Rated for: Safety (because I'm a tad paranoid) M

Spoilers for: The Stolen Throne (novel) – minor; anyone who hasn't completed the game

Other notes: I suspect (I hope) this may be a similar direction to that which Love in Dreams is taking…my fingers are crossed! Lol

Where has it all gone wrong?

Standing at the top of one of the palace towers, Alistair can't help but wonder as he contemplates the city and the drop to the streets below. He is numb with everything that has happened, and some part of him can't help but wonder if he will ever feel again, if heartache is all that awaits.

He doesn't want to be king – probably because Teagan took him aside, when he was just about old enough to understand, and made it eminently clear what might happen if the wrong people thought that he did want to be king. Having spent better than half his life quite determinedly refusing to live up to anything approaching 'kingly' standards, the reflex denial has become somewhat ingrained.

And now, unexpectedly, Cailan is dead – and the rest of the senior Grey Wardens with him – and in the face of a Blight someone has to hold the kingdom together, because apparently Anora's years as queen aren't proof enough that she can do the job.

Alistair is no fool – if he was he would have been 'removed' long before he could have become a potential threat, because he wouldn't have understood Teagan's warning, or would have seen it as a game. The elves in the Denerim alienage might live in the heart of the Bannorn's politics, but they are isolated, too busy trying to survive from day to day to worry about the petty bickering of human nobles who could care less about them. No…the decision to push him onto the throne is Eamon's – and whatever he's said to Kallian about the decision being right 'for Ferelden', Teagan's tight-lipped surprise spoke volumes about his brother's real motives.

There will be time to do something about those after the battle.

Eamon wants him to be king, has pushed and manipulated and laid out his oh-so-logical arguments, and, in the end, he's gotten his way. But if he is to be king, Alistair is determined to be king. Not some puppet, as Loghain had sneered, not for the Grey Wardens, not for Anora, and certainly not for Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe.

He's not surprised when the noise of someone joining him in his hiding place turns out to be her, his fellow Grey Warden, Kallian Tabris, his lover.

His love.

She joins him, yet she maintains her distance, a silent reinforcement of the horrible reality that is more than half the reason for his numbness. If he is to be king, she cannot be his queen.

Kallian speaks first, her voice cold and emotionless, as numb as Alistair feels. She explains her reasons, apologises for not forewarning him about the deal she has struck with Anora. It makes sense, after all, that the two contenders for the throne – however unwilling one of them is – find a compromise that appeases the vast majority of the conflicting parties. Besides, it is not as if her announcement came as a somewhat unwelcome surprise only to him. He suspects Eamon hadn't been expecting it either, and that thought makes it almost worthwhile.

Almost.

But he cannot have 'his' elf beside him, for more reasons than mere prejudice, as he explains to her now. Grey Wardens are not wholly infertile, but the strain of the taint takes its toll on the whole of their bodies, and he has never heard of two Grey Wardens conceiving with one another. Hesitantly he asks if she will stay, be his lover – and his sanity, though he doesn't say this aloud. As he looks into her eyes he sees that she so desperately wants to say 'yes' – and he knows her answer is 'no'.

She shakes her head sadly and quietly asks if it would be fair to any of them – her, or Anora, him, or the kingdom. Best to move on, she advises, a clean break from the moment of the archdemon's death. Until then – for he will not be crowned until after the Blight is ended, he will not have it any other way – they are both simply Grey Wardens.

Her message is clear – they must enjoy what time remains to them, and resign themselves to duty thereafter.

He knows that she means to take the final blow herself. He knows that she knows that he will give anything to stop her, and that, even as not-quite-king, he has the power to counter any action she may take to keep him 'safe'. He is still fretting, however, pacing back and forth across the too-small room as he tries to think of the loophole she will inevitably find.

When she enters his room without knocking, blurting out Morrigan's offer with a look of utter defeat on her face, he almost laughs with the bitter irony. She refuses to beg him to take the witch's offer, but she doesn't need to beg. Though this was never a sacrifice he imagined he would be asked to make, he makes it without hesitation – though not without reservation.

It doesn't matter that after tonight the two of them can never again be lovers. He loves her too much to let her die if there is a way to avoid it, even a chance to avoid it, which is all, really, Morrigan is offering.

He will always love her.

He hopes the ritual will be cold and sterile – impersonal and quickly done with. It is not. It is hot and heady, a pungent atmosphere of unknown herbs ensuring that he cannot simply close his eyes and imagine he is somewhere else, with someone else. He is trapped, physically and mentally, and the witch tortures him with her body, with each jolt of pleasure and inarticulate noise she coaxes from him. Only when he is convinced he will die – or perhaps kill himself in shame and disgust – does she seem to relent, and he orgasms so hard he blacks out.

When he comes to Morrigan is gone, the air is cold and crisp and sinfully fresh, and Kallian is stroking his face with a tender expression and reddened eyes. She has been crying, for him no doubt, for what she has, with their love, made him do.

As he gathers her close, trying to chase away the memory of Morrigan's skin, her scent, the slick glide of her flesh, Kallian begins babbling apologies that he can only half-hear and only half-understand. Finally she breaks down into tears again, sobbing over and over how sorry she is, and it's not until a draft from the window cools the moisture on his cheeks that he realises he's crying as well.

They have fought for each other, bled for each other, and now they cry for each other, and Alistair wants nothing more than to scream 'why' at the Maker. They have been through so much, and yet all that awaits seems worse, whether they win or lose.

The archdemon is dead.

So is Riordan.

But Alistair is alive, and so, to his relief, is Kallian.

Already the triumphant cries of the soldiers are loud enough to reach them at the top of Fort Drakon, and they have a clear view of the retreating darkspawn horde. Or at least, those of them still conscious have a clear view of it.

Kallian is not conscious, but though badly wounded Wynne assures him that she will live. It would be a bitter irony indeed if Morrigan's ritual had saved her from the killing blow only for her to die of blood loss from her other injuries. It is an irony he refuses to contemplate.

Instead he takes advantage of her unconscious state to blithely 'forget' her pronouncement of a clean break after the archdemon's death. He scoops her into his arms, cradling her against his chest and wishing that he had an excuse to remove his armour, to hold her properly – or improperly, given the memories threatening to drown him in sorrow despite their victory – one last time.

But he has no such excuse, and even Wynne, who had eventually come to approve of their love for one another, is silent, her tight lips a clear expression of…disapproval? Understanding? Sympathy? He isn't sure, and he doesn't dare ask.

He carries his elf – his no longer, not really – down to the city, each step harder than the last. Wynne and Leliana silent behind him – the latter unusually so. Alistair wants to believe this is all just some horrible nightmare, that they have been trapped in the Fade again, and the real Kallian will appear at any moment and tell him to stop being a fool and to wake up. But the triumphant cries of the army they both gathered – she more than he, truth be told, whether history reports it that way or not – are a reality that will not be ignored.

Alistair pauses before the final doors of the fort, bending his head to breathe the scent of her hair one last time, to whisper again the words he told her after they first made love, the promise he made.

Then he straightens, and lets the cold, hard mask of The King hide everything that he cannot say and cannot feel and strides onward into their 'victory'.

A clean break.

He is The King.

He is Anora Theirin nee Mac Tir's husband.

He is Alistair, the man, and his heart is breaking.

He knows it is ridiculous. He has survived darkspawn, survived an archdemon, even survived his coronation and, later this same day, survived his marriage to Anora. But he doesn't know if he can survive this.

Kallian's expression is pitying – or at least he thinks that's what it is, he's finding it hard to see properly, through the tears that want to well up and streak down his face for all to see. She hasn't reacted at all to Anora's deliberate snub, no doubt she expected it, possibly even thinks she deserves it for having been the one to execute Loghain for his crimes. Her voice sounds steady, but strained as she wishes him well and presses a small wedding gift into his hands, either unaware, or uncaring of the protocol that is supposed to surround these things.

He watches her walk away, hoping – or fearing, he's not sure – that she will look back. She doesn't, already moving away from him, into a future that he already hates. He hates it even more when he looks at what she has given him, and the crack running through his heart becomes a little wider, a little deeper.

It's an amulet. A rose, forever preserved in amber.

The rose he'd given to her along with his heart.

The rest of the celebration passes in a blur of strange faces and unwelcome congratulations. No one seems to see beyond the mask of The King, and for that at least Alistair is grateful. When the feasting and dancing finally draw to a close, and he is expected to retire with his new wife to consummate their union, he is numb again, so uncertain and hesitant that it's almost embarrassing.

Anora, ever practical, frowns prettily and spitefully suggests that he think of her – of Kallian, who is all he ever wanted and all he can never have. Instead he thinks of the other woman he had and never wanted, and he feels sick. Once again he hides behind the mask of The King, locking away his emotions and feelings to become some duty-powered automaton. He does not make love to her, they merely have sex, and his guilt is nearly overwhelming.

She does not deserve this.

Beneath him she stiffens and cries out, a name, half-missed in the throes of his own orgasm, but definitely ending in 'an'.

Though he has never thought about it before, he realises that he is not the only one to have lost their love. Somehow, bizarrely, the thought sends a swell of pity through him, and the mask of The King shatters and falls away. He gathers her into his arms, and as she stiffens, he apologises that he is not who she wants. A half-hysterical mix of laughter and tears are not what he expects, but he holds her anyway, rubbing her back until she calms.

She thanks him, voice cracked from her catharsis, and he thinks perhaps this can work. Perhaps two broken hearts can find solace in one another and endure the future together.

The Blight is over, the darkspawn horde fleeing in a hundred different directions. That will be an issue soon enough, but without the archdemon to command them, Alistair is confident that the soldiers of the kingdom can protect it well enough. Besides, there are only two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden – news of their situation has been sent to Weisshaupt only this morning, and a reply of any kind is yet to come – and even if one of them was not The King, they cannot be everywhere.

But he is The King, and beside him Anora is The Queen. They are both wearing their regal, unsmiling masks, and they are both prepared for whatever the nobles might throw at them. Anora is probably also ready to cover any mistakes he might make before they can cost them too dearly. He hopes to surprise her – pleasantly – and the smile that touches his lips at that thought, the thought of what he intends to do, isn't friendly in the least.

The noble currently stating the obvious – that a new Teyrn needs to be appointed to both Highever and Gwaren, and a new Arl to Amaranthine and Denerim – stops talking abruptly, his expression distinctly nervous.

Good. These fools should be nervous. These cowards who would start a civil war in the midst of a Blight, yet shied away from leading their men against the darkspawn.

Alistair turns his not-smile on the next noble to open his mouth, and the next, and the next, until they are all silent – not all cowed, but silent will do – and awaiting whatever he might say. Too many of them have likened him to his father in a superficial way, and he wonders now how many of them are suddenly recalling exactly how Maric broke the nobles to his will in the rebellion's closing days, by slaughtering the traitors who sought to weasel back into his good graces.

He wonders whether what he plans, as radical in its own way, will be viewed in quite the same light as cold-blooded murder done in the hallowed grounds of a chantry. The not-smile slips from his face, leaving the mask of The King in all its terrible solemnity.

Slowly he concedes that decisions have to be made concerning the sudden thinning of the nobility's ranks. Amaranthine, he declares, is being gifted by the crown to the Grey Wardens, to become their base of operations instead of their compound in Denerim. He doesn't explain his decision, he doesn't care what they believe his motives to be. In truth, it is a move less to keep Kallian close – painfully close, for she has made it clear that she will stick to her decision, and he will not challenge her, not even over this – and more to protect the Grey Wardens of the future.

The compound in Denerim had been too swiftly and easily seized by Loghain – granted, in part that had been due to every single Grey Warden having been at Ostagar – and whilst the end of the Blight was fresh in everyone's mind now, boosting the popularity and prestige of the order, that would fade over the centuries as it always did.

There are murmurs, but no outright disagreement to his announcement. There is even a little relief on some faces, as if they had feared what he would say and find it better than they had expected. Unfortunately their relief is short lived, for if the question of Amaranthine is answered, that still leaves those of Highever, Gwaren and Denerim.

Highever, he continues, is in need of a new Teyrn. His eyes are fixed on Eamon Guerrin, and he can see the arl – who'd once been like a father to him – readying his reply. It won't be acceptance, Alistair knows that. Eamon will refuse, politely, citing his recent ill health, perhaps, or the need to oversee Redcliffe's recovery – from the ravages of his own son's possession, though that detail isn't likely to be spelt out. By doing so Eamon will win in two ways; first, he will have the political prestige of having been the king's first choice, and second, he will increase his popularity with the people as a noble who would pass up greater power for them.

So Alistair doesn't offer the Teyrnir to Eamon. He lets his eyes slip past the elder Guerrin to rest on the younger, and asks Bann Teagan to become Teyrn Teagan of Highever. A jump, yes, but Teagan is capable enough – it was he who held Redcliffe together whilst Eamon was ill, and he is as popular with the people, even if some of the nobles consider him outspoken. Teagan is also open minded enough to make a good neighbour for the Grey Wardens at Amaranthine.

Teagan is surprised, but it is clear he understands Alistair's motives, and his subtle smile as he accepts is approving. Eamon's hearty congratulations are strained, and Alistair doesn't doubt that the elder Guerrin has received his message loud and clear. A sidelong glance at Anora shows a satisfied gleam in her eyes, and below the level of the table, her hand finds his and squeezes once, approving.

It is clear from the hasty congratulations to Teagan, and the speed with which silence falls when Alistair clears his throat, that Eamon is not the only one who has received The King's message. They have chosen him, for better or worse, and now they must live with that decision, just as he must.

The new Bann of Rainsfere will be chosen by Teagan – this announcement is greeted with nods and a lessening of tension, and Alistair suspects that his decision has inadvertently mirrored tradition. A useful coincidence, since, other decisions to the contrary, he doesn't quite intend to turn Ferelden politics on their head.

Quite.

On their ear is a distinct possibility – and his next announcement will do it if anything will.

There will be a new Teyrnir – the alienage in Denerim. Its Teyrna will be an elf named Shianni – Kallian's cousin, though he does not mention this. For the first time elves will be heard in the landsmeet, treated as equals in truth, not merely in name. He grinds the three firm statements out with all the brutal implacability of a storm, or a landslide, or a Qunari attack. They leave the nobles reeling, most displaying some form of shock, horror or both. Some stare wide-eyed at Anora, as if begging her to intercede and make her husband see sense, but her fingers are still in his and his smirk is victorious when she sweetly declares that she agrees with his decisions.

Spluttering, the nobles eventually come to order again when he slams his open hand down on the table – the hand Anora is not holding – with a crack that resounds through the room. He is The King, Alistair reminds them. The King they chose and swore fealty to. This is his decision, and it is made.

Anora, he continues, will become the Arlessa of Denerim as well as The Queen. He has every confidence that she can manage both roles capably, and he squeezes her hand gently as he announces it.

Which leaves Gwaren – the other Teyrnir.

Alistair isn't certain how to tackle the issue of Gwaren, but Anora comes to his rescue, quietly murmuring the name of the arl that her father favoured to take over his role as Teyrn – and Maker knows he never wanted to take any advice from Loghain after his betrayal, but he has no other immediate candidates and he will not offer Gwaren to Eamon when he knows the arl will turn him down in favour of the lesser victory.

So he declares Loghain's choice the new Teyrn of Gwaren and leaves the choosing of the replacement arl to him. But he makes a mental note to visit Gwaren now and then, and perhaps to hire a certain Orlesian 'ex' bard to watch and make sure he has not made a mistake. Loghain's right hand was Howe, after all, and by now his crimes are well known to all.

If there has been a mistake, Alistair knows that as The King, he will not hesitate to correct that mistake, whether personally or via an old…comrade.

The reply from Weisshaupt comes quickly, a curt demand that the senior Grey Warden present themselves at Weisshaupt Fortress post-haste to report, and Alistair wonders if he shouldn't have perhaps mentioned that the senior Grey Warden is now The King of Ferelden, and that, actually, it is the junior Grey Warden who'd been in charge of defeating the Blight. But really, he's not as concerned by the summons as he might once have been, and it gives him an 'official' excuse to escape the frenetic activity as Denerim rebuilds.

If they – for he knows he will not be allowed to travel alone – encounter a few darkspawn along the way, well, he would not be a very good king if he didn't defend his people, would he?

He informs Anora of his imminent departure, unconcerned whether she will be able to cope in his absence. She has proven herself over and over again as the relatively big and straightforward issues have fractured into a thousand and one little, irritating issues. Their relationship is not passionate – their hearts are too bruised and battered for that – but it is cordial and content in a way that Alistair had never imagined it could be.

Anora has confided in him her relief that he is less the fool that she was led to believe – or first thought when she met him – and he has confided in her his relief that she is less the scheming harridan that he thought her. They trust each other to do their best for Ferelden, and take consolation in knowing each understands the particular pain that comes with heartbreak.

She is less sanguine when he tells her that he will stop at Amaranthine – to inform Kallian of the cadre of Orlesian Grey Wardens being sent to impart the information she will need as the new Commander in Ferelden, as well to help rebuild the order here – but Alistair doesn't doubt that her distress is for the reminder of her father's executor, not for the fear that he will stray.

Her expression as he departs is odd – much like the expressions a few of the nobles at court have been giving him, and he wonders if there is a reason for that similarity.

There is a reason for that similarity, and it tests his control to its very extremes.

The Grey Warden Commander, Kallian Tabris, is now Kallian Guerrin, Teyrna of Highever.

Though he hides behind the mask of The King with fierce determination, he does not need to see the concerned glances that Teagan and Kallian exchange to know that they both know him – Alistair, the man, the Grey Warden – too well to be fooled. It is tempting to end the charade, to let everyone know what he really thinks of the matter, but The King is stronger than that – must be stronger than that – and it is only when the door to the Commander's private quarters closes that the mask cracks and falls away.

He laughs – long and hard and oh so bitterly.

They were expecting anger, he can tell, and really he knows he should at least be irritated that they didn't tell him they were getting married, but the tender scabs forming over the wounds on his heart are falling away and he is bleeding again, laughing so hard that he is crying – and surely his tears should be bloody? – and finally, finally the anger comes.

In the tirade of words that pours from him like water gushing from a broken dam, he snarls out the brutal truth that neither he nor Anora sleep with one another, but rather with the memories of their broken hearts. He hasn't vocalised it before, has repeatedly pushed the fact to the back of his mind and refused to acknowledge it past that first night, and the weight of the words in the air come as a sobering slap in his face.

The King has already fled, utterly shameless in his cowardly retreat, and now Alistair the man follows, fleeing through the stone labyrinth that is Amaranthine. He hides, sick to his stomach, wishing he could somehow turn back time and just die at Ostagar. He loves Kallian still, loves her more than life itself, but he can't bring himself to seek her out and apologise as he knows he should.

He feels like he's ten again, and the arl's just told him that he's being sent to the chantry, and maybe he didn't have an amulet to shatter this time – the rose amulet Kallian returned has long since been pushed to the back of his desk draw in Denerim's palace – but he thinks he's probably shattered something much harder to glue back together.

When only Teagan is present for breakfast the next morning, his expression managing to be both disapproving and understanding at the same time, Alistair doesn't know what to think. He falls back on The King – a retreat that's quickly becoming as familiar as his rarely-exercise humour, consisting of being silent and looking stern…or constipated...either seems to work – and Teagan's expression changes to…sorrow?

The King doesn't care. He spins a pretty turn of phrase in farewell and leaves – not quite as if a Blight was on his heels.

It is The King who travels to Weisshaupt Fortress, who delivers a report spanning from the start of the battle at Ostagar to the death of the archdemon, who lies again and again by denying any knowledge of why Kallian – the one who struck the final blow – is still alive. He falls back on half-remembered templar training, the pious acceptance of anything the chantry deemed a 'miracle', and somehow, incredibly, it works, and they stop springing the same question on him in a million different ways.

Finally he is allowed to leave, but Alistair is convinced that only the fact that he is The King of Ferelden, as well as Alistair the Grey Warden, has led to his freedom. As it is, they have kept him there for two weeks, and he wonders if it was supposed to be a subtle reminder that, amongst the Grey Wardens, he is not in command, and he cannot stop being a Grey Warden just by being crowned.

Bitter as the thought is, it is his one consolation, that at the end, when his Calling comes, he will be reunited with his love. At least…if she forgives him for being such a complete idiot about her marriage to Teagan.

It is Alistair who returns to Denerim – not a darkspawn encountered, to his dismay – and finds himself shocked by how well things seem to have progressed in his absence. Denerim still bears its scars – if one knows where to look, as he does – but rebuilding is nearly complete and even the alienage seems to glow with a new vitality.

Anora, understandably, is visibly pleased with herself as she relates all that has been done, all that is being done, and all that plans have been made to do. She is more animated than Alistair remembers her, and though he is listening to what she is telling him, he spends much of the time wondering whether some impostor has taken her place.

When he tells her that he is going to Amaranthine, to take the Grey Warden Commander news of Weisshaupt – and to apologise, to Kallian and Teagan both, though he doesn't mention this – she promptly announces that she is coming with him. Yet the displeasure he expects is wholly absent, and he wonders if she has somehow learned of his outburst. She knows that he loves Kallian, not her – it is a fact he has never tried to hide – but that isn't the cause of the hatred Anora nurtures for Kallian. Kallian is the one who executed Loghain, and much as Anora never tries to excuse his crimes, she will not deny that he was her father, and she loved him.

He acquiesces to her decision, seeing no harm in it, and not of a mind to deal with the repercussions and explanations that will be required if he tries to deny her 'request'. She isn't quite fast enough hiding her mischievous expression, and he knows something is afoot, but he senses no malice in the expression, no cruelty of a surprise that he isn't going to like.

Though his plan is to spend several days in Denerim catching up with matters of state, her expression changes his mind. They leave that afternoon, arriving in Amaranthine as evening falls.

It's hard, still, seeing Kallian and knowing that what they once had has been destroyed by the merciless needs and mindless prejudices of a kingdom. It's even harder, seeing the easy way she leans into Teagan's side, his arm wrapped snugly around her waist.

However, sorrow and regret – and all thoughts of apology – are brutally kicked into the backseat of his mind by surprise as Anora abandons 'royal dignity' in favour of greeting Kallian like a much-loved sister who's been absent too long. Kallian's reaction is as intense as Anora's – if somewhat more subdued.

The mystery deepens.

Yes, he's been gone for the best part of half a year, but considering how Anora had reacted to her father's death, this is…bizarre. Everyone else, however, seems to be taking this utterly in stride, in fact, the only curious expressions are directed at him – and Alistair doubts that he looks quite that goofy, no matter how surprised he is.

Anora's greeting to Teagan is as proper as the royal court could ever have wished for, and Alistair slips back into The King in order to follow her example, greeting both Teagan and Kallian with polite deference.

He is distinctly uncomfortable throughout the meal, a fact that Teagan notices, but has the sense not to enquire about – no doubt remembering the explosion that resulted the last time Alistair was here and uncomfortable. Anora and Kallian chatter away like magpies, though what he hears of their conversation is little better than court gossip interspersed with updates on the progress of rebuilding both the kingdom and the order.

Afterwards the two women lead the way to the private wing set aside for the Warden Commander, her husband, and any important guests – such as royalty – they might have. It strikes him, when Anora seems to know the way as well as Kallian herself, that his wife must have been visiting on a fairly regular basis, and he wonders again if she isn't an impostor of some kind – Leliana perhaps.

Eventually, having recounted all of note – save one thing – from Weisshaupt, Alistair requests a moment of Kallian's time in private. A strictly Wardens-only conversation, he mumbles in explanation, opening the door into the Commander's private office to avoid looking at Anora's disapproving expression.

As the door closes behind them, he knows Kallian is going to tell him this is inappropriate, so he jumps in before she can speak, telling her all the lies he told them at Weisshaupt, then fleeing back into the other room and hoping Anora will not take his flustered demeanour the wrong way.

Teagan raises an eyebrow at his hurried return, looking past him to Kallian, and she must have rolled her eyes, or made some exasperated gesture, because he chuckles. The sound – the wordless interaction – cuts Alistair to the bone and reopens the bleeding crack through his heart.

A fresh start from the moment of the archdemon's death.

She had not been joking, and she has carried through on her decision – as with all her decisions – leaving him floundering behind, envying her strength and hating how easily she seems to have moved on.

Anora yawns – a fake yawn, the first familiar mannerism he's seen from her since he returned to Denerim that morning – and Alistair is unsurprised by her announcement that she will retire for the night. Unexpected is the way Kallian echoes The Queen, adding a slightly acid comment about leaving their menfolk to talk 'shop' that reassures him he is not hearing things.

All of which leaves him alone with Teagan, and he can't quite decide whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. So he does what he normally does when he's uncertain – he waffles about anything and everything that has no meaning whatsoever. Teagan, however, knew him as a child – a disconcerting thought at the best of times, never mind now that he is married to Kallian, an elf young enough to be Teagan's daughter – and tells him to shut up and calm down. Though considerably more politely.

Time passes with trivial talk about politics and happenings within the Bannorn during Alistair's absence, and it is only when Teagan suddenly suggests that they also retire for the night and continue the conversation the next day that Alistair wonders if all the talk wasn't a delaying tactic of some kind. It feels as if he's stuck in a puzzle, surrounded by all the pieces and yet unable to put them together to form a coherent whole. As if the answer is staring him in the face, but encrypted, and he's lacking the key.

He worries over the bits and pieces that he thinks he knows, so distracted that the door of the room is closed behind him and his shirt unlaced before he realises that the woman in the room is not Anora.

Suddenly everything makes sense. The key is right in front of him, arms crossed across her chest, and the answer – a smug, satisfied, challenging smirk – is literally staring him in the face.

In two quick strides he is across the room, pressing his lips to hers as if it's the last moment of his life, as if he's drowning and her mouth is the oxygen that will save him. He never wanted to let her go, and now, clever, clever woman that she is – far cleverer than he, for certain – he does not have to.

Cailan, after all, is not the only man Alistair knows whose name ends in 'an'.

AN: Whew… I blame my muses and also the fic Love in Dreams for this. Conceived (and sketched out) whilst listening to 3 Doors Down 'Here Without You', written properly (and probably responsible for the slight shift in overall tone) whilst listening to the Pirates of the Caribbean Remix…go figure. I was originally intending for this to be an 'open' origin piece, but unfortunately only the elven/mage origins strike me as politically naive enough for it to make sense, and once I was down to those I decided to cop out of the difficulties in keeping the PC character nameless and plumped for the default City Elf (Kallian Tabris).

Might add a (very) brief epilogue shortly.