Chapter Text
Alistair stared unseeing into the fire built up in his hearth, trying to let the flickering patterns of the flames supplant the chaos in his mind. One hand idly swirled his goblet of wine, a bitter red vintage from somewhere in the Anderfels. He disliked it, the acidic taste, the way it left his tongue feeling tight and dried. Doubtless he could have asked for something else and had a servant bring it, but given everything else happening at the moment -- the sky torn open, the Divine murdered, apostates and renegade templars terrorizing his citizenry, Orlais erupting into at least one civil war -- bad wine seemed like an awfully petty thing to complain about.
He drank another mouthful, grimacing as he swallowed, running his tongue against the inside of his teeth as if he could scrape away the feeling that the roof of his mouth had been turned to leather.
Maker’s blood, it had all gone wrong. And everything he tried to do only made it worse. He’d agreed to the use of Haven as a meeting place for the fighting Chantry factions, hoping the sacred site would bring them the same sort of peace he’d felt the first time he’d entered the Temple of the Urn. The results of that plan spoke for themselves rather eloquently, in the form of a gaping green hole in the sky and Chantry forces holed up all over Thedas sniping at each other in bids to fill the power vacuum.
Trying to pick up the pieces afterwards, he’d invited the rebel mages to shelter at Redcliffe, hoping that standing behind solid, defensible walls would calm their understandable fears before fear turned them desperate and even more tragedy followed. By all accounts, the Hinterlands were being torn apart by mages, templars, demons, bandits, lyrium smugglers, some sort of doomsday cult, and apparently, a sudden increase in aggressively violent bears. So clearly that had been a brilliant move.
Alistair longed to send troops to restore order in the Hinterlands. The reports piling up on his desk horrified him. People were dying. His people. He’d grown up there, probably knew some of the nameless casualties in the reports, assuming any of the people he'd known had survived the Blight to still be there to suffer now. But as much as he wanted to deploy the army, he couldn’t. He couldn’t afford to pull troops back from the border, not with Orlesian civil war becoming more likely every day. He couldn’t strip guards from the capital in the midst of rumors about assassination attempts on every head of state in Thedas. Although he couldn’t help but wonder if Ferelden might be better off without him at this point. He bore responsibility for the wellbeing of every person in his borders, and it felt increasingly like he could do nothing to protect any of them.
Maker’s breath, his head hurt! The nagging, scraping itch inside his skull had become almost constant now. Another gulp of the bitter wine. Alcohol numbed the headaches sometimes, or at least let him sleep for a few hours in spite of them.
Alistair raised his head at the sound of rapid footsteps in the corridor. A servant -- Robin, that was the boy's name -- stood in the doorway, fidgeting. "Your majesty?"
Alistair attempted a reassuring smile. "What's the matter?"
"Lord Guerrin wants to see you, sire. Should I show him in or ask him to wait for morning? It's rather late."
"I'll see him now, Robin. Late or not, I'm awake." And if Eamon, a notorious morning person, thought something was urgent enough to discuss at this time of night, it might not wait until morning.
It was not Eamon who appeared in the doorway.
"Teagan!" Alistair rose to his feet and was halfway across the room before he consciously decided to move.
His uncle looked alarmingly worn down. Road dust coated clothes so wrinkled he must have slept in them for at least a week, and as Alistair got close, he was assaulted by an overwhelming odor of horse.
"Your majesty." Teagan attempted a shallow bow, staggering as he straightened up.
"None of that." Alistair caught his arm as he swayed on his feet, guiding Teagan firmly to a chair.
His uncle hesitated, looking down at his ruined clothes. "I shouldn't. The upholstery."
"Damn the upholstery." Alistair pushed him until he had no choice but to sit. "I care about you, not some blighted chair." He resumed his own seat. "Tell me what happened."
Teagan's face turned grim. "We've lost Redcliffe."
Alistair was grateful he'd sat down. The news hit him like a blow to the gut. It was unthinkable. "How? To who?"
He'd studied military history. Redcliffe was nearly unassailable. Claiming it took an army, and even then the siege lasted for months. For it to fall so quickly with no warning... Impossible. The Orlesians couldn't have gotten a large enough force so far within his borders undetected, never mind capturing the castle.
"Tevinter."
That was even more unthinkable. "Maker’s blood, how?"
"From within, of course." Teagan's lips twisted in disgust. "The Grand Enchanter handed it to one of them."
"It's not hers to give." Alistair caught himself clenching his sword hand, in search of a hilt. "I offered the mages sanctuary, not the right to give away a tenth of my kingdom and its most defensible fortress to the Imperium."
"They seem to have missed that distinction." Teagan sounded bitter and exhausted, too drained to even be angry any longer.
“I haven’t.” Alistair was more than willing to be outraged on his behalf. “This can’t be allowed to stand. We’ll get Redcliffe back. And then I’m throwing the magister, the Grand Enchanter, and everyone who follows either of them out of my kingdom.”
Teagan offered an indistinct noise of agreement.
Staring back into the fire, Alistair idly reached for his goblet, taking another sip of the bitter wine. He grimaced at more than the taste. “My manners are terrible. I’m sorry. I’ll get Robin to bring in another glass.” He frowned into the dark red liquid. “Or something worth drinking.”
Before Alistair could call for a servant, Robin appeared again, carrying a tray of food. He hesitated in the doorway. “His lordship looked like he could use a meal. I asked the kitchen to send something up. I hope that was all right.”
Alistair smiled, beckoning him in. “It was more than all right. Thank you.”
Robin set the tray on a small table between their chairs, bowed quickly, and left, smothering a yawn.
The tray held a sizeable meal, proof that a decade of catering to a pair of royals with Grey Warden appetites had distorted the kitchen staff’s idea of a reasonable midnight snack. Teagan stared at the food for a moment before eating steadily, like a man who had barely had any food for days, which was likely accurate.
As his uncle ate, Alistair drained his wine and refilled his goblet from the bottle of a more palatable vintage that had come with the meal. He stared into the fire and contemplated how to respond to this unexpected opportunity. While Teagan ate, Alistair considered the conversation he had been putting off for far too long.
Finally, when Teagan had finished and settled in to sip at wine of his own, Alistair spoke again. “Meri’s not here. Away on Warden business.” He took another long drink, swallowing down further words as bitter as the earlier wine.
A slight pause before Teagan responded, his words carefully chosen, carefully neutral. “I’m sorry to miss seeing her.”
More wine to cover words that shouldn’t be said, at least not rashly.
The silence fell again.
Alistair stared into the fire, gathering his scattered thoughts past the headaches and the alcohol. Teagan’s steady, even breathing slowed to the point Alistair wondered if the heat and food on top of exhaustion had almost lulled his uncle to sleep. That spurred him to open the forbidden conversation before he lost the opportunity. Or his nerve.
“Do you remember the last time we sat here and talked like this? Maker’s breath, it feels like forever.”
Teagan stirred, raising his nodding head. “It has been ten years.”
“No, it feels longer. A lifetime. I made you a promise that night.” Alistair sighed. “I haven’t kept it.”
Teagan straightened in his chair, posture stiff and tense. Well, that had gotten his attention.
Alistair scrubbed his hand over his face, turning from the fire to face his guest, needing clarity and openness. “I’ve tried. Maker knows I’ve tried. But Meri and I... ” He shook his head. “I love her. Of course I do. I always have. But that’s not enough any more.”
“I’m sure things have been difficult recently. It can’t help that duty keeps you apart so often.”
Alistair’s bitter laugh cut him off. “I think it’s easier for her when she has a reason to be away. Easier for us both.” He swallowed another large mouthful of wine, scarcely tasting it. His gaze drifted back to the fire, finding it easier to talk about this without having to look his uncle in the eye. “We shared some of the worst things people can go through, Meri and I. Surviving that should bring us together, shouldn’t it?” He shook his head with another pained chuckle. “But it’s like I keep her trapped in that time, like seeing me reminds her of every horror we saw, every choice she regrets. I’m too tied to parts of the past she wants to forget. As long as I’m here, she can’t move on from it. Neither can I.” He took a deep breath, staring dry-eyed into the fire. “And it’s destroying both of us.”
“I’m sorry.” Teagan’s hand on his arm, the touch gentle, startled him.
Alistair swallowed hard, the sympathy almost more than he could withstand. He pulled his arm away under the pretense of reaching for the wine bottle to refill his half-empty cup.
Taking another drink to steal time, Alistair gathered his thoughts. Teagan remained silent, giving him that space, and he was grateful for it.
Lowering his cup, he looked over at his uncle again. “I know she still writes to you.”
Teagan’s brows lowered. “I’ve never made a secret of it. I enjoy our correspondence, but there’s nothing inappropriate in it.”
Good. If he felt the need to defend his utterly innocent letters, that meant he’d been working to keep them so innocent. That there was something worth concealing.
“I know. Your replies are addressed to both of us.” Alistair felt his lips curve into a faint, wry smile. “Meri reads me your letters.” He took a deep breath, meeting Teagan’s eyes firmly. “Write her one that she won’t.”
Teagan sat back, head slowly shaking. “I don’t think I follow you.”
Alistair laughed mirthlessly. “It’s simple. I’m asking you to court my wife.”
Teagan stared at him, at a loss for words.
Alistair persisted. “Can you do it? Do you still have feelings for her?”
Reluctantly, Teagan nodded. “Meriana is a very special woman. I would be blind not to see it.”
“And you’d be a fool to walk away from a chance with her a second time.” Alistair gripped his goblet stem hard enough that the raised ridges of the metal pressed dents into his fingers. “I can’t make her happy any more, if I ever could. Find out if you can. Please. For her, for yourself. For me.”
Teagan opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head, in confusion more than denial. “I don’t know what to say.”
Fancy that, him throwing someone else off balance for once. “Just think about it. You don't have to do anything tonight. It’s late, and I don’t know how you’re still awake after what it took to get here. But please, before we leave to wrest your home back from the damned magister, write Meri a letter that includes all of the things you’ve left out of your previous ones.”
Hands shaking, Teagan set the quill down before he scattered droplets of loose ink across the page of carefully written lines. Perhaps it would be better if he allowed the ink to splatter, if he poured the entire well over the paper, completely obscuring his mad, foolish words.
Maker’s breath, how could something as simple as a letter make him feel like an untried youth again?
He looked back over what he’d written, this latest version after Maker knew how many drafts.
My dearest Meriana,
I wish I had seen you on my visit to Denerim. Your presence is always the highlight of my trips to the capital. Each time I am here, I store up every smile, every laugh, every glance from your sparkling eyes as treasures I hoard until I will see you next.
If I were a weaker man -- or perhaps a smarter one -- I would find reasons to visit far more often. Or admit that I need no reason beyond seeing you.
Do you ever think about the night of the coronation ball, those stolen hours we shared in the palace kitchens? I have revisited that night in my mind more times than I can possibly count. I relive every shared smile, every shy blush, every brush of your fingers against mine. I wonder how things might have happened differently if I had been more bold, more open. More honest about how I felt and what I wanted.
Perhaps, so many years later, it no longer matters. Yet in all of those years, I have never stopped thinking of you, of the connection we shared. I have never stopped regretting that I let my actions be ruled by doubt and fear.
If these ramblings represent nothing more than the nostalgic delusions of an old man, then nothing more need be said. You may forget that I ever wrote these words, and we can retain a friendship I dearly cherish. I made my choices, and I am prepared to continue living with the consequences of my actions, however much I long for the chance to erase a grave error.
But before I resign myself to my justly earned regrets, answer me honestly: Do you still think about that night also?
Faithfully yours,
Teagan
Teagan pushed the page away, unable to look at it any longer. The words seemed at once too ardent and utterly insufficient. A letter could never properly convey ten years worth of unsaid words and concealed emotions.
But perhaps it could make a start.
Taking the page back, he blew across the ink to dry it -- an unnecessary gesture given how long he had sat paralyzed with hesitation since writing it -- then folded the sheet crisply, writing Meriana’s name across the outside and leaving it where it sat on her desk. She would find his letter upon her return, whenever that might be, and he would have his answer, one way or the other.
Meriana’s response reached Teagan along with the news of her return to Denerim, a large parchment packet arriving with the rest of the official correspondence. Cautiously, made uncertain by the size of the bulky packet, Teagan broke the seal, his fumbling hands scattering wax across the surface of his desk, and unfolded the parchment.
Out fell a bundle of letters, bound together neatly by ribbon, and a small folded piece of paper bearing his name in Meriana’s familiar script. Setting the bundled pages neatly on his desk, Teagan unfolded the separate sheet, trying to control his trembling fingers. Opening it, he found only a few lines of writing, and he tried not to take the brevity as a poor omen.
His eyes flicked to the stack of papers that had been enclosed in the packet, confirming that the bundled letters were in Meri's hand rather than his own. His letter had not offended her so badly that she wished to return all of his earlier correspondence and pretend none of it had happened. That was something, at least.
Enough stalling. If the lines on the page were going to dash his hopes, letting them sit longer wouldn't change that. He forced his gaze down to the words and began to read.
Teagan,
I'm only just returned to Denerim. The enclosed letters will tell you where I've been, so I won't repeat myself. I wrote to you on my travels, even though I had no way to send the letters. Now that I have couriers again, I can't imagine when I'll be able to steal time to respond properly to the letter you left me.
So for now, rather than making you wait, I'm sending all of the letters I wrote you while I was away, along with this brief answer.
I think about that night far more often and more warmly than a married woman should.
Yours,
Meriana
Teagan read over the final line three times before he could convince himself it was real and not simply a delusion born out of his ardent hopes.
He drew a fresh sheet of paper from its drawer and then sat with ink drying on the tip of his quill as he struggled to put his thoughts into some semblance of order.
He could write Meriana a letter. Maker’s breath, he could write her a whole stack of letters. And perhaps someday he would, filling a sheaf of paper with the compliments and praises and promises of devotion he had kept silently locked within his heart for far too long.
But in this moment there was only one thing he wanted -- needed -- to ask her. And he couldn’t bear to wait the weeks it would take for letters to travel across the width of Ferelden to carry his query and then bring her reply.
Eyeing the rest of the contents of the dispatch pouch -- the official correspondence set unceremoniously aside at the sight of his name in Meriana’s handwriting -- he wondered if the pile contained something urgent enough he could frame it as an excuse to travel to Denerim. Something that would compel his immediate presence in the capital.
Then his gaze shifted inexorably back to Meriana’s brief message, dwelling on the final line yet again.
What had he said to her -- if he were a smarter man?
Void take it, he had all the reason he needed right here. He would leave for Denerim in the morning.