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If there was one thing Alistair had learned in his two decades of life, it was that firsts were often not as remarkable as people would have him believe. They seemed nice on the surface, but then the event would happen again and it would be even better. Or worse.
The first time Eamon had hugged him had been, at the time, one of his best memories. For most of his childhood he had done his best to make the old man proud. Perhaps if he just impressed Eamon a little more, it would feel like he actually had a real father, and not just the oddly shaped stump behind the barn that he called his father. That old, dead tree was where he went when he wanted to vent, and its rough bark had scratched at his skin when he wrapped his arms around it seeking comfort. Sometimes, when he was mad, he would take a stick and hit it, like old Cook did with the switch when he did something bad. Then he'd managed to save the horses from a barn fire, and Eamon had hugged him as he'd coughed up soot and ash. It hadn't changed anything, but the experience had imprinted on him—one of his favorite firsts.
Years later, when he had taken down his first darkspawn, Duncan had clapped him on the shoulder. He had managed to make another father figure proud of him. It hadn't been a hug exactly, but it had been so much better than that brief squeeze from Eamon.
Then there had been the first time someone he'd known had died, when a plague had swept through Redcliffe one summer. Bodies had piled up and Redcliffe castle had lost almost half of its staff. The son of the gardener - one of his first and only friends - had been the first to die. Alistair had cried as he helped the valet load the little body onto the pyre and the cook had made him shortbread cookies to try to cheer him up. It hadn't worked; cookies were a poor substitute for a friend.
But that first loss had paled in comparison after Ostagar, and he'd missed the cookies. He hadn't known loss could hurt as keenly as that first one - he had thought they numbed as time went on - but losing Duncan and the other Wardens had almost leveled him. If he had been alone, he might not have found the strength to even go on.
The first time he had kissed someone, he had been so nervous his hands shook and he nearly missed her mouth entirely. Every kiss after had been better and better, but the first one stuck in his mind. Firsts were nostalgic more than anything, good or bad.
There were exceptions, of course.
Nothing would ever top the first time he killed an archdemon and saved his country, and he prayed there'd never be an occasion for him to find out otherwise. No moment would override the sense of purpose and pride that had surged through him the first time the crown was placed on his head. It would be impossible to experience a moment that made him feel as wonderful and whole as the first time someone had told him they loved him, or he'd nervously made love to them.
And as much as he vowed to love all his children, he couldn't imagine anything overriding the wonder he felt when he held the first.
In the middle of the night he'd jolted awake to find Elona sitting in bed clutching a pillow to her face, trying her best to stifle her whimpers of pain. She'd apologized for waking him and tried to tell him to go back to sleep, and his half-asleep brain had taken a moment to put two and two together. In that time she'd made it out of bed, intent on going to the study so he could sleep, but he'd swept her up in his arms and dragged her back to bed.
During those first hours of labor it had been just the two of them - at her request - and he'd wiped sweat from her brow and let her crush his hand when the contractions came. By dawn it had been time to fetch Wynne and the midwife, but when they tried to shoo him away he'd stayed, determined to not miss a single moment of the journey toward having his very own family. When her brow had creased with pain and exertion, he whispered how proud he was of her or how sorry he was to put her through so much, from combating a Blight and horde of darkspawn to having his child.
Between contractions she'd lay a hand on his cheek or give him a weary smile, too tired to do much more than that. They'd breathed together through the pushing and the pain, brow to brow. He'd held the back of her hand to his heart as he pleaded with the Maker to let him take her pain away, or at least share it.
As the sun set over Denerim, the first cries of his son filled the room. He'd watched as Wynne had laid the healthy babe against Elona's chest, her sweat-soaked gown turning red from remnants of blood and viscera. They'd laughed at how quickly he'd wanted to eat, and he'd wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they watched, her head cradled against his shoulder and the baby's in her elbow.
Once he'd fallen asleep, and the staff had cleaned mother, child, and bed, Elona had looked up at him and he'd brushed her hair from her forehead. "Do you want to hold him?"
With shaking hands he had lifted the infant from her, and Wynne hovered nearby, making certain he supported the head and didn't squeeze too hard. Satisfied he wasn't going to drop or smother the child, she had taken the midwife and left the new parents alone, though he hardly noticed anything but his son in his arms. He had done good things, especially in the last year, but none seemed as significant as the life he had created.
When his tears dripped onto the sleeping infant, the boy had fussed for a moment before settling back into sleep. Elona dozed so he moved to the tall windows overlooking Denerim, moonlight turning the infant's ruddy skin and wisps of golden hair silver. He counted fingers and toes, freckles and breaths, as he watched, transfixed by every little movement.
"I'm probably not going to be very good at this at first," he warned, his voice soft and apologetic. "I have no idea what I'm doing - you'll discover I barely know what I'm doing at the best of times - but I promise there won't ever be a day you won't know you're loved, even when you're angry with me or embarrassed of me."
A small noise and large yawn answered his words and he chuckled as he ran a fingertip over a plump cheek. "You're right, it's going to happen a lot. Don't worry, you'll get used to it."
"How is he?" Elona asked sleepily, and when he turned back toward her he found she'd turned to watch them. "Are you alright?"
His answered both questions with a single word. "Perfect."