Chapter Text
Vigil’s Keep, 9:34 Dragon
“Come in!”
Even through the thick wooden door, Alistair could hear the annoyance in Naia’s voice. It belatedly occurred to him that he was showing up on the doorstep of a very busy person, the leader of an ancient order of Darkspawn-fighting warriors, to beg for advice about his personal life.
On the other hand, she was his best friend. And he had no one else to ask.
He pushed open the door with a slightly sheepish smile. “Is this a bad time?”
Watching Naia’s face go from sour to delighted made his late-night trip through the rain worth every freezing second. “Alistair!” She leapt from the desk, her arms held out to embrace him. “Thank the Maker it’s you. I thought it was Nathaniel with more charts, or maybe some poor recruit with more letters from Weisshaupt.”
He hugged her back. “Weisshaupt? What do they want?”
“More Warden nonsense.” Naia rolled her eyes. “And it’s not nearly as important as whatever brought you here in this weather. Andraste’s ass, you’re freezing. Come sit by the fire.”
Alistair hung his sodden cloak on a set of iron hooks and sat on the battered rug in front of the fireplace. Vigil’s Keep was still being rebuilt, and visitors’ chairs for the Warden-Commander were apparently not high on the list of items to be purchased. He didn’t mind. The blaze warmed the ache in his icy muscles, and he extended his hands towards it like a tragic orphan in one of those Satinalia tales.
Naia sat cross-legged next to him, her expression curious. “What’s going on?”
“I need you to take a look at something.” Without further ceremony, Alistair pulled a slightly damp stack of folded parchments from his pocket and shoved them at Naia. “Tell me which ones you think I should consider.”
Naia peeled the parchments apart and began to read the first one, her eyebrows raised high. “Lady Marin Fortham,” she recited. “Twenty-five, daughter of Bann Eleanor Fortham, noted for her embroidery and beautiful singing voice …”
“Oh. Not that one,” Alistair said hurriedly. “Fergus Cousland just started courting her and they seem happy. Start with the next one.”
Naia lowered the parchments and looked up at him. “Alistair. Are these—you want me to help pick you a wife? Off a list?”
“Well, if you put it like that, it just sounds silly,” Alistair complained.
His friend returned her gaze to the papers, her brow knit and her expression baffled. “Please tell me you didn’t make this list yourself.”
“No, no. Eamon gave me the list this afternoon. Then he gave me that look of his.” Alistair ran his newly-warmed hands through his damp hair. “Apparently the bannorn is awash with discontent over my bachelor status. Ferelden needs a Queen.”
“Eamon can’t really expect you to pick a wife from a list of facts on a parchment.” Naia looked further down the list. “The Teyrna of Gwaren? He’s suggesting Anora?”
“I think he put her in there to make the others look better.” Alistair remembered the look the Teyrna had given him at the last gathering of the bannorn and suppressed a shudder. If he married Anora he’d have to start watching his food to make sure she didn’t put anything in it. “I’ve met almost everyone on the list, save a few from more remote bannorns. I’m supposed to select two or three candidates to consider more seriously, get to know them better, and take care of this Queen business by the end of the year.”
Naia’s mouth dropped open. “Alistair, that’s no way to pick someone you have to live with for the rest of your life! What if you don’t love any of these women?”
He chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m not sure love has very much to do with political marriages. Eamon says affection often grows over time. He claims that’s how it was between my father and Cailan’s mother—though I’ve heard it said she loved Loghain first.”
Naia shook her head, baffled. “I don’t—if she loved Loghain why did she marry Maric?”
“The usual reasons. Defending the country, securing the throne, the future of Ferelden, et cetera.” He sighed. “And now it’s my turn.”
Naia frowned down at the parchments, then looked back up at him. “No, it isn’t. At least, it doesn’t have to be.”
“Naia, you don’t understand …”
“Yes, I do. I understand that everyone wants you to produce a pack of cute little Theirin heirs to secure the throne. But we still haven’t figured out a way to reverse the Taint’s effects.” She wrinkled her nose. “Weisshaupt has been extremely unhelpful about that, by the way.”
“I think they’re still grouchy about that mage who was cured,” Alistair said. “Legend has it they actually kicked her out.”
“At any rate. If you want my advice, here it is.” Naia slapped the parchments down on the rug with a decisive thwack. “Ignore everyone who’s pushing you to find a Queen. You should marry someone you love. You deserve at least that much for yourself. And if anyone argues with you about it, remind them that it’s your ass in that throne. What’s the point of being King if you can’t be completely selfish every now and then?”
She arched an eyebrow at Alistair’s expression. “Don’t tell me you really thought I’d help you pick a wife off a list,” she said wryly.
Alistair opened his mouth to argue—then closed it again. He hadn’t thought that, he realized. And that was why he had come.
“Has anyone ever told you that you are ridiculously idealistic, Naia Tabris?”
“Oh, every day,” Naia said, her smile full of mischief. She lifted the stack of parchments. “So can I toss these in the fire now?”
“Please,” Alistair replied feelingly.
Denerim, 9:45 Dragon
“Unfair!” Evie shrieked, shivering as the ice melted into her hair and down her collar. She turned her head to glare at Alistair, who was innocently packing another handful of snow into the palm of his hand. Behind him, Denerim’s squat military palace sparkled in the fresh snowfall, turned pretty and almost magical by the soft white blanket.
“I’m sorry, but the first snowfall means snowballs,” the King informed her seriously. “It’s a law here in Ferelden. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
Evie answered by grabbing at a handful of snow herself. She managed to dodge Alistair’s next projectile, then laughing, she flung her own snowball directly at his head. It exploded against his cheek in a satisfying puff of snowflakes.
“You realize, I hope, that we’re a ridiculous cliché right now?” she observed, grabbing another handful of snow as he wiped the melting ice from his face.
“Nonsense. We’re just being traditional. Now, if I tackled you into a snowbank, that would be ridiculously clichéd.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he swatted her next snowball away.
“Don’t you dare,” Evie laughed. She reached for his hand and stepped close, standing on her toes for a kiss. With a grin, Alistair bent his head to hers, his mouth cold and warm all at once.
At times like this, Evie could almost forget everything around them—could forget that there were always political problems to worry about, that Alistair lived under the threat of the Calling, and oh yes, that an ancient elven god was working on a charming little plan to end the world.
But she could never entirely forget the question she still didn’t know how to answer.
The Ferelden bannorn was rife with gossip about why Alistair had not yet proposed to her. So far as Evie knew, no one had guessed the real reason—that he wasn’t sure she would say yes. She loved him; she was certain of that. But she could not stop the Calling, and she could not follow him when it came. Marrying Alistair would, one day, mean ruling Ferelden alone, and Evie found that idea absolutely terrifying.
Alistair understood, of course. He had never wanted to be a King. Every time they discussed it, that sweetness and understanding broke her heart a little bit. She wanted to take the leap—to just tell the man she loved that yes, she would wear the damned crown if it meant being by his side. But when Evie imagined herself on that throne, her stomach wobbled and she got the strangest urge to flee to the harbor and board the next ship to Antiva.
She pushed that thought away and slid her arms around Alistair’s neck, pulling him close, trying to block out not only the cold but the little stream of worries that nagged at her. A soft crunch of snow, however, startled them both into breaking the kiss.
An elven woman was standing several paces away. Her red hair was mostly concealed under a heavy furred hood, but deep in the shadows of her cowl, Evie could see a jagged scar running down the right side of her face. The woman raised her right hand apologetically. “Sorry, Alistair. They told me you were out here, but didn’t tell me you had company.”
As Evie untwined her arms from his shoulders, Alistair gave the woman a look halfway between “I’m glad to see you” and “I’m going to strangle you.”
“Ahem. I don’t believe you two have met yet. Evie, this is Naia Tabris, better known as the Hero of Ferelden. Naia, this is Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, who definitely does not work for Divine Victoria.”
Naia extended her hand; when Evie caught it, her grip was firm and energetic. “It’s nice to meet you at last, Lady Evelyn.”
“Likewise. And please, call me Evie.” She hoped Naia could not see how nervous she was. The Hero of Ferelden was a living legend; more importantly, she was Alistair’s best friend, as close to him as a sister. Evie was not usually anxious about impressing anyone, but her relationship with her own sister-in-law was not exactly friendly, and the idea of being at odds with Alistair’s only real family made her stomach vibrate with nerves.
Maker, if she doesn’t hate me, I promise I’ll be so much nicer to Lyssa from now on.
“Evie, then,” the elf agreed casually, apparently not noticing Evie’s silent prayer. “Actually, I’m glad I caught you both here—not that I meant to interrupt what looked like a very romantic kiss in the snow, I’m quite sorry about that. But I’m here on Nightingale business.”
Evie and Alistair glanced at each other and took a sharp, simultaneous inhale of breath. “Oh,” said Evie. “I suppose we’d better go inside, then.”