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It had been a very long day. A very long, exhausting day. He would never for the life of him understand the Orlesians’ penchant for making everything take twice as long as it needed to by always adding some sort of lavish party into the equation.
But still. The negotiations were complete, the party was finally, finally winding down, and he’d been able to escape to his assigned guest chamber. Leaning against the gilded door, finally alone in his own space, he all but ripped the mask off of his face and then petulantly threw it into a corner.
How anyone managed to see and breathe in those things was a mystery to him.
“You know,” a sultry female voice said, “were I a lesser woman, I might take offence at such careless treatment of my culture, your majesty.”
He’d tensed up the moment that she had spoken, ready for a fight, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. Still, after all these years, not entirely free of his soldier’s instincts.
She emerged from the dark dressing room just off of his chamber. Dressed in nothing but a silk robe that was only very loosely belted around her waist. He didn’t recognise her. But, then again, she wasn’t currently wearing a mask or a dress, so it was possible that he’d met her earlier in the evening.
But – whether he’d met her or not – one thing that he knew was that he definitely hadn’t invited her to his chambers. Especially dressed like that.
Given the circumstances, he decided to fall back on his best and most usual defence. Looking foolish.
“My apologies,” he told her. “But I think you’re in the wrong chambers.”
She laughed. Light and lilting and utterly fake. “Oh no, my lord. I can assure you that I’m not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I saw you at the ball,” she continues, unperturbed, slipping past him and settling down on the bed in a cloud of perfume and silk. “You didn’t dance with any of the eligible ladies. Only the married ones. A shame for such handsomeness to go to waste. So, I thought to myself, now there’s a man in need of company tonight, no?”
A sweet story. One that was bound to flatter any man. Or at least any man who hadn’t already given away his heart. But he wasn't foolish enough to fall for it. Even if he had been free, he recognised the subtle way that she arranged herself on his bed. The artful posture that revealed just a little too much of her cleavage; the delicate, deliberate bend of her leg that was designed to telegraph an invitation without outright declaring it.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering a string of curses to the Maker that he hoped she couldn’t hear.
“You’re… What? A bard, I presume?”
The girl gasped, her eyes slightly panicked, in what he suspected might actually be a genuine loss of composure. Either because she was a novice or because he had played the part of a fool well enough that his perception was surprising.
A moment passed before she managed to smooth it over, suddenly appearing uncertain and young and meek as she nodded.
Which, of course, meant that he couldn’t trust that she was uncertain, young or meek.
“And your plan – or your patron’s plan – involved… what? Seducing me, then learning all my secrets during some carefully orchestrated pillow talk?” He tried very hard not to let bitterness colour his tone. It wasn’t the girl’s fault that he was thoroughly sick of Orlesian posturing.
The girl smiled shyly, somehow managing to look utterly miserable at the same time.
“Something like that,” she confessed. Then she turned big, pleading eyes on him. “Please. Please don’t send me away? I’m only an apprentice, and if my instructor finds out that I’ve failed…”
He was a fool. An utter, utter fool.
But he believed her.
Or, at least, he believed that if she was an apprentice bard, and she did fail her mission, that a school of bards would exact some kind of awful punishment for her failure. Void, it wasn’t like Orlesians had a high opinion of Fereldans. It was entirely likely that they had deemed a novice skilled enough to obtain all of his secrets.
“No,” he assured her. “No, it’s fine… You can… stay.”
“Would you… like for me to stay?” She adopted that alluring seductive purr that he’d heard many times in many ballrooms over the years.
“Not for that,” he said dully. “Not that you’re not… You’re lovely, just… Not for that.”
“Why?”
“Oh no,” he chuckled. “I learned a long time ago not to answer any question put to me by a bard. But I would not want you to suffer their displeasure on my account.”
She seemed uncertain as to how to respond to that. He supposed that was fair. She had likely never been refused by a man that she was actively seducing, and had probably never considered that someone she didn’t know could do something kind for her just because it was kind.
He decided to begin with the most obvious thing.
“Do you… Do you have any clothes?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” she said. “Only these.”
He baulked at offering her one of his shirts to wear. Probably something to do with the fact that the only woman who had ever worn one of his shirts was Elissa, and the context in which she did so was usually… not something it would be wise to think about right now.
“Well, my servant always insists I bring half the castle with me when I travel. I must have something for you.”
In the end, he found her a random tunic which he was fairly sure he had never seen before and possibly actually belonged to Ren. It didn’t quite cover her as much as he would have preferred, but at least she was mostly clothed, and in something plain and boring.
“How do I look?” she trilled when she emerged from behind the screen. Still apparently not quite ready to abandon her original mission.
“Covered,” he replied pointedly, throwing another cushion on the chaise.
It was a great shame that Orlais didn’t have the same propensity as Ferelden toward an excessive number of blankets and furs. Still, at least the chaise was closer to the fireplace. He should be warm enough. Even if he was never going to fully fit on the damn thing.
“You can take the bed. I’ll… make do.” He gestured at the pile and hoped that she’d understand what he meant.
“Seems awfully unfair for you to suffer on my account, your majesty,” she purred, but she slipped beneath the coverlet nevertheless, carefully keeping to one side of the bed. Likely with the intention of trying to convince him to join her.
He was awfully afraid that some comment about ‘wasted space’ was hurtling in the direction of the conversation…
“Believe me, I’ve slept in worse conditions.” He made himself as comfortable as he could on the piles of pillows he’d made on the chaise and drew the single blanket that he had managed to find over him. Or, rather, over as much of him as he could.
“Was that during the blight?” she asked, turning to face him on the bed, her head propped on her hand.
It was probably meant to be alluring. He still wasn’t even slightly tempted. Clearly though, she’d been briefed on his past, and, maybe he was imagining it, but she sounded genuinely curious. So, despite his previous protest about answering her questions, this time he offered her a vague but truthful reply.
“During the blight. Before.” He shrugged. “Either way, the chaise will be fine.”
Then he turned his gaze towards the gilded ceiling; his eyes following the pattern of whorls and leaves that were painted there only because they could be. Deliberately letting an awkward silence fall, with the express aim of convincing her to fully abandon her mission. He wasn’t sure it was going to work, but after a few long moments, she spoke again.
“Good night, your majesty.”
“Good night.”
And then she blew out the remaining candles by the bed.
As the fire had burned low, the room was immediately plunged into semi-darkness. A decidedly uncomfortable darkness, as it turned out. He didn’t think Orlais would have hired a bard to seduce and kill him but now the room was dark, he had to concede that it was a possibility. He’d been a fool not to consider before now.
He could hear her shifting about in the silken sheets. Restless. Eventually, she let out a little sigh.
“You weren’t even slightly tempted.” Apparently, she intended to stave off her restlessness with more conversation. “Why?”
But, he supposed, at least if she was talking, he knew where she was in the room. Harder for her to sneak up on him.
“Haven’t you heard the rumours?” he said, keeping his voice light and teasing. “They say I have a secret lover stashed somewhere.”
“You’re a king. You could have several lovers. In my experience, that doesn’t mean…”
“It’s different,” he told her, just managing to stop himself from saying ‘she’s different’. Something about the dark and the quiet and her anonymity made it stupidly easy to confess his secrets to a stranger.
Dangerous, that.
Maybe that had been her plan. Or, rather, maybe that was her new plan.
And now he had to find a way to explain. He blew out a breath. “When you have – or have had – something special, it’s … different.”
“You believe in love then?”
“You don’t?”
“Honestly, I can’t say that I’ve had much chance to experience it. In a bard’s life, getting attached can get you killed.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a life.”
She paused, the quiet settling into the room like a particularly heavy but uncomfortable blanket, and he didn’t know what to say to break it. He hadn’t meant to give the poor girl an existential crisis.
“No,” she said quietly after a while. “I suppose it doesn’t, does it?”
Maybe he was a stupid fool. But she almost sounded sincere. He could also have sworn that her accent had changed slightly.
“What’s your name?” he asked, on an impulse.
“Satine.”
He barked a laugh. “And your real name?”
“Alice.”
It probably wasn’t her real name either. But it sounded closer to the truth and in the dark, it was easier to believe the lie.
“Nice to meet you, Alice.”
“Nice to meet you too, Alistair.” For a moment, he could have sworn that he heard the smile in her voice.
“Who is she?” Maybe-Alice asked after another little while. “Or should that be who was she? The woman who made you believe in love.”
He smiled into the dark. He couldn’t help it; the thought of her always made him smile. Not that there was any question of him revealing her name to a perfect stranger, of course. Neither did he particularly relish the idea of pouring out the innermost secrets of his heart, even if he did keep her identity a secret. Leastways not to an Orlesian bard.
But… the girl, if she was telling the truth, didn’t believe in love, or at least had never experienced love. No-one deserved to live like that.
It was the one thing that allowed him to the face the future. The horrible dark day that loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon. The day when she would finally make him choose a bride and their time would be done.
It would hurt, of course it would, and he’d rather cut out his heart with a blunt spoon than ever experience it, but he knew that he would survive it. If only because he had loved and been loved. Even if he only got to experience it once, for a mere handful of years, it was better than nothing.
“Special,” he finally replied. “She was – is – special. I’ve never known anyone else like her. I probably never will.”
“But you can’t marry her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
He laughed. “You’re very good.” He turned to his side where he could just about see the outline of her shape in the low light. “Your change in tactic could have been quicker but, overall, I’m impressed.”
“Would you believe that I’m actually just curious? You speak of love so… easily and openly… No one in Orlais ever does that.” She turned too; he heard the rustling of the sheets as she lay on her back. “The truth is … I’m not a very good bard. I wanted to tell stories of great battles and epic romances and… sort of… fell into the rest of it.”
“So why not leave?”
“I have nowhere else to go.”
He stopped himself from offering her a place in Ferelden. It was on the tip of his tongue to do so. But her life wasn’t any of his business and, honestly, he’d already let too much slip. The last thing he needed were more rumours circulating around the castle.
But since it had been his words that had brought her to this realisation, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible, and there were other ways that he could help.
“You could travel? Everyone loves to hear a good story. You could travel the world collecting them and telling them.”
“Like a more traditional bard?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I could help… if you like. If you need… money.”
She laughed. “I might take you up on that. If I do, will you promise to tell me your story? Yours and your lover’s?”
“Perhaps.” He laughed, finding to his surprise that he meant it. “As soon as I find out how it ends.”
“I hope it ends happily for you,” she sighed as he heard her readjusting the blanket in preparation for finally going to sleep.
“I hope so too,” he murmured when the sound of the girl’s soft snoring filled the room. “… I just don’t see how.”