

“You can tell me,” she said softly, looking straight into his eyes. He blinked at her for a moment, and then sighed, relenting. 

“Well, it’s just that I think Lord Eamon and Arl Teagan still resent the mages for what occurred at Redcliffe after the explosion at the Conclave. I think they counsel him to be harsher than he would be on his own.” Sybil had heard some of what had happened at Redcliffe– strange stories of the rebel mages allying with a Tevinter magister who stole Redcliffe out from under the Arl until the Inquisition had intervened. She didn’t doubt that both the Guerrins would still harbor resentment, as Redcliffe was so beloved to both of them. She frowned, pondering the issue, when a solution suddenly came to mind.

“I can help you with that,” said Sybil brightly, as if it was nothing to her at all. 

“You can?” Oswyn asked dubiously.

“Well, I can put in a word for you with the King. I was his Chancellor once, after all. Why shouldn’t he hear my advice?” She smiled affably and nodded, her path clear. 

“Would you do that? I wasn’t aware that you and the King were still so close,” he said, and stopped walking to look at her curiously. 

“Why shouldn’t we be? We are both Grey Wardens,” Sybil shrugged, the lie making her swallow hard. “But if I do, will you do me a favor in return?” She batted her eyelashes at him frivolously.

“Name it!” Oswyn exclaimed, then seemed to remember himself and said more quietly, “I mean, you have only to ask, my lady.”

Endeared by his awkwardness, Sybil smiled more genuinely and said, “It so happens that the Grey Warden mages are also struggling to maintain a supply of lyrium these days. It is so critical that they have it urgently, and if I had to go through the crown as you do, well, it may be ages before more lyrium is secured. The darkspawn do not wait for dispensations to be filed or official deals to be worked out! If you know of any more… discreet means of acquiring it, I would appreciate the tips ever so much.” 

“I think I get your meaning, my lady. It is true that I know of certain less well-known ways to obtain lyrium, and I do not think the College would mind me sharing them with the Grey Wardens in exchange for help pleading our case to the King.” Oswyn extended his hand and Sybil took it, shaking it resolutely. 

“Then we have a deal, my lord. Send the information to me at my estate, and I will discuss this with the King the next time I see him.” They reached the line of carriages waiting outside the gates, and Sybil bid Oswyn farewell, glad that her problem was one step closer to being solved. 

The contacts that Oswyn provided proved quite fruitful, and Sybil was able to meet with one dwarven trader in one of Denerim’s more seedy inns that same week. Invoking the name of the Grey Wardens had made him very willing to cooperate, and Sybil was able to arrange for a shipment of lyrium to arrive by the end of the week. She visited Paidel to inform him of her success, and the only thing left to do was tell the King that everything was ready. She wrote him a simple note with a time in the evening the lyrium shipment was supposed to arrive and the location of Paidel’s hideout, sealed it with the Grey Warden crest, and gave it to Fergus to deliver to him when they went on the stag hunt together. Her brother had asked why she didn’t just go to court to meet with the King herself, but Sybil only responded with a cold glare that sent him scurrying away to ready his horse. 

The day the lyrium shipment arrived, Sybil went to Paidel’s hideout early to help him prepare for the ritual. They had set up everything he needed in the underground room and were eating a small dinner in front of the fireplace as night fell when they heard a knock at the door. Sybil looked at Paidel solemnly and asked, “Are you ready?” Paidel gave her a tense nod and she rose to open the door. Alistair stood on the doorstep, dressed in simple leathers and the wind blowing in his hair. Being so close to him still stunned her for the briefest moment, her heart pounding in her chest. 

“I’m here,” he said quietly, and pulled at his fingers nervously.

“So you are,” she replied. She gestured for him to come in and quickly closed the door behind him after making sure the street behind him was empty. He stood in the center of the room, eyeing Paidel and Sybil with suspicion. The heated emotions of her grand reveal and his decision to take the cure had fallen away, leaving them with only the awkwardness and uncertainty that had defined their last few meetings. Even as she remained by the doorway, she could feel waves of anxiety radiating off of him. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak, but she found herself suddenly without the words to begin. The way the firelight illuminated the golden flecks in his eyes entranced her like a moth to a flame.

Eventually, Paidel coughed and broke the silence to introduce himself. “I am Paidel, your Majesty,” he began, and bowed in his typical fashion with a flourish of his hand. “I will be the mage to conduct the rituals.”

Alistair nodded stiffly, then looked at Sybil askance and asked, “Rituals? As in more than one?” 

Sybil started and blinked rapidly as if awakening from a dream. “Yes, about that… Well, perhaps I should let Paidel explain.” She inclined her head towards the mage, silently encouraging him to speak. On cue, Paidel launched into one of his long-winded explanations, detailing the finer points of the purification rituals and how exactly they were going to be accomplished. As Paidel went on, Sybil could tell by the way his eyes were glazing over that Alistair was completely lost. Chuckling in spite of herself, Sybil interrupted, “Maybe the simple version would suffice, Paidel? I think the King would rather not know the details.”

Alistair shot her a grateful look and said, “I agree, but I think I’ve heard enough. You mean to say that two rituals are safer than one, yes? That’s all I need to know. If I hear any more magical theories my head will explode.” 

Paidel clasped his hands together excitedly and replied, “Yes, your Majesty, that’s it. The rituals do require the letting of blood, so we formulated a way to split up the necessary steps to preserve the health of the Warden undergoing them. I believe we have settled on the correct amount after no considerable amount of trials, I tell you!” Sybil instantly winced at Paidel’s tactless comment as Alistair’s face visibly paled. He took a step back from the mage, and shook his head incredulously. 

“This is madness,” he muttered to himself. “Two blood magic rituals?” He looked down at his feet and took several deep breaths. His obvious distress pained Sybil to see, and she took a few steps closer to him. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said softly. “If you want to, we can call all of this off. It’s up to you.” Forgetting for a moment the distance that had grown between them, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his skin and the tense sinew of his muscles through his tunic. At her touch, he looked up into her eyes, and this time he did not seem awkward or afraid. It’s the first time since she told him about the cure that he has held her gaze properly for more than a second. After a few moments, he set his shoulders in determination, his mouth drawing into a flat line. 

“No,” he insisted, some color returning to his cheeks. “I came here to rid myself of the Taint for good, and I intend to see it through. What’s one more dark ritual the Maker will have to forgive me for anyway?” Sybil nodded, her heart gladdened to see his strength, and she removed her hand from his arm. 

“Excellent, your Majesty! The first step is to prepare the lyrium Lady Sybil so kindly acquired for us,” said Paidel.

“You're a lyrium trader now?” Alistair raised an eyebrow at her. 

“Not exactly,” she replied vaguely. “You owe Bann Oswyn one, by the way. Without his help, this wouldn’t have been possible so quickly.” 

Alistair’s eyebrow now threatened to disappear into his hair, and he muttered, “Is that so? How kind of him.” He cast his eyes to the floor, and the air in the room suddenly felt much heavier. 

Sensing the growing tension, Paidel excused himself then clambered through the trapdoor to descend into the underground room. Alistair and Sybil were left alone, and the only noise was the crackling of the fire. During the Blight, they had spent many nights alone in rooms just like the one they were now in, in taverns up and down the Imperial Highway. It had been so easy then, so easy to talk with him, to touch him, to love him. Now even breathing in the same room as him was painful, and each passing day it grew harder. Uncharitable thoughts of him and Lady Katharina wrapped around each other in some dark corner suddenly swam across her mind, and she had to shake her head to push them away. Sybil found it all too much to bear, and resolved that she could not stay any longer. 

“Well, I guess I’d better leave you two to it,” she said suddenly, her voice thick. 

He snapped his head around to look at her, and asked, “You’re going?”

“You don’t want me to stay, trust me,” she replied, and his brow furrowed. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something more, but then closed it again awkwardly. She waited for one more moment, then sighed, about to take her leave. 

“Sybil… Thank you,” he murmured, raising his eyes to meet Sybil’s once again. His body betrayed the tension in the room, his right hand opening and closing into a fist at his side, his expression impassive. He dropped his gaze, and turned his cheek away from Sybil as if he thought she were about to scold him for some imagined wrongdoing. Sybil was sure what he was about to do weighed heavily on his mind, and she could not bear the thought of forcing him to go against his beliefs for a moment longer. Scowling to herself, Sybil summoned the will to leave Alistair to go through the first ritual alone. He could not want her to be there any longer than was necessary, and being around him was starting to weigh on her chest like a knife inching closer and closer to her heart.

“You won’t be thanking me soon,” she replied grimly, stepping away from Alistair and reaching for the door. He looked at her desperately for a moment, his eyes searching her face wildly. As quickly as the moment came, it went, as Alistair closed his eyes and sighed, letting the tension release from his chest. He turned his back upon Sybil, looking into the hearth, his face blank. The firelight threw the side of his face closest to her into sharp relief, emphasizing the lines and worries that fifteen years of ruling had left on his face. He looked older and more careworn than she had ever seen him. 

“You’re… probably right.” His voice had gone eerily flat, and whatever emotion Sybil had seen cross his face mere moments before had disappeared. Unable to find the words to respond, Sybil opened the door behind her and wordlessly vanished into the night. 

~

The next morning, Sybil made her way back to Paidel’s shack. She had barely slept the night before, visions of Alistair enduring the pain she had suffered during the ritual haunting her relentlessly. She needed to know how he had fared, but going into the Palace to pester him seemed like a bad idea. Upon entering the shack, she saw Paidel leaning over the fireplace, brewing something that she could smell from the doorway. He did not turn to greet her, only made a small grunt of acknowledgement. She settled into a chair and watched him finish brewing whatever concoction he was working on. Eventually, he took a ladle and scooped a portion of it into a cup, then took a tentative sip. He screwed up his face in disgust and said ruefully, “The things I do for you Wardens.”

Out of patience, Sybil leaned forward and demanded, “Tell me how it went. Was he alright?”

Paidel scoffed and replied, “Oh yes, there’s no need to ask after me, I only spent hours draining every last bit of my mana keeping the ritual going! Why should anyone care how I feel?” 

“Please, Paidel. I need to know how the King fared,” she said without any artifice or guile. The vulnerability in her face gave Paidel pause, and he looked at her with a pitying expression.

“He fared perfectly well, Sybil. The ritual went exactly as I expected! I’ve been compiling what I’ve learned here,” he gestured to an open notebook on the table next to her, “and I think that for our next ritual–”

“I don’t care about any of that,” she said. “I just wanted to know that he is well.”

Paidel lowered his cup, narrowing his eyes at her. “You and I spent the past seven years trying to discover these very answers. Now we have them, and you no longer care?”

“I’m sorry, Paidel. It’s been a long night for us both. Perhaps you can share it with me once you’ve finished writing it all down?” Paidel nodded, seemingly mollified, and he offered his cup to her.

“Drink this,” he said. “It will help restore some of your energy. It worked well enough for the King when I sent him on his way just before dawn.” She accepted the cup and looked into it to see a bubbling green liquid. It smelled of rotten cabbage, but she’d drank worse things in her life. She knocked back a mouthful and spluttered, the brew’s taste even worse than its smell. 

Once she’d recovered herself, she asked, “Was he able to relax once I’d left? He seemed so tense.”

Paidel shrugged and replied, “He seemed relaxed enough to me. Handled the blood letting well. Though perhaps–”

“Perhaps what?”

“Perhaps he needed someone to talk to,” Paidel finished. 

“He had you there, didn’t he?” Sybil avoided Paidel’s gaze.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Paidel’s tone was almost lecturing. As if he could ever understand any of the reasons she hadn’t stayed, Sybil thought. She could not believe that Alistair had truly desired her presence, not when he seemed to clam up at the very sight of her lately. With a grimace she finished the remaining potion left in the cup and put the thoughts of Alistair from her mind. Now that she knew he was alright, perhaps she could return home and actually get some sleep. She bid Paidel farewell and set off for home once more.

Chapter Text

Sybil trudged her way into the Market District, the effects of Paidel’s potion only just enough to keep her awake. The sun was just reaching its highest peak in the sky, and the market was beginning to fill with people. She was just dodging a merchant hawking his imports from Antiva – if she closed her eyes, she could almost hear a voice calling out his fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar – when she heard a woman’s voice shouting her name.  

“Lady Sybil! Wait a moment, Lady Sybil!” Sybil’s eyes scanned the crowds, looking for the person calling out to her. Suddenly she felt a hand on her back, and she whipped around to see Lady Katharina’s tiny frame. She was panting as if she’d run to catch up to Sybil. “How good it is to see you again!” Sybil smiled at her weakly, not at all enthused by the prospect of making conversation with someone as high energy as Katharina. She was surprised Katharina had even recognized her, dressed simply in her blouse and trousers underneath a hooded cape.

“It is nice to see you as well, Lady Katharina,” Sybil replied.

“Are you doing some shopping as well? My father only lets me come to this part of the city. Would you like to take a walk with me?” She said the words quickly, as if she were in a rush to get them out. Sybil truly considered making some excuse and slipping away, but then she remembered that the tiny girl in front of her was likely to be the next Queen of Ferelden. 

“Of course I would, my lady. Lead the way.” Katharina squealed in delight and took Sybil’s arm. The pair walked for a time among the different merchant stalls, talking for a while of nothing but new clothes and Katharina’s travels from Nevarra. 

Sybil was just appreciating the respite from Katharina’s usual questions about the Blight when suddenly she asked, “What is King Alistair like, my lady? Outside of being the King, I mean.” Katharina peered up at Sybil with her abnormally large eyes. She had an uncanny habit of slipping deeply personal questions into casual conversation, Sybil realized, and wondered if it was purposeful or if Katharina simply lacked all notion of subtlety. 

“Why should you need my opinion on the matter, my lady? You seem to have been spending so much time the King yourself,” Sybil asked, and hoped that no touch of bitterness came across in her voice.

Katharina smiled demurely and replied, “In truth, I am not so sure that he is fully himself around me. Sometimes we will joke and laugh and he seems to be at ease, but most of the time he is very withdrawn.” Withdrawn was not a word Sybil would ever have used to describe the Alistair she knew, so Katharina may have had a point. 

Sybil shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant. “I’m sure he will open up more to you in time.” She had never known Alistair to have trouble being himself around strangers, especially beautiful young women, but Katharina seemed to take little comfort in her words. 

“I only ask because you are the only one I can talk to who truly knew him before he became King,” said Katharina. “I just… wish to know him a little better, that’s all.”

Sybil was suddenly overcome by a wave of pity for the young girl. When she had been Katharina’s age, she had defeated an Archdemon, and marriage had already been out of the question for her. Before she became a Grey Warden, the idea of being married off to someone her parents chose for her was unthinkable. She knew what it was like to have an overwhelming amount of responsibility pushed upon her from an impossibly young age. So, she relented in her bitterness and said, “It was a long time ago, but the man I knew was kind, fiercely loyal, and a brave warrior. He didn’t always have the right words for every situation, and he put his foot in his mouth often, but his heart was true. He valued his duty and would do anything for Ferelden.” This made Katharina smile widely, clearly set at ease.

“Thank you, my lady. That does help some.” The girl looked wistfully into the crowds, lost in thought. 

Though Katharina had not brought it up on her own, Sybil knowingly added, “He would make any woman a fine husband.” Katharina looked up suddenly, and blushed slightly. 

“I see,” she mumbled, her mind clearly still elsewhere. “Thank you for clearing away some of my… doubts.” The two continued their walk, but their conversation flowed much more slowly. Sybil did not regret her words to Katharina, but her stomach clenched as she considered the possibility that she had pushed Katharina and Alistair closer together. 

“You are most welcome,” Sybil said, summoning a gracious magnanimity that was impressive even for her. 

“I am glad I ran into you today, my lady. After my last round of questions about you, the King was rather put out with me,” Katharina admitted shyly. 

“I am sure it wasn’t your fault,” said Sybil, her thoughts darkening upon hearing the reminder of the conversation she had overheard in the library. Alistair had surely been loath to discuss her in any detail with Katharina. “I’m sure he didn’t really know what to say. It has been many years since we were close.” 

“He did say that you were always good at giving others advice. Today has proven him right in that regard!” 

Sybil was intrigued to hear this, for she knew the King had a few choice words about her most recent life decisions. Alistair’s tense face when he had looked down the dinner table at her flashed into her mind. If only she was as good at following her advice as she was at giving it.  

Eventually, they turned a corner and found themselves across from a tea room often frequented by Fereldan noblewomen. Katharina lit up at the sight, her energy renewed. 

“Would you like to have your afternoon tea with me, Lady Sybil?” Katharina asked eagerly. Sybil couldn’t think of anything she’d want to do less, especially when she saw a gaggle of women led by Bann Cordelia heading inside. 

“I must decline, my lady. I feel a headache coming on and I need to get home,” Sybil replied. 

Katharina made a small hum of disappointment, but thanked her for accompanying her on her walk.  She curtsied and turned to leave, but stopped herself suddenly. After hesitating for a moment, she said, “Thank you for talking of King Alistair with me, my lady. I know the past is not always easy to relive.” With that she turned on her heel and disappeared inside the tea room, leaving Sybil standing in the street, stunned. Had Katharina’s words been simple thanks, or a dig at Sybil and Alistair’s strained relationship? Sybil had not come to expect such from Katharina, but something in her eyes had seemed oddly triumphant. She decided in that moment to never let her guard down around Katharina again. The girl was clearly just as capable of playing the Game as Sybil was. 

Sybil was left to wander the streets of Denerim alone, lost in thought. The events of the past few weeks had taken their toll, but she couldn’t bring herself to return home just yet. Memories of the past still haunted her, but she could not shake them off. She ached to feel the caress of Alistair’s hands on her skin, the heat of his breath on her neck, the tender softness of his lips on hers. The thought of Katharina falling into Alistair’s embrace made her sick to her stomach, or perhaps it was merely the after effects of Paidel’s disgusting potion. Either way, she desperately needed to get home.

She had just passed by the Guerrin estate when for the second time that morning, she heard someone shouting her name. The voice was coming from a carriage pulling out of the gates of the Guerrin estate. The door to the carriage opened as it pulled up alongside her, and to Sybil’s chagrin Lord Eamon sat inside. “Lady Sybil, how good to see you again.”

“A pleasure, Lord Eamon.” She curtsied, and he gestured for her to join him in the carriage. She hesitated slightly, but he gave her such an insistent look that she had to comply. 

Once she had settled herself across from him, Eamon closed the carriage door and called for the groom to walk on. “I wanted to tell you personally how glad I am to see you back at court.” 

“Well, I– wait, what?” Sybil shook her head in surprise. She had been expecting to have to defend herself for some perceived misstep at court, but Eamon’s words caught her off guard. 

“I mean it. The rumors that you had met your end were disheartening, and I am glad you seem well.” 

Sybil did not know what to make of this, so she opted for humility. “I only stayed because I wanted to see the Summerday festivities for myself, my lord.”

“And because you are helping the King rid himself of whatever curse befalls all Grey Wardens, yes?” He raised his eyebrows at her knowingly. 

“Oh, well, umm… yes, that’s true.” Sybil’s usual charm slipped away from her in the face of Eamon’s honesty. She remembered that Alistair had mentioned talking to Eamon about the ritual, but she was still wary of revealing too much to him. 

“Then, my dear, you have my thanks,” Eamon said without hesitation. 

“I… do?” Sybil had thought for sure she would be in for a lecture this time.

“Did Alistair not tell you it was I that pushed him to go along with your plans? Even if it required acts that the Maker himself condemns?” Sybil was shocked to hear him speak of it so plainly. “The crown needs protecting, and anything that helps him remain upon the throne is worth any cost.” Of course Eamon would see it this way. That unflappable practicality in the face of all obstacles was what had helped them put Alistair on the throne in the first place. Still, his face grew drawn as he said the words, and Sybil knew it was costing him everything he had to allow Alistair to go through with the rituals. The specter of Isolde’s death hung over both of their heads, and she felt compelled to speak. 

“I must ask for your forgiveness, Lord Eamon. I know I have led the King down a dark path. I promise it will be worth it in the end.” Sybil looked down, her cheeks burning with shame.

Eamon gave her a searching look, his eyes narrowing as if he were contemplating his next words carefully. Finally he sighed and leaned back, some of the tension leaving his face. “Dark path? Which path do you speak of, my dear? Ever since you have arrived, and shared this news with the King, he has seemed happier and more unburdened than I have seen him since… well, since we lost dear Queen Alice. Whatever you have done in your past, whatever transgressions you feel you have committed, do not doubt that the King is grateful you have come.” Eamon reached out and placed a hand on top of hers, and there was a sense of acknowledgement and thanks in the way he gripped her hand. She was surprised to hear that Alistair’s mood had improved, for she had not observed such the last time she saw him. Whatever happiness about being cured he felt, he had not shared it with her. 

Eamon suddenly withdrew his hand from hers as he let out a wet, rasping cough. He pulled out a handkerchief from a chest pocket and hacked into it for nearly a minute, long enough for Sybil to become concerned. “Are you all right, Lord Eamon?” She had never heard him sound so frail. 

“Perfectly well, my lady. Just a lingering cold.” He withdrew the cloth from his face and looked her up and down as if he were sizing her up for a fight. Eventually, he let out one more small cough and asked, “Would you like to accompany me to the council meeting, Lady Sybil? I was just heading to it now.” 

Sybil looked at him sharply. Ingratiating herself into the court and charming noblemen was one thing, but sitting on the King’s council once more was another entirely. She could scarcely believe Eamon had extended the invitation, but she suspected it had something to do with his earlier attempts to capitalize on her popularity among the people. She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, trying to determine if he had some more nefarious ulterior motive behind his offer. In his face she could only find an honest curiosity as he waited to hear her answer. Sitting in on a council meeting could prove very useful, and it would certainly make the Couslands appear as if they had more political influence. A smaller, weaker part of her also thought it would be a good opportunity to keep an eye on Alistair and make sure he was well, but she quickly banished those thoughts from her mind. Still, Sybil could not find a reason to refuse, so she met Eamon’s eyes confidently and said, “I would like that very much, my lord. Though you will have to excuse that I am not dressed for a visit to the Palace.”

He gave her a firm nod in reply, seemingly pleased with her answer. “Very good. We shall arrive shortly.” The two sat in comfortable silence as the carriage made its way to the Royal Palace. 

When they arrived Eamon quickly ushered them both into the palace’s War Room. The room looked almost exactly as it had the last time she had entered it, on the day she had announced that she was giving up the title of Chancellor to lead the Grey Wardens in Amaranthine. Hanging on the wall was a map of Ferelden covered in markings representing fortresses and troop movements. In the center stood a stone table large enough to seat the six members of the council: the King, Lord Eamon, Arl Bryland, Bann Ceorlic, Arl Vaughan Kendells, and Seneschal Reeves. Eamon and Sybil were the last to arrive, so the other men were all already seated around the table, the King sat at its head closest to the door. 

“I insist you reconsider, your Majesty. If we are seen to push for more for the mages, the Chantry will certainly think–”

“Frankly, the Chantry needs to be taken down a peg,” the King cut off Bann Ceorlic and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “We’ve let them cling to these trade routes for too long.” He turned to see Eamon and Sybil enter the room, and half-rose out of his seat to greet them. 

“Greetings, your Majesty. I hope you will not mind– I met Lady Sybil on my way here and invited her to join me.” Eamon let out another cough as he said it, and quickly took an open seat at the King’s right. The King’s eyes widened in surprise, but he waved Sybil inside, settling back into his chair. She gave a quick curtsy and wordlessly took a seat further down the table next to Arl Bryland. The King’s eyes followed her as she did so, and Sybil did not miss the way they seemed to linger on her décolletage as she slipped out of her cape and leaned forward to sit down. She directed warm smiles at Arl Bryland and Seneschal Reeves, a competent man who handled palace affairs well, even if his manner was a bit stern. She barely cast a second glance at Bann Ceorlic and Arl Kendells. She was surprised that Kendells remained on the council, for he was such a repulsive man that she would have sworn the King would have found a way to strip him of his title by now. Finally she turned her gaze back to the King, who she could tell was struggling to hold in an eye roll directed at Bann Ceorlic. Something about him seemed different, and she took a moment to figure out what it could be. He had more color in his cheeks, and his voice carried strongly as he continued defending his position concerning the mages. She could only hope that this was a result of the first ritual, and not late night exertions in the arms of Lady Katharina. 

The idea quickly sent her thoughts down a dark path, and she stopped paying attention to the conversation as she fantasized about the different ways she could arrange for an “accident” to befall the Nevarran girl. She was just pondering how easy it would be to track down Zevran when she realized someone was saying her name. “Don’t you agree, Lady Sybil…? Lady Sybil?” Lord Eamon was looking at her expectantly. 

She was forced to think on her feet to come up with the reply, “You’ll have to excuse me, my lord. Having only learned of the situation today, some more explanation would be helpful before I take any side.” Eamon narrowed his eyes at her dubiously but seemed to swallow the excuse. “Well, it all began with another complaint from Lady Seryl of Jader…” Eamon went on to explain the diplomatic situation that was unfolding with the nobility of Jader, and Sybil was able to offer advice that was received well by all the council members. The conversation continued in this manner, with each of the men bringing up various concerns and occasionally entering into debate with each other on how best to resolve them. Sybil tried her best to mediate the discussion where she could and step in to defend one side if she felt fiercely about one option or another. The King had much stronger opinions than he had had when she attended these meetings as Chancellor, and he even outright argued with Eamon on a great number of topics. As the meeting went on and the men realized her advice was often sound, they started to wait on hearing her opinion before concluding any matter. The King himself seemed to slowly become more at ease with her presence, and she almost thought she saw him wink at her a time or two after she came to his defense in a debate. 

Eventually, the final matter of the day, what wedding gift to send to Bann Bettina’s daughter, was resolved, the meeting was adjourned, and the men all rose to go about the rest of their days. “You must find it comforting to talk of weddings, my lady,” said Bann Ceorlic pompously. “Surely you must long to be planning your own soon enough!” He smiled at her happily, as if he truly thought she would wholeheartedly agree. Sybil, who was halfway out of the room already, stopped cold in her tracks. She slowly turned back to face Ceorlic, and it took every ounce of strength she had not to launch into a tirade about the value of women outside of marriage right then and there. She glanced at the King to find his eyes on her face already, his brows pulled together in a look of concern. 

“Come now, Bann Ceorlic. I should be so lucky to find anyone who could stand the thought of marrying a woman such as I,” she deflected coolly, her tone light. 

“What nonsense! There are plenty of whisperings about the court of noblemen who are desperate for a chance to court you. You are yet unmarried, Arl Vaughan. Don’t you agree?” Vaughan looked her up and down like he was choosing a piece of meat at the butcher’s, and the very thought made Sybil want to gag. 

Vaughan opened his mouth to respond, most likely with something hideously vulgar, when the King said quickly, “I’m sure Lady Sybil will thank us not to speculate on her marriage prospects to her face.” She inclined her head toward him gratefully, and noticed he was clenching his right hand into a fist at his side. She shot him a quizzical look, but he avoided further eye contact and silently brushed past her as he walked into the hallway. She turned on her heel and followed, not bothering to bid Vaughan or Ceorlic farewell. 

“Your Majesty,” she called out to his retreating back. He turned to look at her as she caught up with him, the frustration she had sensed growing in the War Room now clearly visible on his face. He raised an eyebrow at her and waited for her to speak. A thousand different things to say came to the tip of her tongue, but none of them came out. 

“If you’d like my blessing to marry Arl Kendells, I’m afraid you can’t have it,” he said, and Sybil could barely tell if he was joking, the tone of his voice was so bitter. 

She laughed darkly and replied in a low voice, “Never in a thousand years.” She gave him a small, coaxing smile, but he only shook his head at her. Then, the other council members emerged from the War Room and sidled past them, and Sybil pressed her back to the wall to let them by. Eamon gave her a sidelong glance as he passed, but said nothing. The men all disappeared around a corner, but before she could peel herself off the wall, Alistair took a step towards her, one foot in between her legs. She took a sharp breath in and looked up at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. He met her gaze with a heat in his eyes that stirred something deep in the pit of her stomach.

“If you did want to marry someone, you would tell me, right?” 

“...If my King commanded it,” she replied hesitantly, unsure why he would concern himself with her marital endeavors. 

“Good,” he said quietly, nodding to himself. “Good.”  She tilted her head, and searched his face for any hint of his motivation for such a question. She did not appreciate being made to feel as though he saw her as another pawn in the games of the court.

“Though why you should care if I marry or not is a mystery to me,” she muttered before she could stop herself. He narrowed his eyes and leaned ever closer. 

“I’m the King. I have to know what my subjects are up to, don’t I? It’s my job to care,” he said.  

“To care? Or to tell me who to marry?” The question came out more accusatory than she meant it, and his lips parted in surprise and concern.

“I would never command you to marry someone,” he said, as if he were hurt by the mere suggestion.

“Then why ask?” She waited for an answer, but he just pursed his lips and looked down at his feet. Annoyed, she continued, “And what about you, your Majesty? Do you have any plans of marrying soon? I hear the Landsmeet is desperate for an announcement.” He exhaled in a huff and took a step back from her, shaking his head. She crossed her arms over her chest, and looked at him expectantly. 

“I will marry whenever I see fit to do so,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“So shall I,” Sybil said, and shouldered past him to escape the conversation entirely. She swept away down the hall and refused to look back. She cursed Bann Ceorlic for bringing up the topic of marriage in the first place. What right had the King to demand he be kept informed of her decisions? He wasn’t exactly keeping her abreast of everything that went on in his head. If she decided that she wished to marry someone, why should the King be told before anyone else? The very idea of marriage seemed entirely unappealing to her, regardless. 

Though she had to admit, it would bring her a certain security at court that she currently lacked. She could not deny that she was one of the most eligible women in Ferelden, as much as she despised it, and Ceorlic had probably not been lying when he suggested there were already men who wished to court her. With both her and Fergus still unmarried, the Cousland line was vulnerable to dying out if the situation didn’t change. She had only jokingly discussed the topic with her brother before, but he seemed entirely uninterested in pursuing another marriage, not that she could blame him. To Sybil, the idea of a family of her own had always been just another thing on the long list of what she had lost forever when she became a Grey Warden. As she made her way out of the Palace, it struck her then for the first time that this did not have to be true, even if she never met another man who moved her heart as much as Alistair did. Women of her birth married for reasons other than love all the time, why should she be any different? 

She looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see the King following after her, but of course the only thing she saw was the flickering torchlight in an empty hallway. Sybil was alone, as she would be for the rest of her life unless she did something about it. Her thoughts turned to her ball, to be held in just a week, and a plan began to take shape in her mind.

Chapter Text

The Cousland estate glittered in the moonlight, the miniature candles that had been placed in the trees lining the courtyard flickering gently in the breeze. The door into the foyer was framed with lilacs and bluebells, and their pleasant scent filled the air. Sybil and Fergus stood side by side just outside the entrance hallway, greeting their guests as they filed inside. They’d already greeted Lord Eamon, Arl Teagan and Arlessa Kaitlyn, and Bann Oswyn, among so many others, so they were just waiting for the King himself to arrive. “You have to admit, brother,” began Sybil under her breath, “we Couslands clean up well.” Her brother answered her with a frown, and picked uncomfortably at the buttons of the black doublet with silver lining that he had chosen for the occasion. 

“Well, you do, at least,” he said, giving her a quick once-over. “Here.” He brushed her hair off of her shoulder where it had gotten caught on the crystals adorning the sleeves of her dress. She’d worn it down for the evening, with braids at her temples keeping it back from her face. She nodded her thanks at Fergus and turned to find Bann Cordelia approaching on the arm of her husband, Raymond. 

“Good evening, Lady Sybil,” she said with a curtsy. She eyed the decorations around the door with a snobbish expression. 

“Good evening, Bann Cordelia, Bann Raymond,” Sybil replied rather unenthusiastically.

“You’ve chosen lilacs and bluebells, I see? What a… unique choice! And your dress, well, you can never go wrong with old-fashioned, can you?” Cordelia turned up her nose as she smiled and walked past Sybil through the open doors. Sybil rolled her eyes at Cordelia’s back, but she pulled at the side of her dress nervously. She suddenly felt Fergus’ hand squeeze hers, and he gave her an encouraging smile. 

“You really do look beautiful, Syb. Mother would have loved to see this,” he said with a laugh. 

“The dress was hers, you know.” It was entirely silver, and the front of her corset was covered in silver crystals that curled in a swirling pattern around her bodice and down her sleeves, which were made of a transparent lace. It made her feel like she had become one of her blades, but she did enjoy the way the light reflecting off of the crystals made her seem to glow in the candlelight. 

“And that sapphire tiara, and the necklace, right? I remember it,” he said wistfully, his gaze becoming distant. 

“Do you think she’d have ever thought we’d end up here?” Sybil asked quietly, her hand going to the necklace at her throat. She had been missing both her parents all day as she had prepared the estate for the ball. She hoped they would have approved of the path she’d chosen.

“Me the Teyrn, and you one of the most powerful and respected women in the land? A proper lady, and a fierce warrior to boot? She’d think we’ve done alright.” Fergus grinned, and Sybil couldn’t help but return it. As she looked up at the manor she’d decorated so painstakingly, candles twinkling in its windows, she couldn’t help but be proud of herself for pulling it all off. 

Suddenly, her brother gave a small start and straightened his shoulders, and Sybil turned to see the royal carriage pull into the courtyard. Sybil watched apprehensively as the King stepped out of the carriage, wearing a deep blue doublet that happened to match the lilacs she’d used to decorate. To her surprise, instead of walking towards them, he offered his hand to help a diminutive figure step down herself. Lady Katharina emerged from the carriage, clutching the King’s hand tightly. Her golden dress matched her hair perfectly, and she did not falter one step as she and the King walked up the stone path to where Sybil and Fergus waited. Her father the Duke appeared behind them, taking in the Cousland estate as he followed after Katharina and the King.

When the pair reached the doors to the manor, Katharina squealed in excitement and hurried forward to wrap her arms around Sybil, jostling her slightly. Katharina released her from her embrace but still clung to both of her arms as she exclaimed, “Oh, Lady Sybil, how wonderful is all this! I’ve been waiting for this day for so long!” 

“Well, I aim to please,” Sybil replied. She looked over Katharina’s shoulder to nod at the King. “Your Majesty, welcome,” she said. 

“Lady Sybil. Teyrn Cousland,” the King said tersely. It seemed that their conversation after the council meeting was still bothering him, for he barely spared Sybil a second glance. 

“I shall see you inside, my lady?” asked Katharina eagerly. 

“Of course,” said Sybil, and Katharina and the King turned to head through the manor doors. “Enjoy the ball, your Majesty,” she called after them. The King jerked his head up at her words, but he did not look back at her. He disappeared with Katharina and her father inside the manor. 

Fergus narrowed his eyes at her and asked, “What’s the matter with him? Did something happen between you two?” 

“Why should there be anything the matter?” Sybil replied innocently. 

“Sybil…” Fergus gave her an imploring look, but she ignored it. 

“Come on, I think that’s everyone important,” she said, tapping her fingers against her side. “Let’s go in.”

She walked through the manor doors to step into the Grand Foyer of the Cousland estate. The lilies and bluebells she had used outside were wrapped around the banister of the main staircase and the railing of the hallways that overlooked the room from the second floor. Her servants were busy passing around drinks and food, and she could hear the string ensemble playing from the ballroom. They really had spared no expense, and she could tell by the awed expressions on the other nobles’ faces that it had paid off. Fergus patted her on the arm and said, “You really outdid yourself, little sister. Feel free to open the dancing without me, I need a drink stronger than that champagne they’re serving.” 

“Fergus, wait,” she called, but her brother disappeared, probably to retrieve a flask he’d stashed somewhere, and Sybil was alone.

Still feeling slightly unsettled by her brush with the King, her thoughts turned to the plan she had concocted after the council meeting. There would be no better night to get a sense of the supposed potential suitors she had running around Denerim, and so she had made sure that all of most eligible Fereldan men would be in attendance. If she could charm as many of them as she could, she stood the best chance of choosing a partner who she found tolerable and could provide a life that attracted her. She took one deep breath, summoned her most dazzling smile, and plunged into battle. 

Her first order of business was to open the dancing, as Fergus had said. She had planned to do it with her brother, but he seemingly had other ideas. This meant that she now must choose a partner, a choice that would surely have implications for her reputation at court. Choose someone eligible with many women after him, and she’d likely make a few enemies. Choose someone no one is interested in, and it would be assumed she had low standards, and she’d be fielding offers from every man with a plot of land from Denerim to Jader. She went into the ballroom through a door behind the staircase, and found most of her guests already inside. The marble floors had taken some doing to get polished, but that evening they shone so brilliantly she could almost see her reflection as she stared down at her feet, thinking. Suddenly she felt a tap at her elbow, and the solution to her dilemma smiled at her meekly.

“Hello again, my lady,” said Bann Oswyn. He had trimmed his beard, his dirty blond hair was slicked back, and he seemed more at ease in his finery than he had at Katharina’s dinner. 

“Good evening, my friend,” she replied. “Are you enjoying the evening so far?”

“I am, my lady. Were the contacts I sent you to import lyrium of any use?”

“Oh, of such great use! You have my unending thanks. And the King has already advocated for the mages at the latest council meeting.” She took his hands into her own and squeezed them gratefully.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said softly. “Have you chosen a partner yet?” He looked her right in the eyes as he said it, and his confidence nearly touched some long buried part of her.

“You mean, to open the dancing?” she asked. “No, I haven’t.”

“Then, would you do me the honor of allowing me a dance?” He proffered his arm to her, and she hesitated for the briefest of moments before she took it. He escorted her to the center of the dance floor, and as she nodded at the musicians as she passed, letting them know to be ready to play her chosen first song. 

When they made it to the center of the dance floor, a hush fell over the crowd. She cleared her throat and let her voice ring out across the room. “I thank all of you for joining us at our home tonight! I have so appreciated the warm welcome I have received after my return to court. It means everything.” She looked out into the crowd, scanning the many faces looking back at her. Most seemed charmed, some awestruck, and only a few haughty or unimpressed. “Now, everyone. Shall we have some fun?!” She nodded to the band leader, and turned to face Oswyn as he took her waist. Over his shoulder she saw the King, standing stiff as a board next to Katharina and the Duke, who was chattering away obliviously into his ear. He glanced away as soon as he realized she was looking at him, shuffling his feet awkwardly as did so often lately. Then, the music began to play, and she thought of the King no more.

The band was playing one of her favorite waltzes, a fast-paced tune that usually required her to focus entirely on counting her steps. Oswyn’s hand was firm on her back, and he led her through the dance smoothly, allowing her to actually take in the occasion. Other couples soon joined them, and the room quickly became a whirlwind of dancers. Oswyn joked with her as they danced, complimenting her on her ability. She asked him about Dragon’s Peak, and the two talked pleasantly of their homes until the song came to an end. As soon as he released her from his arms, Sybil found herself surrounded by other men who desired a dance with her. Oswyn backed away, and Sybil was left to choose a new partner from the crowd. 

She danced with nobleman after nobleman, and she tried her hardest to flatter and flirt with all of them. She allowed herself to enjoy the evening, the sensation of whirling through the room lifting her spirits no matter whose arms were currently guiding her. The drinks flowed freely, and the cast of characters before her amused her to no end. 

Bann Erwin told her a hilarious joke about a druffalo, and made her laugh til her sides ached.

Lord Braithwaite was the second best dance partner she’d ever had, spinning and dipping her all around the room.

Bann Brennan talked so sweetly of his adoration for her flowers that she plucked a few from the walls and handed them to him in a bouquet. 

Lord Domhnall was from near her mother’s ancestral home in the Storm Coast, and his gruff manner reminded her of a childhood spent playing among the rocks by the sea.

And on and on it went, each new dance partner unique in his own way. She tried to keep straight her thoughts on each, but the champagne in her hand and the men in her arms made it hard to keep track. The one person she kept finding herself going back to was Bann Oswyn, who was only too happy to provide her a respite every few dances. Their conversation was easy and light, and she began to realize that the two of them had much in common. She occasionally saw the King dancing with Lady Katharina out of the corner of her eye, but even that did not seem to bother her as much as it had. For the first time since she arrived in Denerim, she didn’t worry about the King or ritual or what the future might hold. 

Sybil and Oswyn were just finishing another dance when the band struck up a familiar song. It was a northern Fereldan folk dance, one she had loved since she was a child. She tried to remember the last time she had danced it, and remembered with a jolt that she had taught it to Alistair at a celebration held at Redcliffe during the Blight, when Eamon was healed and the village rebuilt. Pushing the memory from her mind, she grabbed Oswyn’s hand as he was about to release her. “Stay, won’t you? This dance is my favorite,” she said, and wobbled slightly on her feet. The champagne seemed to be starting to have an effect.

Oswyn just shook his head at her sadly. “I don’t know the steps to this one, I’m afraid,” he said, and dropped his hands from hers. 

She pouted dramatically and joked, “How sad, am I to be left partnerless?” She heard someone clear his throat behind her and she turned, grinning widely, expecting to see her brother or perhaps Lord Braithwaite. Instead she was shocked to see the King stood before her, chewing his lip. 

“May I have this dance, my lady?” He extended one hand towards her slowly as he bowed, keeping his eyes on her face. Without thinking, she took his hand, and the two of them took to the floor. 

She did not know whether it was the alcohol or the way his fingers brushed against her arms that made blood rush to her face, but within seconds she was breathless. The dance relied heavily on the to-and-fro of coming together then pulling apart, spinning each other in a delicate array of steps. Dancing had never been Alistair’s forte, but he did not put a single foot wrong. His gaze did not waver from her face once, and soon the rest of the room seemed to fall away. She could feel his heart pounding when he pulled her flush to his chest and the lingering heat of his breath on her cheek when she spun away. Back and forth and around they went, and when they came to the big lift halfway through the song, he effortlessly twirled her through the air. Suddenly she was laughing, and he was grinning, and all the worries and stresses of the past few weeks melted away. Everything was right between them again, and for those few minutes it was as if the last fifteen years were nothing at all. The entire world was just him and her, and however light she had felt before with Oswyn was completely eclipsed by the elation she felt coursing through her veins. She tilted her head up toward his, looking up at him through her eyelashes, and he was leaning in ever so close– But then he whirled her away again, pulled her back just as quickly, and eased her into a dip in his arms, the song ending with a final flourish of strings. 

He held her there for a few moments, both of them breathing heavily, their faces red, as she clung to his neck, his strong arms keeping her steady in his embrace. “Alistair,” she began in a whisper, but the next moment she was upright again, standing in the middle of the dance floor. He was already pacing away from her, and her arms reached out to him uselessly, but he slipped out of the ballroom without looking back. She raised one hand to her head, digging her fingers into her braid to try and ground herself back in reality. Sybil looked around and saw half the room staring at her, including her brother, whose eyes were wide with concern. 

She took a deep breath, smoothed down her skirts, and slipped back into the mask of the perfect lady that she had been wearing all night. The rest of the evening passed in a daze, her brief respite from thoughts of Alistair completely shattered. She could not understand why he’d asked to dance with her if he could barely stand to face her once he’d done so. She tried to throw herself back into flirting with her noble suitors, but her heart was no longer in it. If the King had returned to the ballroom, she did not see him for herself. Eventually, she found Bann Oswyn and decided to spend the rest of the night talking with him in a corner. His presence helped calm her, but she couldn’t quite get over the ache that had started up once again in her chest. When Fergus finally called an end to the night well into the early hours of the morning, she breathed a secret sigh of relief.

Chapter Text

Sybil spent much of the following week sorting through the countless marriage proposals she received in the aftermath of her ball. Her plan to charm as many eligible young men as she could had been a resounding success, and she even received several letters from men that had not been in attendance. Fergus was highly entertained to not be the one fending off offers of marriage for once, and he amused himself to no end dramatically reading them aloud at breakfast.

“Oh Lady Sybil, your golden orbs did entrance me so from the moment we met,” read Fergus at the top of his voice from a particularly long letter from a Lord Edgecombe. 

“My orbs?” Sybil laughed in confusion.

“I think he means your eyes,” replied Fergus, his shoulders shaking in delight. 

 The entire business provided her a welcome distraction from thoughts of the King and the second ritual that still needed to be performed. She had sent him a note a few days after her ball with the date she and Paidel had chosen that simply read, same time, same place . She felt it was vague enough to risk sending with a messenger and did not insist Fergus hand deliver it as she did before. The ritual was that evening, and the worries that she had managed to suppress the past several days were now bubbling to the surface. She frowned to herself and picked at her food half-heartedly. 

“Come now, sister, I’m sure at least one of these proposals could be appealing,” said Fergus in an attempt to cheer her up. He, of course, thought her stress was due to the prospect of marriage, not secret blood magic rituals conducted in the dead of night. She gave him a weak smile and plucked another letter from the pile of proposals she had yet to read. 

“Here, read this one,” she said, and handed it to him. 

Fergus broke open the seal on the letter and cleared his throat. “Ahem. To my dear friend Lady Sybil, from…” He looked up at her suddenly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Go on,” she said, curious. 

“From Bann Oswyn.” He placed the letter on the table, unsure. “Do you want me to continue, or would you prefer to…?

She placed her hands over her nose and mouth, silent for a few moments. “Continue,” she said quietly.

“Alright, if you’re sure,” said her brother, and she nodded at him once.  He began, “Dear Lady Sybil, I regret that I have not had the opportunity to convey this to you in person, but I realize that the proper protocol is to commit these words to writing regardless, so I hope you will excuse my being forward in this way. I daresay you have noticed that I have greatly enjoyed your company these past few weeks, as you have been my closest friend and ally ever since your arrival here. I believe it was the Maker that led both of us to the bridge that fateful night–” 

At this, Fergus looked up at her sharply, but she only smiled into her hands and gestured for him to continue reading. Fergus sighed and continued, “And I do not forget that I owe my life to you twice over, a debt which I have not yet discharged. In truth, I find you to be a most singular woman, one with whom I would gladly share my life. I know that we have only known each other a short time, but I believe that we both want the same things– a partner with whom to build a family and home, and the chance to do our duty to our house and our country. I feel, as I believe you do, that I have neglected this duty for far too long, and I hope to finally put that right. 

“In any case, watching you dazzle the crowd at your ball tonight made it clear that if I wished to share my feelings with you, I had better do it soon, else your attentions be taken by the no doubt countless competitors I will have for your hand. So, let me state them plainly here. It would make me very happy indeed if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife. Please take as long as you need to think on your answer. Until we meet again, your friend, Bann Oswyn of Dragon’s Peak.” 

As Fergus finished, Sybil rose from her seat, not quite able to look him in the eye. She went to the window and leaned against it, closing her eyes as she tried to use the warmth of the sun to calm her pounding heart. 

“He certainly doesn’t mince words,” Fergus said. “Did you know he felt this way?”

Sybil shook her head. “Not really,” she replied. 

“But how do you feel?” 

She sighed, turning back to face her brother. “I don’t know.” That much was the truth.

“Well, he’d certainly make a good match. Dragon’s Peak is quite beautiful, and he definitely has plenty of–”

“Do not speak to me of such things,” she said, suddenly feeling terribly overwhelmed. “This is a lot more complicated than that.”

“Would that have anything to do with a certain monarch?” She glared at him hotly, but this time he did not back down. “You brushed me off at the ball, but I saw the look on your face after you danced with him. There’s something going on between the two of you.”

“You’re wrong,” she said dejectedly. “There is nothing between the King and I save our Grey Warden business. This is just… a big decision to make.” 

Fergus just shook his head, his mouth pulled into a disapproving frown. “You can lie to me all you want, Sybil, but for Oswyn’s sake if not your own, I hope you stop lying to yourself. He is a good man, and he doesn’t deserve to be toyed with by you.” With that, her brother rose from his seat and left the room. 

She let out a great sigh and placed her hands on the breakfast table to lean over it, her hair falling over her face. The true weight of Oswyn’s proposal finally hit her, and she could not decide how she felt about it. She did not love him, not in the way that true lovers did, but she could not deny there was a part of her that had been elated to hear him say that he wished to marry her. Was it due to loneliness, or desperation, or just a genuine affection for him? She thought it must be all three. Just as she was beginning to feel truly sorry for herself, she remembered that she still needed to prepare for Alistair’s ritual that night. The thought of facing him did little to make her feel better, but she knew it needed to be done. After the King was cured, she could get away from the city for a while, maybe ask to stay with Oswyn back in Dragon’s Peak. Focusing on that was enough to allow her the strength to gather herself and go about preparing for the evening’s task.

~

She paced back and forth in Paidel’s shack, anxiously looking out of the window into the darkened street every few seconds. “Be calm, Sybil. He’ll be here,” Paidel said.

“He’s late,” said Sybil impatiently. “Why is he late?”

“He’s the King. There are any number of reasons he could have been held up at the Palace.”

“I still don’t like it,” she complained. Her mind was fraught with worry. She hoped that the King truly was just delayed, and had not decided to abandon the entire endeavor. He could easily have realized that he could no longer continue to participate in the dark magic she and Paidel had concocted. Maybe that was why he had darted away from her so quickly at the ball. Had that been his way of saying a final goodbye? Her breaths began to come faster, and she sank into a chair, her head in her hands. She had nearly given into despair completely when Paidel suddenly darted to the window. 

“I see him!” Paidel retreated from the window and Sybil rose from her seat when she heard a familiar knock at the door. She opened it to find Alistair nearly bent double, breathing hard as if he’d been chased. She pulled him inside and sat him down by the fire, her thoughts racing. What could possibly have happened?

It took him a few moments to catch his breath, and Paidel handed him a waterskin which he took gratefully. “My thanks,” he said to Paidel, and took a huge gulp from the skin. 

“What in the Maker’s name happened to you?” she asked, her worry overpowering any awkwardness between them. 

“Ugh,” he groaned, “Eamon was insisting that we tour the armory for the third time this week. He always uses it as an excuse to corner me to talk about something I’ve been avoiding. I had to make a break for it just to get away, and then I had to take a ridiculous route to make sure he didn’t send a guard after me. I think my evasive maneuvers worked out, though.” He nodded to himself happily and took another swig of water. 

Sybil just stared at him open-mouthed for a moment. Here she had been thinking that his life was in danger, that some threat was about to crash down around their heads or that he’d forsaken her entirely, when he’d just been fooling around trying to escape from Eamon. She let out a disgusted noise, and he looked up at her in surprise. “What?!”

“You…” she began to scold him, but it soon gave way to an exasperated laugh. “Oh, never mind. I was just worried about you, you dolt.” She thumped him on the shoulder. 

He clutched at his shoulder in mock pain. “Ouch! How could you, you know I bruise easily!” She scowled at him until he relented.  “All right, all right. I’m sorry for being so late. If I’d have known you’d be so worried I’d have tried to send word ahead,” he teased, and she just rolled her eyes at him. All of the stress she’d felt, the tension she’d carried with her ever since they met at the council meeting, and none of it seemed to matter at all when she looked into his eyes. That had always been the way it was between them; no obstacle or fight would ever keep them at odds for long. The Blight had demanded they learn to get over their disagreements quickly, and their love had brought them back to each other every time.

“Well, your Majesty, if you are ready, then we can begin,” said Paidel. 

Alistair nodded and stood up, casually taking her arms to move past her as if touching her were second nature. He seemed less daunted by the prospect, which Sybil took as a good sign, no trace of the doubt she had feared she would see on his face. “Are you going now, then?” he asked, his smile fading slightly. 

She considered him for a moment, remembering what Paidel had told her the morning after the first ritual. If he could be brave enough to go through it, she could summon the courage to be there for him. “No, I’ll… I’m going to stay with you.” He just raised his eyebrows and nodded in response, but as he turned to climb through the trapdoor she heard him exhale slightly in relief.

She followed Alistair and Paidel through the trapdoor and dropped down the ladder leading into the underground room. The room, lit only by one torch and the light drifting in from the first floor, was barren except for the blankets they had piled in the center and the lyrium bottles stacked in the near corner. Paidel immediately went to the bottles, uncorking one and draining it in one go. Alistair shuddered, and she wondered if his templar abilities to sense magic made the experience even more nauseating for him. 

Alistair sat down on the blanket in the center of the room, which shimmered slightly as he did so, for it covered a large glyph that Paidel had placed on the floor. He pulled his left sleeve up to his elbow, revealing a pale pink scar on his wrist. She sucked in her breath when she saw it, and absentmindedly rubbed at the similar one she bore on her arm. She knelt next to him and took him by the arm, brushing her fingertips lightly over the puckered line. “It’s all right,” said Alistair. “Paidel made sure I barely felt a thing before I left last time.”

Her hands started to shake, so she let go of his arm. Paidel came over to the two of them and rubbed his hands together as if to warm them up. He withdrew a dagger from his belt, and it glinted in the torchlight as he turned it over in his hands. “You may want to stand back, my lady,” he warned. “This part will be gruesome.” 

“I’ll stay where I am,” she said resolutely. She put her hand on Alistair’s shoulder, and he placed his right hand on top of hers. Paidel nodded, and his hands glowed green as he cast the barrier that would protect them from demons and spirits during the summoning. The room filled with an unearthly light, and Sybil’s heart started to beat faster. 

Paidel reached down to take Alistair’s wrist in his hand. “Are you ready?”

“I am.” Alistair squeezed her hand as Paidel drew his blade a few inches up his forearm. He hissed in pain as blood began to well up from the cut and drip down his arm. Paidel tossed the blade aside and held both hands out in front of him. He chanted to himself under his breath, and the blood began to flow out of Alistair’s arm even faster. The glyph on the floor glowed bright red, and the air began to swirl with the blood magic Paidel was conjuring. Paidel’s eyes rolled back in his head but he kept chanting, and Alistair grunted as the magic flowing around them and the blood on his arm began to turn black. 

“Now’s the worst part,” he panted, and Sybil could see a sheen of sweat forming on his brow. 

“I’m here,” she said in his ear. “Lie back.” She moved behind him and coaxed him into her lap. She stroked his forehead as he moaned softly, his shoulders tense with the pain she knew felt like hot coals being pressed all over your skin. 

He looked up at her and pulled her other hand to his chest with his good one. “Sybil…” he began, his voice barely a whisper. 

“Shh, shh. You’ll pass out soon. We’ll talk when this is over, I promise,” she soothed. He closed his eyes, seemingly comforted, and his breathing began to slow. Paidel’s chanting reached a fever pitch, and it was all Sybil could do not to burst into sobs at the dreadful sound of it. She leaned forward and buried her face in Alistair’s hair, caressing his cheek to comfort herself as much as to comfort him. She remembered the awful night on the eve of the Battle of Denerim, when she had to wait in her room while Morrigan and Alistair completed the ritual that saved both of their lives. She had calmed herself then by recollecting every wonderful night the two of them had spent together, telling herself that all those moments redeemed the terrible one she was currently living. Sybil had not allowed herself to reflect on those memories in so long, for most days they only caused her pain. Now, she clung to them like a raft in the middle of an ocean, the only thing saving her from drowning in her fear. 

She started with the very first conversation they’d ever had, when he accused her of being a mage, and worked her way through every fond moment: the time she’d teased him about being a virgin, when she taught him about the constellations, accepted the rose from Lothering, kissed him for the first time in the Dalish camp, made love in her tent like the two fresh-faced fools they were. More memories, darker ones, came to her unbidden: when he’d held her in his arms after her first darkspawn nightmare, how he carried her on his back all the way out of Fort Drakon, the way he’d embraced her when she first awoke after slaying the Archdemon. So much they had been through together, so much time they had lost when she walked away. 

“Please work, please work, oh Maker, let him be saved,” she whispered to herself, begging the Maker and Andraste and anyone else who would listen. The cavern he’d carved in her chest ached as if it were a fresh wound, and she allowed herself to be swallowed up by the void in her heart.

It could have been minutes or hours later when she was jolted upright by a tap on her shoulder. Sybil looked up, her vision blurred by tears she had not realized were falling. She wiped her eyes and saw Paidel standing in front of her, the hum and glow of magic gone from the room. He had a strange expression on his face, a cross between uncertainty and fear. She noticed his hands were covered in blood, and Alistair lay still in her lap, his hand in hers as cold as ice. 

“Alistair,” she said, shaking him. “Alistair!” He did not wake or move at all. She pressed her head to his chest, and let out a relieved gasp when he heard his heart beating faintly. She looked back at Paidel and demanded, “What did you do to him?!”

“I don’t know what happened,” said Paidel, his voice hoarse. “The spell, it seemed to work, but this time it needed so much more blood than I thought. It’s like he was fighting me.” 

“How can that be possible? He gave up his blood willingly.” She looked down at Alistair’s face, and saw that his skin looked waxen and pale. The veins on his neck were almost black, and his arm was  covered in dried blood. “What can we do?” she asked desperately. 

“He is alive, for now. I do not have enough mana left to try any more healing spells,” said Paidel. He too looked sickly once Sybil took a closer look at him. “All we can do is wait.” 

“I will watch over him,” said Sybil. “You should get some rest, you look terrible.” 

“All in a day's work, my friend,” replied Paidel, and he went to the trapdoor. 

“Paidel?” She called out to him just as he was about to climb out of the room. He turned back to look at her. “Will he make it?” 

He was silent for a moment, then answered, “I shall pray to my gods, as you pray to yours.” He turned away and disappeared through the trapdoor.

Sybil eased Alistair’s head onto the ground and slipped out from underneath his chest. She retrieved another blanket and tried to avoid looking at the bloodstains pooled around Alistair’s side. She laid the blanket over him gently, tucking him in to try and warm him up. He looked so peaceful, the deep slumber erasing all the tension and stress from his handsome face. She stood watching the rise and fall of his chest for a time, determined not to miss a single breath. What felt like hours passed, and there was little change. Desperate, she sank to her knees next to him and clasped her hands together in prayer. “Please bring him back to me,” she whispered. “I know I probably don’t have much credit with you, but he surely does. He deserves a chance at a life without the curse in his blood. He must live.”

“As my lady commands,” said a weak voice below her. Alistair coughed and blinked away the fog in his eyes, looking up at her with the smallest wry smile. She let out a huge sigh of relief, staring at him in shock for a few seconds. He grimaced slightly as he struggled to get up, and she reached out to help him pull himself into a sitting position. More tears slid down her cheeks as she shook her head at him in disbelief. 

“Hey, now. No tears on my account, please,” he said, and reached up to wipe them away. She could feel that his familiar warmth had returned to his palm. 

She took a deep breath and nodded, agreeing, “No more tears.” She called out for Paidel, who she heard shuffling above them in response. “How do you feel?” 

Alistair looked up and down his body, stretching his arms out in front of him as she had all those months ago. He opened and closed his fists as he took several slow, steady breaths. “Help me up,” he said abruptly, pushing himself onto his knees. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked, afraid he would pass out again if he pushed himself too far.

“Now, Sybil,” he said, and something of the monarch crept into his tone. She stood up and took both of his hands, pulling him to his feet. He wavered for a second, and jumped slightly when Paidel dropped into the room. He didn’t let go of her hands, just looked down at his feet. 

She took a step back from him, giving him his space, but she didn’t let go of his hands either. 

“Well,” said Paidel with the same impatience in his voice that he’d had after her ritual. “Do you think it worked?” 

Alistair slowly raised his head, and to Sybil’s utter delight she saw a smile spreading across his face. “It’s like I’ve finally made it to the sand,” he said, and looked straight at her, his eyes alight with joy. He let out a whoop and scooped her into his arms, lifting her into the air. He buried his face in her neck, and she was so surprised that she didn’t react for a brief moment. The feeling of his arms wrapped around her eventually hit her, though, and she flung hers around him, pressing her face into his chest. She could hear his heartbeat thumping away loud and strong, and she silently thanked the Maker for answering her prayers. They held each other like that for what felt like an eternity, basking in the happiness of their success. All too soon, however, he pulled away, blush coloring his cheeks.  

“I take it that means we were successful, then?” asked Paidel, amused by their display. 

“Indeed,” replied Alistair. “Thank you.” He stepped forward and seized Paidel’s hand to shake it vigorously. 

“You should eat,” said Sybil. “We have food upstairs. And you should get Paidel to heal that wound, now that he’s had a chance to rest.” Alistair nodded his agreement, and the three of them climbed the ladder to the first floor. Sybil set about preparing the porridge she and Paidel had set aside, and Paidel sat Alistair down to heal the gash on his arm. 

“I still can’t believe it really worked,” said Alistair, still dumbfounded. 

“You doubted, your Majesty?” said Paidel, feigning offense. “Truthfully, I’m still not sure what happened with the spell this time.” 

“What do you mean?” Alistair asked. Paidel explained how the spell had demanded more blood from him than he had expected, and Alistair frowned for a moment.

“Maybe it has something to do with the whole Theirin dragon blood thing.” Both Paidel and Sybil looked at Alistair in shock. 

“The what?” asked Sybil and Paidel in unison.

“Oh, well, you know… turns out that all Theirins going back to Calenhad have dragon blood,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “I even once met this witch who… but maybe now isn’t the time for that story,” he said upon seeing Paidel and Sybil’s incredulous stares.

“And this wasn’t something you thought to mention before engaging in a dangerous blood magic ritual?” Sybil asked, brandishing her ladle at him in frustration. 

“It’s something I try not to think too hard about! It just slipped my mind, honest,” he said. 

“Well, all’s well that ends well, yes?” Paidel said as Sybil turned back to the pot of porridge, shaking her head. She could not believe how reckless he’d been with his own life, and she stirred the cauldron with more fervor than before. 

“Exactly,” replied Alistair. She ladled three servings of porridge into bowls for each of them and they sat eating in an awkward silence for a short time, Sybil still fuming to herself. Eventually, Paidel excused himself to go clean up the underground room, and the two of them were alone once more. “I heard your ball was quite a success,” he said, playing with his spoon. “I’m glad.”

“Are you? It did not seem to me as though you cared either way that night,” she said, and there was no small amount of hurt in her voice.

“Sybil…” he sounded apologetic, but she did not want to let him off the hook that easily. 

“Why did you dance with me, Alistair? Why do it just to run off?”

He sighed, and placed his spoon down on the table. “You taught me that dance,” he said. “It just… would have felt wrong to do it with anyone else. I’ve never danced it with anyone but you.”

“That doesn’t explain why you abandoned me in the middle of the dance floor.”

He didn’t answer at first, just bit his lip. “I can’t explain it. I just had to leave.” He said it with a firmness that told her she wouldn’t be getting any more of an explanation than that. She could accept that, but the hurt still pricked at her heart.

“Well, at least we got to dance together one last time,” she said. 

“One last time? What do you mean? Surely there will be other balls.” 

Sybil shook her head. “Not for me. Now that you’re cured, I’m going to leave the city for a good long while. I’ve made enough contacts that I can start doing good work back in Highever, and…” she hesitated to reveal the second part of her plan, but she forged ahead. “And I shall visit some of the closer arlings and freeholds, I think. I have received many offers of marriage from their lords, and I would like to see them for myself,” she said as casually as if she were remarking upon the weather.

Alistair recoiled in shock. He seemed almost as taken aback as he had when she told him she’d found a cure for the Taint. She got up and went to warm herself by the fire, waiting for him to say something. “But you’ve only known them a few weeks,” he finally said in a strangled voice.  

“I should hardly think you have any room to lecture me on that subject,” she replied calmly. The emotions that had flared to the surface when she feared he would die were now tempered with the cold harshness of reality. She felt strangely detached from the conversation, like she was observing her own body from outside of it somehow. A strange numbness washed over her as she looked back at Alistair. He crossed his eyebrows at her, shaking his head as he tugged on his fingers. Suddenly, he burst out of his chair and paced over to her, his eyes wild, and he seized her hand, pulling her towards him. 

“Don’t go,” he said desperately. “I want you here, with me. Stay here.”

She looked at him askance, glancing down at her hand in his curiously. “For what purpose? To serve on your council?” she asked, genuinely confused. 

He blinked at her, the half-mad expression fading from his face. “Oh, well… Yes, that’s it. If you would.” He dropped her hand and took a step back from her. Whatever strange energy had come over him was seemingly gone. It must have been an after effect of the ritual, Sybil decided. 

She rubbed her hands together, feeling like his fingertips had left burns on her skin. “I… shall have to think on it. I will need time.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said. “But you should still come to council meetings in the meantime. The next one’s in three days.” Sybil nodded her agreement, the night’s exertions robbing her of the energy to say much more.

The first rays of dawn’s light began to fill the room, and she couldn’t help but yawn. “We both ought to be getting back,”  she said softly. 

“You’re right,” he replied. “Isn’t it beautiful, though?” He was staring out the window with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

“What is?”

“The first dawn of the rest of my life,” he said simply. “I will always be grateful for what you’ve done for me today, Sybil.” 

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” she replied. For a few quiet moments of peace, they stood side by side, watching the sun rise over the waters of the Drakon River.

Chapter Text

Sybil pulled her hood close as she fought her way through the downpour that had settled over Denerim for the last day and a half. The rain fell in such heavy currents that she could barely see more than a few feet in front of her. She had been at Paidel’s shack, having thanked him for his help and sent him on his way back to Soldier’s Peak when she’d realized that she didn’t have time to make it home to retrieve her carriage before the council meeting. She’d set off for the Palace on foot, and she’d been making good time until the rain had started. Now, she was already late, and soaked to the bone to boot. At least she hadn’t changed into a dress as she’d intended. As it was, she already looked a mess. 

She finally made it to the palace gates, and only paused for a few moments to shake off the rivulets of water running down her leathers before hurrying to the War Room. She pushed open the door with a thud, stumbling slightly as she entered. All of the council members were already present, and a fire had been lit in the grand fireplace on the near side of the room. The King rose to greet her, which made the other council members follow suit, albeit quite a bit more reluctantly. Far from the annoyance she’d expected to see on his face, he looked somewhat relieved, as if he’d worried she wasn’t coming. She curtsied, squelching wetly as she did so, and hastily went to the far end of the table. “Pardon my lateness, your Majesty, my lords. As you can see, the Maker decided I was in need of watering.” She shivered slightly as she took her seat.

Though Lord Eamon and the other council members looked thoroughly unamused, the King smiled faintly as he said, “You should take more care, my lady. We wouldn’t want you to catch your death of cold.” 

“As you say, your Majesty,” she replied, smirking. 

“In fact, Arl Bryland, would you be so kind as to swap with Lady Sybil, so she is nearer the fire?” Arl Bryland sat to the King’s immediate left, directly in front of the fireplace. 

“Of course, your Majesty,” said Arl Bryland, and he got up to allow Sybil to take his seat. As she settled in next to the King, he caught her eye with a wink, and Sybil suspected his motivation for making her switch was not entirely out of fear for her health. She looked down at her hands, but could not quite suppress the smile that came to her lips.

 Lord Eamon narrowed his eyes at her from across the table, and he cleared his throat impetuously. “We should continue, your Majesty,” he said. He looked even more frail than he had at the last council meeting, but he could still fix the King with a disapproving glare.

“Right you are, Eamon,” said the King, and the conversation returned to the discussion of troop movements that Sybil had interrupted with her arrival. The meeting went much the same as the first one she had attended, but the King directed more of his questions to her, and included her in plans for other royal duties, like meetings with diplomats and tours of the armory–though that had been suggested with a sly wiggle of his eyebrows. He seemed to be much more appreciative of her presence in general, and it almost felt like it had in the early days of his rule, when she had led these meetings herself as Chancellor. Sybil, for her part, found herself torn between happiness that the King wanted her to be involved and reluctance to commit to further duties that would require her to stay in Denerim. Everytime he brought up something that he could use her help with, it only served to remind her that she could never be by his side in all the ways she truly wanted to be. 

Eventually, the group had talked of state dinners and armament shipments until they could no more, and the King was satisfied with the day’s work. He was just calling the meeting to an end when Eamon interrupted, explaining that he had a matter that he wanted to put to the group. The King eyed him suspiciously, but ceded Eamon the right to speak.

Eamon bowed his head and took several wheezing breaths before he looked up. “It does me no great pleasure to announce this to you all, but I have delayed this moment long enough. My health has long been failing me, and my healers have informed me that my condition has lately taken a turn for the worse.” The other council members all exchanged shocked looks, but the King’s expression was one of abject horror. However much he moaned and complained about him, it was clear that Eamon meant a great deal to him. 

“What–but–how bad is this, Eamon?” the King asked, his face pale. 

“Bad enough that I am resigning from this council to return to Redcliffe, your Majesty,” said Eamon, and the King’s mouth fell open in shock. 

“How can this be?” the King asked in a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me how serious this was?”

“I did not want to worry your Majesty,” replied Eamon, “especially not after the events of the past year…” The room fell silent as the King stared at his hands, laid flat in front of him on the table. Sybil had to restrain herself from reaching out to take his hand in front of everyone. Instead, she settled for watching the rain pelt the window, its soft drumming the only noise in the room.

Seeking to fill the terrible silence, she said, “I am truly sorry to hear this, Lord Eamon. I will pray that your good health returns soon.” 

“You have my thanks, Lady Sybil. In fact, there is one thing I would hope that you would do for me, or rather, for us all,” Eamon said, looking up to meet her gaze.

“What is it?” she asked apprehensively.

“I would ask that you formally rejoin this council in my stead. Take up the position of Chancellor you once held, and serve your King and country as you know you should.” Eamon stared her down as he said it, almost daring her to refuse. She could feel her hackles rising as she looked at Eamon’s righteous expression. Who was he to command her in such a manner? She could not become Chancellor again, for it would mean a permanent residence in this city she so despised, a complete lack of freedom to pursue her own ends, and worst of all, she would be forced to remain by the King’s side, day in and day out, close enough to see him but never to have him for her own. How could she resign herself to such torment, even if she did marry Bann Oswyn? 

She turned her gaze to the King only to find him staring at her, begging her with his eyes. She knew he was afraid she would refuse, for she already made her wish to leave Denerim clear to him. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glassy, as if he were on the verge of breaking down completely. She had only seen him like this once before, on the day he had insisted Teyrn Loghain die for his crimes against the Grey Wardens. The same wild desperation was in his eyes then as it was now, and just as she had been then, Sybil was powerless to refuse it. If he wanted her to stay as much as he seemed to, then she would. As much as it would hurt her to stay, it would hurt her more to walk away from him once again. She forced herself to turn away from the King to answer Eamon directly.

“If the council votes that they wish me to be their Chancellor, then I will abide by their decision,” Sybil said. She heard the King let out the breath he had been holding next to her, but she could not bring herself to look back at him. 

“Then we shall have a vote,” he said confidently. “All in favor?” He, Eamon, Arl Bryland, Seneschal Reeves, and, after a brief pause, Arl Kendells, all raised their hands. Bann Ceorlic merely crossed his arms and made a small harrumphing noise to himself. “Then we are agreed,” said the King, the relief palpable in his voice. “Lady Sybil Cousland is my new Chancellor.” 

While most sane men would have been overjoyed to have such a title bestowed upon them, Sybil could only feel an impending sense of doom in the pit of her stomach. She could only summon a small nod for the other council members. 

“I will catch you up to speed on everything before I depart for Redcliffe, my lady,” said Eamon. “You are doing Ferelden a great service.” There was something pitying in Eamon’s tone, as if he knew of the turmoil raging in Sybil’s heart. 

“Of course she is,” said the King. He clapped her on the shoulder suddenly, and it brought Sybil out of the dark spiral her thoughts had been tumbling down. She gave him a tight smile and got up from her seat.

“If I may be excused, there are things I must take care of at home,” she said, and swept from the room without waiting for a response. 

“Let her go,” she heard Eamon say from the hallway, and she thanked the Maker for his foresight. The less she thought of Alistair in the coming days, the better.  

 ~

Sybil threw herself into the Chancellor’s duties with a fervor that was surprising even to her. She had not realized how much she had missed rising early each morning with a list of tasks that needed doing, rather than having to come up with a new way to occupy herself for the day. She attended meetings with Eamon at the palace daily, and through them she received a thorough course in all the various comings and goings of the kingdom that she would need to know. Eamon was glad to see that she was taking her new title seriously, and her days began to fill with long strategy sessions concerning the future of the kingdom and all of his plans for the realm. She did not agree with all of his plans, but she was glad of the excuse to avoid the King at all costs. The first few days he had popped into her meetings with Eamon, cheerfully adding his usual running commentary of jokes and witty asides. In another life she would have been glad of his company, but as it was she could barely stand to acknowledge his presence, let alone joke back with him as she once might’ve. The King soon sensed that she did not long for his presence, and his appearances dwindled from a short stay to a nod at the door to nothing at all. If Eamon had any thoughts on the way she had iced the King out, he did not offer them to her. 

Two weeks passed of endless talks with Eamon, tours of the city, and meetings with other nobles. The meeting that Sybil had been most dreading was scheduled for the day before Eamon was set to leave for Redcliffe. Upon learning that Sybil had been appointed as Chancellor, Duke Dominik had insisted on meeting her in private. She had put him off for as long as she could, but the day had finally arrived, and Sybil waited with Eamon in the study that would soon be hers to receive the Duke. 

Soon enough, the Duke made his presence known with a knock at the door. Eamon got up rather gingerly and welcomed the Duke into the room. The group exchanged pleasantries for a while and Sybil endured a long-winded rant on the merits of Fereldan cooking before Eamon finally turned the conversation to business.

“Well, Duke Dominik, the reason I called you here was that I was hoping you would explain the finer points of our current negotiations to Lady Sybil here, as she will be resuming her post as the King’s Chancellor.” 

“Oh happily, happily, Lord Eamon! And it is my hope that with you here, Lady Sybil, these arrangements can be settled once and for all,” Duke Dominik said, rubbing his hands together imperiously. He then launched into an explanation of the position of his house, the current political state in Nevarra, and the potential advantages of a formal alliance with Ferelden. It became immediately clear to Sybil that the Duke, while in control of the most territory and men of all Nevarran nobles, did not yet have the diplomatic sway to directly position his family as successors to the throne. With his daughter married to the King of Ferelden, there would be no denying his family’s might and resistance to their claim would be much smaller. Sybil probed him with questions about his intentions for his daughter and his position to make promises of support, but for all his pompous bluster Sybil could not find fault with the man. The Duke did seem earnest in his promise to provide Ferelden with aid should open conflict with Orlais arise, and if the Duke was successful in staking his family’s claim as the next royal house of Nevarra, the potential benefits of the alliance would only increase. However, if the Duke got himself into a protracted civil war over the succession, then Ferelden would be obliged to involve themselves in a petty dispute in a foreign country. 

“Well you’ve certainly given me a lot to think about, your Grace,” said Sybil politely once the Duke had talked himself out of steam. 

“I should hope that there wouldn’t be much more to consider, my lady,” replied the Duke, his tone suddenly dropping. “My daughter and I have been waiting far longer than we had been promised, and I must express to you my growing impatience.” He leaned forward, the implicit threat in his words clear. “It would be a shame if Ferelden were to find itself… at odds with Nevarra, when I hear the chevaliers are already returning to some of their old ways.” 

Sybil opened her mouth to object, but Eamon quickly replied, “The King will have a decision for you soon, your Grace. Once Lady Sybil is settled in, I am sure it won’t be much longer.” He gave Sybil an imploring look, and she refrained from rebuking the Duke as she had intended. She settled for a simpering smile that seemed to soothe the Duke’s irritation. 

“I shall trust your word, Lord Eamon. I was sorry to hear that you would be leaving us because of your health,” said the Duke. “Do let me know if there’s anything I can do for either of you.” He rose from his seat and bowed his head to them both. He took Sybil’s hand to place a kiss upon her knuckles, though he squeezed her fingertips so tightly it left her rubbing them nervously as he swept from the room. 

“Well, I should have guessed it would come to that soon,” sighed Lord Eamon.

“Come to what?” asked Sybil. 

“Open threats against us,” he replied grimly. “Those are new.”

“He must be bluffing,” said Sybil. “He can afford war with us no more than we can with them.”

“Not openly, no,” said Eamon, “but many of the Orlesian chevaliers would only be too happy to do his dirty work for him, and Empress Celine has not had the same control over them ever since the civil war.” As much as she did not want it to be so, he was right, and she shuddered to think of the potential consequences raids by chevaliers would have on ordinary Fereldans. Her people had already been through so much over the last fifteen years, and she could not risk exposing them to any more pain and suffering. She knew that the alliance with Nevarra must go ahead for the safety of her country, even though it came at the cost of her heart. 

“Then it’s a good thing that Lady Katharina will soon be engaged, isn’t it?” said Sybil, and each word was a hot coal on her tongue. Eamon raised his eyebrows at her words. 

“I’m glad to hear you say so, my lady,” he said slowly. “I will be most grateful for your support with the King.” Eamon shook his head and coughed, his wheeze even more dire than usual. “He has been… reluctant to formally announce an engagement.” 

“I will talk to him,” said Sybil, though the prospect of such a conversation, after having avoided the King for weeks, was certainly daunting. Eamon gave her another one of those pitying looks that he had been giving her with more frequency lately, most often whenever the King was brought up. 

“Thank you, Lady Sybil. I can leave for Redcliffe knowing that the kingdom has been left in your capable hands.” He leaned across his desk to take her hand in his, squeezing it much more gently than the Duke had moments before. His skin was chilled to the touch, and his shoulders shook slightly as he took shallow breaths. To see him so weakened saddened her greatly. Whatever disagreements she had with Eamon, she could not deny that without him both her and Alistair’s stories would most likely have ended crushed under a wave of darkspawn or the headsman’s axe. 

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me now, my lord. I’ll never let you hear the end of it when I come to visit,” she replied, squeezing his hand back. 

Eamon chuckled and nodded his head. “As you wish, my lady.” 

“I will take my leave of you, then. Try not to tire yourself out with your final preparations to leave, my lord.” With that, they bade each other farewell, and Sybil returned home, already dreading how the King would surely react to what she knew she must tell him. 

~

Sybil raised her hand in farewell as Lord Eamon’s carriage pulled away from the Royal Palace. Many members of the nobility that remained in Denerim had gathered to wish him well, and as the carriage left the courtyard the group began to disperse, conversing with each other in hushed tones. The carriage quickly disappeared from view, and Sybil was left standing alone underneath gathering gray clouds. Before Eamon had left, he had announced Sybil’s position as Chancellor to the gathering, which had gone over about as well as she had expected. Many seemed comforted by the news, while others were surely dismayed that she had assumed such a powerful role after only a few weeks back at court. Her brother had been pleasantly surprised, shooting her one of his familiar crooked smiles as he led the group in a round of applause. The King had missed the announcement entirely, only arriving in time to see Eamon off. She watched him chat idly with Teagan and Kaitlyn, who were due to leave for Redcliffe themselves soon, his eyes flicking impatiently to the doors back into the palace. She started to make her way towards him, hoping to seize the opportunity to discuss the alliance with Nevarra, but she found her path blocked by a familiar face. 

“I wanted to offer you my congratulations, Lady Sybil,” said Bann Oswyn, giving her one of his usual shy smiles. “There is surely no one better to be our new Chancellor.” 

“Oh, Bann Oswyn, thank you,” she replied awkwardly. They hadn’t met or spoken since she had received his proposal of marriage, but she suddenly found herself rather distracted by the way the wind blew through his hair and made it catch on his overlong eyelashes. 

“I assume this means you will be staying in Denerim permanently, then?” he asked, looking down to avoid her gaze. 

As Sybil considered the answer to his question, her eyes sought the King across the courtyard in spite of herself. He stood facing away from her, and she could only make out the way his hands clenched into fists at the small of his back. If part of her had been looking for a reason to reject Oswyn then and there, she would have found none. She reached out to place her hand on his arm gently, and their eyes met. 

“Please don’t think this means I am not still considering what you wrote to me, Oswyn,” she said. “Your words meant a great deal. Will you give me a couple of months to adjust to my new role, before I give you my answer?” 

He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and he stood a little taller as he nodded. “Then I am glad I summoned the courage to write them. Of course, you may have all the time you need. ”

Sybil chuckled to herself softly. “Was it truly so daunting a task? I am not that intimidating, am I?”

“On the contrary. You may be the most frightening woman I’ve ever met. I have not forgotten the way you dispatched that thug that nearly ended my life,” he replied, grinning. 

“Oh?! Oswyn, you wound me,” she gasped in mock offense. 

“I believe it is you who does the wounding, Sybil,” he bantered back. At this Sybil let out a true laugh, a near cackle that rang out over the hushed courtyard. A great many stares turned to them at once, and Sybil clapped her hand over her mouth as Oswyn had done at Lady Katharina’s dinner. The pair shrank away from the crowd and Sybil shook her head at him, blushing. 

“It seems you have your revenge,” she whispered.

“At long last,” he replied quietly, and raised his fist to celebrate his victory.  “Will you come inside with me? It will likely rain soon.” He turned towards the steps into the palace and offered her his arm.

As much as she longed to forget her duties for a while and pass the rest of the day with her friend, she knew there was one thing that she must do before she could relax. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the King part with Teagan and Kaitlyn and start to head back into the palace. He did not look at her as he passed, purposefully or not Sybil could not tell. Her last chance to pull the King aside without having to seek him out in his study was about to slip away, and with a sigh she took a step back from Oswyn. “I can’t, I’m afraid. Chancellor duties and all that, you know.” She threw a glance towards the King and Oswyn seemed to catch her meaning. 

“Then, I shall see you soon, my lady,” he said, and bowed courteously. She bid him farewell and hurried up the stairs after the King. 

“Your Majesty, wait,” she called, and he paused just before pushing open the doors into the palace. She caught up to him at the doors, slightly out of breath. “I thought we might speak? We need to discuss–”

“Follow me,” he said curtly, and took off around the corner of the battlements instead of entering the palace. Sybil stared at him bewildered for a moment before following, the wind blowing her hair as it began to pick up. The King set a quick pace, leading her to the western side of the palace without looking back at her or saying anything. Eventually, when they came to overlook the Royal Gardens, he stopped walking just as suddenly as he had begun. They had stopped in a corner of the battlements that was quite secluded, only really noticeable to someone already looking for it. Sybil had to reach a hand out for the parapet to stop herself from being buffeted about by the wind. The sky had grown almost stormy, but still no rain fell.

“What are we doing out here?” she asked, raising her voice to make sure she was heard. The King leaned against the castle walls and looked past her over the gardens, his stare distant. 

“On days like these, the wind used to help clear away Corypheus’ false Calling from my mind,” he said wistfully. “It would drown out that dreadful song.” He shook his head slightly as if clearing away a memory. “Now, I think… A little bit of peace here and there helps keep me sane.” He finally turned his gaze to her, his brown eyes darkened under the shadow of the clouded sky. “What did you want to talk about?”

She didn’t quite know where to start. She tried to begin with niceties, and asked, “How are you holding up? I know Eamon’s departure must be hard on you.” To her surprise, he scoffed at her derisively in answer, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Sometimes I don’t understand you, Sybil.”

She blinked at him in confusion. “What?”

“Ever since Eamon announced he was leaving, you’ve barely said a word to me. Now, on the day he leaves, you pretend to care how I feel about it? Where have you been the past two weeks?”

“I pretend to care? Just because I’ve been busy–”

“How can you?!” he cut her off bitterly. “When you let me in one day, then push me away the very next?” He pushed away from the wall to pace away from her. He placed both hands on the parapet, breathing deeply, and Sybil could only watch him in regretful silence. She had no defense for her actions, no witty turn of phrase that could make him understand that it was precisely because she cared for him so that she could never tear down the walls between them. 

“If you feel I’ve treated you unfairly, I apologize,” she said, and the words felt heartlessly detached even as they crossed her lips. He didn’t answer for a few moments, the silence stretching out between them.

Eventually, the King said, “Just say what you wanted to say. You have some news, I take it?”

“What are you talking about?” Sybil asked. She cast around in her mind for what he could possibly mean, for she did not think the alliance with Nevarra would be news to him at this point, but she came up empty.

“You were laughing with Bann Oswyn,” he said, tapping his hand against the stone of the battlements. “He’s one of the lords that proposed to you, isn’t he? I’ve seen the way you’re always huddled in some corner with him–”

“No! Well, yes, I mean, he did propose, but–”

“So, you’re to be the new Lady of Dragon’s Peak?” he asked, his tone sardonic. “I knew it. A fitting title for the slayer of an Archdemon, though I would–”

“Would you stop babbling and listen to me!” Sybil shouted, the wind carrying her voice so loudly that he started in surprise. He looked over his shoulder at her with wide eyes, chastened. “I did not come here to inform you of my marriage to anyone, let alone Oswyn, to whom I most certainly am not engaged!”

He at least had the decency to appear appropriately shamed, his cheeks flaming red. “You aren’t?”

“No, your Majesty. In fact, it was your marriage that I wanted to discuss.” All traces of the regret she had felt vanished as she glared at him.  She missed her Alistair, but sometimes the King of Ferelden worked her last nerve.  

“Sybil, I’m sorry, I–” She held up one hand to cut off his attempt at an apology. It was clear to her that she could no longer treat him as the man that had once been her best friend if either of them wanted to avoid driving themselves insane. 

The King quieted willingly. He ran one hand through his hair, sighing heavily. “I see. No doubt Eamon’s told you of the delightful plan he’s cooked up, Lady Chancellor.” 

“The deal with Duke Dominik is solidly negotiated, it’s true,” she said tentatively. The King shot her a scornful look. 

“I would have thought you’d be more opposed to a man using his own daughter as a bargaining chip,” he said. 

“Do you have some issue with the alliance that you would like to share?” Sybil kept her tone as neutral and flat as possible. She could not afford to let her feelings on the practice of marrying off one’s daughters for political gain sway her from her course, no matter how hard he prodded her about it. The King just looked down and shifted his weight from side to side anxiously. “Then why have you not done the sensible thing to appease Eamon and the Duke by announcing your engagement to Katharina?”

He looked up sharply at her, his eyes seeming to pierce her very soul. He said something under his breath, but a gust of wind howled so loudly around them that she could not make it out. She took a step closer to him and leaned in slightly, her arm brushing against his. “Speak up,” she said brusquely. 

“What if I don’t want to be married again?” he repeated, louder. 

The childlike petulance in his voice almost made Sybil laugh. “You don’t get that choice,” she said. 

“Don’t I? You’re the one who’s always reminding me that I’m the King, not Eamon nor anyone else.” 

“You are the King. The King needs a Queen.” 

“I tried that once already. See where it got me.” He closed his eyes, and his white-knuckled grip on the parapet seemed to be the only thing keeping him standing. In all the weeks she had spent at court, he had only even made reference to Queen Alice to her face once, on the day of the grand procession. Whatever emotions he had been keeping in check rose to the surface in front of her, but she did not know the right words to ease his pain. 

“I only meant that–”

“Haven’t I sacrificed enough? A wife, a child? Isn’t it enough that the kingdom hasn’t fallen apart on my watch?” He was pleading, but not with her. His eyes were cast to the sky to direct his words at the Maker himself. He turned his gaze back to her slowly. “And now you, of all people, return from Maker knows where to tell me I must do it all again. What if I don’t want to? What if I can’t ?” His voice shook as he spoke, the admission of his fear hanging ominously in the air. 

Sybil swallowed hard before speaking, taking the strength she needed from the wind blowing at her back. “I know it’s hard,” she began, “but your duty to Ferelden comes before all else.”

“Don’t give me that,” he spat. “You sound like Eamon.”

“What do you want from me, then?” She threw up her hands, lost. “It’s the truth.”

“I want to feel like I’m talking to the real Sybil, not some noble stranger!” He seized her shoulder and shook it, his fingers digging painfully into her skin. “I know she’s in there somewhere, but I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

She shoved his hand off of her and backed away from him, balling her hands into fists at her side. “You don’t know anything about the real me,” she said angrily, though it couldn’t be further from the truth. 

The fire left his eyes, fading into a cold disdain. “I guess I don’t.”

Sybil retreated further from him, shaking her head. The wind suddenly blew her hair across her eyes, blinding her as she fought to pull the strands away from her face. When the gust finally died down, the King of Ferelden had gone, and she was alone once more.

Chapter Text

Six weeks passed as gloomily as Sybil felt as Ferelden’s summer rains began in earnest. Her meetings with the council as Chancellor were productive but tense, and though the King was cooperative enough in meetings, he left each one without a friendly word to her. If they spoke at all it was to discuss palace business, and he only ever referred to her by her new title, the Lady Chancellor. He continued to refuse to announce his engagement to Katharina, much to the council’s dismay. Sybil had her hands full coming up with ways to satisfy Duke Dominik’s impatience, and her latest excuse, that the rainy season was an inauspicious time to announce an engagement, would not hold for much longer. The only thing that seemed to be saving them for the time being was the King’s sudden interest in Lady Katharina herself. Whereas once the two of them were only together at social events, over the past month Sybil often saw the two of them walking in the garden or dining together in the great hall. This pleased the Duke to no end, and he had taken to providing her with inane updates on the pair’s every move each time she ran into him. For her part, each time she saw the two of them together, another small chunk of her heart crumbled away. She told herself that eventually she would get used to it, but when that day would come, she could not tell. 

In the War Room on a morning that had actually provided a rare bit of sun, Sybil, the King, and the rest of his council were just settling into their seats for their meeting when a wiry messenger boy burst into the room. He brandished a sealed letter in his hand and panted, “Urgent word for you, Lady Chancellor.” Sybil darted up from her seat and almost snatched it from him, fearing news of Orlesian raids or sightings of a darkspawn horde. The boy gave a hasty bow and hurried from the room as she tore open the seal. She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on her as she scanned the contents of the letter. 

“Well,” asked the King, “will you share what’s going on with the rest of us, or do we have to guess?” As she finished reading, she felt the blood drain from her face. She looked up at the King, the letter shaking in her hands, and his face fell as his eyes met hers. 

“It’s Lord Eamon,” she said as she walked slowly back to her seat. “Arl Teagan writes that he doesn’t have much time left, and asks that the King and I come to Redcliffe at once to… to say our goodbyes.” 

“No,” breathed the King in disbelief, and she wordlessly handed him the letter to read for himself. The room was deathly silent as he finished reading and crumpled the paper into his fist. He rose abruptly from his seat, the loud scraping of his chair making everyone else jolt. “I will leave at once,” he announced, and swept from the room. 

The others all looked imploringly at Sybil. “I will handle this,” she assured them in an attempt to assuage their fears. “I won’t let him leave the city without making all the necessary arrangements.”

“You had better get started then, Chancellor,” replied Arl Bryland. “We can handle our agenda for today. Seneschal Reeves will help you.” Sybil nodded, and she and Reeves left the room to begin sorting out everything that would need to be taken care of. 

She spent most of the day organizing with Seneschal Reeves, who she was grateful to learn already had many plans in place for such instances that would require the King’s sudden departure from the city. She had left the King to his own devices after informing the guards at the palace gates to inform her should he make any attempt to leave on his own.  As dusk fell, she was making her way back to her study, counting how many horses their party would need in her head when she heard someone clear their throat loudly as she walked past them. To her dismay, she turned back to see Duke Dominik standing in the hallway. 

“Duke Dominik! Forgive me, I did not see you there,” she said, gesturing for him to follow her.

“I was hoping I would catch you, Lady Chancellor,” he replied. 

“Did you need something, your Grace?” 

“Well, I’ve heard that the King will be leaving for Redcliffe quite soon. Such sad news about Lord Eamon.” The Duke clasped his hands together behind his back as they neared her study. She did not question how he had already found this out, for any ambassador worth his salt would have long since established eyes and ears in the palace. 

“It is indeed, your Grace.” She opened the door to her study and began arranging the papers she had left on her desk, her back to the Duke. She hoped that the lack of attention would drive him to end the conversation as quickly as possible. 

“And you shall be going with him, yes?”

“It would seem so.” Sybil was running out of patience with the Duke’s meandering. She turned to face him and asked, “Is there a problem?”

The Duke blanched slightly and wrung his hands. “Not at all, my lady! It’s just– it seemed to me that if the King is going to be traveling, it would be the perfect opportunity for my Katharina to see more of Ferelden by accompanying him!”

Sybil narrowed her eyes, astounded by the Duke’s boldness. “The King is rushing to the deathbed of the man who raised him, not embarking on a royal tour.”

“All the more reason for his future queen to be with him, no? At such a time, I am sure her presence would be a great comfort to him,” he said with a sly smile. Sybil nearly objected, but then she remembered how much time the King had been spending with Katharina. What if he truly would like to have her around? Agreeing would give her one less headache to deal with as far as the Duke was concerned, at the very least. 

“Alright,” she said, relenting. “Lady Katharina may join us. But I warn you, we intend to ride out hard. This isn’t a leisure trip.” 

“My daughter is an excellent rider,” said the Duke. “She will be ready.”

With that, the Duke bowed and left the room. Sybil sighed to herself as she leaned back against her desk. She hoped she would not come to regret the decision she had just made.

~

Thanks to Seneschal Reeves' thoughtful planning ahead of time, the King, Sybil, Lady Katharina, and a small guard contingent were able to leave the next day. The King had reacted quite indifferently to Lady Katharina’s presence, which Sybil took as a small victory for herself. After everything that had happened, putting Denerim behind her on the open road felt wonderful, even in the dire circumstances of their departure. She couldn’t help herself from worrying over Alistair, and it was not lost on her that it was the first time they’d traveled together since the Blight. Though the memories threatened to fade, certain flashes still came to her: laughing together over one of Morrigan’s stews, clapping along as Leliana sang and played her lute, holding each other around the fire through countless sleepless nights. The difference between those days and their trip to Redcliffe could not have been more stark. He ate little and kept to himself, often disappearing into his tent directly after eating his evening meal. Katharina tried her best to keep him company while they rode, but Sybil chose to leave him be, sure that she was the last person he wanted to talk to. 

As the sun reached its peak in the sky on their tenth day of travel, the group arrived at Redcliffe Castle. Arl Teagan and Kaitlyn were there to greet the three of them in the main hall, both grim-faced. “Your Majesty, my Lady Chancellor,” said Teagan after bowing deeply before them, “I am glad you made such good time after receiving my letter.” He shot a confused glance in Katharina’s direction, but did not acknowledge her.  

“How is he?” the King asked, his jaw clenched tightly. 

“Weak,” replied Teagan. “The healers have made sure he’s not in any pain. They say his lungs are giving out on him.” He looked down dejectedly, and Kaitlyn rubbed his shoulder to comfort him. 

“I’ll see him now.” The King didn’t wait for any of them to respond and left the room through the door that led to the main staircase. 

“Is Connor here?” Sybil asked, for she had seen no sign of Eamon’s mage son on their way into the castle.

“He was studying at an institute in Tevinter, the last we heard from him,” replied Teagan. “We’ve sent word, but… it is unlikely it will reach him in time.”

“That is Lord Eamon’s son, no? How terrible for him,” said Katharina blithely.

“It is a sad day for us all,” said Teagan. An awkward silence descended over the group.

“He’s been asking for you as well, Lady Sybil,” said Kaitlyn gently. “I’ll take Lady Katharina to settle into her room.” Kaitlyn left Teagan’s side to take Katharina’s arm, leading her out of the hall. Sybil gave Teagan a quick parting nod and headed in the same direction the King had gone.

She had visited Redcliffe Castle a handful of times in the intervening years since they had embarked upon the forced march to Denerim to defeat the Archdemon. Each time she had visited, she had taken care to avoid the wing of guest rooms in the castle by staying in the village. Ghosts of her past walked these halls, and if she wasn’t careful she was liable to run into a few of them as she made her way to Eamon’s bedchamber. She came upon the hallway that led to his room, but it was not his door at the end of the hall that drew her eye. Behind the third door on the left was where she and Alistair had first heard of the sacrifice required to kill an Archdemon, and two doors down from that where she had done the unthinkable and convinced Alistair to complete Morrigan’s ritual. As she stood there contemplating the past, she realized that the day she had pushed him to such depths was the day she had truly lost him. It took more strength than she had expected to make it to the end of the hall. 

When she finally arrived at Eamon’s bedside, he was recumbent on his bed, propped up by an abundance of pillows. The King had pulled up a chair at his side, his back to the door. The room was dark, lit only by the fireplace in the far corner, and the air had a sticky, suffocating weight to it. Eamon’s eyes slowly drifted towards her as she gently closed the door behind her. He spluttered and coughed, then struggled to push himself into more of a sitting position. “Please, Lord Eamon, be at ease,” she said, and walked forward to stand at the foot of the bed. He did not heed her, however, and he slowly pulled himself up to lean against the headboard, wheezing all the while.

“Are you trying to bring about your death even faster, old man?” chided the King. He stoically ignored Sybil’s presence behind him, and he reached forward to pour Eamon a glass of water from a pitcher on his bedside table. 

Taking the water, Eamon chuckled weakly. “My death is fast approaching no matter what I do. I will address the Lady Chancellor how I see fit, your Majesty.” The King just shook his head, and Sybil could see that his eyes had the faintest hint of red in their corners. 

“I am sorry to see it has come to this, my lord,” said Sybil, unsure of what else she could say. She knew not how one should address a man on his deathbed.

“I am glad the three of us are able to speak, one last time,” replied Eamon faintly. “We three who set in motion the events of the last fifteen years, and now the chapter finally comes to a close. We have all sacrificed much for our beloved Ferelden, no?” 

Neither Sybil nor the King offered any response at first, though Eamon’s words rang devastatingly true in her ears. Even he had lost his wife to the chaos caused by the Blight and the civil war. Sybil had always been resolute in her duty to her house, to her country, and to the new family she had found among the Grey Wardens. She had spent the last fifteen years laying everything she had upon those altars, and even her quest for a cure was done in the name of escaping the manipulation the Wardens had been subjected to by Corypheus. She had remained ever vigilant, she had found victory in every battle she had faced, but as she watched Alistair place his head in his hands, she found she no longer had the will to sacrifice all. In another life, she could have been the one to hold him as they faced this loss together, instead of watching helplessly from a distance. Could that have been worth fighting for, after all?

“Sacrifice is not all it’s cracked up to be,” said Alistair into his hands, his thoughts perhaps echoing her own.

“But it is the core of our duty, our very lives. Do you not agree, Lady Chancellor?”

Sybil hesitated for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Alistair’s broad shoulders. “I certainly have known little else in my life,” she replied, and Alistair suddenly went very still.

The bed creaked as Eamon shifted uncomfortably, his gaze turning back to the King. I hope you have been thinking on my parting words to you, my boy.” 

He turned his head away from Eamon as he squeezed his eyes shut together, sighing.  “Is now the best time to talk about that?”

“I do not know if I will have another chance to, so yes, it must be now.” Eamon’s voice rattled as he fought for each word. “It is my dying wish that you secure the future of the Theirin line. It cannot be left any longer. You must marry Katharina.”

Alistair pushed away from the bed and rose from his chair, turning his back on Eamon. “I’ve told you why I have waited to marry again.” He avoided her gaze, directing his eyes to the floor.

“I know you have struggled,” Eamon said, his voice softer. “Both of you have. But think of the good that could be achieved–” Eamon descended into a fit of coughs, and Sybil rushed forward to get him more water. He accepted the glass from her with shaking hands, and she could feel Alistair hovering right behind her, the worry emanating from him as strongly as she had once been able to sense a darkspawn. She moved down the bed to allow him to stand at Eamon’s side once more. “Thank you, my dear. Perhaps you can convince our King, if I cannot?”

Alistair finally turned to look her in the eye. Instead of the scorn she had expected to see on his face, he wore the same vulnerable, desperate expression he had the day she had left him behind fifteen years ago. The emptiness that had settled into her soul that day had never left her, not for a single moment. Staring into his face, watching the way his eyes crinkled as he waited for her answer, Sybil knew in that moment that she could not bear to hurt him again as she had once done, as she had been doing ever since she had returned to Denerim. Her heart prevented her from saying the words her head told her to say.

She merely said, “The King must do what he thinks is best, of course.” He tilted his head at her, clearly thrown by her response. 

“But–” Eamon tried to object, but was instead overcome by another round of hacking coughs. 

“Thank you, Lady Sybil, for your thoughts,” said Alistair before Eamon could regain his breath. “I’d like to speak to Eamon alone now, please.” There was a hint of gratefulness in the way he looked at her, his gaze more fond than it had been in weeks. 

It took her a moment to respond, so caught up was she in hearing her name on his lips for the first time in so long. Eventually, she blinked back the emotions roiling in her chest and nodded, backing away from Eamon’s bed. Eamon glared at her, no doubt disgruntled by her lack of support, as she curtsied in farewell. “Rest easy, my lord,” she said, ignoring the disappointment on Eamon’s face, and left the pair of them alone. 

She knew she’d go stir-crazy sitting alone in her guest room, but the thought of making awkward conversation with Teagan, Kaitlyn, or Maker forbid, Katharina, sounded entirely unappealing. She considered heading to the courtyard to find a practice dummy to take her feelings out on, but as she began to make her way there she caught sight of a familiar archway. She knew it led to the castle gardens, another place that had often haunted her dreams. Without anything to distract her this time, she found herself being pulled towards it, deeper into the memories she had been running from half her life.

Chapter Text

As Sybil paced in the castle gardens, the echoes of her fight with Alistair after learning of the sacrifice required to kill an Archdemon filled her mind. She had been so angry at him for denying them the chance to have Loghain die in one of their stead, and he had been furious at her implication that she would not allow that person to be him. It was the most heated argument they’d had since they had struck out from Lothering with Morrigan, Leliana, and Sten. She had felt so unmoored with the prospect of her own death staring her in the face, but she had refused to even consider his protests that it should be him. Eventually, their anger with each other faded into the deepest grief imaginable. They had no choice but to hold each other into the night hours underneath the figure of Andraste carved into the oak tree in the center of the gardens. Of course, they hadn’t known that Morrigan was waiting to change everything.

She came upon the same tree and found that the carving of Andraste had been worn by the wind into something unrecognizable to all save those who knew what it once was. She traced her fingers over the curves of the wood, finding the lines and shapes more familiar to the touch than they were with her naked eye. It would take dedication, but the woman that this carving had once been could be uncovered once again, by someone who knew that they were looking for. Alistair’s words to her on the battlements came to her, that the real her had been replaced by a stranger. Had she buried herself too entirely in duty, in sacrifice? Had she allowed herself to become like the carving, beaten by time and hardship into someone that even she could not recognize? 

As she stood under the tree, its branches waving to and fro in the wind, she resolved that she would no longer allow herself to exist in the shadow of the person she had once been. She would fight for her own happiness as best she could, instead of constantly deferring to the needs of others as she had always done. She could make a home and a family for herself with Oswyn, and she could serve the King without putting duty and dynasty above everything. It may not be a life she had ever foreseen for herself, but that did not mean that it could not have meaning. She had been running herself into an early grave trying to put the needs of Ferelden and the Crown first, but she could do it no more. It was time to stand up for herself. 

The King needed to know of her change of heart, she realized as the first drops of rain began to fall from the sky. She would support him marrying Katharina in his own time, but this was about more than that. He needed to know that she would never again allow herself to become lost in the machinations of politics and court intrigue. She needed him to know he could still trust her. 

Making a break from the relative safety of underneath the oak tree’s branches, she hurried back into the castle, clutching her skirts as she tried to avoid the mud already forming on the ground. She had lost track of time in the gardens, but she was fairly confident that his talk with Eamon had not lasted this long. She found no one save a few servants in the entrance hall and the dining room, and she realized that most of the castle’s inhabitants were probably taken up by grief and not likely to want to be disturbed. She wandered the halls aimlessly for a short while before she realized that there was one place left with meaning to Alistair that she had not checked. She began to find her way to Eamon’s old study, where she had found the amulet of Alistair’s mother’s that Eamon had repaired and kept.As she approached the study, she noticed light emanating from underneath the door. She was just smiling to herself for knowing Alistair well enough to find him when she pushed open the door to see one of her worst nightmares come to life. 

Alistair was indeed in the study, but so was Lady Katharina, her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips pressed against his. She pulled him in close as a soft moan escaped her lips and her fingers dug into his hair. His tunic had been pulled open at the front, the cloth falling away to reveal his tanned chest. Sybil froze, her mind blank, and Alistair grabbed Katharina by the waist and pushed her off of him, his eyes locked on Sybil’s face. Katharina giggled, stroking Alistair’s arm, and she only noticed Sybil at the door after a few moments. 

“Oh! Lady Sybil, I didn’t see you there,” Katharina said with a simper. “Perhaps you can join us for–”

Sybil did not wait to hear the rest of her invitation before she turned on her heel and fled.

She had nearly made it to the end of the hallway when she heard Alistair’s voice. “Sybil, wait, please!” he shouted after her, but she did not stop or turn back. She heard his footsteps echoing behind her in the hallway as he followed her, continuing to call her name. A true lady would never have ignored her king, but the sight of Katharina curled around him, as she had pictured so often in her lowest moments, had wiped away everything she had planned to say and replaced it with a deep, aching pain in her heart. She had known the two of them were growing closer, but foolishly she had believed that there were still no real feelings between them. 

It seemed she had been wrong. 

She could hardly bear to look at Alistair, let alone speak with him, lest everything she had been holding back come spilling out of her mouth. She knew there would be no escaping him in her room or anywhere else in the castle. Her only choice was to head back outside and hope that he would not follow her into the rain. 

He wasn’t far behind her as she passed through the archway leading into the gardens without hesitation. The rain fell in hard sheets, but the way it raked against her skin was invigorating. She entered the gardens and ran directly into the center, this time not bothering to ensure the hem of her dress did not become covered in mud. For a few moments, she stood silently in the rain, tilting her head up to the sky and allowing it to wash over her.  Her head spun, and she tried to close her eyes and focus on the feeling of each individual raindrop pelting her face, each one like a tiny caress. Squelching noises behind her told her that she had not managed to deter Alistair from following her into the garden. 

“Sybil, I can explain.”

She let out an exasperated laugh, her eyes still closed. “Explain what? You and the waif have every right to spend your private time together however you wish.”

“No, Sybil. That wasn’t what it looked like, I swear!” He was suddenly directly in front of her, and she opened her eyes to see her face reflected in his. 

“Wasn’t it? Because it looked to me like you were all too happy to let her be your shoulder to cry on,” she said. “In fact, why don’t you get back to her and leave me be.” She attempted to shove her way past him, but as she did so he caught at her wrist, not letting her escape.

“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was grave, and his grip on her wrist was almost painful. 

“Why not? You seem to have been enjoying your time with her so much lately!” She yanked her arm out of his grasp and placed her hands on her hips, her tone rising. 

“She kissed me, Sybil! And I only started spending time with her in the first place because of you! You told me I had to marry her!” 

“And I only said what was best for Ferelden, what Eamon had been telling you for weeks before I arrived,” she replied. “Yet you could barely stand to acknowledge her before last month. Why should what I tell you make any difference?”

“Because you’re different, Sybil!” He shook his hair out of his face, droplets of rainwater flying out, some landing on her cheeks. “It matters what you say because you’re here.” He pressed his hand to his chest, directly over his heart. 

“You always have been, even though you abandoned me, left me to deal with fifteen years of petty noble squabbles and assassins from every corner of Thedas and cultist mages and Maker knows what else.” He was breathing hard, his drenched tunic clinging to his skin. “I thought I’d learned to live without the piece of me that you took, but then you just showed up, the first anyone’s heard of you in years, and you were here , again!” 

“Don’t, Alistair,” she said. “I don’t want to hear it, you can’t say these things to me, not now.” She tried to back away from him, but he just moved to block her path, taking her by the arms.

“You have to hear it, Sybil, you must. I’ve held it back for so long. I don’t care if Oswyn is waiting for you back in Denerim–”

“Oswyn? What does he have to do with this?” Oswyn was so far from her mind at that moment that she could not even fathom the mention of him.

“What else am I supposed to think? You joke with him at dinners like we used to, he does favors for you, you spent half your ball dancing with him– are you telling me that all means nothing?”

She stared at him in disbelief. “It means– why should it matter what it means?”

He fell silent, stone-faced, streams of rainwater dripping down his nose. He looked down at her for a long moment, a defeated dullness in his eyes. “You’re right. It shouldn’t matter, not to me. I shouldn’t stand in your way.” He dropped his hands from her and began to retreat inside. 

All at once she was back in the palace stables in the same pouring Fereldan rain, watching him storm away from her after she had shattered his heart. The pain of losing him had been bad enough then, but with fifteen years of loneliness and heartbreak between then and now, the heartache was hundredfold.  Suddenly the dam that she had built inside her heart collapsed, and everything she had been shoving down deep within herself came flooding out before she knew what she was doing. 

“I care nothing for Oswyn!” The words tumbled out of her mouth in an impassioned burst. He stood completely still and did not look back at her, but she did not stop.

“His voice does not call to me in my dreams, his touch does not set my skin aflame! Did you honestly think there could ever be another after you, who stood by me as we stared down the maw of an Archdemon, who pulled me back from the brink of oblivion time and time again?” She took a few hesitant steps toward him, but he was still facing the castle walls.

“But, the day you left… you told me…” His voice was so quiet she could barely make it out over the roar of the rain.

“I never said it,” she said. “I never could. I let you think it, because like a fool I thought it would be best for you. And you believed it so easily!” Her voice broke on the last word, tears springing to her eyes. 

Alistair finally spun around and strode back towards her, his arms reaching out to her briefly before he held himself back. “What are you saying, Sybil?” He radiated the same manic energy that had overcome him when he had begged her to stay after she cured him of the Taint. 

She clenched her fists at her sides, her breath shaky. “You said that I took a piece of you when I left. Do you not think that I too, have carried a rift in my soul ever since that day? I gave you up, Alistair, and it’s killed me every day since, because in all that time I never once stopped loving you!” Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, but she did not turn to hide them from him as she had in the past. She could not tell if the pounding in her ears was the beating of her heart or the rain that fell ever harder on her head and shoulders, running in rivulets down her dress. She had rendered him speechless, and he bowed his head and stared at the muddy grass between them, his wet hair falling forward and obscuring his eyes. 

“But none of that even matters,” she continued, looking away from him, her voice becoming more hysterical as she gesticulated wildly. “None of it matters because once again, the future of Ferelden rests on the decisions we make! You have to marry the Nevarran girl, so please, just go back inside and–”

Alistair took her chin in his hand, tilting it up towards him as his lips crashed into hers, tender and possessive at the same time. He pulled her flush against him by the waist, and she could feel the heat of his skin against her chest. She instinctively pressed her body closer to him and reached her hands up to cradle the sides of his face. He kissed the breath out of her, as if every moment he had not spent kissing her in the last fifteen years needed to be made up for all at once. Rainwater streamed down both of their faces and caught in her eyelashes, but it did not bother her at all, for it was nothing compared to the tingling she felt running down her spine and the warmth of his forehead pressed against hers. He kissed her again and again, each one leaving her wanting more. 

She gasped for air as he pulled away slightly, his forehead still touching her own. “You really love me?” he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over her lips. She nodded, too overcome for words, and cast her eyes to the ground. He gently tugged her chin up again, forcing her to hold his gaze. “I want to hear you say it.”

She sucked in a deep breath, slowly stroking his cheek. “Always. That’s never changed. Can you ever forgive me?”

Alistair shook his head, and for a moment her heart sank. “ Forgive you?” he asked incredulously. Suddenly he reached down and scooped her up into his arms, then carried her forward until her back was against the oak tree. His lips found hers once again, and his kisses were even more fervent than before. She wound her hands in his hair as he moved down to bury his face in her neck and ran his hands up the side of her legs. He hiked up her skirts to find purchase on the bare skin of her thigh, and she let out a tiny whine of pleasure as she wrapped her leg around him. Her hair tangled up around his face as she held him, the tips of his ears reddening. As he lifted his head to kiss her again, she wanted nothing more than to feel him with her own hands, and she ran her fingers across his lips and down his neck. She planted kisses along his exposed collarbone, eliciting a low moan from deep within his chest as he ground his hips into hers. She grinned as a petty part of her mind thanked Katharina for pulling his shirt open for her. It was all coming back to her: the soaring feeling in her stomach when he kissed her in the sensitive spot at the base of her neck, the delightful crinkle that appeared between his eyes when she touched his bare skin, the heat that seemed to roll off of him in waves even underneath the pouring rain. How she had gone without this feeling, without him , in fifteen years, she did not know. She didn’t know how she ever would again. 

He pushed away from the tree with one hand, his arm over her shoulder. “I forgave you the moment you sliced your hand open at the calling of the banns,” he said, and she laughed softly. “I forgave you when you called out Bann Ceorlic’s ugly bald head, when you made that terrible joke at Katharina’s dinner, when you danced with me at your ball. I’ve forgiven you a thousand times and I’ll do it a thousand times more, as long as you promise to stay by my side forever this time.”

Her heart leapt to hear him say the words she had been dreaming of ever since she had arrived in Denerim, ever since she had discovered the cure and began to hope for a future despite everything standing in the way of one. Yet even as she pulled him into an embrace, a terrible fear also took root within her. She pushed him away and he took a step back from her, his brows pulled down in confusion. 

“But what about the alliance with Nevarra?” she asked, her voice small. “Ferelden needs it if we’re to stand secure against Orlais.” 

He closed his eyes, wiping raindrops off of his forehead. “I know,” he said. “Why is it that the needs of the country are always the opposite of what I want?” 

The despondent look on his face almost made Sybil wish that she had let him walk away from her when he had tried to before.  She steeled herself against the despair threatening to overwhelm her and said, “I won’t make this choice for you again, my love.”

He glanced down at her, biting his lip. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve done enough leading you one way or another, ever since we met, and I went right back to doing so once I came back to court. No more. I’m not going to tell you how to solve this, but…” She trailed off and looked down to straighten her skirts, avoiding his gaze. 

“But what?” he asked sharply.

“We cannot be together if you marry her,” she finished. “I’ll marry Bann Oswyn and make my home in Dragon’s Peak. I won’t shame him by being your mistress, he doesn’t deserve it.”

Alistair shook his head. “So that’s my choice? My heart or my country?” He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. 

“That’s the way it has to be,” she said. 

“But there has to be some way we can–”

“I must go,” she said as she pushed past him, her hand lingering on his shoulder. She traipsed through the rain and mud to head back inside, but she could not resist looking back as she made it back to the archway. Alistair leaned with one hand against the oak tree, facing the ground. She could not tell if the water dripping from his face was rain or tears. Unable to stand the sight of it for long, she quickly turned away and ran back into the castle, as if a faster pace would help her evade the ache in her heart. 

Her path led straight to the room that had been prepared for her, and although it reminded her of the pain she had suffered during the Blight, she did not emerge for the rest of the day. She far preferred to face those memories than risk seeing the pain she knew she would find in Alistair’s eyes.

Chapter Text

The morning came with its rays of sunlight streaming onto her face and rousing her from the anxious visions that plagued her sleep. Though Sybil no longer found herself jolting awake in the middle of the night with the snarls of darkspawn ringing in her ears, her dreams were no less unpleasant. Lately they had featured Katharina in Alistair’s lap, laughing at her as she planted kisses on his face and neck. She shook off the lingering pangs of jealousy as her stomach growled in protest of her neglect the night before. Food had been the last thing from her mind as she sobbed herself to sleep. Sighing, she resigned herself to the fact that she could avoid facing the others no longer and began to ready herself to seek out her breakfast. 

She had just finished dressing herself in her riding leathers – her dress was still damp to the touch – when she heard a frantic pounding at her door. She swung it open to find Kaitlyn staring at her, her face pale. 

“Lady Sybil, thank goodness you’re awake! Come quick, it’s Lord Eamon,” she said in a rush, then immediately turned back down the hall to Eamon’s bedchamber. Sybil followed, knowing that Kaitlyn’s fast pace could only mean one thing: Eamon was on the brink of death. Her thoughts immediately went to Alistair, and as she hurried towards Eamon’s door she prayed that he would be able to make it through what was about to come to pass. 

Upon entering the room, she saw Teagan and Katharina standing in front of the fire, quiet and somber. Alistair knelt at Eamon’s bedside, his face stricken. She knew the proper thing would be to stand with Kaitlyn in the corner of the room and wait, but something within her compelled her to go straight to Alistair. She went to his side, and he acknowledged her presence with the slightest lean into her hand. 

Eamon drew breath in sickly rattles, and he reached his hand out weakly for Alistair to hold. Alistair grasped Eamon’s hand firmly in his own, but Eamon just stared up at the ceiling.

“You are here, my son,” said Eamon faintly. “I am glad.” 

“No, it’s not Connor,” Alistair replied, his voice pitching up in confusion. “It’s me, the King.”

“So glad…” Eamon closed his eyes, hardly seeming to have registered Alistair’s words. Alistair looked back at her with a visceral fear lighting his eyes. 

Not knowing what else to do, Sybil leaned forward and spoke, trying to hold Eamon’s attention. “Lord Eamon,” she began hesitantly, “The King and I have come to see you. Teagan is here too.”

“Warden Cousland? Is that you?” Hearing him refer to her as a Warden gave Sybil a start, but she did not try to correct him. 

“It’s me,” she replied softly. “I’m here with Alistair.” Eamon turned his head to look at her, but his gaze was unfocused and distant. 

“Alistair? You must tell him…” Eamon trailed off and closed his eyes, his breaths becoming even more labored. 

“Tell me what?” asked Alistair in a whisper. He gripped Eamon’s hand ever tighter, but he did not answer.

“What must I tell him, my lord?” Sybil raised her voice slightly, and Eamon jolted awake again. 

“He is afraid to take the throne,” Eamon muttered. “I know he wishes to avoid it. But he is a Theirin, and… Theirins do not flinch from duty… Like his father, he will be… a great king. You must tell him, Warden, before the Landsmeet.” Eamon looked straight at her, and for the most fleeting of moments he seemed lucid, his voice stronger. His gaze was insistent, and Sybil could do nothing but place her hand gently on Eamon’s knee, buried beneath several layers of blankets.

 “I will, I promise.”  Eamon nodded, then he coughed again, a dreadful hacking sound, and he slipped back behind the fog in his eyes. Eamon’s eyes drifted closed, and his grip on Alistair’s hand slackened slightly. 

“Eamon, no ,” said Alistair desperately. “Don’t go. I still need you. Who will I argue with at council meetings? Who will order me around and scold me about my table manners, if not you?” He shook Eamon’s hand, trying to awaken him as Sybil had, but Eamon only let out a deep sigh and his eyes remained closed. “Eamon!”

Eamon had gone terribly still, and his arm went completely limp as Alistair clutched it to his chest. Teagan stepped forward and approached the opposite side of Eamon’s bed. He took Eamon’s other arm gently by the wrist, feeling for a heartbeat. After a few moments, he placed Eamon’s hand back down on the bed. He took one look at Alistair’s questioning expression and shook his head once. 

“Farewell, my brother,” said Teagan mournfully. “May you find everlasting peace at the Maker’s side.” Eamon was gone.

Alistair hung his head and his chest heaved with silent sobs. She heard Katharina and Kaitlyn sniffling behind her, but Sybil could only think about her love, slowly breaking into pieces in front of her. Though she knew she’d likely hear about it from Duke Dominik or the council, she could not stop herself from sinking to her knees and taking Alistair into her arms. He allowed his head to rest on her shoulder, and her sleeve was quickly dampened by the tears flowing down his face. She rubbed his back in slow, delicate movements, and his breathing slowly became more even. It was hardly the time, yet her heartbeat still quickened to hold him so close to her, his cheek on her shoulder so warm it threatened to sear a burn into her skin. She held Alistair even closer and looked up briefly to meet Teagan’s eye. Tear tracks stained his face as well, but as he looked down at her some form of understanding seemed to cross his face. 

“Come, ladies,” Teagan suddenly said. “Let us leave the King to mourn in peace.”

“But–” Katharina began to object, but she wilted under a firm glare from Teagan. Tegan, Katharina, and Kaitlyn left the room, the door swinging shut behind them with a loud, echoing thud. 

Alistair did not look up or utter a single word, though he had calmed slightly and his shoulders no longer shook. She stroked his hair gently, making soft soothing noises as she did so. Their embrace was entirely opposite from the passionate one they’d shared in the rain the night before, but it was no less important to her. It had been a lifetime since she’d held him like this, not seeking pleasure but solace in each other’s arms. If this was the last time she could touch him, Sybil decided, then she would take all the strength she could from it while she could. Alistair’s hands eventually found their way to her back, gripping the back of her shirt as he pulled her in even closer. She did not know how long they remained there on the floor, blocking out the whole world save each other. Eventually, her eyes sought the man whose body grew cold in the bed next to them.

 She could scarcely believe that Eamon was truly gone, the man who had been such a fixture in Ferelden’s court, who had watched over Alistair ever since he was a child, who had helped them win a civil war and end a Blight. Eamon’s political beliefs might have been too conservative for her liking, but it was clear he had been a father figure to Alistair over the past fifteen years, and thus to the nation itself. One of the things she loved most about Alistair was the deep love he carried for those around him, and she worried that Eamon’s death would send him back down into the black cavern of grief that she knew he had only recently made his way out of.  As she held him in her arms, she could only pray that the strength she had seen from him over the past months would not wither away. He had made it through two blood magic rituals soundly, and she hoped that fortitude would carry him through this ordeal. When they returned to court, the fighting for position among the nobles that had begun in the wake of Eamon’s departure would only worsen. She didn’t know what that would mean for her, regardless of what Alistair chose to do. The one thing she did know was that whatever happened, she would plot and scheme behind her King’s back no longer. What the future would look like, only Alistair could decide.

Chapter Text

The ballroom of the Royal Palace was full to bursting, with seemingly every lord and landowner in Ferelden packed inside its walls. The room was twice the size of the ballroom at the Cousland estate, with columns supporting the arched ceilings and Theirin banners dangling from them. The crowd buzzed with the noise of a hundred gossiping conversations, everyone greatly anticipating what was to come. Every noble in the room suspected that evening would finally be the day that the King announced his engagement, for it was the only reason that the King, who famously avoided most balls at all costs, would call for such a gathering so soon after Lord Eamon’s death. Duke Dominik and Lady Katharina had been presumed the guests of honor, and already a cluster of supplicants had formed around where the young girl stood at top of the hall. Portraits of Ferelden royalty looked down at the guests, presiding over the affair and reminding all present, including Sybil herself, of the weight of what was about to happen.

After they had returned from Eamon’s funeral in Redcliffe, Sybil had finally run out of ways to appease Duke Dominik’s insurmountable desire to have his daughter officially engaged to the King. Mere days after their return, he burst into a council meeting uninvited and announced to the group in no uncertain terms that unless the date for the engagement announcement was set that very moment, he would leave for Nevarra and take Katharina and any promise of aid against Orlais with him. Sybil had tried to talk him down from his threat, but it had been to no avail. In the end, it had been the King who had suddenly risen from his seat and declared that the announcement would occur in two weeks’ time. When she had tried to question him on this, his only answer was that the future had been hanging over him long enough, and he now intended to begin living it. 

Sybil had had little chance to speak with him since Eamon’s death, for he was either occupied with tending to the kingdom’s affairs or being whisked away by Lady Katharina. The girl seemed to be taking Eamon’s death rather hard, especially for someone who had known him barely more than a couple of months. Nevertheless, she was quite overcome, and thus often insisted upon spending long afternoons weeping in the arms of the King. Sybil had gone in search of Alistair several times over the last few days since their return to Denerim only to find him rubbing Katharina’s back or pouring her tea or otherwise comforting her in some way. Each time it happened, the King did not attempt to call her over or excuse himself from his conversation with Katharina, and so Sybil was left to stew in the worry and doubt that was slowly building inside her. Even if she had been able to spend time with him, what would she have said? She had promised herself she would not try to sway him down one path or the other, and being near him was somehow even more painful than it had been before. Every now and then she caught him looking at her with a sorrowful expression on his face, but he always avoided her gaze once their eyes met. No doubt he felt she was pushing him away, and she supposed he would have been right. She remembered Eamon’s last words, how he had reminded Alistair that Theirins always fulfill their duty. Would Alistair be able to bring himself to defy Eamon’s last wish? She didn’t even know if she wanted him to. Perhaps the fact that he had not sought her out was his way of telling her that what happened in Redcliffe Castle’s garden never would again. 

Sybil attempted to jostle her way through the crowd to find her brother or perhaps Bann Oswyn, who still patiently awaited her answer to his proposal of marriage. After several minutes of failing to get anywhere, she gave up and turned her back on the throng of people fighting for position. She stood directly beneath a large portrait of Queen Rowan, her luminous gray eyes unyielding in their strength. Rowan had long been a figure she’d looked up to as a little girl, raised on tales from her parents of Rowan’s strength in battle as well as her commitment to her house and her country. It had always been said that Rowan and King Maric did not marry for love, but for their duty to Ferelden. Yet Rowan had become the beloved Warrior Queen, and she would be forever beloved by her people for what she had done. If Rowan could put her feelings aside for the good of the nation, then how could Sybil aspire to any less? Had she any right at all to want nothing more than to claim her love for herself, no matter the consequences? She stared up at the painting, tears welling in her eyes, when a cough behind her shook her out of her reverie. 

Alistair stood before her, resplendent in regal golden finery, his crown balanced delicately atop his head. To see him dressed so, the crown suiting him so naturally, still made Sybil’s breath catch in her throat. Something seemed different about him, like the cloud that had been looming over him since Eamon’s death had finally cleared away. He looked at her with a sort of fond exasperation, then glanced up at the portrait of Queen Rowan. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said nonchalantly, coming to stand next to her. “But I should have known I’d find you here. Commiserating with ghosts instead of actual people.”

“If I’ve avoided you, it’s only because I’ve not once seen you without your shadow,” she said, failing to keep the bitterness at the thought of Katharina out of her voice. “And besides, we all have much to learn from those who came before us, don’t we? About honor, about our duty?” Sybil looked down and tried to surreptitiously wipe the tears from her eyes. 

“Maybe you’re right. I’ve certainly discovered a thing or two about duty over the last few weeks. But I’ve decided to focus on the future, on what I can control.” His voice took on a harsher, more insistent tone, and Sybil searched his face for any hint of doubt. She found none, and she felt her heart begin to crumble into ashes. She wished desperately for the ball to be over with so that she could escape back to the solitude of the Cousland estate. Frustration suddenly overcame her, and she glared at Alistair as he turned away from the painting to look at her.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dancing with–”

“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” he asked abruptly, his eyes roving down her body, taking in the way the black gown she’d worn for the evening hugged her curves. His lips curved into a wry smile as he watched her mouth slam shut, the echo of her own words dousing her spark of anger. She hadn’t been able to resist choosing a dress that made her look as enticing as she could, but hearing him say it aloud caught her off guard. The question and the tenderness in his gaze were entirely disconcerting, and the irritation she’d felt moments before melted away to be replaced by an annoying bashful sensation that she was unused to. 

“Oh– well, not recently,” she replied, pushing her hair back from her face, “That is– you look very handsome yourself, your Majesty.” She could feel her cheeks reddening as she stumbled over her words, but Alistair just chuckled quietly. She was just beginning to puzzle over why he’d chosen to remind her of one of her earliest attempts at flirting with him when he settled his arm around her shoulders and started steering her towards the dance floor. 

“What are you doing?” she whispered as they walked through the crowd, nobles around them shooting them scandalized looks. 

“You said I was supposed to be dancing,” he whispered back. “So I’m going to dance. Come on.”

“You’re supposed to be dancing with Katharina,” she hissed, “the Duke is going to have a fit!”

“Hang the Duke.”

“Alistair! What if someone heard you? I really won’t be able to help you if you offend Dominik again. And what about the alliance? Don’t you realize this could endanger everything we’ve–”

“Would you stop babbling and listen to me?” She looked up at him in shock, but his eyes were full of mirth. “Do you trust me?” They had nearly made it through the crowd, and Sybil could see Katharina waiting near the center of the room. She would surely notice the King’s arm around her soon. 

“Alistair, I don’t know if this is a good–”

He grabbed her hand with his free arm, spinning her around to stand facing him. “I said, do you trust me?” The distance between them was too small for Sybil to be able to think, the feeling of him squeezing her fingers occupying all her thoughts. 

“Yes,” she breathed, and with that he pulled her onto the dance floor. 

He did not greet anyone else, nor did he address the crowd, just signaled for the band to start playing. He placed his hand on the small of her back and let out a short exhale of breath to steady himself. The first notes from the strings began to float through the air, and before she had any time to doubt, the King was leading her in a waltz. 

Sybil had never been one to let men decide all the steps in a dance, always making her wishes known with a gentle tug of the arm or the purposeful misstep in a new direction even while they ostensibly took the lead. In that moment, however, in Alistair’s arms, she could let go of her need for control and allowed him to whirl her about the room however he wished. All she could focus on was the fire in his eyes, the confident set of his shoulders, and the way his hand pressing into her back seemed to be the only thing keeping her upright. While their dance at her ball had been all heightened emotions and twirling through the air, there was now only a solid unity between them, coming together at long last.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked, breathless as he lifted his arm to turn her in a circle. 

When she turned to face him once more, he leaned in close, his breath tickling her ear. “I’ve never been more sure in my life.” He pulled back slightly and smiled at her, a true Alistair grin that had nearly disappeared from her memory forever. She couldn’t help but return it, warmth spreading across her chest, but there was one thing she needed to make sense of.

“What of your duty to Ferelden?” 

“Eamon reminded me that I’m my father’s son,” he began, his hand dropping to her waist to move her closer to him as they danced. “A man who adored his wife so much that he was never the same after her death.” 

“That much is true, yes. And?” She looked at him quizzically, not sure what he meant.

“That day on the battlements. You told me that a King needs a Queen, right?” Sybil nodded, still confused. 

“You were right, but you were missing one element. A piece I didn’t figure out until very recently. So simple, really, I’m surprised you didn’t know,” he teased, squeezing her hand.

“Indeed? What piece is that?” Her heart began to pound in her chest, so strong were its beats she was sure he could hear it. 

“A King needs a Queen that he loves. ” His words hit her like a blacksmith striking at his anvil, and the last wall between them that she had worked so hard to maintain finally broke down. It was such a plain truth, only a few simple words that had somehow managed to turn her entire world upside down. How could she have been so blind as to ignore what her heart had always been telling her?

“Oh, my love,” she whispered, and he let go of her hand to brush away the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. 

“Will you let me love you, Sybil? Do you agree to finally stop fighting what it is between us?”

The final notes of the song played and they gently came to a stop, her face inches away from his. 

“I do.”

Her elation upon realizing she had found the cure for the Taint was nothing compared to the soaring victorious feeling now filling her heart. Alistair’s face was equally joyous, and she could feel his hands shaking as he gripped her waist. All the strife she had been through over the last few weeks was worth it to see his face so lit up in jubilation and relief. She felt as if she were floating, her feet hovering several inches off the floor. Eventually, she returned to reality, and she realized that something  was off.

The room was dead silent, and Sybil suddenly noticed that not a single other pair had joined them on the dance floor. Alistair stepped back from her, and as the band began to play another song, no one in the room moved. They all stood transfixed, waiting for the King to say something. She saw Duke Dominik standing not too far from them, looking incensed. The crowd had all been watching her dance with the King the entire time, and she looked down at her feet in embarrassment.

“What’s the matter with everyone? Aren’t you all here for a party?” asked the King, his voice booming. “Well, go on then! Make merry!” The crowd seemed to jolt awake, and several couples immediately rushed onto the dance floor. Alistair turned back to her, about to say something more, but he was interrupted by an impatient tut from behind him. Lady Katharina approached, wearing an insulted expression with her arms crossed. 

“I believe you owe me a dance, your Majesty,” she said, and for the first time a crack appeared in her perfect ladylike demeanor as she tapped her foot. 

“Oh– well–” Alistair stuttered, suddenly seeming quite nervous. 

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” Sybil answered for him, moving away from him even more. She threw a glance in Duke Dominik’s direction, and he understood her intention. The Duke must be appeased until the last possible moment, lest he try to stop the engagement announcement from happening. Alistair willingly took Katharina’s arm and led her away, eventually disappearing amidst the throng of dancers. Now, all she had to do was survive the rest of this ball.

She searched the crowd, knowing that there was still one piece of unfinished business that she had to resolve. She made her way to the quietest corner of the room and there found her quarry: Bann Oswyn leaning against the wall, sipping on a glass of champagne. He smiled wistfully as he saw her approach. 

“That was some display there, my lady. You truly are a wonderful dancer.”

Sybil slid against the wall next to him, pausing for a moment to appreciate the comforting peace she still felt in his presence. “You would know better than I.”

“I know what you’ve come to say,” he told her, a knowing glint in his eye. 

“You do?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Anyone with eyes would, especially after that.” 

Sybil knew he meant well, but she felt ashamed regardless. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t know until today that he would– that we were–”

“You don’t have to apologize, Sybil. I think a part of me had always known this might happen.”

“Then you knew more than I in that regard as well,” she replied, laughing. 

“Well, I had one advantage.”

“What was that?” she asked.

“I could see the way he looked at you when your back was turned,” he said simply. “Be well, my lady. I am truly happy for you.” He handed her his glass. “Would you share one last drink with me?”

“It would be my honor,” she said. She took a sip, savoring the way the alcohol bolstered her spirits. The two bided in the corner for a while, observing the crowds, until eventually the music faded and Sybil knew the moment she had been waiting for had come. With one final glance back at Oswyn, she made her way to the front of the crowd once more. 

The King had called for quiet, and he slowly walked to the center of the room. Duke Dominik and Lady Katharina stood a few feet away, looking pleased with themselves, and she took her brother’s hand as she sidled up next to him. 

“Are you alright?” Fergus asked. “I saw you dancing with the King earlier–”

“Everything is just fine,” she said. “Now hush.” Fergus shot her a dubious look but didn’t say anything more. 

The King turned to face the crowds, his hands clasped behind his back. He met her eyes nervously, and she gave him an encouraging nod. 

“As you all may know,” he began haltingly, “Over the past few weeks I have been courting a woman who has recently arrived at court.” This alone sent the gathered nobles into a stir, and he had to clear his throat several times before silence fell once again. When he spoke again, his voice was louder, more confident.  

“This woman is the picture of beauty, grace, and intelligence. She is wise beyond her years, the bravest person I know, and she is everything a man would look for in a wife. She is everything a King would look for in a Queen.” The entire room was now looking at Lady Katharina, who stood slightly apart from the crowd, beaming expectantly. Sybil squeezed her brother’s hand, only barely able to remain composed.

“It will be the honor of my life, the best thing I have ever done, to marry her.” She could still hardly believe she was hearing those words come out of his mouth. Blood began to rush to her face, and her grip on Fergus’ hand grew ever tighter. 

“I am happy– no, I am proud to announce my marriage,” said Alistair at last, “to Lady Sybil Cousland of Highever, the Hero of Ferelden!” At once the crowd erupted into a roar of bewilderment and shock. Sybil’s heart nearly stopped beating altogether as she looked into her love’s eyes, his smile radiant as he extended one hand out to her. For a second she was frozen to the spot, unable to move, but as he had done at the calling of the banns, Fergus pushed her forward himself, and Sybil walked through the crowd towards him, drawn to him like the last wisps of twilight clinging to the horizon. She passed Dominik, his face bright red with fury, and Katharina, who merely gave her a defeated bow of her head. 

Finally, she made it to stand in front of Alistair, taking his ever warm hands in her own. The other nobles stared at them in silence for a few moments, but before anxiety could take root in her heart, a familiar voice cried out from somewhere in the crowd, “Long live King Alistair! Long live Queen Sybil!” Then, like a river flooding in the rain, applause and cheers erupted all around them, a rapturous thunder that drowned out any fear or doubt that could have remained within her. Grinning, Alistair pulled her in for a chaste kiss, his lips tasting of honey and carrying the promise of thousand more. When they broke apart, she took her place by his side and looked out at the cheering men and women. She could see her brother and Arl Teagan, Kaitlyn and Bann Alfstanna, the members of the council, and countless others, all smiling back at her. 

“There you are,” said Alistair tenderly as he reached up to stroke her cheek.

“Here I’ll stay,” she replied, and she knew then that there was nothing in all of Thedas that could ever compel her to leave his side again.