 
#   **Epilogue**

### by

## **Sabrina Zbasnik**

#### Final Book in the _My Love_ series

####

#### **_My Love_**

#### **_Guarded Love_**

#### **_Miracle_**

#### **_A New Hero_**

# **Contents**

Chapter One - Home

Chapter Two - The Truth

Chapter Three - Parting Glass

Chapter Four - Last Words

Chapter Five - Last Kiss

Chapter Six - Eternity

Chapter Seven - Around the Corner

Chapter Eight - Family Dinner

Chapter Nine - Rooftop Confession

Chapter Ten - Finally

Chapter Eleven - Wedding Bells

Chapter Twelve - Majesty

Chapter Thirteen - New Home

Chapter Fourteen - Surprise

Chapter Fifteen - Future Queen

Chapter Sixteen - Family

Chapter Seventeen - Dad

Chapter Eighteen - An Angel Watches Over You

Chapter Nineteen - Our Star

Chapter Twenty - Empty Rooms

Chapter Twenty-One - Dirge of Hope

Chapter Twenty-Two - Fault

Chapter Twenty-Three - Future

Chapter Twenty-Four - Love

CHAPTER ONE

Home

Nowhere in all of Ferelden smelled of here. Nor other parts of thedas he'd been sent on missions to, come to think of it. Sweet as fresh hay, the earthy life he ran from wafted on the winds as any good farm in the Hinterlands would. But weaved into every cow hide sunning in the warmth was a static bolt of magic. It hissed through the very bones of the place, following on the trails of an almost sterile medicinal smell. It smelled as if one were to shove your head into a giant basket of recently plucked corn and then menthol in one go. He never realized how much of his life was spent with magic around him until he stepped away from it.

Nowhere was like the little abbey out in the woods of Redcliffe, and nowhere was quite like home.

As Gavin stepped through the gates, he anticipated his father to be wandering around outside doing his best to keep busy and not watch for him. It'd been awhile since he'd last visited, duty always keeping him tugged in a thousand different directions. His parents would somehow find time to sneak on back to Denerim and see their boy when they could, but it wasn't the same.

He'd been hoarding his leave, planning to head out to the farm in order to help during harvest. But then a letter arrived from his father asking rather cryptically if he'd consider a visit. Gavin put little thought to it for its vagueness, until the King popped his head in and all but dragged him out to the road. The entire week long trek he couldn't shake away the growing concern in his guts even as they bounced on the back of a horse.

By the bend around Lothering, he convinced himself that it was either darkspawn or a fire. Seeing as how the abbey walls were standing without a hint of ash anywhere, and there were none of those dark creatures chittering about, he was left uncertain. Perhaps his mother used her influence to get a wish from the King?

Wouldn't that be his luck? He wasn't of high rank but enough in the order knew he bore some strange halo about him. The Princess wouldn't make a great fuss about Gavin, but the King was a different matter entirely.

Heaving the traveling pack off his shoulders, Gavin stood in the courtyard that was whisper quiet. Afternoon, most people in hospice would be napping, while the fields were entering into a senescence themselves. The late summer heat tried to dig into his shoulders, most of the sweat already streaking down his back as he wrung against the neck of the traveling coat.

"Well, well," a voice called from the stables. Gavin turned but instead of his father, old Albert stood by the wayside.

The man was a scarecrow come to life, to the point he would on occasion have straw stuffed up his cuffs and no explanation to give. Lean face, gaunt in the cheeks, but with a haunting sparkle in his eyes, he'd been a staple around the abbey's farm for years.

"Young Master Gavin," Albert snickered before slapping a hand to his thigh. Dust erupted from the move, burning in the air. "Sorry, lookin' at ya, you ain't so young no more."

The man's finger jabbed towards the weeks worth of stubble that was leaning to a beard upon Gavin's jaw. He rubbed a palm over it and snickered. "There wasn't much of a chance to freshen up on the road."

"Get over here," Albert waved wide, his hands extended far. When Gavin fell into them for a congenial hug, the old man snickered, "Or should I be bowin' instead."

"No," Gavin stepped back, unable to stop the blush burning on his cheeks. "No, don't be silly."

"Ser Gavin," he drew his fingers in a circle over his chin while staring up at the man who couldn't cease fiddling with the scabbard at his side. "Expected you to be done up in all that fancy metal like a true Knight."

"We only wear that when facing down a foe, this..." Gavin tugged up the riding leathers with a bit of padding and splintmail, "this is the more typical Knight outfit."

"Suits you," Albert smiled wide, patting Gavin harder in the shoulder as if to test Ferleden's latest son. Suddenly his grin dimmed and the sparkling eyes clouded over, "Yer mom's real proud. Been telling everyone about it."

Gavin rolled his eyes and sighed, "That does not surprise me. Where's my father?"

"He's..." Albert swallowed hard, his head pivoting up to the second floor. The pit in Gavin's stomach opened wider as he realized the old farmhand was staring right at his parent's bedroom door.

"It's why I'm here," he shook off the dour thoughts in an instant, giving a bigger smile like a fool to throw Gavin off. "Your pa's had his hands full so brought me in early. Keepin' way too many mages in line is exhausting."

The man was clearly giving it his all to distract Gavin but the trepidation inside of him was growing larger with every beat of his heart. "Albert...?"

"Go and see yer Pa. You, uh," the scarecrow slunk back a bit, his fingers hefting up a pitchfork left lying in the sun. His father would have blown a blood vessel if Gavin had ever done something like that. Tools belonged in the shed, safe away from the elements.

What was going on that his father didn't even care about such things?

"Just head up, Gavy," Albert nodded his head and turned back to the hay that didn't need any stirring.

Flexing his fingers and doing his best to stop the hitch of a breath burning through his lungs like fiery acid, Gavin began what felt an unending climb up the stairs. Barely any doors opened, or were left open. There seemed to be fewer and fewer residences as the years went by. Some of that was due to his mother's skills, some to the march of time. It was hard to imagine this not being a place of healing, but who knew what the future could have in store. Perhaps it'd finally be a chance for his parents to retire properly, instead of their half assumed one when they moved out here.

He was trying to distract himself. To focus on other matters that didn't matter instead of the gaping hole burning in his brain. Doing his best to disguise the tremble in his fingers, Gavin clamped down on the door latch hard. It didn't entirely work, the lift rattling in his grip, but he prodded open the door and stepped into his parent's room.

Darkness seeped into the normally sunny bedroom. The shutters that were thick enough to stop the breath of the Maker were all drawn shut. A single candle danced upon a nightstand, casting a haunting glow upon the man sitting on a chair beside it. He had his head tipped down as if he was less catching a few winks than deep in prayer.

Gavin turned from his father to the bed, when all the fear he'd been carrying since leaving Denerim bloomed. Skin of a grey ash, her eyes sunken deep into the sockets, hair thin to the point it appeared as if clumps fell out, she looked as if she was already across the veil. Tucked into the great bed his father built, his mother looked so frail and tiny, like a quail bone about to snap in half.

He must have made a sound at the sight, as his father's head snapped up. It took a moment for the weary eyes to find the intruder before Cullen wiped across his face to try and snap a semblance of normalcy into it. "Gavin!" he called, the voice splintered in half. Turning to the weak body in bed, he whispered, "Lana, our son's come home."

Death drew its icy claws away from its hold on his mother as her lips rose from the news. Slowly, her eyelids opened and she stared in rapture at her boy left dumbstruck in the doorway. Cullen rose from the chair, his bones creaking and back hunched as he no doubt sat there for hours watching over her.

"Son," he moved to wrap a hand around Gavin, when the boy met him with both. Trapped in a full hug with his father, Gavin's heart gave out a single sob. It was only one, while a multitude sat chained inside, but his father tightened his grip. Did he not want Lana to see her boy come undone or was he trying to find his own strength from his son?

"We didn't think you'd be out here until later into the year," Cullen said. Scratchy stubble claimed most of his jawline, what used to be white as snow now an ashen grey from dirt he hadn't taken the time to clean off. The bags under his eyes lengthened down his cheeks and he teetered a bit from his underused legs.

Why didn't he tell him? Why didn't he warn him how dire things were?

Gavin wanted to scream them all at the man, but his father looked as if he too was about to drop from a dead faint. Trying to shake the anger away, he rubbed his neck, "I had a bit of a lull and thought it'd be nice to see you."

"We missed you," his dad said softly.

"Sweetie," the brittle voice cracked, but even the pain inside couldn't deny the joy on her lips. His mother struggled to sit up a bit, her head rising from the pillow as she took him in.

"Mom," Gavin tried to smile in response, but his stomach was tying itself in knots. How long had this been going on? And no one would tell him?

"Come sit by me," she turned to gaze at the vacant chair. By the candle light it looked as if his father's shadow was permanently etched into the surface. Gavin glanced over at Cullen, uncertain if it was wise, but he gestured a hand to it.

Bundling up his limp fingers, Gavin curled up onto the chair when he was struck by a far too familiar smell. Not of candies and cold tea, but rot and illness. His mother didn't seem to be aware of it, her head tipping a bit to the side as she looked up at him.

"Look at that beard, Maker's breath."

"I..." he absently scraped a hand over his jaw, "I didn't have a chance to shave it."

"It suits you," his mother smiled and nodded her head. "Far better than anything your father could ever grow." Instead of a barb, she smiled serenely at her husband who shrugged.

"Dark hair makes that work far better. You're lucky in that department."

There were a thousand unsaid words seeping through the floor. Each one crowded around his legs begging to be voiced, but looking at his father -- broken, hungry, terrified -- he couldn't speak a one. Instead, Gavin focused fully on his mother who wasn't about to let this opportunity pass her by.

"How was the trip?"

"Good, not many out on the King's Highway this time of year. Too hot for most," he paused and reached into his bag, "I did bring a few things from Denerim, um..." Rifling over the satchel, Gavin's fingers glanced across a few foolish bobbles he thought to snatch up for his parents. Books, candies, a fresh whetstone, it all seemed so trivial.

"This tea," he selected the tin which was actually a gift from Ms. Sayer.

"Ooh," his mom's clouded eyes focused on the green box. "What is it?"

"Some special blend, apparently a few of the college brewers are gathering together to create their own Ferelden themed teas. This one's for the, uh, memory of the Hero of Ferelden." He thought it'd be a lark, drinking her memorial tea same as all the times she'd insist they stop by her memorial in Denerim when she was in town. His mother seemed to enjoy walking around her old things telling him about them.

Looking at her now, her skin pocked and hanging like wet sacks off her brittle bones, Gavin felt like a demon for even bringing it. But his mom's hand skirted over the tin and she lifted it free. "Sounds delightful. I can't wait to try a cup."

His father scurried forward and picked up the blend, "I'll go and get a kettle and some cups while you two catch up."

"Thanks, love," Lana called with a small wave of her fingers.

It was a simple task, but at the door his father paused and turned back. Broken eyes skirted over the woman in his bed as if...as if he feared he'd never see her again. When the door closed, his father off to perform his duty, Lana sighed.

"I'm glad you're here. Your father needs a break but will he take one? Of course not."

"Mom..." Gavin shifted in his seat, his lip trembling at the wave of accusations building inside of him. "Mom, why wasn't I...?"

Her shoulders dragged even further downward, elongating the far too thin neck as she sighed. Cloudy eyes turned to him, "I assume you're here because of Ali?"

"Yeah," he nodded, clinging to whatever he could. "Yes, the King he ordered me out here. Why didn't either of you? How long has this been...? Mom?"

"Over a month now," she groaned, fingers slumped onto her thighs. Gavin hissed at the thought. He'd received at least three letters from his parents since then, none of them mentioning her illness. Sensing the change in her son, Lana glanced over, "You know your father. He can't fight this, he can't slay it, he can't... Sweetie, he can't save me, so he's denying it."

"Mom!" Can't save her? Was it truly that definite? Was she...?

Maker, even he couldn't think it. His heart constricted tight in his chest, Gavin struggling to suck back in the tears that began as the truth crashed against him.

"What is it? Maybe I can...I know people. They know things that..."

"Gavin," her paper thin fingers fell into his. She couldn't grip onto them, and they felt cold and so fragile in his trembling grasp. "It's okay."

"It's not fair."

She tipped her head to the side and a smile flitted about her lips. "That may be, but it's also okay." He wanted to bawl on her shoulder, to bury his face into her stomach and cry ugly tears the way he did when a child with a skinned knee. But she was far too fragile to take such a beating, and she needed him to be strong.

The door opened, Cullen stepping in quickly with a tray in his arms. "The kettle's not at boiling, but considering your tea issues I didn't think it'd much matter."

They both did. His dad was trying to smile in his own pinched lip way, but that denial wasn't reaching his eyes. All his life, his father looked at his mother in open awe, as if she was the only person in the room. Now, he risked furtive glances from the side, terrified that at any moment she might flee from them both. Flee so far neither could reach her.

While the tea steeped, his father took a seat on the bed beside his mother's legs. He kept patting a hand near her while jostling a cup until it was ready. "How long will you be able to stay with us?" Cullen began, acting as if everything was normal.

"For awhile."

"Nothing with the dwarven kingdom on the horizon?"

As the abnormalcy of it all struck hard to Gavin, he accepted the cup of tea from his father. "Ah, no. The Queen is in commune and she's opened up negotiations to more than just me. Hopefully I won't be required to visit out there as often."

"Maybe you can finally get a place of your own," his mother said with a smile. She had to circle both hands around her cup of tea and slowly brought it to her lips. "Ooh, tangy."

"There's a raspberry swirl to try and bring out the chocolate undertones," Gavin said. He tipped the lip to his mouth, but couldn't taste anything of the hot leaf water washing down his gullet. Everything smelled of ash burning on a hot pyre.

"Gavin," his mother suddenly turned her head to him. "Is that a scar on your bottom lip?"

"Uh," guiltily, he thumbed the deep cut and gulped. "Yes. From a landslide, one of the falling rocks struck me in the face."

Lana chuckled and turned to her husband, "Another lip scar?" She moved her hand forward a bit, and Cullen met her first. Locking her hand tight in his, they stared deep into each other's eyes. "It must run in the blood."

Quietly, Gavin sipped the tea doing his best to not think that each breath from her could be the last.

CHAPTER TWO

The Truth

The sword became a plow, his cuirass traded for an apron as Gavin buried himself back into the world he ran so far from. Five years he'd been serving in Denerim, rarely thinking of what awaited back at the abbey. All his life it was as unchanging as the mountains, and now...now it felt as if the entire peak was going to crumble into dust.

He wiped a hand against his forehead, trying to clear away the sting of sweat dripping into his eyes. The sun wasn't about to let anyone escape easily, certainly no upstart who thought himself too good for this work. For the past two weeks he stayed and waited. Every day his father insisted that it was a minor illness and given enough rest his mother would recuperate. Even as he had to dribble soup into her aching lips and wipe off the spill, Cullen remained deluded that there would be a happy ending in sight. There was no chance Gavin could break that illusion, even if he had the power or will.

"Albert," Gavin waved to the man who was practically running the place in his parents absence. He took over the handful of animals they kept about -- never much beyond a small head to feed the occupants and grow another season. Gavin picked up the weeding and haying as much as possible, though he didn't realize how flabby his arms had grown while sitting prim on a horse until he was knee deep in grass. The scythe had never despised the prodigal son more.

"Oh, ah, youngling," Albert smiled, giving a cheery wave.

"The pigs?" he began to walk towards the sty Albert was overseeing in the meantime.

"Got 'em fed. Though, that one..." his wizened finger jabbed through the air at a boar who looked as if he was about to gore everything in his path, "with the one eye, he ain't up to no good."

"You don't say," Gavin chuckled. He'd seen his fair share of that same look, often on the faces of brigands he was about to put a sword through.

"Best be eating him up soon afore he eats you," Albert laughed and jabbed a finger into Gavin's side. He did that when the boy was younger, always warning the small lad that the pigs were just as likely to take a bite as anything. This time his digit didn't even manage to dent past the nail into Gavin's taut body.

"I'll keep that under consideration," the young man responded, eyeing up a surly sow who was far too old to be worth keeping around as well. "Father will have to make the final decision."

"Ah..." Albert grew deathly quiet, his pale eyes darting around the summer sun.

Gavin caught on quickly, "What is it?"

"Just, your ol' man. Not that he ain't, well, he was never much of a peach truth be told. I've known bears less grouchy." That caused Gavin to laugh. "But he...he ain't been in his right mind as of late. And," slowly, Albert's eyes trailed out towards the horizon, "I don't foresee that fixing itself anytime soon."

Gavin followed the gaze to spot a shadow seated in the middle of the field. It looked dark as night by the sun's rays, not moving much beyond the small turn of a head. Who was out in the grass he had yet to hay?

"I'll...I'll consider that as well," Gavin said, stumbling towards the shadow.

"Should call you Ser Consider," Albert shot back. He jammed his straw hat on tight and with a whistle under his breath moved on to appeasing the chickens who were also long past culling. Quite a few of the layers ceased earning their keep, to the point Gavin caught on. While the farm wasn't in ruin, and the animals were all being fed, the few patients tended to, it did seem as if...death itself had been banned.

With both hands wafting over the knotted tops of the grass, Gavin waded into the field. As he drew closer the shadow lightened but not by much. The dark, curly hair spilled off of both sides of the chair. Much of it was matted at the back because trying to untangle it caused her far too great a pain. A blanket was tossed over her lap, despite the high heat, and she kept lifting her finger a bit almost as if she wanted to cast a small spell off it.

"Mom," he began, coming to a stop just beside her.

"Sweetie," she struggled to turn her head to find him, but the smile was genuine.

"What are you doing out here? How did you even get out here?"

She couldn't walk. Even before this took over, she'd reached the point a cane wasn't enough. Most of her life was spent being carried around by a man who was growing hunched by the work, but would he complain? Never.

Gesturing towards the abbey, Lana smiled, "One of the girls helped. We have a system in place. Don't make that face, young man."

He blinked a moment, trying to shake away what was no doubt a familiar glower at the facts. She belonged in bed, resting. In theory, healing. Trudging all the way out here could cost her...

"It's a lovely day," she sighed, sliding back in the chair. "I always preferred summer to the winter chill. Hilarious I know," she referred to her ice spells which couldn't be surpassed by any mage he ever met. "Come," Lana jabbed at the grass beside her, "stand by me."

Gavin sucked in a breath and hobbled over. He tried to stand beside her chair, but it felt strange. Around age twelve he grew taller than his mother, but never larger -- even with her softer voice, and gentle touch, there was a terrifying power inside that could rock nearly every stone in Ferelden. Now, as he gazed down at her gaunt form swaddled in a blanket while sweat coated his body, he felt the stronger of them and hated it.

Crouching down, Gavin nearly sat upon the muddy ground until his head was level with his mother's. "It's beautiful," she sighed to herself.

The azure sky wrapped itself around the frostback mountains far in the distance, their white peaks shattering it as if they too wished to be clouds. Greens sharper than anything he'd seen prodded against the bright blue, the flat lands of the farm giving way to pressing in forests. Deeper inside were deer leaping through the winding creek Gavin used to splash in as a boy. Even further was another farm, owned by a woman Gavin convinced himself was a secret witch because she owned an apple farm and he had a dangerous imagination at times. If one kept going eventually you'd reach Redcliffe itself -- the village that once caught his captivation seemed so small now.

"You see it, don't you?" his mother turned to him, the clouds in her eyes parting a moment.

"The lovely day?" Gavin stuttered.

"Ferelden, thedas itself. A thousand mothers sitting with a thousand sons watching the clouds float by," her chapped lips lifted in a small smile at that thought.

He devoted himself to protecting Ferelden, to following his duty to the end of his life should the need be. To protect those same mothers that his mother once saved. Gavin tried to shy away from the enormity of the view before him, of all those people who depended upon him and people like him to combat the darkness.

"Sweetie," her hand, delicate as the finest tissue designed for a lady's thin nose, skirted over his. Gavin gripped tight, his callused and mud stained fingers embracing hers. "Do you know why I did it? Why I set out to save the world, to throw my life to the void for a cause I barely knew about?"

He swallowed hard, his eyes hunting over the horizon. They spoke of it sometimes, Gavin wondering why his mom was this great war hero that people didn't talk much about. She tried to explain it, but the explanation always rang a bit hollow. At least until he too stood at the gates of death and didn't flinch.

"Because someone had to."

The smile on his mother's lips thinned, all her long years stretching out before her with very little ahead. "And," she whispered, "do you know why I stopped?"

"Because..." Gavin began before his throat clogged. No, he didn't. He had no grasp of why his parents both gave up the fight. But if they hadn't he wouldn't exist. The abbey wouldn't exist. Who knew how many countless lives that they saved here would be lost. And who knew how many lives out there in the rest of thedas were lost because of it.

"I am so proud of you, Gavin," his mother said, her fingers cupping his cheek.

"That..." Humility rampaged up to burn on his cheeks and he tried to turn away. He hadn't done much in his life so far, it felt as if there was always more to do. Too much at times.

"Be happy, okay," she said, tears sparkling in her eyes. The change was so sudden, Gavin gasped and reached for her.

"Mom?"

"I know, it's a lot to ask," she didn't flinch but the tears wouldn't cease either. "But please, make yourself a life you can live with. A life that fills your heart..." She placed her cold palm to his chest, "this giant, far too generous heart, with joy."

He glanced down at her hand as it landed back in her lap with a plop, "I'll, I'll try, mom."

A small smile rose upon her lips, the wind barely lifting away her curls. She stared across the dampening horizon, watching a butterfly flit up and down over the grass seed. Its yellow and green wings nearly blended into the field, but when it took flight high into the air it stood out like a legendary gemstone at the bottom of the sea.

"That's why I did it," she whispered. "And I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

Nodding, Gavin tried to turn away so she couldn't see the burn of emotion in his eyes. Tears would do her no good now. But his mother knew. The woman that would stand outside the cupboards a toddler snuck into and cry 'where did Gavin go?' knew. She knew the way a mother who would sit with her broken hearted boy and try to explain death after they lost the family dog knew. And how she calmly nodded as he attempted to downplay his broken heart with Myra, while trying to heal him from afar. She always knew him and she always would.

"Hm," Lana mused, her fingers rubbing over his scalp. "You still won't grow your hair out."

"Mom," he groaned, tipping up to look at her. "I swear you are the only one who thinks it looks good on me."

"It does. All those adorable curls, the little ones at the front and by your ears."

"The curls that turn nearly tan at the ends, you mean?"

"It marks you as special," she insisted, proud of her boy.

"It makes it look as if someone dropped a bowl of curly noodles on my head," Gavin growled. He'd been shaving his head down since he was a teenager and had no intentions to ever stop.

His mother didn't pout at his resistance, she caressed once more over his head before turning to look back at the horizon. "Some people happen to find noodle hair rather fetching."

Rather than try to draw the argument out, Gavin sat beside her, mother and son watching the fields of Ferelden dance in the declining summer's breeze.

* * *

He'd convinced himself that his mother heading outside meant she was getting better, that she'd managed to once again snatch herself back from the jaws of fate. But she began to deteriorate rapidly after her last moment in the sun. Barely conscious for more than a few hours a day, it reached the point that either Gavin or Cullen never left her side. She seemed to be out of pain, though upon waking would flinch and look around wildly a moment in terror before calming.

Gavin had to all but throw his father out of the room, the man needing to get something to eat. But he clung nails to the doorframe, watching his wife slumbering under a thick blanket that seemed to be slowly consuming her with every breath. Still, hunger prevailed and somehow Cullen finally left to get a bit of bread and broth into him. Gavin busied himself in his parents room, trying to clean up some of the mess that always accumulated when caring for the sick.

It felt strange to find these things here of all places. Empty bottles, bedding covered in sick, that deathly medicinal smell. He grew up around it but never in his parents room. This was the oasis from the death that circled in the stones. Here was safety, here nothing bad would happen.

And yet...

He should plan her funeral. Try to find a Mother willing to trek out into the woods. Make certain there's enough dry logs for the pyre.

Blighted Maker, no. No. Gavin whipped his head back and forth, snarling at himself for thinking such dour, mutinous thoughts. He should focus on hope. Know that she'd come out of this, continue on for years and years. His mom couldn't die. She would't. She was...

She was the Maker damn Hero of Ferelden. Heroes didn't die!

Pounding his fist into the dresser, he rattled away a silver tray. Underneath it, almost as if they were hidden for later, sat two envelopes. Gavin unearthed both to find the first was addressed to him and the second to his father. With a gulp, he glanced at the sleeping woman who seemed less and less likely to wake. She knew. She knew that she wasn't going to escape this, and...and she left these for them.

Were there others too?

His mother had many friends scattered across thedas. Or had she already sent them? Was that why the King ordered Gavin to his mother's bedside? Because she'd already said her goodbye to him?

The totality shattered inside Gavin. Whatever control he'd managed for these last few days exploded like a vase. Glass shards sliced apart his throat, his stomach, his lungs and heart. He gasped at the pain burning inside of his aching body. White washed over his vision, the knight turning back into a little boy as he crumpled to his knees. If someone had jammed a lance into his chest and broken all his ribs it would hurt less.

He tried to hide from the truth as well, to deny it even while it lurked in every corner and shadow of this room. Death waited patiently. No matter how much they tried to deny it, the specter would come. And there was nothing they could do. Nothing he could do but wallow on the floor like a spineless coward crying for his mommy.

"Gavin," a voice called from behind, startling him out of his stupor.

He scrubbed against his eyes and turned around to spot one of the washing girls standing in the door. Her eyes were wide in terror and she kept wringing a towel back and forth in her hands. "Ser, please...we need your help."

"What is it?" he staggered to his feet, his emotionally drained body barely able to stand. It felt as if a fist punched into his skull while his eyes burned, but he had to put all of it away. They'd only come to him if there was a major emergency like a fire.

The girl's eyes blinked and she opened her mouth a few times testing the words. Gavin impatiently stomped his foot, growing tired of this. Grimacing at it, the girl spat out, "Master Cullen."

It didn't take him long to find his father, the screaming giving it away. The leader of this abbey, a man generally loved despite being known for being a bit of a grump, was shouting his lungs off in the kitchen. When Gavin burst in, he spotted his father waving a serving fork back and forth as if it were a weapon while a girl cowered in the corner.

"I did as I was told, sir," she tried to get out, but it wouldn't take.

"As told?" Cullen shouted, "As told! Your brain is too overstuffed with frivolous fluff to be capable of handling such a matter."

"She asked me to..." the girl begged, holding a hand out.

"It doesn't matter what she asked for. Her health supersedes any foolish requests she might have made."

Barely keeping up and with a head throbbing, Gavin jammed his way in between, "What is going on here?"

"Get her out of here," Cullen snarled, the fork back to jabbing at the girl he trapped in a corner. Gavin stepped in front of her, taking on the brunt of his father's ire.

"What for?"

"She...she was the one," he kept stabbing the fork through the air as if it too angered him, "She took your mother from her bed, left her outside for hours in the elements. It's her fault!"

"Ser, please, I didn't mean for..."

"Stop quivering," his father glared, the full depths of his rage being burned onto a serving gel. "Do you have any concept of what you've done? Of what you could do to her?! She's..." the fork began to pitch from his palms, the metal glinting against the firelight as it tumbled to the ground. His father wrapped both hands around his eyes, trying to hide himself away while he mumbled the truth to himself.

Gavin turned back to the poor girl. "Alissa," he assessed, her name returning to him despite her face being distorted in terror.

"I swear, my Lord, I didn't..."

He cupped her hand gently in his and soothed, "I know. It's okay. It's not your fault. Go on out, it'll be okay."

Her eyes stared up at him, barely blinking for fear he might suddenly harm her, but she nodded and swallowed. With Gavin acting as a screen, Alissa worked towards the door to freedom. She managed to slip out, but didn't get away before his father roared back to life.

"I want her gone! She cannot be trusted anywhere near the sick. She'll kill them soon as the blight itself!"

Alissa yelped, her hands crushing against her cheeks while the tears poured freely. Spinning on his heel, Gavin glared into his father's eyes. "Stop it. She's not being fired."

"Do you know what she did...?" the man looked almost demonic in his exhausted fury, his eyes burning from the firelight.

"Yes," Gavin stuck out his chin, "she helped Mom get one last look at a sunset."

Cullen snarled, "Your mother is... her illness is getting worse because of her."

"Mom is dying!" Gavin shouted at his father's face, so weary from the lie they kept dancing around. The old lion's anger whipped away from the girl who bore no fault to his son.

"Don't you..."

"For the love of Andraste, Dad. It's not some flu she'll walk away from. Mom is dying. You know it. She knows it. She's been telling you for weeks but you won't listen!"

His father stumbled back as if Gavin hauled off and slugged him on the chin. The fire died in an instant, the raging old general withering to a scared old man facing an abyss before him. "No," he shook his head, the tears finally falling from those locked off eyes. "No," he gasped again, tumbling to his knees. A hand clutched at his chest, and in a quivering voice he gasped, "She can't. She can't again. How do I...?"

Lifting up, tears languishing on his lids, he stared at Gavin, "I can't do this alone. How do I go on without her?"

The tears matched his father in kind as Gavin too took a knee. "I'm here," he answered his father when inside his heart said 'I don't know.' Gasping, Cullen clung to Gavin's shoulder. He buried his face into his son, the two coming to accept the truth. Together they cried, fearful of the future neither could barely comprehend. A sunrise without her seemed as impossible as the sun never rising again.

CHAPTER THREE

Parting Glass

By the time the tears slowed and both found a stubborn sort of composure, Gavin tried to wrangle some order into the world. "I need to go and speak with Alissa. She's a good worker."

"I know," his father's voice was hoarse and more ragged than a tattered flag on a battlefield. "I know she is. I should be the one to talk to her. Apologize."

Gavin eyed up the man, remembering all too well how terrifying he could look when mad. Grief mixed with anger all but turned him into a living monster. "Perhaps that's not wise..." he tried, already thinking of how he'd smooth things over with the washer girl who was only trying to do right by his mom.

His father turned from glaring at the stone floor. Amber eyes, red as if the sun itself burned them, honed in on Gavin. "No. It was my failure, my outburst, and I must be the one to try and undo the damage."

There was no arguing with his dad when he was in that mood. With a shrug Gavin stepped back, allowing his father exit. The man was struggling to walk, he'd barely eaten for the past few days, and Gavin wasn't certain when he last slept either. "Dad," he reached over, gripping onto his father's arm, "I'll sit with Mom tonight. You need a break, to get some sleep."

His father's lips pursed and he stared out towards the darkening horizon. One last tear that hung in his eye from their mourning session glittered by firelight. It wouldn't fall, but seemed to be nesting in wait. "Tomorrow morning. Give me one more night with her, and then I swear you can take over. I might even get some sleep."

He knew he should argue, but it was hard enough to get his father to admit the truth. Dragging anymore out of him would probably be as impossible as moving a mountain. Nodding his head, Gavin let go, "Okay. I'll be up bright and early to take over."

"Good. Good," his dad scratched at his head, red welts rising from the light dusting of his nails. His skin was thinning away to nothing from this torment. He needed a break. Sliding out to the door, Cullen paused a moment and added, "Oh, and bring the kettle when you come. You mom might like some lukewarm tea."

She'd been damn near comatose for two days now, both left with barely any idea how to feed her, but his father was dead certain she'd rise in the morning. He needed to believe it, to cling to that hope.

Shaking away the tears burning in his eyes, Gavin nodded jerkily, "I will."

Good on his word, Cullen apologized to Alissa profusely and begged her to forgive his outburst. Then he retired to his bedroom to sit by his wife's side for the entire night. Gavin slid in to try and smooth over the damage but the girl understood.

"My grandpappy, he...when his husband was real sick, he did the same. Snapped at pretty much anyone who stepped wrong cause the cracks might invite demons or death. I won't hold it against him."

"Thank you," Gavin sighed, grateful for one problem in this stewing cauldron to be so simple. By the time he got to his old bedroom decked out with terrible drawings he did from age 5 onto 15 tacked to the wall, he tumbled to bed without taking off his shoes.

Army life plus growing on a farm taught Gavin to always rise before the sun. He'd had a rather restful sleep all things considered, his body exhausted beyond measure from worry which pulled it so deep into the abyss nothing could reach. There were no dreams, it was almost as if he slept like a dwarf. No, there was one. A barely glimmer of a dream. He couldn't remember much beyond a voice humming and a hand gently rubbing over his head.

It was nice. He missed that feeling, touch of any form really. Save the occasional friendly hug Gavin was an island. He convinced himself it was preferable to the alternative, but at the moment he began to wonder if it was true. Myra...

Six months had passed since he last saw her, when she was back in Denerim for Satinalia and her birthday. She was still as breathtaking as he remembered, her smile easy, her eyes brighter than any stars in the sky. He didn't get to see her much, his life taking him from any form of an anchor, but she never wandered far from his thoughts. Was that true on her end as well? Her life was with the mages and...she seemed happily enthralled with all the college could offer. There were certainly plenty of male mages running around there as well. It seemed foolish to dare hope.

He brought a few of her latest letters out with him, thinking that his mother might enjoy hearing about her magical discoveries and research. Gavin paused in stirring a spoon of honey into the teacup. He'd had so many far off plans made in the back of his mind. Dreams that seemed foolish with every breath. So much pinned upon 'one day.' All those hopes of what he'd one day do with his mother, with Myra...

The honey swirl slowed, barely dissolving into the brown tea that he rightfully kept at room temperature. It twisted through itself, dragging Gavin's focus upon it while his mind played out another life he nearly had. A life he was certain he could never hope to have again.

Well. He tried to clean the spoon off on the side of the cup and loaded up the tray. There was no reason he couldn't tell his mother about Myra's adventures in the college now. While rounding up the stairs with the tea in his arms, hope crested in his heart. Maybe his father was right. Maybe she would be awake, have another good day for them all to sit around and talk. To speak of many things he shouldn't have put off.

It was a struggle to get the bedroom door open, Gavin surprised that there were no lit candles. By the sunlight barely breaking through the shutters he could spot his father's shape sitting in the chair but little else. "I brought the tea," he said, sliding the tray onto the old dresser that used to hold all manner of tinctures and potions. "And already added my killer dose of honey. You know Mom's preferred milk ratio and I know better than to add it after..."

His words trailed away as the stillness of the room struck him. Every mote of dust sang not with a greeting of dawn but a dirge of the soul. Barely able to hide the tremor in his legs, Gavin managed a step towards his father's quiet body. "Dad?" he whispered.

The man's head lifted but the eyes stared straight through his son. Straight through the world itself, as if... No.

Gavin swung to the bed. A duvet should lift, barely perhaps, but stir as the woman inside it took a breath. As her loving heart beat. Her fingers were tugged out from under the covers, his dad holding her hands to keep them warm. To keep them safe. To keep her tethered to this world with them.

But it didn't work.

A desperate moan broke from Gavin's throat as he tumbled to the ground. Slowly, his father turned to him. The head pivoted back as if even shifting away from her for a second hurt him. "Mom?" Gavin squeaked, tears gushing from his eyes.

Cullen reached over with his free hand and gripped onto Gavin's shoulder. He returned to gazing at his wife, unable to speak the truth, to condemn her to cross the veil. That tear, the one he'd been holding in his eye all night, bubbled up from inside his lid and streaked down his cheek.

With one hand on his son, and the other inside the cold fingers of his wife, Cullen screamed into the void and Gavin joined him.

* * *

Time blurred like a painting left in the rain. He had a vague memory of stumbling out of the room of death to find someone, anyone to help. Stricken numb, Gavin was able to relay instructions as if he was describing procedures for a dead woman he didn't know. How she needed to be prepared, where to send for a chantry Mother, the best area on the ground to build a pyre. There were other matters to be handled, but as the news filtered through the abbey that their mistress was gone everyone else took over.

He was eternally grateful at not having to think. Though, he had to be called to pry his father's fingers free. Cullen refused to leave her side as the girls who'd cleaned and prepared bodies for cremation a hundred times over stood dumbstruck. There were so many tears, it was a wonder the foundation of the abbey didn't wash away in them.

No matter what tactics he tried, Gavin couldn't get his father out of the bedroom. There was a lower cell where they stored bodies before rites could be performed, but he knew there was no chance his mother would be interred there, even for a moment. Anointed in holy oil, she lay stretched out on the bed she died in while her husband sat vigil for one more night.

The funeral was...he wished he could say it was lovely, but with barely any sleep in him and a throbbing from the back of his skull down to his toes, Gavin couldn't remember much. The old Mother was there, reciting the parts of the chant that ensured Andraste would speak for the departed. She knew his mom, but she didn't know who she was. No one did. There was no talking about how she saved the world, no listing her amazing heroics or deeds, just an assurance that she loved her husband and child very much, and in turn was loved by them.

With stern determination, Gavin managed to keep the tears at bay. All around him he heard the others breaking at various points. The girls that worked with the washing in particular were a pile of sorrowful blubbering. They were often hand in hand with his mother, learning the ropes of potion making as she taught them without calling it teaching. The boys, especially the stablehands, all had that tuned out look men use. _I don't wish to be seen as crying, so I focus on some other trivial matter. It keeps death at bay and my face from crumbling. Strength in distraction._

Gavin thought he could do the same, until it was time to light the pyre. Doused in nearly all the holy oil they had, it shouldn't take long to send his mother to the embracing flames. He held the torch tight in his hands, the first born chosen as the lighter, but there was a problem. Throughout the whole funeral, even as the Mother called for prayer, his father remained right beside the pyre. His fingers were locked around the still, cold ones of his wife, his eyes never wavering from her face. From the girls work, his mom's hair lay almost in lush, ebony spirals to cushion her head. The light bounced a life giving orange haze against her ashen skin, making it appear as if she was sleeping instead of long gone.

"Son," the Mother jangled him in the side, clearly growing more uncomfortable by the unmitigated sorrow washing from the grieving widow.

Sliding forward a step, Gavin reached out to his father. "Dad," he whispered, but Cullen wouldn't budge from his vigil. He'd barely spoken a word in a day, his eyes never leaving hers as if he really expected her to awaken.

"Dad, please," his fight to keep a steady countenance shattered, the plea trembling in his lips. The tears that were barely held in place broke through once again. Great big drops pooled on his cheeks while he tugged limply on his father's arm. He felt like a small child, terrified of the dark and needing his parents to rescue him. "Dad...we have to say goodbye."

Something in the tone must have finally reached him as Cullen turned away from his wife and looked right into Gavin's tear stained eyes. The old general's face crumbled, the grit he'd held in his jaw falling slack as reality shattered all around him. Numbly, Cullen nodded his head.

He moved to step back, but his fingers were yet threaded with hers. The dead arm tugged, causing his mother's body to shift and almost all the mourners jumped a moment. With a sigh of regret blooming from the depths of his heart, his father bundled up his mother's hand. He guided it to lay upon her chest, right above her heart, and tipped down to her face.

So quiet it was doubtful anyone but Gavin could hear, Cullen whispered to his wife and greatest love, "I _will_ see you at the Maker's side." His trembling lips placed one final kiss to her cold cheek before he rose and stepped back. Now it was up to Gavin to burn his mother to ashes, to release her to the Maker.

He knew the torch was burning hot in his hand, the flames licking closer and closer to his face, but he felt colder than any winter. How could he do it? How could he burn her? What if they were wrong? What if she could come back? What if...?

A hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed tight. He turned to watch his father, whose eyes never left Lana, grip once again. "Do it," he said, silent tears raining off his face.

Numb, Gavin bent the torch to the wood and waited. The oil caught quickly, flames circling his mother in its hot embrace. It didn't look as destructive as he feared. To his eye it seemed more that she was being surrounded by the finest red and yellow silks in Orlais. The Hero of Ferelden spent the last decades of her life as a farmer's wife, a backwater healer. Clothed for death in the same peasant dresses she'd wear while mixing up potions, harvesting rare herbs, or chasing after her wayward son -- as the red fire wrapped around her she was being sent out in the opulence she deserved.

They stood together and watched, both father and son silent as the flames began to do their dastardly but necessary work. It took a few hours, the dark smoke covering up the sky until it seemed as if the sun itself was blotted out. As she vanished from view, leaving only ash and the broken hearted behind, the others began to wander towards the dining hall. Gavin and Albert both doused the flames together, the pyre little more than smoking dust which would be too hot to collect ashes off for awhile.

"Boy," Albert clapped him on the shoulder, no doubt proud of Gavin's resolve. "You should come to the eats 'afore they're all gone."

He nodded his head, doubting he'd be capable of getting anything larger than an olive into his stomach. Gavin glanced over at his father who hadn't shifted. "Dad," he began, "come on. The Andrew sisters brought some roast, uh, some kind of meat. We should eat."

The snowy head wouldn't turn, his father's eyes closed tight as if he could still see her. Gavin shifted on his toes, barely able to look at grief personified in his father. After a moment, Cullen whispered, "Go on ahead. I need a minute."

With Albert all but guiding Gavin to the same dining room he grew up in, the pair left the ex-Commander beside the ash of his wife's pyre. Alone, Cullen was free to grieve for Lana without abandon, the mask ripped freely from his weary bones.

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4egb2gpIg4>

CHAPTER FOUR

Last Words

A laugh skirted around the tables. Gavin missed the set up, so the punchline meant little to him as he stirred a mash of gravy around with his finger. There was bread to mop it up properly, but his stomach growled in anger. After so many days skirting by on little more than water and broth, having such a heavy meal was doing him in. Glancing around the spread brought to them -- roast pork, nearly the entire shoulder no less, summer squashes steamed and sliced, and enough desserts to satisfy even his aunt Hawke's sweet tooth -- if he ate all that was offered they'd have to let his armor out.

The thought stilled his stained finger. He wasn't returning to Denerim for some time, that much he knew. More than just his father needing him, the idea of standing in court, of passing pleasantries as if his heart wasn't mush in his chest seemed beyond impossible.

"How ya doing there, boy?" Albert skirted a hand along Gavin's shoulders to help himself down onto the bench. The old scarecrow had a plate full of fixins that would feed a team of oxen. No one knew where he put it.

With a shrug, Gavin tried to force on a smile, but Albert waved it away as a capon's leg shredded apart in his teeth. Gavin's lips thundered back to the grimace that he feared may never leave. "Clinging, as best I can."

"Your Mom, she was..." Albert's thoughts faded as every polite conversation died. Eyes glanced around the room, the tears that never seemed to truly vanish threatening to resume. "She was something else. When you look at her she seemed sweet as peach pie, but cross her and..." The old farmhand shuddered, "Let's just say I wouldn't even want to be the Maker Himself and say anything bad about you or your pop in front of her."

It was foolish, but it brought a quick smile to Gavin. "There were more than a few squires in my company who'd run the other way when they heard the whack of her cane." She didn't visit often, but his mother seemed to have a preternatural ability to sense when someone was mean to her baby boy and sink her fangs into just the right spot. Even Daryan stopped being quite as big a pain in the butt for a few years until she was sent off to watch over the southern lands, and Gavin chose to accept the title that'd been waiting for him.

"I remember this one time," Albert began, both hands digging in deep to the table as he tipped back to stare at the ceiling, "when you was just a teeny little ankle biter. Like four or five. And you had this nasty habit of sneaking off into any tiny corner you could afind. Quiet as a mouse too."

Gavin's cheeks burned white hot at the old man reminding him of his childhood. He had a few recollections of finding solace in the darker, silent places of the abbey, but nothing concrete.

"Didn't use to be no problem," Albert clearly wanted to get this story out, a few more people leaning in tighter to overhear. "They'd send the dog to sniff you out. Honor was always quickest to find you. But one day your Pop was out on some big errand and took the mabari with. Your mum comes clip clopping up and down the stairs, her head whipping back and forth. She wouldn't say nothing, but it was obvious she was looking for something important and in straits."

Albert took a great drink of the mead drifting around the table, then continued. "That was Lady R for ya. Terrible about asking for help."

A single scoff broke from the door. Gavin turned in his seat to find his father standing forlornly in the frame. People offered him a seat, tried to get him food, but he refused. He wouldn't talk to anyone, wouldn't eat, just remained aloof from all. In truth, Gavin was surprised his father hadn't run off into the forest to be alone for a few days. It was impressive he remained near so many even at this distance. At Albert's assessment, Gavin expected Cullen to defend his wife, but he seemed to be nodding in agreement.

"So I ask her what's the problem. After a round of nothings and everythin's fine, she squeals that you were gone missing. She'd been looking for an hour and couldn't find you. We damn near tore up the place. Lifted up old beds, scrounged through troughs, even had a shout down the well. Wasn't 'til I walked past one of the locked off horse stalls that I heard a little giggle."

At that Gavin frowned. He did not giggle. He had never been a giggler.

"Take a peep inside and spot you, all of four with three books in your lap. Couldn't figure out a single lick of 'em but you had your tongue stuck out so far while you kept turning them pages. Waved your mum over and she damn near collapsed in gratitude. 'Gavin,' she says, her voice as neutral as one can be after an hour plus of panic. 'What are you doing?'"

The story paused a moment as Albert looked around at the others to get a sense of who all was listening. "'Weeding' he shouts loud as anyone can hear. Kid had the books upside down, but he was so proud to be reading 'em. Always carrying about those tomes with a nose buried in deep."

"I..." Gavin's hand absently reached back to massage his neck, "I do enjoy it when I have the opportunity."

"What I remember most was her. Most mums in that much a panic woulda drug their wayward kid out by his ear and given the lecture to end all lectures. But not her. She smiled, asked if you needed anything. And when you said no, left you be. As long as she knew you were safe and happy, so...uh," Albert's smile strained as his eyes began to water, "so was she." In order to disguise the tears, he yanked up an old bottle and lifted it into the air.

"Here's to Lady R." Everyone else raised their glasses as well, shouts of "here here" echoing off the dirty plates someone needed to get to. Gavin joined in, taking a long draught of the wine in the hopes to feel something other than despair. He was such a happy drunk, but this never ending despair... Nothing in this world could ever make him happy.

"Oh, Frederick," Albert waved a hand down the table, "remember the time our Lady caught you wif your pants snagged in the grindstone?"

While poor Frederick turned ten shades of red, Gavin slid out from the table. He walked over to the man who refused to join the others, Cullen's head bent so low, at the approach of his son he jumped a bit. "The, uh," Gavin bounced on his toes, uncertain what to say, or even where to begin, "the pork is good. More tender than I would have expected."

"There was a mess of piglets up Maynard's way a few..." his dad said before shaking his head and letting his hand drop. "It doesn't matter. Nothing does."

"Dad..."

Cullen shook his head hard. "Please don't lecture me. Not now. Not with her ashes still..." Screwing his eyes tight, the old general let a shudder pass through his soul. They were both in pain, they both needed to grieve, but he could be so damn stubborn about things. He seemed to wallow in his pain as if he deserved it. No one deserved to know this, to watch someone you love fade away beyond your touch, but it was the curse of life that all had to.

Reaching into his pocket, Gavin fished out the envelope he'd been holding onto like a crutch against the darkness. "Here," he pressed it into his father's hands.

The man blinked in confusion before turning it over. Only his name was written on the outside and in his exhausted state it was doubtful he could recognize the handwriting. "What is this?"

"It's from Mom."

He reacted instantly, his eyes flaring wide while his trembling fingers dug in tight to her last words to him.

"She wrote it for you, meant it for you, her goodbyes in case she couldn't..." Whipping his head away, Gavin glared at the fire while his throat caught. He was so tired of crying, of feeling exhausted from doing nothing but sitting in a chair while his heart cracked in half. "Read it," Gavin said, struggling to find composure. When he turned back to his father, he added, "for her sake."

Cullen nodded slowly and pressed Lana's final letter tight to his chest. Gavin had no idea if his father would do it; he was saddled with two incredibly stubborn parents when they had a mind. But at least he didn't hurl it into the fire in a moment of grief he'd regret for eternity. It was up to him now; besides, Gavin had his own final words yet to unseal. Aware that he needed to do that, under the guise of getting some air, he walked to the door.

Before exiting the warmth of the hearth, he turned to his father, "And please eat something, for mine."

A few of the funeral attendees were standing outside in the courtyard, talking about of all things the weather. They didn't glance over at the young man sliding into the horse stalls. There were never many kept at the farm, but for the funeral it was full to bursting to cram all the visitors in. Instead of hiding away in one of the alcoves with his back pressed up to the gate, feet kicking into the straw, Gavin sat at the little table overloaded in tack and rusty horseshoes.

Light flickered in the lantern, enough for him to read by as he held the ivory envelope in his fingers. "Gavin" was all it said on the front but even that was enough to start him crying. He'd never see his name written like that again. Not on the top of any letters, or in a missive attached to a bird's leg, or even on a label for some tincture his mother insisted would help with a minor health matter long since cleared up. Her hand was never to pick up a quill and write out a single word again. The loss of a person was so much more than a body.

Ignoring the tears in his eyes, he turned the envelope around. It wasn't sealed, which was a little surprising. His mother had about a dozen wax sealers and she adored them all. They'd rotate with his letters; a potion bottle, a fish, two trees entwined, a griffin much to his father's consternation, and a fox. That wasn't even getting into the holiday ones. Perhaps she thought she could get back to it later and then...time caught up.

With a careful but trembling hand, Gavin pulled out the single sheet of parchment and unfurled it. She had a tiny hand which did not transfer to her son, but for this letter she didn't seem to feel it necessary to contain herself. The letters were great, looping to encompass the ones above and below like a big hug.

"To my son, Gavin.

I have written a lot of these types of letters over the years. For most of my life they were little more than instructions on how to keep an organization going without me, what was outstanding, and where the secrets were buried. Yet, each time when I thought I wouldn't return from a mission I did. I'd burn the letter and with it all my fears of falling to death's clutches.

I rather doubt I shall be burning this one.

Sweetie, I wish I could tell you to not cry for me, but that seems foolish. I know you will, and your father too. I've cried an ocean of tears for every day that I will be unable to be with both of you. But I want you to know that wherever I am, I will be watching over you and I shall be prouder than you can ever know.

You were a gift, one I didn't think I'd ever be able to have. And you changed me in ways I doubt I'll ever truly understand. My life was duty to a cause that seemed noble in every sense of the word. Then I found your father, fell in love, we created you. Service is a good thing, helping people -- my baby boy, it's in your blood. Knight or no, I knew you were destined to save people, to devote yourself to a cause same as both of us. Yet, you can have more. You deserve to find happiness in all things.

Remember that, even when it seems as if dawn will never come.

There is happiness out there. Goodness. Joy. Laughter. One day it will return, and you deserve it and so much more.

Gavin, I need you to promise me something. Your father, he will not be handling this well."

He paused in reading the letter to roll his eyes a bit. Understatement of the year. Then he crumpled a hand to his chest and felt the struggling beats of his heart. He wasn't taking it well either.

"It will be like trying to teach a druffalo to play chess, but keep him from isolating himself, please. Keep him fed. Keep him strong even if you feel as if you're about to break. Cling together for strength.

And if he finds happiness again, please let him."

Gavin paused at that, his lips moving in shock as his mind digested what his mother seemed to be saying.

"Perhaps it will not happen at all, perhaps he will find someone to make him smile in a year. Either way, I know your father. I know that will do nothing to diminish his memory of me. All I've ever wanted for you, for both of you, is to be happy.

I pray to Andraste and the Maker that even without me being there by your side, you can be.

I love you, Gavin. I always will. And I am so proud of everything you've been and will become.

Your Loving Mother,

Lana Amell Rutherford"

His mother's final signature faded from view as a river of tears washed across his vision. Sobbing rose from his soul as Gavin curled up onto the table and mourned openly for a loss he knew he'd never get over.

CHAPTER FIVE

Last Kiss

He was glad to have his son so close by, though wished and prayed every moment that it was under different circumstances. Perhaps the kindest cut to Lana's...fading was that it came just as the harvest began to pick up. Able to throw himself into the rigors of clearing the fields in preparation of a long winter, Cullen could wall off his thoughts for most of the day. Night was when he lost the battle worst of all.

Unable to face the cold, empty room by himself, he'd wander the halls of the abbey almost as if they were the battlements in Skyhold. Once again he was walking through the stones like a forgotten ghost to try to hide from the grief of losing the only woman he dared to love. On occasion, he'd bump into Gavin. His son was cursed with insomnia, clearly made worse by their shared pain. Cullen knew he was being a stubborn, walled off husk but the anger at least burned. It sat in his heart like a small flame sputtering on top an ocean of ice. Little more than a whisper could put it out, leaving him bereft and empty in the pressing cold. He had to cling to the anger to feel anything.

Time ceased to exist, he feared, for both of them. They'd often rise from sleep to find half the day gone, or wander down for meals when the fires were turned low. Everywhere felt empty, every stone, every room, every shallow eye trying to meet the broken man before darting away. The life faded from his home when she did, and all that remained were the motions.

Cullen took a step, only to have his boot smack right into a crate. It rattled the way glass would and he grumbled. What was this doing here? Who leaves perfectly good glass just sitting in the open hall where anyone was liable to trip on it? He buffed up the outside of the box and cracked open the not-nailed in lid.

Baubles of pure reflection glittered inside, glass cylinders, bowls, ovals, and perfect spheres all carefully wrapped and nestled in straw. The lid trembled in his hands, but he dare not let it fall and shatter her old glassware. Shaded eyes whipped back to the potions room, one of many he had yet to enter since. The door was open a crack, but no light poured forth. It was doubtful anyone would be inside packing up the last of her work. Some other mage in some other part of thedas might be able to continue it, to replicate what she discovered and expand upon it.

All Cullen knew was that there was no breathtaking woman with her hair barely tied back in a flour towel, fingers stained an unholy color, and a smile on her lips waiting inside that room. Placing the lid back upon the crate he staggered up to his feet. The abbey was quiet as snow, most everyone going down for the night. He could retire himself. The thought rattled in his mind like a vial of poison as he glanced towards their bedroom. He'd been inside, he had to -- he'd be naked and shivering after so many months without any change of clothes -- but it shredded him each time.

Instead, Cullen moved towards the only beacon of light left on this floor. He softly knocked, but pushed on the partially open door to find his son sitting at the desk. Gavin kept one hand bundled in a fist and crushed into his cheek while he stabbed at stacks of vellum with an old quill. The feathered end was so ratty from moths and perhaps baby teeth it was a wonder it didn't fall apart in his fingers.

His eyes darted to the door's movement, following it the way a knight's should, and he threw on a smile. "Dad, I was going over a few things for the abbey. Minor stuff."

"Oh?"

"Prices for the market and other issues I never once put to thought," he admitted and for a brief moment Cullen felt a smile try to lift up his lips.

"A giant pain, isn't it?" he said sliding into his son's old room. The boy grew here, from a tiny baby that'd slumber in his arms to a man who was walking down the same lonely path his parents did. All the markings of a well lived life remained; Lana refused to change a thing even if he was living clear across Ferelden. A collection of rocks a young Gavin insisted were geodes or ores lined a shelf that ended in his only golem toy. Wooden practice swords remained behind, as did a short sword before he was ready to move to a longer one. And there were those grass masks.

For a summer, they were the height of his boy's fascination. He'd weave something surprisingly intricate with grasses the seven year old would harvest from all across their land. They were rather terrifying if one was prone to fits of drama and didn't take stock that a child's laugh was hiding behind it. Now they all sat together in a pile, so brittle one touch would crumble them to dust.

"Albert's been helping me, but..." Gavin spoke, shaking his father from the trip down memory lane. The young man sighed, "You do not pay him enough."

"Did Albert tell you to say that?"

"No," his boy who was so truthful it could hurt shook his head, "just..." Realizing his father was trying to tell a joke and failing spectacularly, the young man switched tactics. "I've been going through letters we've received, catching up on correspondence that fell by the wayside." He bundled together a pile of envelopes and passed them over.

While Cullen began to sift through each, Gavin felt the need to narrate. "First one's from the Inquisitor himself."

Turning the small almost square-like fold of paper in his fingers, Cullen smiled to himself, "It has been many years since I last heard from him. I pray he is able to stomach the Tevinter mage better than most."

"The next two are Aunt Mia," Gavin continued. "She should be out here in a week at most, to, uh..."

Cullen couldn't hide the roll of his eyes. Just what he needed, his eldest sister prodding into things, telling him when to eat, when to sleep, and doing her best to smother him to death. She'd been insinuating she should have rolled out of bed and been at the abbey the moment Lana turned ill, but Cullen couldn't have dealt with all of that at once. He needed time, perhaps an eternity before he could handle his sister.

"It'll be good," Gavin sputtered, his eyes shut tight while he squeezed onto the desk. "To see her again, Auntie Mi. To have someone around to..."

Cullen drew his lip into his teeth and bit down as a sort of penance for thinking only of himself. Reaching a hand over to grip onto his son's shoulder, Cullen nodded. "Yes, and I'm certain she'll adore fussing over you. You are her favorite nephew."

A blush rose up on Gavin's cheeks and he shook his head, "She says that about all of the children in the family." But it was true. He was the baby out of them all, the youngest, the only child of Cullen, and a Knight who had managed to broker deals that sounded rather impressive when laid out in golden calligraphy.

"Ah, there's one from Aunt Hawke too," Gavin said before Cullen unearthed the damp envelope that smelled of fish and salt. That could only be Kirkwall.

"When shall she be beating down the doors to join us?" Cullen asked, barely bothering to open any of the mail addressed to him.

"Not for awhile. But she sends her condolences."

Cullen blinked at the idea of Hawke using such a word, "Meaning?"

"A lot of crying mixed in with memories of Mom, and you, and you and mom," Gavin wrung his hands together barely able to sit in the chair. He was built tough, so much Amell blood in him it seemed destined to happen, but inside was a soft core that rarely found the shoulder it needed to cry on. It should have been his father there to help him heal, but Cullen...he'd lost these past few months in a fugue state. Speaking to his boy about her, about the empty void left in their souls, caused his tongue to wither in his mouth. Even now all he could do was nod and try to change the subject.

"Hawke will probably bring something ragged and lice infested with her," he tipped his head towards the stacks of old furs and gifts that seemed to follow the Champion of Kirkwall.

"I don't think Uncle Anders has ever been infested with lice," Gavin said, barely able to hide the chuckle.

"You'd be surprised," Cullen admitted. He wasn't certain who would be worse to have to be trapped with -- his sister when she was in her henpecking super-mothering mode, or Anders at any point in time. Perhaps if he turned them both on each other.

He continued to sift through the letters, most notes from people he could barely remember and all with the same messages. "Sorry for your loss." "Sending you prayers and thoughts." "We lit a candle for her every night." None of them knew Lana, they barely knew him. Every prayer and thought felt as useful as a twig to feed a fire.

"I should, uh," Gavin rubbed the back of his neck, drawing Cullen's attention to whatever he was trying to avoid, "tell the palace. The King. I know I'll be returning soon, but after this much time..."

Cullen stared at the papers as he spat out, "He knows. I told him."

"You did?"

"It's," he snickered a moment at the foolish sentiment and sighed, "it's what she would have wanted." His son nodded his head a moment, still clearly in shock that his father could offer up at least that much professionalism to the King. In sifting through the letters, Cullen paused at a seal he recognized but not the address.

"What's this...?" he began, when Gavin grabbed onto it fast and yanked it away.

"Ah ha, sorry," he gasped while stuffing the letter safe under a pile, "that one's, it's for me. Didn't mean to give it to you."

"Oh..." Cullen snickered, bundling up all the letters as he put his hands behind his back in thought. "A letter from the College of Enchanters."

His son's guilty eyes darted up to him before honing back in on the desk.

"Do you two write each other often?"

Gavin winced at the old man catching on to who sent the letter, but answered with a shrug, "When we can. Our lives are very busy and there's been some...uh..."

"Son?"

"She's sent me three letters so far. The last came directly here so I'm guessing her father told her where I was, but I..." Gavin shuddered and buried his face in his hands. "I don't know what to tell her! I can't even think how to write out that Mom..." He was nearly in tears not only from grief but a gripping fear that he'd done something wrong, committed a faux pas in taking too long to write a response.

Or was it deeper than even that?

Cullen took in a long draw of a breath and sized up his son. He wasn't a young boy clinging to his legs wanting to see the 'orsies. Nor was he the gangly youth who'd blush when the wind shifted funny. He'd grown up, far from the both of them, into a man who wore duty on his sleeve. Far too much like his old man than Cullen felt was right.

"Do you and Myra see each other?" he asked.

"No," Gavin knee jerked a response, "I mean, not very often. She comes home for some holidays. And was there for her sister's wedding for a month, but..."

"You wish you could see her more?"

His son pinched into his lips, bending them at the middle into a fold while he struggled to hide away the truth in his heart. "Sometimes, because she's my friend," he spat out fast, clearly worried that Cullen might take some offense.

Stepping closer, Cullen gripped onto his son's shoulder and stared right into his eyes, "But you hope for more?"

There was a momentary nod as if it came from his heart and not his head, before the boy shook it all away. "It's foolish, it...it doesn't matter either way, because... I mean, she has her life up there with the mages and I'm devoted to the Knights. It would never..."

It would never work.

He thought that for a long time. Even as his heart beat a violent flush upon his cheeks whenever he'd steal a glance at that beautiful apprentice. Even as she pulled him into the deep roads, begging for at least a moment of bliss with him. Even when she stood bedraggled in his office in Skyhold, terrified of what came next in a sundered world. He never considered that there was a possibility with her because he was scared.

"Did I ever tell you the moment I knew I wanted to marry your mother?" Cullen asked, throwing Gavin for a loop. He stopped prying at his lips, and stared in confusion.

"N...no, I don't think so. Was it a grand action, where Mom saved your life?"

Cullen sighed, "No. Though she has saved me on numerous occasions. It was in Skyhold, we were uncertain what the future held, but were trying to make something work. I was yet attempting to find penance for my past, and I think she was as well."

He shook his head to try and stay focused while his mind slipped back to those hazy memories. "I was in a meeting in my office. So many years on I can't remember what the problem was, but I had no easy solution. While I was bickering with a few others and their varying thoughts on the matter, your mother was above in my loft silently watching.

"When the others left and I climbed the ladder to her I could see it in her eyes. She had an answer, or an opinion, or had seen something similar before. But she didn't tell me, didn't wave a hand and say 'Here's how to solve it.'

"She massaged my shoulders, the back of my neck, my head, all while talking about nothing important whatsoever. Somehow she knew exactly what I needed when even I was lost."

He could still remember the touch of her fingers plying through his curls, her lips ecstatically pinging ideas off in her lush voice, the scent of her body pressed close to his. It wasn't those memories that stung him, but the fear that one day they'd all fade from his fumbling memory no matter how hard he fought to keep them.

Coughing, Cullen tried to shake away the heavy cloak clinging to his voice. "That was it. That was when I knew I never wanted to be without her. A little moment I doubt she'd even remember, but it clung with me. How she knew me so well, and cared so much. You don't build love on the grand moments, the room filled with flowers, the serenading on a balcony. No relationship could be supported on such a lopsided foundation."

He paused in his thoughts to reach inside his shirt and grip onto her coin. Another foolish little thought; the coin wasn't important to him, but it became the most precious object in the world to her when he gave it to her and whispered the truth in his heart. "It's the little ones. This tiny moment when someone steps into your heart and seems to say 'I'm going to do all I can to protect it.'"

After so much sappiness he expected his son to sigh, but the boy was staring hard at nothing. "Okay, Dad," he nodded, seeming to take the foolish words into consideration.

It seemed so certain, it surprised Cullen, "Have you had...?" he began before turning towards the piles of parchment. No doubt there were a few in there bearing the name Myra that had yet to be finished.

"I don't know. My life is so complicated and, and I'm not certain if..."

"Gavin," he paused, the fears that eternally sat in his brain rising up to his eyes, "I thought I could make service my life, so did your mother. We nearly lost each other twice over. We did lose a decade because we were so focused on why it wouldn't work."

"Dad?"

"Instead of coming up with all the reasons why it wouldn't, focus on how to make it happen."

Gavin thumbed through the stacks of letters, his lips contemplative while he stared through nothing. No doubt there were good reasons that an attempted relationship between them would fail. Same as the ridiculous idea of a templar daring to let himself fall in love with a mage. Or a king with an elven bodyguard. Sometimes the risk was worth it, even if the leap could still be terrifying.

After a moment, his son snickered to himself. "I thought you didn't care for her."

"What? I think Myra's a fine person. She gets all of her good qualities from her mother, mind," Cullen grumbled, causing his son to laugh and shake his head. The old man's voice softened as he whispered, "And your mom adored her. All she wanted for you was..."

"To be happy," Gavin said, "I know."

Cullen dug into his son's shoulders and said, "To not suffer the same as we did." He finished by hugging his son tight. To think, he'd once been certain he could never love the baby crying in his arms. Now he couldn't imagine a life without him.

"Uh," Gavin swiped a hand over his eyes as Cullen pulled back. "I should get some sleep. You too," he added while turning to his father. "It's a long ride out to Lake Calenhad."

Two months on and they were finally going to lay Lana to rest, to scatter her ashes where she requested. Afterwards, Gavin would be required to return to his duties in Denerim, and Cullen...Cullen would have to pick up the shattered pieces and try to form something of a life out of the remains.

Nodding at the wisdom in Gavin's words, Cullen moved towards the door. He'd see him come morning, and they'd have a long ride towards the old boats. It'd give him a chance to talk with his boy, to try and repair what grief nearly destroyed. But, for now, they both needed rest.

"Sleep well, son."

Gavin turned from his words stretched out on the desk and he smiled a moment, "You too, Dad."

By the time he stumbled into his bedroom, Cullen felt weary beyond his years -- as if someone laid all the rocks at the bottom of the ocean upon his soul. His eyes darted over to the bed, and the emptiness rose from its pit in the middle of his chest. He'd kept thinking about replacing the headboard over the years, his carpentry skills increased dramatically from the first big project. But Lana...

She loved the damn thing, even with the crack, the poor finish, and the edges that didn't line up. Claimed it gave it character. Seemed she had a habit of falling for chipped and broken things most would toss onto the garbage heap.

Striking the flint on a fat candle that was nearing its end, he winced at the burst of light streaking across his eyes. "Maker's breath," Cullen groaned while he tugged out the chair and fell into it. "When did I get so old?"

No voice would answer, certainly not one to insist that he wasn't old but distinguished and that she has a thing for silver foxes with baggy eyes and trembling hands. He knew there wouldn't be one, but he still turned to the urn perched on the side of the desk. This wasn't his space, but hers. Even when Lana had a bad day, a really bad one, she'd still sit here writing her little notes on alchemy, or various magics, letters to her friends, and...sometimes leaving small ones tucked in the pockets of his coats as surprises. He smiled bittersweetly at how she thought nothing of him not finding one of her notes, sometimes for weeks or even months. It'd get found eventually.

This was where he'd been sleeping for two months, when exhaustion would take him. How could he even attempt being in that bed now as bereft of all the warmth and love that once held it as his heart?

"I miss you," Cullen's words stumbled unbidden from his lips, the pain raw as it clawed through the air. "Blessed Maker, there will never be a day when I don't. A moment. A breath. But you know that, don't you? You know how much you meant..."

There were many regrets in his life, enough to no doubt stretch his scroll of damnation long past the Maker's beard, but in all his failings and misdeeds there was one he knew he succeeded on. Lana. She had his heart from the first moment he thought it worth offering, and he never once wavered.

Swiping tears out of his eyes, Cullen caught the flicker of the candle reverberating off the walls of the urn. It was made out of copper. If he'd intended to keep her ashes he'd have made certain to get her a beautiful glass one, cobalt to match her favorite dresses and cloaks. With a stopper the same enchanting brown as her eyes. But she wished to return to the tower.

He wondered why, the tower to him equaled pain and misery, but it was where they met. Where she grew into the amazing woman he'd one day devote his life to. If that was where Lana wanted to rest, then so did he. Whenever that day may come.

Digging a hand into his neck, Cullen rifled through his desk. There was nothing important here, all the vital issues of the abbey passed to his son who managed to be somewhat cordial even in the depths of grief. He pawed at an old stack of books, when one that smelled of the sky, salt from the sea, and desperate hope landed in his hands. Her journal, her old journal that she left to him the first time she...died.

Lana was barely aware he kept it, usually sifting it around from one place to another when she went on a book hunt. But he didn't want to lose those few early moments when everything in life was so uncertain and it seemed about to crumble at any breath. It reminded him how fragile...how little anyone was truly promised in this world.

Tucked into the top was the letter. Her last one to him. She'd written a few in their 30+ year marriage, though rarely as he almost never left her side. Gavin kept trying to ask if Cullen read it, if it gave him some peace. But he couldn't bring himself to crack open the seal, to take that last lingering piece of her left in the world. So he stuck it in the journal and would drop the subject whenever his son asked.

"I'm being a coward, aren't I?" He swallowed the lump in his throat while his fingers tugged the corner of the envelope back and forth. "I should face it, face whatever this is." He knew what he feared, that whatever few words she left him would crack his always teetering psyche in half. This many years on since he turned from the lyrium, but even now the thirst lingered like cheap smoke caught in the drapes.

Turning to the copper urn, he stared deep into the honey eye glaring at him. With toes clenched in his boots, Cullen tugged out the envelope and slit off the seal. It struggled a moment, the wax not wanting to pop off after so many weeks attached. He drew his fingers down the back, imagining hers cupping the parchment as she selected it, put her quill to its surface, and then delicately sealed it all up. For him.

"To Cullen,

Know that in all of this world, from every rock, whispered in every tree, hidden inside every crevice, and woven into every breath there is one absolute: I have, and will always, love you."

A smile burned on his face while the tears fell like a cleansing rain. She need say no more because...because they already did. A thousand whispers, a million laughs, a billion kisses. He had her and she had him, and whatever waited for them when this life ended they'd have each other again. Of that he was certain.

Delicately folding up the letter, Cullen placed it on top of her old journal. He stripped down to little more than trousers to sleep, but left Lana's coin on his neck. The copper, long since polished to a dark ochre, pressed directly over his heart reminding him of the vows they took together in the forest with no one but the Maker watching.

Before he blew out the candle, he pressed a quick kiss to the cool edge of the urn. Sleep in peace, Lana.

For the first time since she fell ill, he stumbled over to their bed. Her side had been cleaned, pressed and starched, but if he closed his eyes he could feel her in the room. Curled up on her side, her hair always spilling over to his pillow while she once again stole every blanket on the bed.

He'd give anything to have to fight her for them.

Closing his eyes, Cullen lay flush against his pillow, doing his best to not look over at the empty space where his heart should be.

CHAPTER SIX

Eternity

Feet stomped up the stairs, one after the other. Clomp clomp clomp. It was never ending, the beat of shoe striking stone that echoed for an eternity in this narrow staircase. Maker's breath! Cullen paused to grab onto the railing and gaze upward. His work gloves dug into the old wood while he seemed to stare into infinity itself. How long was it going to take to climb this cursed thing?

Going back was impossible. His only hope was to keep moving forward. Sweat rose on his forehead while his back and knees both screamed in agony. They were begging him to stop, to take a rest, but he needed to reach the top.

Beginning again, Cullen managed another dozen steps when he heard a loud clang. Glancing down he was surprised to find instead of his leather work boots armor circled around his shins and calves protecting them from attack. How long had it been since he wore armor? Too many years as it was a struggle to get on and off.

But now, it felt as if it fit like a glove. Warm bear fur snuggled against his cheek, the old surcoat he wore during the Inquisition days draping against his arms as he continued to walk higher.

His steps grew steady, but the climb still seemed insurmountable, as if he had to scale an entire mountain by stair alone. Still, he wasn't turning back. Not now, not ever.

Passing another step, the bear fur swiped away from his cheek. Cullen glanced down to find that the trousers he'd purchased that first day after Cassandra invited him to serve the Inquisition were now a burgundy and gold skirt. Metal encased his hips and chest, his gauntleted fingers scraping down the sword of mercy embossed over his heart.

Templar armor. Not just any, but the one he wore in Kirkwall. A fire burned inside his stomach, begging for retaliation. _Who else would build a staircase that goes nowhere but mages? They are the ones pulling this on you. Find them and punish them!_

Cullen calmed the roar of rage with a cool breath. The cooling hadn't been there in his younger days, the fire always threatening to push him too far -- even past his limits. But she taught him, she helped him to find it. Her trust helped him to trust himself. With the assurance in his heart, Cullen began to leap up the stairs two at a time. What had once seemed impossible was now a lighthearted exercise.

He felt his body shifting as well, the muscle and fat put on over the years reforming to something younger and sleeker. No doubt he lost the scruff that never left him and perhaps a pimple or two prodded free on the end of his nose. The uniform de-aged as well, all the signs of promotion fading away until he was nothing more than a Templar-Knight.

No Commander, no Captain, not even a Lieutenant. He was 18 years old and staggering up a staircase inside... Yes, this was the tower. Kinloch tower, exactly as he remembered it before they tore it down. How was he here climbing it if the circle was destroyed? Did they miss a section? Or did someone rebuild it?

The thought clung to his brain a moment like a sour wine, when he turned to look up the stairs. Light burst through the entranceway, so beautiful it brought tears to his eyes. With an easy step that hadn't been inside his body since Uldred, Cullen scrambled up the stairs needing to reach the top. The warmth called to him, begged to envelope him in a sense of belonging and peace.

Fading quicker than a blink of an eye, the staircase vanished beneath his feet and he stood at the precipice of wherever he was eternally climbing to. Bookcases stretched as far as he could see, nearly fifteen feet tall and crammed with every cover imaginable. The entire air had a hazy pink quality, as if -- if one turned their head fast enough -- the world would fade to clouds. But what made Cullen freeze and hold his breath was the silhouette picking a book out of the shelves.

She already carried another five in her hands, because one was never good enough. The curly hair spilling off the sides wasn't kept in check by any towel or barrette. It was free to run wherever it wished. Dressed in the mage robes of old, when she turned in profile, Cullen gasped. She stood before him, a fresh faced seventeen year old not touched by war or death, loss or pain. A beautiful young woman standing on the precipice of her future while smiling serenely at the words of those who came before.

Suddenly, she turned and her breathtaking eyes landed right upon the scrawny, uncertain templar who stumbled onto his angel reading in the library. Lana's entire face lit up with the most perfect smile he'd ever seen. His heart stopped at the smile free of pain, of anguish, of sorrow. Cullen gasped a final breath at how her eyes glittered, bright as they'd always been and taking in only himself. He lay a hand to his chest, a flash of discomfort rising in his body, but with a step towards her it all faded away as he walked to his wife.

A wave wafted off her and she was both a fresh faced seventeen and a well worn sixty, a battle hardened twenty-five and a content, mothering forty-one. She was everything she'd ever been, and everything to him. She was perfect.

He managed another step forward, his body moving as if through water, while Lana perched her books on her hip and sighed. A laugh reverberated through the air sending waves of joy to his dour face as she shook her head. "Here I thought I'd have enough time to read through this entire library before you'd arrive."

Dropping the books onto the shelf, Lana -- both wise mother and nubile girl -- turned to the man growing in strength from her presence. Her eyes darted up and down him, the smile flattening a moment to sadness. As she reached out through the void between them, Cullen instinctively flinched. He feared that her touch would evaporate or be cold as the grave, but when her palm skirted against his cheek a warmth greater than any he'd ever felt in life overwhelmed his soul.

"My Honey eyes," she mused, Cullen's amber sight closing as he leaned into that hand he thought he'd never feel again. "I should have known you'd find me sooner rather than later."

"Lana," he gulped, "what's going...?"

Her finger drew against his lip, before sliding to traverse the scar. "Shhh," she smiled deeply and floated right into his arms. Cullen greedily tucked her close, his heart throbbing to match the one returned to him. As he buried his nose into the top of her head, breathing in the smell that always greeted him on the pillow beside his, she said, "There will be plenty of time to talk about that. To talk about everything."

"I missed you so much," he gasped into her hair, tears beginning anew. "I thought, feared that I'd..."

She looked up, her endless eyes staring deep into his. He tried to shake the tears free, but she was the one to gently cup her palm against both cheeks and wipe them away.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Cullen sputtered out.

Her smile lengthened, the years of torment and pain she had to crawl through reverberating from a small twist of her lips. "I always find you my templar, my husband, my love."

A gasp of breath rattled from him as Cullen cupped both her cheeks in his hands. "You do." Tugging her tight, he brushed his lips against hers. So many kisses over the years, soft ones, pressing ones, ones born in pain, others in joy; but one fact held true for them all, they were never enough. When it came to kissing her, the love of his life, Cullen would never be satisfied.

Her fingers dug up through his hair, seeming to tug the locks that shifted from the forced upon waves back into his curls of old. His whole life he gave his heart only to this amazing, beautiful, world-bending mage and never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine that she'd give him hers in turn.

Cullen's lips slipped away from hers and the words forever etched into his heart sputtered forth, "I don't want to lose you."

She caressed a finger over the worry lines in his forehead, seeming to raise them and blot away all the anxiety in his mind. "Honey eyes, you never will. We have all of eternity together."

Leaning down, his forehead pressed against hers. Mage and templar thrown together in the darkest of times. They should have never worked, but she knew more than his heart, she was a part of his soul and would always be. A small chuckle lifted up his scar and Lana's eyes opened in confusion. Laughing to himself, Cullen mused, "That may still not be enough time."

She chuckled too, cupped his cheeks, and pulled her templar to her lips for a kiss that would never end.

* * *

As was often the case, Gavin woke early. He checked in with Albert and a few others running the place while they'd be gone, got in a bit of breakfast, and stuffed the saddlebags with whatever provisions they would need. It wouldn't be an easy trip by any means, but he was looking forward to it.

When Gavin knocked on his father's room, he was surprised that there was no grumbling call from inside. Carefully opening the door to peek in, he spotted a shaft of sunlight glancing through a gap in the shutters but no other sign of movement. Did his father truly sleep in? Perhaps he too was feeling more at ease with the idea of finally putting his wife to rest before them.

"Sorry to wake you, Dad," Gavin snuck in and moved to open up the curtains and fully let light into the room. He was even more surprised to find his father not in the chair at the desk, but lying stretched out in the bed. While he tugged on the last cord to free the sun, he turned over to finish. "I've got the horses all saddled up and ready to go. We'll need to head out soon to make it to camp before losing the..."

His tongue froze, the last words hanging precariously upon it while he started harder at the bed. The light lanced right across his father's face, highlighting skin turned pale in grief. But what curbed Gavin's tongue was how still he lay, even with the sun nearly blinding him. And etched deep on his lips, to the point of lifting his cheeks, was a smile that Gavin hadn't seen in months. Perhaps years.

It looked as if he had stared the Maker in the eye and been granted true peace in his soul.

"Dad?"

Gavin inched closer, his heels rising onto tip toes as if he was a child afraid of waking his napping father. But he's not napping, is he? You can see it. You can feel the chill, the stillness even from here.

"Dad?" he tried again, his voice rising but his father did not. The smile didn't falter, the eyes didn't open. Gavin skirted a hand towards the frozen cheeks and a breath shuddered in his chest at how cold they were.

Cold as death.

"Dad..."

"Daddy?"

https://youtu.be/GYMLMj-SibU

CHAPTER SEVEN

Around the Corner

The man standing before her was barely worth her attention, but he seemed to be of the opinion that he deserved all of it. While Myra continued to hurl some of her books into a chest, he folded his arms and made that tetching noise. Maker, how she hated that fucking thing. Whenever he decided she was doing something wrong, he'd go 'ahek hek hek' until she'd stop and glare. Which then gave him the opportunity to tell her everything she was apparently wrong about and how to do it his way.

At least she didn't have to suffer it anymore. Bright side and all.

"You're overreacting, Myra," he scolded as if she was some child that pretended to see a monster under the bed. Too bad for him, in Myra's life the monsters were real and she was often front and center to their deaths.

"That so, Joss?" she slammed the trunk closed and eyed him up. In the college dormitories, a few people kept walking past her open door. At first they'd glance in, curious, but at the sound of Myra getting angry more than a few heads slowed and made a deliberate attempt to see what was about to explode.

"Yes," he tapped his feet and continued to cross his arms tighter as if he could find more protection in his armpits or something. "Cherie and I are friends. Nothing more. You're being hysterical."

Perhaps he expected tears. She thought about it for a minute but decided he wasn't worth that. Or maybe an argument. Myra was known throughout the college for her tendency to blow up when pushed too far. Not literally, most mages could fight better with magic, but few could dole out a punch like her. And she knew how to end arguments fast.

Instead of breaking down, or hurling a book at Joss' head, or even screaming herself hoarse, Myra cocked a hip and began to laugh. It started slow, a chortle really, but as the man clearly grew uncomfortable her little giggle took on a life of its own until tears of hilarity rained from her eyes.

"Oh did you pick the wrong woman to cheat on. Let's begin with the obvious here, Joss. You and Cherie have been spotted by no less than three people, of varying connections, feeling each other up in the library."

He staggered up onto his toes, a hand raised as if he was about to argue with her. What about? Of course he was. He loved shouting her down, always under the delusion he won instead of Myra getting tired of the fight. "Those are just jealous people, lying to..."

"Two, I saw you exiting her room in the middle of the night," Myra glowered.

"You..." Joss' mouth distended like a fish fighting for air out of the water. The look reminded her how shit of a kisser he really was. Maker's breath, why did she even bother? Was it boredom? Boredom always did her in. Trying to shake his agape moment away, he hissed, "I didn't see you."

Myra leaned closer and snarled in his ear, "No shit you didn't." She'd been managing stakeouts since he was figuring out what to do with his willy, not that he had a great grasp on it even now at age 27.

"This is all circumstantial," Joss wouldn't let it go. No doubt he needed her to take him back just so he could be the one to do the dumping. Posturing was vital in this world of mages where there were enough people you could form pecking orders, but the world so small gossip whipped through the echelons faster than a sunrise.

"You could be right," Myra shrugged bringing a glint of hope to the poor bastard's face, "but here's the real kicker Joss." She raised her voice to be heard by all the people crowding just outside her door. Jabbing a finger towards his chest, Myra growled, "You're wearing her robe, you moron."

Joss' eyes shot open wide and he glanced down at what was clearly a mage robe that fit far too tight to what he was used to. The fact he hadn't caught on sealed his fate the minute Myra caught him marching over to tell her off for the poster she nailed to his door. It only seemed fair to tell everyone that a "Cheating Bastard" lived inside. "Now," she pointed out the door and snarled, "get the fuck out of my room and never, ever talk to me again."

Her story faded as Lunet yanked up a bottle from out of her drawer. Myra blinked, honing in from her far too recent memory up at the College to focus on the here and now. She sat perched on her mother's desk, which Reiss would ream her out for if she caught her. Good thing she wasn't going to as she was off on a call, or problem, or whatever, leaving Myra all alone with Auntie Lunet.

"Did the bastard give you shit or shuffle sadly on past?"

Myra snickered, "The shuffling, though the crowd of people glaring at him while he still reeked of ill gotten sex was a rather nice cap on it all." Groaning, she tipped back in the chair and stared at the ceiling of the agency. She'd only been back for an hour or so since her caravan rolled into town, but with the problems of the college in the past it almost felt as if she never left.

The twins greeted her with the same gruff grumble, her mom shouted to wait for her as she dashed out the door because murder stopped for no one, and Lunet was all ready to greet her with a big bottle of koomtra. It was good to know that in this world of gods and monsters, some things stayed the same.

"Did he try anything after?" Lunet asked.

Myra shrugged, "Dunno. I shipped out a few days later, thankfully. Let his little trollop try and deal with that mess. Blech." She threw back half her glass of fermented tree sap and groaned. "Why is this so Maker damned hard?"

Lunet chuckled, "What? Dating? You ain't had that hard a time of it."

The glare off of Myra could start fires alone. "Let's see, there was that kiss-ass, Dane, who seemed to think getting with me would put him in the King's good graces."

"Yeah," Lunet shook, "your Dad really hated that one."

"Riken, the elf."

"Which your mom was certain you'd fall deeply in love with and marry on the spot."

Myra groaned at that. She should have known the minute she mentioned in her letters that she was with an elf her mother would have already sewed up her trousseau and collected a dowry. Riken wasn't awful; all things considered in her past, he was probably the best of the lot. Which, sadly, wasn't saying much. They got on okay, working together in rune crafting class, but the spark of attraction was a lukewarm noodle left to harden on a counter.

"I never should have told her about him." In truth, Myra figured she'd be dumping Riken before he even got to the meeting her parents stage, but there was never a good reason to do it. He was fine, she was fine. Together they were fine. Just fine. It was bloody boring. Then her parents all paid a surprise visit to the college and she wound up stuck to him for another two months before both adults in the situation came together to admit, 'This is stupid, we should just be colleagues.'

"And finally Joss. So now I can add serial cheater to my list of epic failures."

"Serial?" Lunet shook her glass.

"I didn't figure it out until after, as at first he was smart enough to wait until I was out of the college to fuck around, but..." Myra groaned, "You know the worst part? How stupid he thought I was. This was elementary cheating. I'd have caught him when I was twelve. Bastard wouldn't even wash off after, the stench of Cherie's powders thick enough to kill a rat."

Sure, when she first found out she was livid. Thought about making his life a true trip to the void. But stepping back Myra came to realize how much of a true shitheel he was not just in cheating on her but in general. _Why the hell did she stay with him?_ kept ringing in her ears for a week with no easy answer in sight.

Grumbling, Myra smooshed her face into her hands, her words falling to mush. "I hate dating."

"Men, I think what you're looking to hate is men," Lunet, the woman happily married to another woman less than helpfully pointed out.

Myra glared over her fingers at her, but her mom's best friend was too deep into the bottle to notice. She'd been trying to talk Myra into trying the softer sex for awhile now, but that wasn't going to take. Though, turning into some kind of man-murdering she-devil did sound rather tempting at the moment.

"Is it too much to ask to find a nice guy? One who's not an asshole, that doesn't try to mess with my mind like watching a chicken play chess? That can laugh at my jokes? And is easy on the eyes?"

"Course not," Lunet reached over to pat Myra on the shoulder, "I bet one will just come strolling through your door and right into your arms. All you got to do is wait."

"Ha ha," she sneered, rolling her eyes. Absently, Myra picked at the warm rabbit fur cinched against her neck. It was a bit much in summer, not that she'd dare go without, but served her well on the cold trip down south with winter nipping at their faces. Why didn't she stay in the north next to the warm sea for Satinalia?

"So, you've been doing some magic crafting thing?" Lunet began.

Myra groaned and rolled her eyes, "Rune crafting. I've been studying it to see if..." Her boring explanation of her latest research that Lunet was certain to fully forget about the second it left her lips faded. A jangle of a bell meant someone walked into the office, probably dragging a bit of snow in with. The damn street was covered in it.

"Good afternoon," the front desk greeted whoever wandered into the agency.

"Ah, hello," a voice that lapped around the room like a perfect brandy or that drippy cheese you melt on crackers spoke. It was so low, one had to tip down towards the floor to meet it through all the office walls. "I'm looking for someone."

"Dead or alive?"

"Maker's breath!" he gasped, "Alive, I pray."

Myra smiled and hopped off her mother's desk. Dashing out from behind the office, she had to peel around the other desks while only able to see a shadow of a man dancing in the front. A wall hid most of the inner workings from everyone else in the waiting room.

"Could you describe whomever you are looking for?" the front secretary continued.

"Well, she's got blonde hair and..."

When Myra skidded out from behind the wall, doing her best to keep from seeming winded, his speech fell away. A smile lifted up those pillowy lips and bright amber eyes darted right to her. Myra laughed, shouted "Gavin!" and ran for him. He lifted his hands the same time as her, the pair falling into a great hug.

As Gavin's head burrowed into the fur keeping her shoulders warm, Myra got in a good breath of his cloak that stank of horse. Not that she was much better after the trip. "Myra," his voice practically sang her name, no doubt happy he wouldn't have to deal with Frank working the front anymore. "You're here."

"Yup," she smiled, sliding back to give some breathing room between friends. "Just got in a little bit ago. Northern Ferelden's still there." She smiled and eyed up the man she hadn't seen with her own eyeballs in nearly a year. "Maker's breath, when did you get so much hair?!"

"Ah..." Limply Gavin ran a hand over the...was it scruff or a beard? At what point did the patches of hair stop messing around and form something fancy? "Yes. What do you think?"

It was a bit unorthodox for him to not be clean shaven, but she'd seen it before when he was between towns. What really bowled her over was his hair. With the locks nearly two or three inches long, soft tan curls nestled on top of a sea of black. She ached to rustle her fingers over the highlights shifting in the wind, but kept her hands bundled behind her back.

"The beard makes you look older, but then your longer hair sort of youngers you. So, I guess it all works out?" Myra said with a shrug.

He kept massaging his chin as if he was mentally berating himself for not shaving, but didn't pick at the head hair. Far as she knew, he hated having it long. Maybe he was trying for something different now?

Gavin blinked a moment and pointed at her. "Your hair is different as well."

"Oh?" she thumbed back to her blonde mop before remembering. "Right, I cut it like six or seven months ago." She knew her mother would have a fit, having been of the opinion that girls should grow their hair as long as the Maker allowed. But when it became a serious hazard for working magic, Myra didn't hesitate for the big chop. Now the waves of gold that once cut off around her butt wafted near her shoulders, above or below depending on if she bothered with a trim or not.

"My turn, I guess. What do you think?"

The smile returned as he tipped his head to look at her, "It's lovely."

It should be a simple enough sentiment, friend to friend complimenting hairstyles. But Myra's stupid stomach couldn't stop churning at how he looked at her, nor her cheeks from rising in a blush. Attempting to try and cover both with her hands while acting as if she just really needed to scratch her face at that moment, Myra danced back and forth on her heels.

As the heat faded and a silence fell, Myra gulped and swallowed down the clown that lived inside of her veins. "Gavin," she bit into her lip, her voice flattening out, "I'm so sorry about your mother."

He full body flinched at her words, not surprising. This wasn't something you walked away from in a month, or six, or even a dozen years. But when he looked at her there seemed to be something else in there. "How did you know?"

"My dad," she sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. "He's...not been taking it well." The boy who lost his mother shuddered and she reached an arm out to try and hug him. He didn't return it, but looked over a moment in gratefulness. "How's your dad doing?"

The specter of tears rose in his amber eyes and Myra mentally kicked herself for dredging up so much pain. Gavin turned away and his voice dropped low, "He...passed."

"What?!"

"A few months after mom did."

"Maker's breath, Gavin..." her breath hitched in her throat, the tears rising in her eyes now, "I am so, so sorry. That... Shit."

"Shit indeed," he tipped his head to her, the forehead nearly brushing against hers while he smiled dolefully. Maker, she wished she could do anything to wipe away just a moment of the pain wearing on his brow.

Suddenly, he tugged back a bit and walled off. "I should have written to you. I did receive your letters, but... It was my duty to respond to you."

Myra held up a hand and shook her head, barely able to slurp down a laugh at the absurdity of him worrying about such a small issue. "Don't be daft. It's no big deal."

"I kept meaning to, but every time I tried to find the words..."

"Gavin, it's okay. I knew you weren't trying to spite me. You were...you're in pain. Dad gave me the lay of the land. And, shit," she shook her head, panic rising in her eyes, "I, I thought maybe hearing about my stupid day to day problems might lighten you a bit, but now I can see how callow it would seem. Shit."

"No, no, it was nice to read them. To hear from you and know that there was still... Thank you. I'm glad you're not mad at me."

Her palm skirted against his cheek, smoothing down the rough patches of face fur and finding a new scar buried underneath it. "Mad at you? Never. I understood, you needed time so I...I mean, I was worried, but I figured that..." As her words trailed off, Myra's eyes skirted around the very full office who had little to nothing to do before Satinalia and were all listening in on this rather private conversation.

She tugged her hand off him and bundled it behind her back. Trying to smile without it looking like a grimace, and failing spectacularly at it, Myra shrugged, "Maybe we should talk elsewhere. Where there aren't a hundred people listening in. Don't think I can't see you Jorel. We can all see you. I can see you even when I'm up at the College."

Gavin nodded in agreement and moved to undo the cloak draped across his strapping shoulders, when the door blew open. It nearly shattered into the back window as the lady Solver herself dashed into her agency mumbling under her breath, "Blighted pain in my ass. Didn't even need..." she knocked up her hat and spotted her daughter. Dashing forward, Reiss pinned Myra tight into a hug.

"My!" she cried as if her wayward daughter had been gone for ten years.

"Yeah," Myra grunted, afraid she might hear a rib crack, "I'm still here even after you ran out the door."

"Sorry about that. Alienage business, not really. Ever since that fat arse appointed himself in charge it's been one crisis after another that only I can deal with, and when I get there nothing. So...you cut your hair." Her ranting about whoever in the elven slums was bugging her took a sharp turn as she eyed up her daughter.

"Yep," Myra smacked her lips. "Gonna tell me how much you hate it?"

"It's...it suits you."

Myra's eyes bulged out of their sockets and her jaw smashed through the floor.

"Makes you look older, certainly more sophisticated than you really are. As I imagine everyone learns once they talk to you," Reiss snickered, getting in at least one good jab.

That. That was impossible. All her life it was 'Don't cut your hair, Myra.' 'Step away from the scissors. You'll thank me when you're older.'

She swung a sly eye at her nonchalant mother and crossed her arms, "Dad told you, didn't he?" Reiss only let her sight dart over Myra for a second, but it told her all she needed to know. "How much ranting and raving was there before you calmed down? Did you blow a new hole in the roof?"

Reiss sighed, no doubt about to chastise her for leaping to such arrogant and no doubt accurate conclusions, when Gavin coughed. "Ah, perhaps I should speak with you another time. You seem to be..."

Spinning right to him, Reiss melted into a puddle of pity. Myra'd seen it in theory, but rarely aimed at her unless shit went fully sideways. "Don't be silly, you should remain. Catch up with My while she's in town. In fact, you should stay for dinner."

"Dinner?" Gavin turned to Myra. It seemed obvious a string of panic was darting in his words. _Was it safe for him to remain?_

Myra nodded her head at him and licked her lips. "It'll be fun, mostly fun. Dad's bringing food."

"Your father is coming?" Now Gavin looked as if he wanted to climb out of his own skin and make a run for it. Poor boy, out of the frying pan and all that.

Reiss smiled at the trepidation without perhaps catching onto the source. She wrapped a motherly hand around Gavin's arm and guided him towards the back of the agency. "Don't worry. He should be bringing us some dumplings from the alienage. I think I talked him out of cooking for your first meal home."

"Thank the Maker," Myra laughed. "Cause if he does, I might just leap on the first boat back up to the north."

She fell in beside Gavin while they walked around a mess of desks. For a moment his eyes drifted over to hers and she regretted chopping all her hair off. The way he stared so intently at her, she wanted to hide behind all three feet of it until the blushing wore off.

"Are these Ineria's dumplings?" he asked.

A great smile rose on her mother's cheeks as she patted into Gavin's hand. "I knew I liked you." Giving into the tug, Gavin had no choice but to stay for dinner with the Sayers.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Family Dinner

With a deft stab of a knife, her father scooped up the final dumpling in the great pile he brought (which was never enough). "Looks like we've got one left," he chuckled, his eyes skirting around the table. "So who gets it?"

A pile of fire runes Myra dug out of her satchel wafted red light in her mom's makeshift hearth while the four adults tried to crowd around a table that on a good day could seat two. If she shifted too fast to the left, she'd wind up in Gavin's lap...which was not a thought to be having with her parents right there.

"Gavin," Alistair turned to the boy who sat as prim as one could while reduced to using an old pickle barrel. He even had a napkin on his lap and his elbows off the rickety table.

"Sir?" his eyebrows lifted.

Her dad waggled his and smiled, "Wanna duel me for it?"

"Um..."

"Maker's sake," Reiss groaned, "just give it to him. He's a guest."

"I was only kidding," her dad moved to slide it onto Gavin's plate while eyeing up Reiss with his typical loving jocularity. "Or are you worried he'll beat the stuffing out of me?"

"That's quite all right, Sir," Gavin interrupted, trying to wave the offering away, "I'm full." But there was no stopping the fall of the final dumpling as it plopped onto the slab of metal.

Myra's mom turned fully in her seat, her eyes meeting with Alistair's as she groaned, "You think you could stand a chance against a man in his prime?"

"Oh, the lady doth wound me," her dad struck a hand to his breast and feigned fainting.

"I'm liable to if you think picking fights with full grown men at your age is smart." The two dropped into their weird flirting bickering that made up a lot of Myra's life. There was no venom in their words, and always a smile or snicker on their face when they did it. At the moment Reiss was gently prodding into Alistair's side while he'd yelp and twist around. In a minute or two, he'd no doubt grab her hands, tug her close, and kiss her. It happened so often Myra grew immune.

Instead of watching her parents behave like flirty teenagers, she turned to Gavin who was staring glumly at the final dumpling. "I don't think it's poisoned. Be weird to only do one in a batch," she whispered.

His amber eyes darted to her in concern. He'd been polite but distant the moment Reiss pulled them all back to her corner of the agency. She asked him about his work, how the trip had been, but generally Myra did most of the talking while Gavin silently watched save a word or two. For dinner he was able to provide a distraction by delicately eating the dumplings -- the only one at the table not scarfing as many in his mouth in one go as he could.

Now that all the food was gone, he was trapped with little to do beyond swivel a spoon around his plate. He seemed to be weighing the dumpling as if it were a true enigma to solve. Did he dare eat it and take food from a King's mouth? Or refuse and in doing so question their hospitality.

Myra reached her hand over, ripped the dumpling in half, and jammed her section into her mouth fast. The clotting gravy rested on her tongue a moment while she chewed down as much of the dough as possible. Ineria's dumplings were always good, but best fresh out of the oven. After the walk from the alienage and back some of the dough settled into lumpy clumps.

With careful fingers, Gavin scooped up the dumpling half and placed it on his tongue. While he chewed and swallowed, his smiling eyes darted over to Myra. She wanted to return the look when she caught her mom almost sliding into her dad's lap.

"Okay!" Myra shouted before it went from awkward to 'needing to douse her eyes in acid' uncomfortable. "Dinner's over. Mom, want to help me do the dishes?"

That caught her dad, whose eyebrows shot up high. "You, willing to do the dishes? Who are you and what have you done with my daughter, demon?"

"Dad," Myra groaned, batting away his accusing finger.

It was Gavin who stumbled up to his feet, the barrel rocking on its side from the move. He gathered up his plate and another while looking at Reiss. "I can do it if you'd like, Lady Sayer."

No one called her mom that. For most of Denerim she was either Ms. Sayer, Reiss, or Myra's mom. The other names weren't to be used in polite company. Instead of snapping at Gavin or trying to wipe away his damn professionalism, Reiss sighed, "You're a guest, no matter how much Alistair keeps prodding you. Please, sit. I think..." She turned to the man who had his hand resting right on her ass. Daad!

"Hm?" he was clearly off in his own land, when his eyes snapped away from the clouds, "Oh, right! The... I've got a bottle of brandy I thought we could all share. But you still haven't explained the envy demon posing as our daughter."

Myra blew her hair to the side in consternation and fished up a few of the dishes. "Is it so wrong for me to want to pull my own weight once in awhile?"

"Yes," Alistair said.

Reiss reached over to get the last of the mess as they piled it all into a washing bucket. "She's got some new magic spell she wants to try out."

"Ah," the man tapped a finger to his chin, "now I understand."

Grumbling, Myra snatched up the wash bucket and plunged her hands deep into it. The water that'd been ice cold began to heat to a soothing warm without any hearth necessary. "Forgive me for trying to be nice," Myra grumbled while she began the laborious task of scrubbing at a plate with an old soap brush.

"You're forgiven," Reiss snickered while falling in beside her wayward daughter and taking up the rinsing part. "Sweet Andraste, this is cold."

"Bet you regret talking back to me now," Myra waved her soapy fingers at her, but her mom gritted her teeth and dove both arms to the elbows into the freezing water.

While mother and daughter raced each other to try and get the dishes scrubbed clean, King and knight were left to watch helplessly. Even with her head bent down to focus on the bucket, Myra could feel those amber eyes burning into her. "I feel as if I should help..."

"Trust me, son," Alistair gripped onto his arm to hold him in place, "when they get this way, it's best to stay far back until a winner's declared. Maybe go for a pint. Ah, speaking of..."

Digging into the sack of goodies her dad brought to the house, he placed a dusty old bottle on the table. "Here," Alistair pushed the amber bottle closer to Gavin who stared long and hard at the finger streaks in the thick dust.

"Wh...what is it?"

"Brandy. See, says so right there on the label," Alistair laughed while jabbing a finger at the poorly spelled Ferelden attempt at _Brindie_.

"I...see," still on tenterhooks around his sovereign, Gavin ran his fingers around the neck while seeming uncertain if he should pop open the bottle or give it a rinse.

Suddenly, her dad's always cheery voice dropped into a snuffle. "The date," he rapped his finger on the label and coughed, "look at the date."

"'Bottled on 9:30 Dragon,'" Gavin read before sitting up and staring at the old man, "The blight?"

"Yup," Alistair nodded and began to work a corkscrew into the top. The cork buckled, nearly crumbling after sitting on a shelf for so many damn decades. "Your mom," it began breezy, but collapsed from the weight of an incomprehensible pain.

Her dad stopped speaking, his eyes hidden behind the bottle while he kept working the cork free. When it popped open, he continued, "She found it. Or her dog found it. That dog was always finding things. And she...she wanted to save it, to drink together after the Blight was over."

Tugging over a glass, Alistair began to fill it up with both brandy and memories. "We never did, sort of slipped our minds and then...we kept coming up with other reasons to drink it. Bigger celebrations than ending a Blight, I guess. The future seemed so damn far away."

After passing the first full glass to Gavin, who fell deathly silent, Alistair filled up another two. "My," he said, knocking the bottle's neck into the tumbler to get her attention. She dropped her sponge and picked up the glass, handing it to Reiss who remained back by her dishes, her eyes low.

No one spoke a word while the last of the bottle ended up in the final two glasses, the crimson liquid -- liable to get someone good and trashed -- glittering like garnets. Or blood.

Myra shook her head at the macabre thought. She glanced over at Gavin, his hands both wrapped tight around his glass of memories while his head listed to the side. He looked as if it was too much work to keep his noggin' upright. The entire meal he sat with perfect posture, but one mention of his mom and he... It wasn't that surprising that he'd crumble. Myra only knew her for a few years and then in passing, but when she heard the news she walled herself up for a day to get all the tears out in one go. Maker only knew how hard it hit her son.

She wanted to reach over and touch his hand, to hold it in solidarity, but with both of her parents in the room and the potential questions that would raise from them and Gavin himself, Myra kept her hands where they belonged. Her dad finished filling his glass and set the bottle down.

Coughing in his scratchy throat, he lifted his tumbler high. "To Lanny."

"To Lady R," Myra added, clinking her glass against her dad's.

Reiss slid forward, joining in the toast as she said, "To Lana."

Gavin's lips remained still, his eyes burning into the table, but he raised his glass and gently Myra knocked hers into his. He mouthed something but gave it no breath, when Alistair and Reiss took their turns trying to help heal the poor man.

"Welp," her dad shrugged, "down the hatch."

As one they all tipped the four decades old brandy to their lips and took a swig. Sweet blood of Andraste! Myra's eyeballs threatened to pop out of her sockets as the flavor of vengeful vinegar combined with fruit left rotting on the vine until it desiccated grabbed her tongue and refused to let go. She fought hard against the urge to spit it all out on the floor, coaxing her throat to swallow no matter what.

By the time the stars on the sides of her eyes passed, she glanced around at the others who were all lagging their bitter tongues out, attempting to clear the rotten taste from their mouth. "That, uh..." her dad rolled the glass around, staring at the thoughtful gift that went completely pear shaped.

"It's something," Reiss said, nodding her head to her husband before her eyes darted over to the boy it was all done for.

Gavin was staring intently at the liquid while dipping a finger in, when a hint of a smile raised on his lips. "It is truly abysmal," he said straight-laced before looking up at the others and smiling.

"Merciful Maker," Alistair gasped, "Yes, yes it is. Turns out dogs have terrible taste in brandy. Who knew?"

"Mom would find this hilarious," Gavin said, a reflection of the crimson brandy striking back against the rising tears.

"Yeah," her dad nodded. He took another sniff of the offending liquor before yanking his face away and placing the cup on the table far from him. "Lanny sure would. Well..." Turning from the others, Alistair dug into his sack and yanked out bottles in his hands. "Who's up for koomtra instead?"

"Blighted hell, why did I ever let you try that?" Reiss muttered while both kids gladly accepted the elven tree sap which was guaranteed to taste ten times better than the moldy brandy they tried.

By the time they all finished their koomtra and were barely even tipsy, her dad decided it was best to try for a little old constitutional to walk off dinner. He actually called it a constitutional too, showing he was sitting in on more and more of the various tutors flapping about in the palace. And people thought an old king couldn't learn new tricks.

Her mom and dad led, surprise surprise. Alistair had one arm wrapped around the back of Reiss and he lay his head upon her shoulder. To those passing it probably seemed rather humorous, the taller sovereign with his goofy cheek plastered against the patient elf. But Myra knew her dad, and Reiss really knew the man. He was more than hurt by the loss of his old friend, he seemed to have been rattled so bad he'd started up the will talk again. When he even wrote her a letter asking what Myra wanted of his she threw the thing in the fire and told him to quit saying that.

She wasn't ready to lose him. Not now, for certain. Not for another ten years, maybe twenty if the Maker was kind.

Flinching, Myra glanced over to Gavin who'd been quietly stumbling along behind the love birds. He walked a half step behind Myra as if he didn't want to appear forward in any sense of the word. Realizing some mad girl was staring at him, his amber eyes shifted away from the snow coated eaves of the walkway to Myra's. It was obvious he was wondering what the hell she was thinking, or why she couldn't stop looking.

"Your dad," she began, watching the clouds butt over Gavin's brow once again. "Sorry, just, he died? I can't..."

Gavin nodded his head softly, his eyes turning to the sky, "A few months after mom did. He went fast, in his sleep."

"Shit," Myra rubbed her arms up and down and hissed. Instinctively, she nestled deeper into the fur trim of her robes as if they could protect her. "Did, uh, did you have any idea?"

"No," he twisted his head downward and a great breath shuddered his shoulders. Out of nowhere he snorted and lolled his neck, "Actually, it's not that surprising. And to think, Mom thought he'd...never mind." Their boots crunched along the grey, gritty snow that was at best an inch or so on the street. The cold was around, but unless clouds swooped in to dump a fresh blanket of snow it was going to be a blah Satinalia in Denerim this year.

"I don't think he wanted to live without her," Gavin whispered to himself.

"Well that's a load of crap," Myra sneered, a hand snapping onto her hip. The orphan whipped his head to her, his eyes narrowing. "To just up and leave you alone like that, when you were... Even if it was bad, it's not fair to..." She turned away and blinked in the bitter wind to try and dry her stupid tears. For the past few months she assumed he at least had his father by his side to help him heal, and no, not even that. To think of him all alone out in that wilderness with a broken heart.

"It's all right," that far too generous and foolhardy boy said. "I had my aunt with me for a good while. Both, in fact. Though one was a greater distraction than the other."

Myra snickered a moment, "Did Hawke talk you into getting an earring yet?"

"No," Gavin laughed a bit too, "Though she seems determined in thinking it will be fetching on me. Too much time with pirates I think."

In all his letters, whenever he'd mention his more famous of aunts, it always seemed as if that boisterous troublemaker was dead set on her nephew sporting a gold hoop. Nothing too ostentatious, didn't want him accidentally ripping it out, but a bit of a shine to spice him up would probably work. Myra let her eyes wander over to Gavin's far too fine face.

He'd aged a bit since she left for the college, but in all the right ways. The beard really worked for him, the last of the puppy fat wearing off his jawline to leave it even more square than before. And worst of all...

When she first got a letter from him talking about a small landslide he got caught in and the rock he took to the face, it was a week, not even a week before she got one from Bryn. Seemed all the women in Denerim were fainting in the streets at the sight of Ser Gavin's lip scar. Maker take her, but...yes, it drew the eye right to those succulent lips she knew were as strong as they were soft.

"What did you do with her?"

The voice snapped apart Myra's leering at the poor man in mourning. She shook her head and tried to focus on the question that turned out to be her father who'd stopped to look back at Gavin. Alistair was clearly out of any humor, his eyes stricken as he stared at the boy in question. "Her ashes, I mean."

"Oh..." Gavin paused in walking, clearly thrown by the question.

"Alistair," Reiss jabbed into his side as she hissed at him. Her dad shifted from the poke but continued to look at the crumbling Gavin.

"No, it's..." waving a hand through the air, Gavin looked right up at his King. "Mom wanted to have her ashes spread at the site where Kinloch once stood. And I decided to do both hers and my fathers at the same time."

Her dad's lips lifted a moment, "So they're always together."

"Ye...yes," Gavin nodded, his head tipping down while an obvious burn rose on his forehead.

"Good," her dad bit into his lip and nodded his head, "good, because Lanny she...that'd make her so happy."

"I pray so," Gavin swiped at his eye to wick away a single tear. His cheeks lit up brighter in a flush and he reached towards the sword at his hip. "I also, um, kept a pinch for myself."

"Just a pinch?" Myra asked in surprise. Most people wore vials or kept their loved ones inside rings and lockets, if not whole urns.

With a smooth draw, Gavin unsheathed his sword and lay it flat in his hands. He tipped it around to point towards a small sapphire inlaid on the hilt. "Mom, she used to always wear this ring. Said that it gave her good luck, even during the Blight. I...I took the stone, had a jeweler make a setting on my sword, and placed a pinch of both of their ashes behind it."

"So they're both always looking out for you," Myra smiled, her hand rubbing its way against his shoulder. _What are you doing? Why are you being so forward?_ She wanted to yank her hand back but when he turned, a sweet, grateful smile filled his eyes and she kept it in place.

"Wherever they are," Gavin added as he moved to sheathe his sword.

"Knowing your dad, they're already at the Maker's banquet with your mom sitting on the fluffiest cushion in the place," Alistair said. There'd always been a bit of bad blood between him and the Commander, blighted everyone knew it, but this time it felt different. He wasn't condemning Cullen but cheering him on for doing everything in his power, even in death, for his wife.

A carriage crammed full of elves drunk out of their gourds went slushing through the snow. Bells jangled on the horse's harness, which they found hilarious, while all the occupants wore red helmets -- no doubt stolen off the Satinalia statues around the city. They were singing their blitzed heads off, a few yanking the festive hats off to puke in them. That was enough to draw away the air of death a moment, reminding them far too much how messy and sticky life could be.

"I'm surprised you're out here," Myra said to Gavin, her eyes having trouble meeting his. "With the abbey and all..."

"An old farmhand is running it at the moment. Albert's trustworthy, a friend of the family. Though he's making certain to include me in all the big decisions. And some of the girls Mom trained up are looking after the few remaining patients."

"So you don't plan to stay there?" She could tell by his slumped shoulders that she really shouldn't have brought it up, but her damn heart was thundering in terror. There was no good reason for him to stay in Denerim with his family's place damn near abandoned. It needed him...more than she, uh, Denerim did.

"N...not at this time. I don't..." Gavin screwed up his eyes and breathed through his nose. Glancing quick to the side, Myra noticed her mother and father turned away but they were both clearly listening. Her one-eared mother no doubt doubly hard to pick up on everything. Sneaks.

"One day, maybe I'll return to the abbey, but for now. The idea of spending my days in the walls of the refuge without either of my parents there is..."

"Say no more," Myra reached out, wishing she hadn't selfishly brought it up. "I...I get it."

"Sadly, I fear without a dedicated farmer or healer on staff the refuge itself will fall into disarray no matter what." It was wearing on him, as if he needed to put his wants and needs on hold in order to continue his parents work.

Her dad tipped his head up and in a loud voice said, "What you need to do is find a farmer who's willing to marry a healer." Myra rolled her eyes at the sentiment, when Alistair spun and pointed right at her. "My, you can help with that."

"What?!" she screeched, her eyes popping open wide as they darted from her scheming father back to the blushing knight.

"You know, at the college. Lots of healers there. You must know some of them. Maybe round up a few farmers and see if the sparks fly?" that foolish old man waved his hands around as if it was the best idea he ever had.

"Blighted hell," Myra rolled her eyes and groaned. She pinched into the top of her nose to try and scrape away the lingering flush of what she thought he really meant. For a breath her eyes peered over at Gavin who was staring rather intently at her again.

"So, Gavin, you're going to be staying at the castle for awhile then," Alistair reached over to pat him on the back.

"Yes. At least until the spring thaw, when I am to return to the dwarven kingdom."

"My condolences."

"Wh...why?" he whipped his head around, Gavin looking stricken at the fear of more tragedy in his cards.

Myra jabbed her elbow towards her father and sighed, "He means because of Cailan. His blushing bride-to-be is in town."

A smile lit up Gavin's far too handsome face and he nodded, "Ah. Not a fan of her features."

"The exact opposite, actually," Myra sighed. "Seems he's rather smitten with her beauty but she's a traditionalist. No bit of fun, not even a kiss until the wedding. And tradition dictates it won't be had until after the holidays."

Her dad massaged his forehead as if a headache named Cailan permanently built a nest behind his eyeballs. "Maker's balls, the moaning and whinging. As if going two months without any is a death sentence."

Myra leaned closer to Gavin to whisper, "Way I hear it, the Queen's so concerned about Cailan dishonoring his bride-to-be she's got him being followed at all times to keep him celibate."

A snort reverberated from her mom and Reiss folded her arms. "Be easier to just slap a chastity belt on him."

"Those aren't real, least not for long term," Myra shook her head and returned to Gavin, when she felt a very cold breeze waft off of her mother.

"And how would you know, young lady?"

"I...uh, read about it? Somewhere?" Myra squeaked out, in no way planning to tell her mother the truth. Ever. Not even on her death bed. Probably Myra's because her mom was going to live forever.

Alistair brought his hands together, a great clap echoed through the streets causing the snows to shift further off their perch, but if her dad noticed he didn't care. "Well, this has all been very fascinating. Right, Reiss? But I think we should head back inside before we start losing toes. If I can't count to twenty, the whole country could fall."

Together, the four of them trudged back towards the agency as the sun itself began to set on the horizon. Orange and reds lit across the grey snow, making even the grunge of Denerim sparkle with life. Myra pointed towards it a moment, smiling at a familiar site she missed a lot, but when she turned to Gavin to share he had his head down in contemplation. Not surprising, his heart was probably five times bigger than usual with all the thoughts crammed inside. Poor guy.

Maker, she wished she was better at this. To have the right words, or be able to wave her fingers and wipe the pain away. But the only thing that could do that was time.

When the bell jangled, Myra stomped into the old agency to find nearly all the desk lamps out. Everyone headed on home for the night, Satinalia about to rear its head and keep 'em all busy with the feasting, and the decorating, and carousing. Myra mostly came home for the carousing.

Alistair helped Reiss out of her coat, kindly placing it on the rack along with her hat. For a beat, Gavin glanced over at Myra as if he should do the same but she went out in just her robes. The one good thing about being a mage, the day to day wear kept you protected from a lot of the elements. She expected him to shake off his cloak again, but he paused and waffled on his toes.

"I suppose I should return to my bed at the palace," Gavin bit into his lips, his back straight while he surveyed the happy family he felt he needed to leave.

"What?" her mom turned to the boy and shook her head. "Don't be silly. It's dark out there, and freezing. You should stay the night."

He blinked slowly, shifting on his feet as if it was his duty to vanish into the night. "I wouldn't wish to impose."

"It's no big deal," Alistair said. "Last thing anyone wants is you to get run over by a one horse open sleigh on the way home."

Reiss nodded her head and smiled, "You can bunk with Myra."

At those simple, innocuous words, Gavin's eyes flared open wide and he turned to the girl in question with guilt bobbing across his face. Why guilt? She expected a blush, but that was confusing.

Shaking off the damn detective her mother bred into her, Myra reached over and took his hand. "It's no biggie. Bryn moved out ages ago, but we've still got her bed. I'm fairly certain you can fit in it. If you scrunch up."

"I..." Gavin shifted helplessly in his boots while Myra tugged him onward towards her old room. "I'd like that."

She didn't want him to leave. She didn't want him to be alone. But...she also didn't have any right to make either of those things true for him. At least she could try and help him for one night. Nodding with certainty, Myra welcomed him into her room with a smile and a, "Good."

CHAPTER NINE

Rooftop Confession

A noise roused Myra from sleep and her first thought was to yell at Joss to shut up. When nothing smacked into her back, she cracked open an eye and gazed around. Right, this isn't the college. And she didn't have to worry about Joss' late night 'brain storming sessions' anymore either. Maker, what the fuck was she thinking with him again?

Absence sure did help her to realize how much of a colossal ass he was.

Another scraping sound echoed from near the side of her wall and she placed her ear to it. Hm... She knew that one pretty well and had a good guess what was up. Sliding out of her bed, Myra reached for her clothing but shrugged it off. The boots were useful though, her feet jamming quick into the too big things. Without socks on they clomped back and forth leaving her tipsy but it was better than losing toes. She did unearth her duvet off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders like a great cloak.

Wearing just a long, ratty tunic and short pants she had to look mad while stomping outside in the middle of the night with snow sitting on the ground. Good thing she was a mage. Before the wind even had a chance to chill her bones, she raised up the warming spell she learned at college and sighed in contentment. Her skin crackled like she was laying outside on a summer's day instead of huddled up against the burn of winter.

With one hand, Myra shifted the duvet tighter so it'd stay in place, and used the other to lift herself high into the air. The climb was fast, and one she'd done thousands of times before. Myra could probably climb to her roof in her sleep, every handhold etched into her heart, while she held her breath and listened. Whatever'd been making those scrabbling sounds had stopped but probably because it got where it needed to be. The rest of Denerim kept on slumbering; it was rare for a single girl scaling a wall to wake up anyone.

As she crested to the top of the roof, Myra let her head bob up a for a second to get a quick look-see. Sure enough her assumptions were right. Dropping the swift and silent act, Myra groaned a bit so as not to startle him. She pulled herself up the last of the way, grabbed tighter to her blanket cloak, and plopped onto the roof.

"Are you some kind of Satinalia fairy? One that loves hanging out on roofs in order to...stuff cheese into people's stockings?"

Gavin chuckled a moment as he pulled his knee tight to his chin. He sat near the chimney's pipes, which had to give him a modicum of warmth, but the foolish boy didn't even bother to put a cloak on. Dressed in the under tunic and breeches he stripped down to in order to sleep, his eyes swung over towards Myra. The amber pinpricks were all she could see through the waning moonlight.

That wouldn't do. Waving her fingers, she drew up a spark of veil fire right on top of the snow itself. Gavin shifted a moment, as if afraid the fire might be real and he'd have to douse it, but as the blue light licked across him he calmed. "Did I wake you?"

"No," Myra smiled as she stepped around the boy still sitting on the top of a roof in the midst of winter in his pajamas. "It's perfectly normal to hear people trudging up here to squat in the snow."

Gavin snorted, but made no move to answer, those haunting eyes drifting around the tumbling blues of the snow. With a sigh, Myra plopped down beside him and reached for his hand. "Sweet Maker, you're freezing!" she gasped and shook her head. Opening up the spell, she willed the warmth inside of her through him.

His eyes closed as he breathed in the bit of internal fire she gifted him. Myra knotted her fingers around his as she scooted to someplace comfortable. "Don't let go of me and it should keep going."

Those curls shifted in his nod, knocking about like a trail of ribbons in the wind. Myra chewed on her lip and glanced away to keep herself from doing something stupid like grabbing onto them. "Oh right," absently shaking her head, she yanked the blanket off her shoulders and placed it on top of both of their legs. His remained curled up against his chest while hers crossed to match her attempt at a comfortable sit.

Wind as crisp as biting into an apple wafted over their faces and Myra took in a deep breath. The smell of life flooded her nose, far stronger than anything in the College. Blessed Maker, but she missed it, her heart knocking about at how stupidly happy the scent of smelting iron and latrine holes could make her.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, her eyes darting to the man who fell quiet.

He sighed, "Insomnia. I'm sorry for waking you."

"It's no problem. As long as we don't wake those two," she placed a hand over her mouth and pointed down. "But I've all but run back and forth up here and Dad can sleep through anything. I'm surprised he didn't miss the blight by taking a nap or something."

The poor boy snickered a moment, clearly struggling to feel beyond the rot where his heart had to be. But the laugh passed so quickly, it may as well have not happened. Why did she have to be so bad at this? His mom, she was the one who was good at all this stuff. Healing the pains.

There was a day in her early training when Myra was so stupidly homesick, she wanted to puke in a bucket. She tried to suck it up because she did not want to deal with the wrath of her mother for being kicked out. But Lady R took one look at the teenage girl barely able to smile and called off the lessons for the day. It was a bit weird to sit with someone as old as her dad, but she made it easier. As dumb as it sounded, rather than wait for Myra to spill her guts while leaving her alone, Lady R invited her to help make cookies.

By around the scooping one half of a spoonful onto the sheet and the other into your mouth, Myra came clean. There were less tears with so much dough jammed in her mouth.

Too bad she didn't have any cookies, or baked goods in general to cram in there now.

"How are you doing?" Myra whispered, her eyes darting away from her own handful of memories to the man under a deluge of them. "Really how are you doing?"

Gavin's white teeth flashed as he bit into his lip, right next to the new scar. "It hurts. It always hurts, even when...even when I feel lighter while I'm distracted. Like," he shook his head and sighed, "like it'll never leave."

"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes honing in on their hands locked together in a bond of the spell. Her fingers lay limply in his palm while he kept absently cinching up around hers. "I can't even begin to imagine..." So much loss in so little time. He'd had what? Four months to process his mother dying, and then at best two for his dad as well. How cruel could the Maker be?

"Thank you," the voice she'd upgraded from a coconut milk bath to luxurious satin sheets whispered.

"For..." Myra shook her head, fully lost, "for what?"

The man shrugged, "I don't know, I just..." His amber eyes turned up and that same intense stare that drove right into her heart flared up, "I'm grateful you're here."

"Me too," she patted against the back of his hand sealed inside of hers.

Both of the friends turned away, Myra knowing a dumb blush was burning on her cheeks. Ah shit! She tried to tamp down on the spell. If she wasn't careful her embarrassment could all but spark someone on fire. It teetered a bit in her clumsy fingers, like a wind whipping a candlelight back and forth. Screwing up her eyes, she finally managed to get it to an acceptable level.

"Are you here for the wedding?" Gavin asked as if that was his most pressing concern in life. Did he not even feel Myra messing around with the fire?

Focus! "Ah, sort of. The holiday too. Mom insists I always come back for Satinalia..."

"Because it's your birthday," Gavin smiled and she returned it. Few remembered, or made a big fuss, but he did. Every year there'd be some silly little gift just for her birthday left on the agency's stoop or sent to the college.

Absently, Myra dug into her neck and shrugged, "I think Mom likes to remind me how much pain I put her through before I was even born. Then she begins the long list of all the pains that happened after."

Gavin snorted at her deflection, but he sighed, "She loves you."

"Yeah," Myra licked her lips, "I know. We just...we pick to show we care. We're a very picking family." Maker's breath, you sound like a dung eating moron. Picking family? What does that even mean? Stop talking, if you stop talking maybe he won't flee in terror from your unending mouth.

The boy didn't leap to his feet and then leap off the roof to escape. Instead, he shifted a bit closer to Myra, his eyes trailing along her neck a moment before he smiled, "I was surprised to see you still wear that rabbit fur."

"Oh," the blush erupted into a ten alarm fire, Myra tucking against the gap of her tunic as if the brown rabbit fur yet caressed her cheek. "Yeah, it...uh. It's really nice and soft. But I didn't have much use for a cloak and everyone had these fancy robes in the college with buckles or bits of flair festooned across them. So I thought that I could maybe repurpose the rabbit fur as a collar and then...um, wear it all the time?"

Shit. Did that look bad? Like she hated his gift? The cloak was nice, plain but she didn't mind that. It just had a habit of frilling out behind when she ran, and you were kinda touched in the head if you wore a cloak inside all the time. With the robe she could nestle against the fur whenever she tried to doze off in class.

Gavin smiled to himself, "I'm glad that you like it."

"I do, it's..." It makes her think of him. Even when she's not supposed to, sometimes when she's really not supposed to, but he pops in there. Like an old bottle bobbing in the sea, nothing could sink it.

Which was not something she should say to him right now. Or maybe ever. "It's very warm, and nice. I already said it was nice, didn't I?"

"There's nothing wrong with nice," he said softly before a great smile rose on his lips. More infectious than the blight, Myra began to chuckle at his little joke and reference to himself. She meant it as much now as ever, he was so damn nice it could hurt.

Hurt her heart more than anything.

"Will you..." Gavin extended his leg out and began to sway the tip of his unshod toe back and forth, "Will you be returning to the college after the prince's nuptials?" A simple question no doubt for him, but Myra pursed her lips in consternation. He watched her reaction and added, "You don't have to tell me if you don't wish to..."

"No, it's..." Myra ran a hand back through her sheared hair and groaned as it fanned out against the nape of her neck. "I don't know. My research is nearing its end, what I've gotten to at least." Gavin nodded his head with her. She'd tell him all about her forays into rune crafting and out of everyone she wrote letters to, he was probably the only to ask pointed questions back. All that time growing up with a mage, probably.

"But my lead enchanter thinks we could easily charm the Grand Council into giving us more money to extend it."

"Another year?" he turned to her, those amber eyes all but dancing by the veilfire.

Myra winced at a chord of hope twanging in his voice. "Five. Probably more because one year in academia really means two, if you're lucky."

"That..." whatever fire burned in Gavin faded in an instant, his chin collapsing to his chest as he stared in fascination at his toes. They undulated in a sad wave through the cold.

"But I," Myra groaned and dug the palm of her hand into her eyes, "I'm not sure if I want to take it. Another five years up there? That's a lot."

"It is a commitment."

"Yeah," she snorted, "Not that the college isn't great. It's been fun getting to learn so much magic, find I'm actually good at something other than digging through people's trash and know who's cheating on whom."

Gavin shifted, his hand slipping out of Myra's and cutting him off from the spell. The cold had to overtake him so fast, he sucked in a gasp of surprise. "You like it there."

Reaching out quick, she scooped his hand back in hers to revive him before he froze to death. "I like some parts of it. I...I like parts of Denerim too." She risked a small smile, her eyes darting up past the fringe of her hair to Gavin's. He was busy looking down at the handhold he let fall slack, but his lips were clearly chewing through something on his mind.

"And..." she sighed, "my parents are, ya know. I keep thinking it's time I returned, for them. To help when I could, in case..." Fuck, she should not be saying this to him. Not be telling him that 'So, when I found out your Mom died I damn well had a panic attack imagining losing mine and am thinking of moving back home.'

Cursing at herself for being so callow, Myra stared up at the stars to try and find any new subject. But Gavin reached over and cupped her elbow. It drew her eyes right into his and he smiled, "I understand completely."

He was too damn nice. But she was so grateful for it. Smiling at his kindness, Myra tried to put away all the solipsistic thoughts rolling around in her brain. Talking about herself was boring anyway. What was there to say? Love life? Dead. Work life? Well, I found that if you heat a fire rune to just the right temperature you can cause it to spontaneously combust. And then you're picking rune bits out of the walls for weeks while a very pissed off elf taps her toe at you.

"Myra," Gavin shifted a bit but his hand remained locked tight to her arm, "I need to tell you, there's something I've been wanting to..." Whatever came next whipped away on the cold, winter winds. He stared out at the Denerim horizon, most of it nestled in the comforting embrace of shadows save a few chimneys silhouetted by the moon.

"What is it?" Myra asked. The fear wafting off him had her so concerned she too gripped back onto his arm as if to keep him steady. Maker, he damn well better not be dying too, or so help her she was going to storm the veil itself!

Gavin swallowed hard, the notch in his throat bobbing a bit before amber eyes washed over her. "Why I didn't write to you for the past...six months or so."

"Because you were grieving, you didn't know what to say."

A snort rolled out of his nose and he shook his head, "No. I told myself that, but I know why." Andraste, whatever was chewing him up was huge and...it involved her. Required apologizing to her? Slamming her eyes closed, Myra prayed 'Please don't be married. Please don't be married.'

"For the past five years, I've cherished your friendship," Gavin began and Myra's heart stopped dead. Fuck! No one starts with the cherishing friendship thing unless they want to dump you. "Been happy that you found your calling in the college and...grew to greater heights even if it was so far away."

Internally Myra was screaming, her body wanting to jump up and flee into the night. But she remained fixed, her face rigid even while having to face a dumping from someone she wasn't even dating. Who the hell was he with now to warrant this? How'd it get so serious this fast? And why didn't anyone warn her before? Damn it, Bryn!

"But," Gavin dangled the word in the air, his breath growing into stockier smoke with each puff. "I've missed you beyond belief."

"Wh...what?" Was that how these went? She'd expected a 'but I'm betrothed to a fellow knight and we're running off to get married tonight. Would you be our witness?' This was confusing beyond measure.

Clearly not catching on to Myra's fully lost face, Gavin continued on in a blubber as if the plug was finally yanked out of the dam. "I lived for your days back in Denerim, for a sight of you dashing over the rooftops and sliding into the palace windows. Just a hint of your scent on the wind."

What in the void was going on?

"Myra, I..." his tongue flopped back and forth over his teeth, weighing the heavy words squatting inside his throat. With a shake of his head and a shrug, he looked right into her eyes, "I love you."

"You do what now?" she gasped.

"And I've felt terrible about it. Because it's not my place to take you away from your life, from your future. To put that burden on you," Gavin was in full on exposition mode while Myra sat there dumbstruck, her brain repeating the word 'love' over and over. "When my mom died I couldn't escape the thoughts. Of how I wished more than anything that you were there with me. To be more than a shoulder to cry on, to be more than a friend."

More than a friend? He loves me? But...

"Every letter I began broke down into me confessing the truth, every one I couldn't send because you deserved to hear it aloud. From my lips. While sitting on a roof in our sleepwear," his runaway carriage paused as he glanced around at the ridiculous setting. "Myra, I love you."

He loves me. He loves me enough to say it twice without me saying anything back. You've fallen dumb again, haven't you? Someone restart Myra, her gears are stuck!

The unbridled hope shining in his amber eyes faded at her gawping mouth. Gavin shifted away, his head falling as he sputtered, "And I understand fully if you...if it's far too long past and there are no feelings on--"

Leaping through the air, Myra's burning fingers wrapped tight to his cheeks. Barely pausing to make certain she didn't whack into his nose with her honker, she tugged him and herself together. When his lips struck hers, all the churning turmoil in her stomach erupted into glittering butterflies. Gavin wrapped a hand around the nape of her neck, cradling her head safe as those succulent lips she dreamed of kissing again softened like butter.

Maker's breath, he tasted even better than before. Where it was all steel and vigor with a spark of energy when they were younger, now it'd matured like a good wine. A comfort smoothed out the clash of the steel like comfy snuggles by a fire, but that spark was there. It was always there, lighting up her belly better than any other lover Myra ever let near her bed.

Gavin gasped a moment, his eyes shooting open. "What of the College?"

Shrugging and laughing at the same time, Myra shouted, "Fuck the college," before diving back to kissing this incredibly nice and chiseled god of a man. Their sweet kisses of remembrance snapped and crackled, Gavin quick to plumb the depths of her mouth with his hot tongue. Blessed Maker, now he tasted like going at it on the rug because you're too stoked to take the time to shove books off the bed. One hand cupped tight to her cheek while the other wafted away from their handhold in order to draw higher up her thigh.

Myra's brain flashed up thoughts of just how high she wanted his fingers, but with her hand freed her first stop was right to his bicep. The left first as it was closest and, sweet blood of Andraste, bigger than her neck. Probably. Who cared? It sure felt like it, the muscle harder than a mountain as she dug in and slightly squealed.

How many nights did she lie in her bed and fantasize about kissing him again? About getting it right and going beyond anything they ever managed? He was certainly in there more than any of her boyfriends.

And now his fingers were softly trailing up and down her thigh. At the knee, Gavin would walk his three fingers up the thin pants clinging to her leg. She wished she'd worn nothing but the baggy tunic just to feel his bare skin upon hers. To have him swoop those clever fingers around the muscle of her thigh until it found the inner padding and then...

Oh Maker, she wanted to fuck him.

"Gavin," Myra shifted and broke away from the kiss. "Wait, this..."

His lips hung pursed a moment and by the void did he look achingly adorable like that. But as he realized she wasn't about to return to him, his eyes opened and he stared at her. "What's wrong?"

"You're in mourning. You're in...tremendous pain. I can't in good conscience take advantage of you. Even if I really, really, really..." Her traitorous eyes darted down his body, that chest that would put most sculptures to shame, and landed on his crotch where the obvious bulge she'd thought of way too much called to her. "No," Myra tried to tug herself back from the brink, "this is wrong. I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not," he smiled sadly, his fingers parting through the top of her hair until a palm curled against her cheek. She pressed into it, losing herself in his eyes even while Myra shook her head.

"You're afraid, I get it. To be alone, to lose so much. To lose people. But...that doesn't mean you should throw away your hard work, your," she swallowed hard, shifting on her knees she foolishly almost straddled him with. "Your promise."

It was why Myra tried to move on. Gavin said his peace, warned her that he wouldn't be ready to become physical with anyone until he truly fell in love. And she didn't see a reason to sit around in her room at the top of the tower waiting for him. Even if all of her attempts to get out there were epic disasters in one way or another.

As much as she wanted to believe that after five years of the two of them supporting an easy friendship he suddenly fell in love with her, the other truth made more sense. He was scared, he lashed out at the first thing he could think of to build a new home, and when that fear wore off...he'd hate himself. And Myra'd hate herself for hurting him.

Fuck this sucked.

She couldn't stop the stupid tears as she realized how badly she'd actually wanted this. Maybe for years even. How often she'd let her flight of fancy drift off to dream of him walking into her room in the College and declaring that he couldn't be without her anymore. Just let it happen. Give yourself something good for once.

But that damn Sayer Stubbornness clung tight to Myra. She might be a giant pain in the ass to most, but she was loyal to those in her heart. And nice to dogs and cats...and lizards.

"Myra," his hands both skirted against her cheeks, the tears at her foolishness pooling on his skin. Great, he knew she was crying about him. "That's not true."

"I won't stop being your friend," she threw out fast and he laughed a moment.

"I know you won't. You never would. But..." Gavin snapped his teeth together a moment in thought. Breaking away from his hold on her, he rifled through his pajama pocket and unearthed a pile of vellum. "These are the letters."

"The ones you wanted to send me from the abbey?" Myra asked confused. What would that prove beyond her point?

"No," Gavin yanked three out of the stack at random and unfurled the barely scratched on vellum. "These are ones I've written over the past three years."

Myra snatched them away, her eyes reading fast over the dates. One was from a year and a half ago, he made mention of a Soul Day escapade involving a donkey and an apple cart before he told her he loved her. Then the letter ended in a sea of nothing. Another from two years back, the third even further. She picked up the rest of the pile, her eyes hunting through the dates that kept dancing around in time but the sentiment always the same, "I love you, and I have no idea how to tell you."

"It's always been in there, but you...you had your life and, sometimes you had," Gavin shifted and coughed, "others in your life."

"Maker's hairy nutsack," Myra groaned, her head tipping back.

"I never wanted to interfere in your life, to force a decision upon you, but...Myra, I've loved you for a very long time." His eyes all but pleaded with her to take the evidence into account, to give him another chance.

"How long?" she asked.

Gavin shifted a moment, his head tipping down as he seemed to be overwhelmed with the thought. "This will sound pathetic beyond measure, but..." his eyes popped open as he stared right into hers, "when we broke apart, when I told you the truth and you...you didn't hate me for it."

"Why--?"

"I was young, and foolish, and was still very afraid of..."

Myra laid a finger against his lips and she smiled sweetly, "Why tell me now?"

"My father, he..." Gavin shifted on his ass, his head whipping back towards the west. "I was tired of thinking of all the reasons it wouldn't work." Amber burning with a purpose turned to her and he said, "I wanted a reason worth trying for, worth living for. I wanted you."

With his old words pleading for love pressed against her heart, Myra fumbled to grip onto his hand. She willed the warming spell through the hold, watching as his cheeks flushed from the glow. "I..." Gavin darted his eyes around the rooftop. "I'm not certain what that means."

She didn't either. Go for it? Be with him again, see if the third time was the charm. And if it failed? If she had to pick herself up and try to move on?

In her chest, Myra felt her heart still. Her eyes slid closed as she tipped her head back and forth. Trapped inside her hand, Gavin's fingers tried to caress her palm back and forth. It was a big risk. A huge one really. Probably change her whole life kind of thing.

A smirk lifted on Myra's lips. She always was known for being reckless.

CHAPTER TEN

Finally

Diving forward, Myra fell straight into Gavin's perfect lips. Maker's sake, how many times did she practically squeal while trying to describe them to her friends? Pillowy but the firm kind, like a really good mattress that you knew would support you for years.

As the heat increased, she straddled on her knees across his lap -- her blanket knocked off the side to land in the rooftop snow. Gavin whispered something into her mouth that sounded like a prayer while his free hands moved down her back to cup her waist. Without any of the frills of the mage robes in the way, she could practically feel his naked fingers tempting her skin through the thin shirt. Blessed Andraste, what she wouldn't give for him to...

When Gavin reached the hem of her tunic, he didn't politely lift his hands up to her back, or pause the kissing and start reading. Digging right under, he drew his powerful fingers up the naked flesh of her waist.

"Dear Maker," Myra cursed, breaking away from the kiss as her spine arced to meet with his hands. She slammed her eyes tight while he scratched alive the skin that burned in its wake.

His amber eyes snapped open, the man reading to see how she reacted to his actions. Chuckling at the ever present concern, Myra gripped onto his chin, pressed her chest into his, and dove right back into kissing him.

With each draw of his hands against her, Myra's mouth opened, giving Gavin the perfect opportunity to dip his masterful tongue in. Long and lean, it twisted with hers in a haphazard ballet, Myra tasting him in a way she never thought would be possible again.

Dipping away from his chin, Myra's hand started at the top of his chest. The fold of muscle, those pillowed but flat as a cliff pecs, tempted her for years. She'd see them outlined under shirts, by the sweat of his body, or the rain he'd work in. Never being allowed to touch no matter how much she wanted to.

Now, Gavin squirmed to press his chest tighter to her hand while she worked her palm further down the pop of power he carried. There was a soft curve to his stomach muscles, the abs bent from his sit, but that lit her hotter. She wanted to lap up that soft fold, to dip her tongue in and out of the bend in his skin and warm flesh, to give a gentle tug while rubbing back and forth on his thighs.

In trailing lower to find the bottom of his abs, Myra's wrist knocked right into that illusive part of him she'd probably burnt nearly all of her imagination on over the years. Just the head skittered across her palm before she shifted away, but the touch caused Gavin's mouth to drop open in a gasp of pleasure.

Fear swarmed her stomach, Myra terrified that she'd just shoved him into something he wasn't ready for. In all their times making out when they were teenagers, she'd never gotten close to feeling him up even over pants. And now...

Gavin's fingers curled off her back to land on her stomach pooch. He seemed as fascinated with her softer flesh as she did his. Leaning closer, his hot breath wafted through her ear -- Myra shuddering as a result. "I want you," he breathed before those amber eyes burned with ferocity into hers.

A gulp lifted up Myra's throat, her spine trembling at both the hunger in his voice and the want boiling in her veins. "I'm...you know I'm not a virgin," she said, wincing even as it fell out. The fact she wasn't good enough to wait.

Those perfect lips lifted and Gavin snickered, "You are with me."

Blighted hell!

Wrapping her arms around the back of his head, Myra pulled his face to hers for more kissing. She couldn't stop thumbing his thick curls up and down in her fingers, getting a good grip while softly tugging. Each pull made him gasp a bit longer, letting her tongue slip in to play with his. His hands were busy too, rising up outside her tunic. She expected him to chastely caress her stomach, but they both lifted straight up her ribs to swirl over her breasts.

"Oh, yes," Myra moaned, tipping her head back as those great hands expertly coddled her chest. He began at the bottom, lifting what sparse flesh there was and making Myra squirm even harder on his thighs. They may be tiny things, but she adored having them touched.

It took almost nothing for her nipples to both announce themselves dramatically, Gavin switching from massaging her whole breast to lightly circling them instead. Gasping, Myra's forehead smacked into his as she prayed, "Blessed be the...fuuck."

The damn man playing her like a flute smiled, "I've ached to for so long."

Those amber eyes welled up in sincerity right beside hers, Myra gulping at how he wasn't just getting her good and wet, but driving her heart more open than it'd been in years. Cupping his jaw, she kissed him sweetly on the lips, almost as if they were 13 and sneaking away to that magical pond. Then she dipped down, her lips lapping along his. With her tongue, she skirted along the scar etched deep into his bottom lip. Gavin shifted in his seat, letting her suck his lip into her mouth, her teeth grazing across it.

Wanting more, Myra slipped lower, her lips trailing into his forest of scruff. It scratched against her, waking her skin the way his nails did while she worked along that square jaw. How many girls tittered over it? How many nearly walked into a door while staring at it? And how in the Maker's name was she the one kissing it?

At his ear, Myra playfully lapped her tongue against the dangling lobe. The man sucked in a breath, his arms trembling from her move as she raised her face higher. After licking along the shell, she paused right beside his ear and whispered, "For years, I've been dreaming of you climbing on top of me, knocking open my legs, and screwing me until the sun rises."

Gavin's breath hitched in his throat, his mouth hanging open while her filthy but true words rolled around in his brain. She couldn't hold it back anymore. Myra was never a good girl, whatever that looked like, and if he wanted to wait until some mythical wedding day then...

Amber eyes burned into hers, Gavin's face dead certain, "I want that too."

A yelp erupted from her throat at the drive in his voice. With her legs straddled so far apart, Myra's whole _cave of wonders_ was flashing a bunch of brilliant ideas to her brain. Every single one involved Gavin as naked as she'd dare dream, in a field of sunflowers with a book in his hands. Maker's breath, she flexed her thighs together while his hands curled around her waist and played with her shirt.

It's not a dream. It's not a dream. This is real. Please, let this be real because if I wake up in bed next to a snoring Joss...

Gavin's slippery, hot lips pressed a deep kiss to Myra's before he began to tug on her shirt. She ached to have it off, to feel his skin crushed against as much of hers as he could, but... The last time she took her shirt off around him, he dumped her. He had a good reason and all, but that wasn't a fear that vanished easily.

Sliding back a bit, Myra took control, her hands slowly lifting up the old tunic with an embroidered bear on the front. Real sexy, for certain. Why not add a few pompoms while at it. Ooh, they could go over her chest like fuzzy nipples. She raised the hem to just under her breasts and paused. If she ruined this again with the power of her naked chest what option was left for her other than fleeing to the chantry and taking a vow of chastity?

Her eyes darted over to find Gavin staring directly at her bare flesh, his teeth biting down on his lip while his still clothed chest heaved in a breath. Blessed Maker... Myra prayed to herself while yanking the shirt off over her head.

She barely had a chance to drop it to the side, when Gavin's warm hands cupped both of her breasts. No tunic in the way, no matter how thin, felt incredible. He was so gentle, teasing and not pinching, while firm and certain. Myra's internal temperature threatened to explode.

"It's, uh..." she risked an eye to stare down at the man keeping her boobs warm. "It's okay?"

His silky voice purred, "You're beautiful." She hadn't been fishing for a compliment, but that answered her question too. Tipping forward, Myra got in a few more kisses while Gavin explored her nipples. He was a quick learner, figuring out that corkscrewing his thumb and forefinger over her nips nearly caused Myra to black out in pleasure.

No, no, no, no! This isn't fair. Here she was braving the cold winter (while ignoring it thanks to magic) naked, and he got to sit there in his shirt. Not gonna happen.

Quickly, Myra snagged onto the neckline of his tunic, bunched it in her fist and dragged him to her lips. Gavin laughed at the move and leaned forward. That gave Myra the perfect opportunity to yank up the back of his shirt over his head. His noddly hair all piled forward until Gavin tipped that chiseled face back and smiled.

For a brief second his hands fell off her breasts, leaving them feeling all lonely, to tug himself free of his shirt. While bundling it up and tossing it to the side, Myra got to watch a true miracle of the Maker. Gavin's forearms popped just from him knotting his shirt into a ball, the dark arm hair wafting in the breeze. Her fingers cupped at his square wrist and worked their way higher until landing at his elbow and freezing.

"You can touch more," he whispered, a laugh in his voice.

Myra blinked, her heart stopped dead. She was stuck on his biceps. Sure, he'd occasionally roll his sleeves up revealing those forearm muscles as he dug into work, but sweet blighted Maker those arms should be outlawed. Or at least people warned that staring directly at them could cause blindness and fainting. Even with his hands just holding her, she could see that one vein rising over the top. What would it take to make it prod higher, his biceps straining from the load? Blessed Andraste, how could she be the one to watch that?

"It's, you're...give me a minute here, there's a lot to take in," she gasped, finally letting her eyes travel to that chest. Maybe it was absence clouding her memory, but she could swear it looked stronger than when they were seventeen. Prouder. Braver. It'd been lean before, almost too lean, but the years had put a small layer of softness overtop -- the cuddle layer -- while leaving all that jaw dropping muscle intact.

Gavin picked up her frozen hand by the wrist. Her fingers hung limply a moment until, by the back of her hand, he pressed her palm against his chest. Myra probably made some stupid sound, like a druffalo that just found a crate of carrots or similar, but she couldn't hear it. Her ears were jammed with crushing waves as she let herself live the impossible fantasy.

With Gavin guiding her, her hand traipsed down the mountainous terrain of his body. By the veilfire, his luxurious brown skin took on an otherworldly glow -- almost as if he was a spirit himself.

A spirit of sex!

Focus, Myra. Don't be that stupid.

At his stomach, the abs playing a round of peekaboo from his sit, Myra dipped her pinkie into his bellybutton. That caused him to smile a moment, seeming to enjoy her antics, when he bundled her hand in his. With thumb and pinkie holding her palm, he pulled her lower towards his whole, uh thunderous area, until she glanced across the crown of his cock.

Moaning, Gavin let go and dug his hands into the ground. He let Myra take control, her hand gently waffling over the prodding feature as she cupped it into her palm. Even with the trousers in the way, she could feel the foreskin slipping further back to reveal as much of the head as it dared. She tried to glide it around, but those cursed pajama pants kept tenting up and sliding away.

Myra grabbed onto the hem and tried to work them down, when she paused and looked up at Gavin. He seemed lost in his own sea of pleasure, but without her hands pumping away, he cracked open an eye to look at her. A smile of realization rose and he raised up on his hips to worry his trousers downward.

She tried to lean over to catch a view of his naked ass, but he landed on it too quick. Next time, Myra promised herself, while fully forgetting that there was a main event right before her. He only worked his trousers down to his thighs before Gavin had to abandon ship, but it left more than enough room for his cock to raise high through the night air.

"I, uh," Gavin flushed and the long buried dork returned. He pawed at the back of his neck and gazed heavenward, "it's not anything great..."

Myra snorted, her lips salivating for a taste. Forming a circle between her thumb and forefinger, she twisted around the above average thickness. While bringing the rest of her fingers around and sliding upwards, she whispered, "It's fantastic."

Grabbing onto her cheek, Gavin pulled her to his lips while she began to work him over good. Every other tug on that ol' trouser snake, he'd gasp in her mouth. The hot blast of air drove her wilder, Myra aching to bring him all the way, to feel him explode in her. She gave him one last kiss, her tongue twirling around with his as a preview, before she began to scrunch down.

Gavin's hand curled down her naked back, resting as he waited. When she drew her face near his cock, Myra dangled her tongue out and gave one slow lick from the straights on the cap up to the top. She anticipated a groan, and there was one as the ecstatic audience in her hands twitched, but Gavin suddenly tensed up under her.

It was quick, his legs locking tight and arms, yes, bulging. She pulled away in concern, her eyes meeting his closed lids while a flinch played over his face. Myra reached out to cup his cheek, when he risked looking at her. Sweat rose upon his brow as he stuttered, "Not...uh, not yet. Not with that. Please?"

"Ookay," she was fully lost. That was practically demanded as the appetizer in her other relationships, but he seemed very uncomfortable with the whole concept. "We don't have to do anything below the belt," Myra said. Though after getting this worked up she'd have to get herself off alone or be curled up with cramps for awhile.

Gavin smiled through the strain and pulled her to him for a kiss. She expected it to be the innocent one, a sign off for later, but he dove fully in. His hands plied through her shorter hair, tugging just right as he pushed harder against her. Myra scrambled to try and keep upright, her body bending backwards from the force while he started pressing hot kisses against the skin of her neck. Soft as a whisper, he began to nip with the edge of his teeth, causing Myra to moan while her thighs clenched tighter wanting anything hard to ride.

Abandoning her neck, which felt as if a desire demon curled its taunting fingers upon her, Gavin's lips sucked upon the top of her breasts. A silly giggle rose in her throat, Myra growing ticklish at the whisper kisses -- until he found her nipple.

Her hands knotted into his curls, practically pinning the man to her breast as he swirled his tongue with her nipple. The two were performing some magical dance that had her teeth sparking and her bottom squirming for joy. Not about to leave another out, Gavin switched sides, taking his time to cause Myra to whimper in so much exquisite torture it was a wonder she could still breathe.

"My..." he coughed a moment, his voice thick with lust, "Myra, may I?" Gavin gestured towards her own in the way trousers. Blighted hell, why was his adorable asking such a turn on? He was all but blushing as if she wasn't half naked already, his body trembling in anticipation.

Grabbing onto the waistband, Myra yanked her damn pants off in one quick go. Her boots plopped off her feet while she waved her cursed long legs about. Shifting and scrunching up, she tried to paw at her ankle which wouldn't give up its hold on her trousers without a fight. "Damn things are too long," she muttered, when brown fingers caught above hers.

Slowly, Gavin curled his hand against her ankle and like those princes in fairytales about shoes, he helped to guide her trousers off her feet. She'd definitely have paid more attention if the stories involved the prince yanking off the fair maiden's trousers. Fully naked, Myra sat her bare ass on her blanket, her feet planting firmly into the ground while she watched her knees knocking into each other.

_Are you really going to do this?_

There was no regret. At all. In everything in Myra's life this was probably one of the least trepidatious choices ever. Up there with always getting a large order of cinnamon rolls instead of only one.

But it seemed impossible. Five years, she'd moved away, he became this great hero knight savior, her love life wasn't liable to kickstart any fantasies, and he...blighted hell, look at him!

The him in that equation tugged off the last of his trousers as well, leaving them both as naked as the Maker intended. She tried to hone in on his biceps, or the thighs, but her eyes kept skipping right down to that penis wafting back and forth as he moved. Sweet Andraste, she wanted that thing.

Not like in a jar or anything. That'd be morbid and weird.

Just to borrow for a few bone melting minutes.

And Gavin was trying to kill the awkward time by folding up their clothing. He must be terrified of how to start what comes next. Sliding around, Myra scooped her legs around his middle. The socks of all things slipped from his fingers as her straining thighs tugged him closer. On the walk over, Gavin's hands caressed up her hip, trailed the barely there divot of her waist, and landed right beside her shoulder.

Sitting up, Myra curled both her arms around the back of his neck and pulled his forehead against hers. "I really, really want you," she breathed. _To plow me into next Sunday, preferably_ , but baby steps and all.

Gavin's heartbreaking smile, the one that she wished she could preserve in a locket over her heart, beamed over his entire handsome face. "And I you."

Cupping his cheek, Myra kissed him slowly, sweetly. As Gavin began to melt in her grip, her hand traveled down his taut body. The back muscles were so tight it was a wonder they didn't snap at her invasion. Sliding her hand under, Myra traced along his stomach -- which was fluttering. Was she his first since...?

Maker's breath, My, you know you are. This is Gavin.

Tenderly, she reached between his legs, her fingers skirting up and down the shaft of his cock. Those amber eyes opened a moment as he stared hard into hers. When he nodded his head, Myra opened up her thighs and guided him into her. The pressure of his cock bumping up into her lips made her bite down in anticipation, but Gavin seemed to be waiting.

She let her hand fall away and curled both around his back. Her eyes darted around a moment to try and get her bearings, when she looked deep into his. Five years, five hair pulling years while she kept falling into horrible or boring guy's beds and he...he kept on. It was a long time to fantasize, a long time to...

"Sweet merciful Maker!" Myra cried. Gavin thrust in, filling her faster than she ever anticipated. He didn't move quick, and he was thicker than she expected, but blessed Andraste it was wonderful.

"Are you...?" he whispered, his eyes closed as if he too was hanging upon this moment.

Myra dug her nails into his back, hoisted her head closer, and whispered in his ear, "Do it again."

The smile was instantaneous and Gavin did as commanded. The thrusts were shallow at first, Myra savoring every time he filled her, but when the man grunted from deep in his chest she lifted her legs higher. His cock slid so far in, Myra shrieked in giddy delight.

"Faster," she ordered, trying to stagger her ass up in order to meet him. Grunting, Gavin increased his speed, every perfect thrust bringing more soul rocking reverberations through Myra. She matched him in kind, her thighs straining to pull herself onto him and he thrusted up into her. They moved as one, even their breath falling into the same pattern as together they merged into one fucking person.

"Holy Maker!" Gavin cried, his hips stopping dead. And then she felt the tell tale sign of why warming and squishing up inside her. The spent man buried his face against Myra's neck, incomprehensible words dripping from his lips while he held her tight. She wrapped around him, his dripping cock still inside her. Myra's arms hugged him tight while he kept talking adorable gibberish.

As he pulled back, Myra almost smacked her head into the ground in shock to find tears in his eyes. "Gavin?" she reached towards his cheeks, her heart compressed into an ice cube from the pain on his face.

"It's..." he didn't shake her off, or stagger away, but remained close to her embrace. Myra tugged him on top of her, his head nestling near her breast. With one hand drawing up and down her arm he sighed, "This year has been awful." She pursed her lips but couldn't argue. "I feared that...that I was cursed and confessing to you the truth you'd, not this. I never dreamed this would..."

He lifted his head to look right into her concerned eyes, "Thank you."

Smiling at his damn sincerity, Myra cupped his cheeks in her hands and pulled him in for a kiss. She should get up, clean up, get dressed, cast a certain 'keep babies away' spell. But he was so warm, and tender. How could a man that looked like he could walk through a mountain be more tender than a basket of kittens?

Gavin broke away a moment, his amber eyes burning in hers. "I, uh," he licked his lips, "I want you to...um, enjoy yourself too."

"Oh, I did," Myra said with a knowing smile. Maker did she ever.

"No, I mean...ya know. All the, um, wow parts."

"Oh," she was speechless. It shouldn't be surprising he cared, but based upon her sampling of men when it came to that hard of work after they got theirs, it was. Big time.

"I'm not, um, I haven't really got much experience in any of that, and..."

Myra curled her hands with his, "Follow my lead."

A smile lifted on his cheeks as he let her pull his strong fingers downward, "Always."

She started him off slow, the tip of his forefinger swirling over the top of her clit. Myra bucked to match the rising swell, her tongue falling slack in her mouth while Gavin kept pressing petal soft kisses to her body. Unable to take anymore of the torture, Myra shifted his fingers down. The middle got right to the heart of the action while the first kept on its slow tease above.

After all that amazing buildup with him, she was so close she wanted to scream and bite something. Her hand fell away, leaving Gavin fully in control. "Don't. Stop," Myra gasped, her breath lodging tight in her throat while he did exactly that. Not faster, no moving, just the absolute perfect swirl of fingers exactly where she needed them.

Her body hung on that delicious cliff for what felt an eternity, Myra clinging to it with every clench inside of her. And when she released, the orgasm walloped her so hard, her ears popped. She gasped, not expecting that, nor how her body was curling in on itself to try and preserve every tremor of pleasure ratcheting through her.

When breath was able to drip from her lips, she whispered a prayer of thanks to whoever was listening. In this case Gavin, who was smiling widely at her reaction. Tears sprung up in Myra's eyes as well, small ones of joy, as she grabbed both of his cheeks. In her loudest voice, she shouted, "I love you," then tugged him to her lips for a kiss.

Oh Maker.

Myra.

You did not just tell a man you loved him right after sex.

Shit.

Her eyes darted towards Gavin, the man curled up on his side from watching her writhe around in the pleasure he created. "So, uh..." she began, the warmth that threatened to burn her soul like the birth of a phoenix fading fast as she surveyed her big error. "I said that thing..."

"You were excited," he laughed, "very excited. I understand."

"Yeah," Myra dug into her neck and sighed, "About that. Well...um." Closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath, "I love you. I love you a lot. I mean, you always love someone a lot otherwise it's not love. And I wanted to say it somewhere special instead of...then. But I didn't because I'm stupid and--"

Gavin kissed the tip of her nose, then her slack lips. "Myra, I love you, and you telling me while your naked body was pressed against mine will be far more memorable than you painting it on a wall."

"I was thinking of getting a bunch of turtles together and spelling it out. Though, the turtles might start to walk away and then it'd spell something like I levy you. Then we're stuck looking for a dam to save face, and it's a big old mess."

He didn't sigh, didn't tell her to shut up or that she was being stupid. Gavin snickered at her babbling and kissed her again. "It's the little moments," he said.

"Hm?"

"Those are what I want most with you," he curled on his back and pulled her onto his chest. The warmth between them was greater than her spell, greater than the round of sex they shared. She could feel it practically seeping out of the fade, as if something wanted them to remain like this. A spirit of love?

Myra snickered, trying to shake away her cheesy thoughts, "After that performance, I hope you want some big moments too, because...that bears a repeat."

Smiling, Gavin pressed a loving kiss to her forehead, "I'm glad, because...I happen to agree with you."

"Seven years bad luck anytime someone says that," Myra said, unable to stop the laughter jangling about in her chest. She was so stupidly happy, happier than she thought she could be. "Though, I have to say, I never thought our first time would be on a roof in winter."

Gavin peered out over the slumbering city, barely anything save a few puffs of grey smoke breaking through the night's cloak. "I don't know, Denerim's rather beautiful up here."

"Yes," Myra nodded, staring only at his perfect face, "it is."

A great sigh raised up Gavin's chest as he cuddled Myra tighter to him. His fingers began to playfully dart up and down her nose and across her cheeks as they listened to each other's heartbeats. He wanted her. She wanted him. They were a thing. More than a thing, they were in love. They were...

By the void, what came next?

"Hm," he mused, breaking Myra from her turn, "your freckles are not as obvious as I remember."

"Oh yeah, they tend to vanish when I'm trapped inside all the time staring at runes and reading tomes thicker than your head," she laughed it off, not thinking much of her fields of freckles.

But Gavin dotted the tip of his pinkie upon her cheeks and he sighed, "Do you think they might return?"

If she stepped away from the college, if she returned to running about in the sunlight her face would look like someone splattered her in brown paint once again. If she found a good reason to stay in Denerim, to set up a shop of her own, to finally do something with her one day plans.

Gripping onto Gavin's hand and willing a beat of her warmth to him, Myra smiled, "Count on it."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Wedding Bells

He loved weddings. For starters, they were the one formal occasion guaranteed that he wasn't the center of attention. Sure, people still bowed to their King, let him cut in line at the buffet and all. But he could be a spectator for once instead of the pretend master of ceremonies while a dozen other people behind the scenes pulled levers.

There was also all the amazing food often drifting just behind the scenes. Most of the chefs were more than happy to have a King pop into their kitchens to give a little looksee over the wedding feast before the big day. He didn't take much, just a few nibbles here and there. And he knew better than to touch the cake.

"Your Majesty," a blush of women grabbed onto their dresses and curtsied. There were gobs of them all over the chantry, some in the official garb of playing as witness, others in similar but not quite right gowns. Something about tradition and blah blah, he stopped listening the second Karelle pulled out her second scroll.

"Big day, huh?" Alistair smiled at the girls who were futzing with the flowers in their hair. A couple giggled as if they were the next down the aisle. Shit. Maybe they were. Bang 'em all out lightning fast. No reason to not do it all in one go.

"Any of you fine ladies know where I can find the groom?"

A gloved hand pointed towards a door down the back of the chantry and Alistair tipped his head in thanks. He felt rather fine in his outfit, though a few rolled their eyes at the tails upon his overcoat. Outdated, perhaps, but this wasn't Orlais. It seemed unlikely anyone would challenge him to a duel for wearing something out of season. Plus, they were fun. Kids in particular loved grabbing onto the King's tails and hanging on tight while he dashed about on slick floors.

Seeing as this was a wedding, there were fewer of the free-wheeling children around and both them and Alistair had to be on their best behaviors. Some were probably being stuffed into all the tulle in thedas so only a growling face demanding a lolly could be seen, but the rest were elsewhere. Running a finger along the top hat he also had to get creative about sneaking into his wardrobe, Alistair knocked on the door.

"Yeah?" a voice called from inside. He wasn't really certain what to expect from him; either total nervous breakdown with plans to escape, or a cold acceptance of reality. Maybe both.

As Alistair cracked open the door, he peered inside the Mother's office. The bride was off in the Grand Cleric's room being perfumed and primped within an inch of her life. He anticipated a few more of the groom's friends to be hanging about getting him psyched up and a little drunk, but it was empty save the lone body staring at a full length mirror. Tugging on the end of a knot wrapped around his neck, the golden insignia kept shifting from slightly on the left, to the right, and back.

"Blighted thing. How does it...?"

"Here," Alistair let the door close behind as he stepped inside. "I know a thing or two about those damn knots. Forty years in, you'd hope so."

He laughed to himself while struggling to undo whatever random square knot someone put in on the shoulder. "Let's see, this goes under here. This does a loop with that. Lift your arm, and...there!" Alistair stepped back from his work to find the golden rope weaved perfectly around to give the illusion of a royal thing. In his mind it looked like a cat's cradle that got out of control and pinned to your chest, but it was important.

"I'm surprised you had trouble," Alistair smiled as he clapped the groom on the shoulder.

Cailan's blue eyes darted around the room while he fiddled with one of the prince pins jammed onto his chest. "Mine is...normally not so intricate. But, mother insisted for today that I wear this monstrosity."

"So that's where it went. Here I thought a mabari finally ripped it to shreds. Well, maybe after the wedding," Alistair chuckled while eyeing up his son. He tried to not feel too old, even when he'd have to ooze out of bed until someone cracked his back, or limit his cheese intake dramatically lest his chest burn with fire later. But watching his kids one by one walk down the aisle was the Maker's way of saying 'You're an old fart now. Accept it. Get big into pudding, telling people to get off your lawn, and complaining in front of the King about how things are different now.'

"How ya doing?" he asked.

Cailan scratched the back of his ear and tipped up and down on his toes. "Good, I think. We have all the people in place. My bride is getting dressed. Right?" He turned towards Alistair, the first sign of panic cracking through his shell.

"Yup, saw our Comtess Dynesia dashing about with half her hair down and a thousand women chasing after -- all armed with brushes and hairpins. This should be an interesting wedding."

His son took in a deep breath, then darted back to the mirror. For this momentous occasion, he'd cut his hair shorter than usual, the black locks parted on the side instead of straight down the middle. He'd also finally shaved away that smattering of stubble that kept bugging Bea every time she spotted it. Wearing a doublet in much the same style as his father's, Cailan's was as icy blue as his eyes. There'd probably been long discussions on how it had to match perfectly.

"Dad?" The reflection of Cailan's eyes darted up to the old man standing in the back of the mirror. "When you married, were you at all nervous?"

Alistair snickered, "I was pretty good, but that may have been due to the gallons of alcohol washing about inside my gut." His son laughed a moment at the truth; both of them walked right into an arranged marriage because of the color of their blood.

"Oh, is this when I should give you some advice on being married?" He tugged up on the front of his hair, easily messing up what the groomers spent hours on. "Let's see...listen."

When nothing else came, Cailan turned to his dad, "Listen? Is that all you've acquired so far?"

"I've found that if you can manage that, the rest sort of falls into place. But listening's a lot harder than you think. That," he knocked into Cailan's forehead, "and that," now he gently jabbed at his cinched in stomach, "can get in the way a lot."

"Understood," the boy who...no, he's a man. He'd been a man for a few years. Twenty five and there was no denying it now, even if sometimes Alistair tipped his head and saw a pig tailed girl and a toddler in short pants running around in his study.

Reaching over, Alistair wrapped Cailan in a side hug. The groom didn't stop fussing with his outfit, but he did glance over. "I'm proud of you. Have I said that yet?"

"A few times."

"It's a bit awkward, this whole 'Hi, we barely know each other and now we're married' bits, but...give it time. Take the time, don't try and rush it."

Cailan nodded a moment before he smiled, "Are you concerned I shall besmirch the good Comtess' name?"

"Knowing you? Repeatedly, and half the reception hall shall overhear it," Alistair chuckled, grateful beyond measure that they'd all be free of this curse of chastity put upon him. It was a brilliant tactic on the bride's part, ensuring her groom would be at the chantry with bells on. Cailan was so screwed with her, but Bea probably got it right. He needed someone crafty to keep him in line.

Picking up his gloves, Cailan dangled both over his arm while he got in one final look at his appearance. Seeming to accept it, he turned over to the old man who looked presentable enough, but should probably be sitting outside the wedding telling passerby's outlandish stories about boats and birds. "Thanks," Cailan smiled, "for fixing my knot of office."

"That's what I'm here for. And seat filling. I'm an expert at that. Sit in chair. Don't move. True savant really."

His son snickered, and a hand reached over to shake Alistair's. He took it a moment and smiled. Around them the bells began to chime. Another ten minutes until showtime. He needed to get...somewhere. Probably somewhere important. Eh, Karelle would jab him into place as she always did.

Alistair turned to leave to give his son a few final moments of freedom to himself before he paused. "You know, we could have invited Cordell here."

"After Rosie's ban? She seemed rather adamant and shooty about it."

"There are always loopholes. A few hours at least, to watch you get married. It's an important day and all." Alistair shifted on his feet. Things had grown chilly between the two of them when the full truth came out. He should have expected it. He loved Cailan, he was his son, but they never clicked the way he did with Spud. His radish was so very different that sometimes they only found commonality by talking and laughing about the differences. Cailan took up residence further south near Gwarrin afterwards, on the assumption that his skills were put to better use in a new port city. The Queen spent half her year with her son, and the other up here in theory with her husband but everyone knew it was to be near Rosie.

Alistair would do all he could to keep his kids close, but he couldn't really blame them for wanting to stretch their wings a bit. The collar could chafe.

Trying to not feel too bad for himself as he came to accept the future of a lonely palace, Alistair began to shift towards the door. A hand landed on his shoulder and he turned to Cailan's ice blue eyes. "Far as I'm concerned, I only have one Dad. I don't want anyone else here."

Alistair spun back and wrapped his son in a hug. He expected the man to go limp or try to wiggle out, but Cailan returned it. His arms dug in while both men thought back to all the other hugs in his lifetime. How many times Alistair would scoop up the baby toddling along and place him on his back. How he'd sit on the nursery rug listening to a long winded story from an ecstatic boy. How he'd be bowled over by some random piles of numbers and barely be able to follow the words spitting out of Cailan's lips. How he missed his son with all his heart even if he understood why he had to break free.

"I," Alistair tried to wipe away the tears quick as he staggered back. "I should go before everyone starts screaming that the King's vanished."

Cailan snickered, "That was a fun Soul Day though."

"Get locked in one barn on accident and suddenly people think the entire monarchy's about to collapse," Alistair sighed, shaking his head. "Good luck, son. You'll do wonderful."

"Thanks, Dad."

Alistair cracked open the door and was about to slide out when he paused to add, "Oh, and make sure you say the right girl's name otherwise...ooh I would not want to be in your shoes."

* * *

Waving away a platter piled high with roast pig stuffed with some kind of tiny bird, maybe bluejays? Alistair patted his far too fluffy stomach. Blessed Maker, if anyone tried to get him to try this or that nibble he was going to explode into a spray of guts all over the place. Bit of a downer for the happy couple.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught said wedded blissers staring lovingly into each other's eyes. Cailan held his new bride's hand as if he was constantly helping her to cross the street. Was she a princess now, or something else? Something about the Arlessa of somewhere. Eh, he could ask Karelle later if it mattered.

"The ceremony was lovely," the big sop beside him sniffled. She'd been on a constant drip since the moment her baby boy walked down the aisle all alone.

"What little was visible through all the tears," Alistair said to the Queen.

Beatrice folded into her lap her handkerchief that at this point was pulling a triple shift. "He's my son. I couldn't help but get a little flustered at how much he's grown."

"I don't remember so much blubbering at Spud's wedding." Which wasn't that big of a surprise. Rosie and her mother would sometimes come to a head over matters, but Cailan was her baby boy. No questioning that.

The Queen shrugged, "I did tear up seeing her all poised...and, walking down the aisle with her..." Bea sniffled and tugged up a fresh lacy hankie to cover her nose.

"Oh Maker," Alistair couldn't stop the laugh in his chest, "here they come again."

"Are you really so callow as to not feel swept up in this moment? Both of our children so grown that they're married, begun families of their own?"

Alistair tipped his head to the side. He still had one more yet to go, and he rather doubted Rosie or Cailan were going to vanish into the ether with their spouses. But... Reaching over, Alistair patted the top of Bea's hand. Her cold, emerald eyes darted over to him, but he was smiling sweetly.

"It got to me too. Seeing them so tall and saying those binding words. Our babies are having babies."

"Maker turn his gaze on Cailan," Beatrice whispered with a prayer, but the edge of her eyes were crinkling up. This was about as civil as the two of them got.

At least the wedding planning on his end was easy. _Bea, what do you need from me? Nothing. Great. I'll be out hunting. Ta._

Shifting in his chair, Alistair followed his Queen's gaze to the man dabbing a bit of soup off his new wife's chin. "I wouldn't worry. Kid's a bit strange but he'll get the hang of it."

After smiling, with eyes only for the blushing bride, Cailan's ice blue glare whipped over to the parents. "Are you quite finished dissecting me?"

"Got a bit of a mouth on him though," Alistair said while scratching his chin.

Beatrice laughed in her little held-in lilt, "All of your children do."

"True, very very true," he sighed, massaging into his temples. Rosamund was working the crowds, doing her princessly duties, and somewhere out there was Myra hopefully not getting into too much trouble. What he really wanted right now was to find himself a small glass of liquor, curl up in his favorite chair, and watch the fire pop. Also to yank off this damn vest they strapped him into. It was so tight, he suspected all his internal organs made their way to his brain or feet.

Alistair stood up, wanting to make good on his plan even if he knew he'd get swept up in politics on the way out, when a preternatural hush fell over the crowd. He held his breath too, his eyes drawn across the stilled ballroom as the doors opened to a heavenly sight. A woman stood there, her hands crossed under her breasts which were swaddled in golden fabric the same color as her hair. She stepped in softly, no boots on for once. The dancing slippers barely made a sound as she crossed into the ballroom. One of the guards turned to the elf waltzing in as she owned the place.

All but leaping over the tables, Alistair dashed through the happy crowds of people to intercept her before any problems began. Those sweeping meadowy eyes crinkled at the edges, her smile wrinkles always bringing more to him.

"Reiss," he breathed, picking up her hand and pulling her closer. She floated on her shoes into his embrace. "I didn't think you were going to come."

"Well," she shrugged, her cascade of golden hair shimmering in the move. It was already white in great streaks along the roots, giving her an ombre look as it reached to the small of her back. "I finished early and...thought you might like a dance or two."

Alistair smiled wider, his soul lifting in joy. It'd been burdened a lot lately, and while many couldn't understand what the death of Lanny meant to him, at least he had Reiss and his children to help him get through it.

Darting his hand forward, he moved to scoop up the love of his life into his arms, when his hand instinctively drew apart her golden hair. "No bun?"

"I thought it would be more festive."

"You are the most beautiful person here," Alistair whispered in her remaining ear.

The woman in her 60's with greying hair, scars from a hard life, and a scab where her ear once was turned to the man staring dumbstruck at her. "There are dozens of beautiful women a quarter of my age in attendance," Reiss pointed out while jabbing towards the tittering maids.

Alistair shook his head, "I can't see 'em. I can't see a damn thing. You blinded me with your beauty."

"Maker's breath," she rolled those intoxicating eyes and playfully shoved at his chest. But then that smile appeared and Reiss grabbed onto his shoulder to pull him in for a kiss. Sweeter than anything he had a right to, Alistair wanted more but there was a lot of extended and super extended family hanging around. Probably best to keep it all ages appropriate for now.

"Would you care to dance, my lady?" he extended his hand to her with an emphatic finish. Reiss sighed, grabbed it, and tugged him to grip right against the small of her back.

As she slid her hands up his shoulders to knot behind his neck, Alistair fell into something of the beat. He didn't really care what was going on, he had her in his arms. For a time, Reiss glanced around -- no doubt doing her detective thing -- but that wore away to the woman inside who got to enjoy a dance with the man she loved.

When she nuzzled her cheek against his chest, Alistair sighed in contentment. "I adore you," he whispered, twisting her around to avoid the swivel of couples actually dancing to the beat. Ignore your old king and his love, they're gonna hang out in the slow lane for awhile.

Reiss looked up at him and sighed, "I feel silly in this dress."

Tipping his head, he gazed down at her body clinging tight to the golden waves. The skirt puffed out a bit, emphasizing her hips, and the bodice...Maker, he adored how low it cut. With one of those v dips right above her sternum and hints to the outline of the breasts on either side. There was a good chance he might start drooling a little from the view.

"You look beautiful in it," Alistair whispered, secretly aching to yank it off her.

"It's Myra's, I'm far too old to be in it," she kept on beating herself up. "But I didn't have anything else..."

"Reiss," Alistair turned her on the dance floor, then scooped her tight into his arms, "I am head choppingly jealous of that dress right now because it gets to touch you in all the places I can't."

She snickered at his flirting, but he knew that spark in her eyes. There wasn't going to be any quietly retiring to his study tonight. Well, they might run off to the study. That desk was a good height after all.

"How was the ceremony?" she tried to change tactics even while her body swayed closer to his. He was lost in the press of her breasts to his chest, and the shaking bell of her hips.

"Hm...good. Got the kid married off, so it did what it was supposed to..." The rousing attention in his trousers from her hips pressing into his waned as he turned to look back at his children. Rosie made her way over to Cailan, the two talking about something. Whatever it was, Cailan rolled his eyes, plucked up a bottle of wine, and began to chug it.

"I can't believe two of them are already married off. How did they get so old?"

"Probably around the time we got very old," Reiss chuckled. He joined in even if he didn't believe it. Alistair was old, but Reiss...even at eighty, ninety, a hundred she'd never be old. Not with those eyes that could rival an orlesian garden and a tongue that would henpeck the orlesian gardener.

 "Speaking of kids," she said, "did you see who ours brought as an escort?"

Alistair nodded, his lips brushing against her ear, "I did. That was kind of her to ask him, invite him as a distraction after everything he's been through."

"Judging by how they've been secretly holding hands under the table the whole time, kindness had nothing to do with it."

"What?" Alistair whipped his head over to find his youngest sitting in her spot at the table. The man beside her was in a borrowed doublet instead of his knight armor, Gavin smiling a bit at whatever Myra said. Both had their hands on the table, one cupping a glass, the other fiddling with a napkin.

"They're not..." he began, when both of the kids made _those_ eyes at each other and their hands vanished under the cloth. "Blighted toe of Andraste. How long has this been going on?"

"Not very," Reiss said.

"Did she tell you?"

"Of course not," the mother who always knew scoffed. "They're worried."

Alistair tried to look back, but Reiss tugged him away to face a different direction, "About what?"

"You."

"Me? What did I do?"

"You, not approving. It's at that whole moon eyes, and sneaking kisses, and whispering stupid things into each other's ear stage. Very early."

He slowed in his dancing to beam his puppy dog eyes right into hers. "I dunno, it seems I still adore staring directly into your beautiful eyes." A bit of a blush rose on Reiss' cheeks and she snickered.

"And I try to steal every kiss from you I can get away with." He pulled their conjoined hands together in order to place his lips against his finger and then press it to her lips. Reiss sighed at the contact, her shrewd eyes calculating how many people were looking at her right now and weighing the risk of going for the real thing.

Alistair slid closer, the woman he was too damn lucky to have in his life folding tight against his body. "And I whisper into your ear every chance I can."

"Usually stupid things too," Reiss smiled, but she licked her lip at the thought. Maker, he wanted to pick her up in his arms and carry her away.

"I love you," he said, his heart thumping harder in his chest.

She smiled, "That's probably the stupidest of them all."

"No, I..." the playing fell away, Alistair gasping as the finality of it all landed upon him. He'd curse about getting older to anyone in earshot but he never thought it a possibility. Not until Lanny...

Bundling up Reiss' hands in his own, the two old lovers froze in the middle of the dance floor. Seas of younger couples floated around them while they clung to each other. "I love you, and every damn day I am left in this world I am forever grateful that you found me, you saved me," he cupped her cheek that was starting to burn with a blush, "That you loved me."

"Alistair," she breathed, the first sign of tears glistening on her eyelashes. He'd done a lot of stuff in his life, some good, some occasionally going totally bottom's up, but he knew there was nothing he could have done to deserve her.

"Yeah?" he prompted, feeling as giddy and foolish as the first time they kissed out in the courtyard. Though some of that stomach knot may have been from her kicking him.

Reiss bit into her lip and tipped her head to the side, "Let's get out of here."

"Oh yes!" he gasped. And, despite being in his 60's, he plucked Reiss up in his arms. She laughed, insisting he put her down, but he felt as if he could carry the world at the moment. "Out of the way," Alistair cried, parting through the crowds, "love emergency." The entire walk to the door, she nuzzled tight to his chest -- the she that was forever tattooed in his heart.

Laughing, Reiss snatched up a bottle of wine before the two vanished from the party entirely.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Majesty

Princess Rosamund smiled to the men she'd been leading around on a tour of the palace. In truth, she hadn't stopped smiling since breakfast and her cheeks were liable to snap like a twig soon. The ache traveled all the way up to her eyes, but there were appearances to keep and a long bath awaited her after, when her father took over.

"Gentlemen," she commanded to get their attention, "as you can see, this statue dates from nearly four hundred years ago around the time of the fourth blight."

A few rounds of aha's and hm's broke out while the men all scratched their pointed beards. When she first spotted them, Rosie grew a theory that all men in that region had a predisposition for their hair to grow to a dagger's point. Then she met their leader and realized it was less blood at work more dictated style. Some seemed to be struggling with the fashion, wearing what appeared to be false hair attached to their chins, which bobbed and weaved with every scratch.

Well, that was probably enough time to look at an old horse. On to the next...

"Your Highness," a voice gasped, feet sliding across the tiled floor before the servant managed to slow.

"Yes?" Rosie clung to her shroud of eternal calm while mentally she began to tick over everything that could be going fatally wrong in her world.

After adjusting her tunic, the messenger pointed behind her, "The Rivaini ambassador has returned."

Her face remained polite neutral by sheer willpower while Rosie watched a woman saunter into the room and command it in an instant. A gorgeous, red silk-lined half cape dangled off her shoulder -- stations of her new office. The doublet was more scarlet than black now, but it was hard to deny how the color made her tattoos pop and skin shine.

Dipping her head down, Anjali greeted the princess with a smile, "Good afternoon."

Despite her lips aching, Rosie couldn't hide the rise of her smile as she stepped a touch closer to Anjali. "Ambassador," she greeted her, causing Anjali to snort a moment as if the title were still a facade. "You've returned early."

"Caught a fast ship," she shrugged, then those umber eyes burned hard into Rosie's, "and I had good reason to get back fast."

"I trust your mission ended well," Rosie asked, nearly pinching herself to keep professional. No doubt that was why the servant was sent skittering ahead as a warning. Did they have so little trust in her to maintain her composure?

Anjali, part time ambassador and occasional assassin nodded. "It did." Another problem finished, permanently. Good.

"And..." Rosie paused, her eyes darting up and down Anjali's beautiful face. She'd gained a new scar across her nose a few months back, but it was healing quickly until only a soft tan remained in its place. "Did you speak to your...contact?"

The assassin winced, but her head began to slowly sway. "I did. She wasn't ecstatic to see me again, but...she didn't run me out of the village on sword point either. So...good news, I guess." Anjali absently reached down to the sword hanging on her hip. It was more for show than anything, the assassin defaulting to daggers when she was working. But a sword told people that the person carrying it was important. As if the golden necklace sporting rubies the size of fingernails and her fine, wool and silk clothing weren't enough of a tip off.

For a beat, Rosie stared deep into Anjali's eyes and she returned the favor. A thousand unsaid words passed between the two women, Rosie aching to ask her about how her talk with her mother went, and also comfort her knowing that it couldn't have been easy. Coughing snapped her away, courtesy of the servant who remained to act as chaperone.

"Thank you for your report, Ambassador," Rosie said with a tip of her head.

Anjali placed her hands upon the grip of her sword and smiled, "My Majesty."

A few of the visiting gentlemen chuckled, nearly everyone finding Anjali's honorific for the Princess humorous -- as if she confused two due to her native tongue. But Rosie knew the truth and she secretly smiled inside her fluttering stomach at it.

"Gentlemen," Rosie clapped her hands, "how about a tour of the gardens? They're lovely this time of year!"

* * *

Hands shredded apart the buttons on the back of her dress, a warm palm scooping against her flesh and struggling to try and cup her ass. Rosie's lips refused to leave the sanctuary of Anjali's perfect mouth. She already had to forgo two months without them, any longer and they might whither away. Both stumbled through Rosie's apartments, emptied quickly with a single sentence: "The ambassador has returned."

"Anjali," Rosie moaned, her lover making quick work to undo what took three handmaidens twenty minutes to cinch on. Her dress popped open fully at the back, all it needed was the princess to wiggle her arms out, but they were too full with the woman she missed incessantly.

Her beautiful assassin lapped her tongue against Rosie's bottom lip before placing a quick kiss to her chin. Suddenly, Rosie's body shuddered as she realized she walked backwards straight into the side of her bed. "Oh, dear," she tried to steady herself to keep from falling when Anjali shrugged.

Wrapping her hands around Rosie, Anjali hefted her up high and tossed her onto the bed. The entire time Rosie was laughing to herself, her short hair flying in the wind before she crash landed into the luxurious padding below. Laying back, Rosie watched Anjali pacing before her in anticipation, those glittering eyes honing in on the white skin of her shoulders that she exposed. Maker's breath, she ached to wrap her lips around Anjali's, to trace her fingers over the warm and dark temptation of her entire body.

"Sapheela," Anjali moaned, the woman bending over and knuckle walking closer to Rosie. The princess squirmed in anticipation and rose up, her hands sliding through the assassin's knotted hair. When Anjali was fully straddling her, she paused and brought her forehead against Rosie's.

"I've missed you more than..."

Rosie placed her finger to Anjali's lips, "Not now. Later. I don't know how long the palace gardens can keep a bunch of men distracted."

"Right to the begetting," Anjali snickered. She took a kiss from the depths of Rosie's soul before brushing her lips near her ear, "This is why I love you."

Wrapping her hands around the back of Anjali, Rosie struggled to find the damn hidden buttons to free her from her blouse. She ached to cup Anjali's breasts in her palms, to tease her until the woman was squirming in delight. Anjali seemed to be of the same mind. While her lips plied apart Rosie's, her hands began to tug down the dress.

With a sigh, Rosie let her hands fall off of Anjali in order to yank the damn dress off her. But her lover slowed in getting her naked and began to place a kiss to the top of her chest -- right into the indent at the bottom of her throat. Anjali hummed as she tasted Rosie, "So sweet."

"So are you," Rosie moaned, her nose burying into the top of Anjali's head.

Her assassin laughed, "I was on a ship for three weeks. I doubt it very much."

"You are to me," Rosie insisted, taking in a deep whiff of the woman who owned her heart.

"My Sapheela," Anjali murmured, her fingers curling over the dress' bodice. Slowly, she tugged it down, her lips pressing petal soft kisses to the tops of Rosie's breasts. Maker's breath, it felt wonderful. Each gentle touch of her lips was preceded by the awaking thrum of her knuckles dragging down the dress. Right before exposing her fully, Anjali paused and nestled her chin in the middle of Rosie's cleavage.

Her umber eyes stared deep into Rosie's, and she whispered in Rivain, "I adore and worship every inch of your body."

Rosie curled her hands around Anjali's head and answered back in the same tongue, "And I yours."

With a great smile on her face, Anjali moved to tug down the dress, her lips following in place.

"Whatcha doin?!"

Both women dashed apart at the curious and innocent voice that nearly screamed in their ears. Rosie bundled her dress up higher, clutching it tight to her chest while Anjali rolled off her and nearly off the bed itself before she paused and looked back.

Big brown eyes blinked at the side of the bed, her tiny nose hidden in the bedspread as she stared up at the princess doing her best to calm the erratic thrum of her startled heart. "Are you wrasslin'?" she asked, squaring her shoulders as if she should leap onto the bed and join in.

"No!" Rosie shouted, "No, we're...uh," she looked back to Anjali who was staring at the far wall.

"Hi Anji!" the girl shouted, a hand raising up to wave at the assassin.

Snickering a moment, Anjali turned back and returned the wave. "Hello Lizzy."

"Can we play? Mummy, I want to play!" her tiny hands bunched up the bedspread, attempting to drag it towards her.

"That's..." Rosie tried to slow the beat in her jaw as her daughter remained fully unaware of what she snuck into. "Lizbeth, are you supposed to come into my room unannounced?"

"Yees," she said, bouncing back and forth on her feet.

"Lizzy."

"No," she grumbled, her head turning down before her brown eyes darted towards the door. "But it's open. I can come in then." Blighted hell, she cursed to herself, not again. What was it with her and doors?

Clearly finding it humorous now, Anjali began to snicker, her laugh causing her shoulders to tremble. Rosie wanted to prod her in the back and insist it wasn't funny, but...maybe it was, a little. Reaching over, Rosie curled her hand around her daughter's runaway hairs. There was always one small section on the side that stuck nearly straight up unless a great amount of paste was used. Demon horns, Rosie's father liked to call it, which Lizzy found hilarious.

"Can we play, Mummy?" her daughter was back to her original question, putting on her best begging face.

"This isn't really a great time," Rosie began, before Anjali interjected.

"Why don't you go play with your father?"

"He's...he's not here right now," the princess explained to her lover. Anjali caught her eyes a moment and shrugged. The comings and goings of the prince consort were none of her business as she kept on insisting.

"But," Rosie reached over to scoop up Elizabeth and tickle her sides. Her daughter giggled and twisted to try and escape, while Rosie finished, "I bet you could get Pampy to play with you."

"Pampy!" her daughter practically shouted. Her mother was fine, but when it came to someone to play with Pampy would always win. "Bye Mummy!" Lizzy cried while dashing headfirst out of the door. It swung forlornly on its hinges, failing to latch.

Anjali snickered as she stood up to close the door properly and lock it. "Will the King not be busy?"

"For his grand baby?" Rosie scoffed, "He used to gum up the works of the monarchy for us but for Lizbeth he'll all but throw Ferelden into chaos if she asks."

After locking the door, Anjali pinched into her nose. "She's grown so much since I last saw her."

"Like a weed. You should see Cailan's too."

"Haven't they only been married a few months? How can there already be...?" Anjali began before she paused, "Ah, you mean the...what was the term you used?"

"Early ones."

"Better than illegitimate bastards, for certain." The assassin found their whole dancing around Cailan's coming into marriage with a few kids rather hilarious. Bastards were bastards as far as she was concerned. But bastard or no, any of the King's grandbabies were welcome with open arms and often while he sat on the ground and let them climb all over him.

There was only one legitimate baby so far, Elizabeth -- second in line to the throne. Though Rosie...

Anjali painted on a smile, her lips pecking against the back of Rosie's hand. Slowly, she worked her way across the princess' stubbornly clothed arm. It was silly, but it lightened the mood a bit after their unexpected interruption from reality. When her assassin reached Rosie's shoulder, she paused in her kisses and laid her cheek right against the princess' neck.

"This was not how I pictured my return going," Anjali sighed, her breath waffling against Rosie's neck.

"Children can," she sighed and shifted, "make things more difficult. No doubt. Tell me about your travels. What all did you see? Your letters are so deceptively cryptic at times..."

"Because," Anjali cupped against her princess' cheek, "I prefer watching your eyes light up when I tell you in person."

Rosie snickered a moment as she leaned closer. Her warm breath lanced across Anjali's slack lips a tip away from hers. "Though, when it comes to rather illicit matters you are exquisitely poetic."

Those pillowy lips she'd dreamed about while laying in her lonely bed lifted in a smile. "You're not so bad yourself, your majesty. Some of the things you write, I'm amazed your quills don't start on fire."

"It's why I have to store them in water just to be safe," Rosie whispered, leaning closer to fall back into a kiss, when Anjali suddenly sat up.

"Wait, I do..." She dashed to the bag the assassin dropped mid-astride the princess. Rosie sat up on her knees to watch a few filthy shirts, a pile of socks, and a book all scatter onto her bed. "I have something for you. I don't know how I forgot, I was practically giddy to show you."

"You? Giddy?" Rosie smirked. That seemed impossible from her cool assassin, but there was a hint of a blush churning upon her deep brown cheeks.

"Ah," Anjali gasped as she pulled up a box perhaps a foot long and a few inches deep. When she lifted up the lid, it was Rosie's turn to gasp. Her fingers parted down the jet black cylinder that felt smoother than glass -- the knobby end swirled to form the head as it slightly curved inward.

"What's it formed from?" Rosie asked, gently lifting the phallus out of the box and twisting it in the light.

"Obsidian, with gold inlaid around the base there," she pointed towards the bottom. It wasn't just inlaid, the gold was carved and poured into the stone to bring alive a beautiful scene of a pride of lions surveying their dominion from beside a flat topped tree.

"This is...beautiful," Rosie smiled, partially afraid to touch something so exquisite with her bare fingers. "All of the phalluses you find are."

Anjali drew her fingers around it and plucked the newest find into her hand. With a wicked smile rising to her lips, she slid astride Rosie and stared right into the princess' eyes. "It has to be. Anything that dares to touch something so pure, so perfect, so...mesmerizing," she rifled her hand up Rosie's skirt, her fingers darting from the tops of her thighs right towards the princess' knickers. With a flick, Anjali tugged the edge aside and let her finger dip inside. "Nothing less than beautiful will do."

Locking her hands around the back of Anjali's head, Rosie tugged her right to her lips for a kiss. She tasted of the sea, of all the miles that sat between them for far too long, of the promise of her return and how she -- and only she -- could string Rosie's body like a symphony. "I love you," she whispered, clinging tight to Anjali.

"Okay," the woman paused in her kissing and leaned back. Her umber eyes stared deep into Rosie's, that were now darting around the room in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I really want to try out your gift," Rosie began, but Anjali sighed and dropped it into the box.

"Sapheela, by the shifting of the winds, I know when something is weighing on you. Your eyebrows begin to twitch like a mouse's nose."

"What?" Rosie slapped her forehead, "They do not."

Anjali snickered and sat beside her long time lover, "No, but you gave yourself away."

Growling, Rosie piled her hands in her lap, "I hate when you do that assassin spy stuff on me. It's bad enough with Myra around." Silence fell with Rosie fuming mad but as much at herself as her love.

"Please, Sapheela," she pleaded, "talk to me. I promise I won't bite. Though you can bite me later, if you wish."

Rosie snickered, wishing she could be doing that instead of dredging up what'd been sitting in her heart for some time. "I adore Lizzy. And so does everyone else."

"Truly? I swear it was but a few months ago you were threatening to sell her to a dalish tribe for screaming nonstop during dinner."

Screwing up her eyes, Rosie shot out fast, "I want to have another baby."

"Ah," Anjali tipped her head down to her chest. "That would make some sense. It has been many years since her creation. I assume you and your accomplice of a husband have already..." she waved her hand through the air and grimaced, "done the deed to continue the line."

Rosie shook her head vehemently, "No. Of course not. I wouldn't without telling you. Without your..."

"Without my approval," Anjali sighed as she rolled her head back and forth on her neck.

"I wish I didn't need him. I wish I didn't need a him, but," Rosie collapsed into her lap feeling terrible. Elizabeth was already four and people were asking. Shouldn't she have a sibling? Got to have a backup just in case. But more than all the pointed questions, Rosie wanted to have another. Wanted to have a baby, to feel herself swell with life, to teach another how to walk and talk. To tickle tiny toes and snuggle with a small body on her chest.

But it wasn't easy making Lizzy. Having another go would be...Maker take her, but she feared it'd be even more awkward than the first time. Which actually took eleven times. Oh, she counted, as -- she feared -- did Anjali.

"If I could make a baby with you, I would in a heartbeat," Rosie murmured to her knees. She wouldn't cry she told herself, but she felt miserable about it. About putting all of this on the woman she loved, on herself, even on the man who agreed to be her husband in name and nothing more.

A hand smoothed up and down her naked back, reminding Rosie she was still half dressed. She sat up and stared into Anjali's watering eyes. "It's a shame magic hasn't figured that one out yet."

"Perhaps if I asked Myra..."

Anjali puckered up at that thought, "The babe is most likely to come out with tentacles for arms if your sister has a hand in it."

"She's a bit more focused than...all right, you do make a good point."

The soothing hand slid up to curl against Rosie's shoulder and tug her against Anjali. Solid as the very foundation of Denerim, Anjali didn't shift for anything while supporting the princess, but she could crack. Rosie feared what would happen if she were to ever break.

Lips pressed into Rosie's hair, a palm tousling the tresses around. "I love you, Sapheela. Beyond measure. Beyond anything my wandering heart thought was possible. And if you wish to have a baby, then...you should have another baby."

"Really?" she whipped her head over to her love. Rosie expected the answer to be a firm no, the fear growing to such that her want for a baby would eventually wear away the woman she loved. "If you're saying that for my sake..."

"Of course I am. I do not wish to breed you out like some mare in heat. But I want you to be happy. Children are...I know they are your life."

"So are you," she pressed a kiss to Anjali's cheek, her fingers curling to follow the twist of the tattoo around her eye.

"And that is where I wish to remain. With you, for as long as I can. Plus," that wicked smile returned a moment and Anjali's eyes darted down Rosie's body, "you are beyond beautiful when you are pregnant."

Her cheeks lit up at that thought, Rosie trying to cover them away. She certainly didn't feel beautiful, everything aching, her stomach surpassing her feet. If anything she was a whale that found itself yanked from the ocean and plopped upon the castle walls.

"Your lips swell, your stomach softens even more, and your breasts..." Anjali drew the tips of her fingers under Rosie's straining bosom, "I need not extoll about them for another dozen or so pages."

Rosie let her hands canvass Anjali's more taut form. It seemed cruel to even try to compare the two, her assassin keeping in shape so she'd walk back through that door and never facing a pregnancy to completely alter everything. But while Rosie panted for the muscles just below her soft curves, Anjali seemed to only care for Rosie's padding. At least it worked.

"So, I should speak with Frederick and..."

"Yes," Anjali interrupted, pinching into the bridge of her nose, "but leave me out of it this time."

"Oh?" She'd not wanted to lie about anything with Anjali, figuring that the honest truth would be best in the end.

"I thank you for telling me, for coming to me with this but informing me every time you have planned an 'appointment' leaves me on edge. Just, point me towards a game of Wicked Grace and let me not wonder why you're busy that night. Please?"

That was more than fair. She should have thought of that. Thought of a lot of things. That first year of marriage was trying in a lot of ways, all of them stumbling to find the right rules they could all follow. "I promise," Rosie nodded.

"Honestly, I don't know how you get through it at all."

"It is a challenge," she admitted. But the reward made it seem almost worth it. Even if Lizzy was in her 'No' to everything stage at the moment.

Anjali cracked a smile and turned to her, "Lie back and think of Ferelden?"

"Actually," Rosie curled her hand along the side of Anjali's waist. It tugged on the cursed shirt that was still in the way, but outlined her breasts better. "I think of you."

"Really?" Anjali snorted.

"Every time, I close my eyes and picture you strumming me better than anyone else could ever attempt."

Her beautiful lover cracked a smile as she swooped a hand around Rosie's side. The princess prepared for a hug or kiss, but Anjali tipped the both of them down to lay upon the bed. At Rosie's confused look, Anjali suddenly fished out the newest toy and chuckled, "It's time we try this one out."

"I've missed you beyond counting," Rosie began while Anjali's lips ministered to her aching heart.

"Ah," her assassin pulled away a moment and wagged a finger, "we don't have time for any of that. Now, off with your drawers!" Both women laughing, the clothing was shed in record time while Rosie made certain that cursed door was really locked.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

New Home

"How many more of these are there?"

The box barely made it towards the ground before it fumbled in his weary hands and crashed to its resting place. A few of the propped up knickknacks shuddered but nothing fell over. Taking a deep breath, Gavin moved to wipe at the sweat building on his forehead. It'd been cool across the city for weeks, but they had to chose what turned out to be the warmest day of spring to pack all their belongings into a wagon and move it across town.

"I dunno," Myra was a flit at the edge of his eye. He'd hear her voice, but by the time he turned to find it, only a dash of blonde remained. A shame as she looked adorable today. She'd tied a red kerchief in her hair to try and keep the dust away, put on a simple ivory tunic, slipped on a pair of his old trousers that were hemmed to her calves, and left her shoes somewhere between here and her mother's place. It was quaint and simple, but that made his heart pang every time she dashed past. The smile was helping immensely as well.

"What's even in this one?" Gavin asked while shuffling around one of a dozen of boxes marked as "Myra's". He'd included detailed instructions on all of his, but she seemed to be of the opinion that it wasn't important since you'll open the crate and figure it out anyway.

"Is it hissing?" she dashed through the open front room, her arms overladen with serving spoons and ladles. Blessed Maker, why did they have so many ladles?

"Um," Gavin nudged a toe into the box but nothing inside snapped out to devour him, "no."

"So not my enchanting equipment," the ladles all landed in a pile on the kitchen table they found in an old tower on the palace grounds. A little dusting, some varnishing, and purging a long dead ghost was all it needed to get it back into shape. As the spoons clanged to what was probably going to be their resting place for a few days, Myra jammed both her hands on her hips and glared around the room.

"I swear it's got to be around here somewhere. Maybe I left it at Bryn's..."

When Myra moved back to Denerim she officially settled back in with her mother, but the old childhood bedroom proved to be a bit too confining. So over time her things began to filter across various corners of the city, which required them to go on an epic quest to find everything. Gavin tried to draw up a list, but some of the entries were far too vague, such as 'That box with the liquid that might be a solid now.'

Pausing in her mad searching, Myra groaned, her eyes drifting over to Gavin in his little sea of unpacked and ready to be put away belongings. "You must hate me," she chuckled, a foot nudging into a massive crate that held both her winter coats and summer dresses. "Look at you, all prepared and organized..."

When her weary hands landed on her legs, Gavin stepped over the stacks to curl an arm around her waist. Myra murmured about how it wasn't necessary, but she leaned into him and pressed tighter. "You're...chaotic," he whispered.

She snorted, her lips pressing against his shaggy cheek. This move threw off pretty much everything in their lives, his toilette regimen included. "Can't find my ass in the middle of an ass storm, you mean? Mmm," Myra nuzzled against him, the warmth of her body tempting Gavin to forget unloading the wagon, take her upstairs to the bedless mattress, and break in their new bedroom. "I don't know how you can stand me."

"It's not that difficult," he whispered against her. "Not when I love you."

"Such a sop," she giggled before pressing her strawberry lips to his for a kiss. Two years, four months, and some change they'd been at this. It wasn't always easy, Myra having to head up to the college for a couple months to finish up her work right after they began. Gavin often being sent out if not to the dwarven kingdom, then on regular knight errands. But they always wrote to each other and when they were able to be together again it was...beyond anything he could imagine.

"Here I thought I was stoic and distant," Gavin said while leaning back.

"Nope," she bopped her finger against the tip of his nose and giggled, "total softy. Which I love."

Gavin tipped lower, his breath wafting close to her ear, "I daresay you rather love when I'm hard as well."

Instead of blushing, or waving a hand on her cheeks, or stepping away while giggling, Myra waggled a finger near him. "Oh no, you can't tempt me -- okay, you can, but not right now. We HAVE to get that wagon back or Qimat will have my head. She needs it for...something. Agency something that my mom was blathering on about."

With a regretful sigh, Gavin opened his arms and released his love back into their mess of a house. It wasn't much by Knight standards. Certainly not by daughter of the King one's either. But it sat equidistantly between the agency and the palace, giving Myra easy access to both of her parents and letting Gavin swing into work when needed, but also have a place away from it all when he wished. Quaint, the apartment was three rooms -- a large living room that sat near their hearth, and two bedrooms tucked up the stairs. One was slightly larger than the other, but on a given day Gavin had trouble guessing which was which. He'd leave it up to Myra to decide which would be their bedroom and which the spare.

Myra patted the ladles as if to make certain they were all content before she dashed out into the road to pick up more boxes. He'd offered to carry them in while she unpacked her things, but Myra insisted that he deal with his stuff and she hers. It didn't take him long to realize that the house was going to be 25% his meager things and 75% Myra's stuff.

"Did you steal away the entire college's library when you left?" he asked, his arms and legs straining from the never ending stream of books he had to pick up and move.

"Ha ha," Myra's voice echoed from outside. When she appeared, her face was blocked by a set of crates in her arms, "As if your mom didn't own a copy of every single book ever printed in the history of thedas. I remember that library, and the other library, and the one in the closet. Books everywhere!"

While she hustled up the stairs with her haul of hopefully her underthings they had yet to find, Gavin stirred around in his box. Two and a half years since he lost his parents and the hurt was always there. He despised how morose it made him, the smallest things often turning him dour and insular from the pain seeping free. He didn't want to be that way, especially the few moments he was free to be alone with Myra. But she was sweet about it.

She wouldn't get mad that he was once again blubbering, just sit there and wait. Sometimes she'd rub his shoulders, or snuggle in his arms, or hold him tight. It had to help him heal greatly, and Gavin couldn't imagine the unending pain he'd be in if he had to mourn completely alone. Without Myra it'd have been unbearable to suffer through.

Her parents were far too kind as well, insisting he stop by for holidays and always at Lady Sayer's home. It was nice, at the palace he was on duty, but there in that tiny one room apartment he could laugh at Myra's father's jokes and help her mother with the cooking. Unbeknownst to her daughter, Gavin tried to learn a few of Myra's favorite recipes from her mother.

His cooking was subpar, but could keep him fed. He wanted to do better, to surprise Myra with something fantastic -- once he stopped causing things to catch on fire and char to a briquette. Elven cooking was more involved than he expected.

Shuffling through his pile of old letters and books, Gavin's hand stumbled into the box and his heart froze. Slowly, he lifted it out and stared at the lid. It bore no markings, it wasn't well crafted, there was a good chance it could give someone a splinter, and it was chosen happenstance. But he knew what was inside. Maybe he should...

Gavin glanced around the room with very little furniture so far, unless stacks of boxes counted. They needed to find themselves some chairs, and a rug or two. And a bed. Something to put beside the bed. A cabinet to store glass bottles -- he was living with a mage after all. At least they had the table.

His hands drummed a beat upon the wooden box, when he turned towards the hearth. Heart of the house, so they said. Though for now a puny fire snapped from inside in preparation of tea later, nothing more. Cracking open the box, he scooped up what nestled inside in a bed of straw and placed it upon the mantle right above the fireplace.

After making certain it was secure and wouldn't tip over, Gavin moved to step back but his fingers clung tighter to the old memento. The only one he took from the abbey. Its mahogany wood looked as pristine as the day it was shaped, lines of blue crystal embedded deep like pulsing veins. A silver ball sat at the top, never used to cast any spells, just to help keep it in the hand of the woman who needed it.

Her last cane. His last cane. The last one his dad carved for his mom before she didn't need it anymore, before he couldn't do it anymore. There were lots of old mementos in the abbey, flashy things left over from the Blight, the Inquisition, their life after -- but this was what Gavin wanted in his life, in his home. His parents forever watching over him while he did his best to make them proud.

"A hem," Myra's throat clearing drew him away from the sentimentality. Gavin wiped away the treacly tear and he turned to find her standing right outside the door. She was tapping her foot and had her arms crossed as if he should be doing something.

"Yes?" Gavin asked.

"We got all the boxes inside," she said, her head tipping back and forth, a beam of sunlight firing up her mass of freckles.

"Wonderful," he sighed, grateful that they could move on to the next step. Gavin leaned down to try and unbox another crate, when he felt Myra's gaze burning through his ear. "And...?" he prompted, uncertain why she was still standing in the street.

"And it's traditional for the man, you, to carry the woman, me, across the threshold," Myra said with a rising smile.

Gavin scrunched his nose up in confusion, "I thought that was only true for a married couple."

"Oh for...you and always having to follow the rules. Just," she waved her hands as if she was trying to shoo away a fly and Gavin stumbled outside of his home towards her. "Humor me, okay. I know it's probably stupid, and corny, and other dumb things, but..."

Brushing his forehead against hers, he chuckled. "Very well, meadow flower." Myra locked her arms around the back of his neck and with almost no effort, Gavin swung her up into his arms.

With her legs kicking into the wind and the side of her chest pressing into his, Myra sighed, "We really need to talk about that nickname, by the by."

"So you wish to be carried over the threshold, but I can't have a pet name for you?" Gavin began.

"Just..." her beautiful face buried into his chest a moment as she muttered something about how foolish it was even while he could see how much she cared, "I don't know. Walk and...and then we can get back to work."

"As you say," he smiled and took a step forward. Myra lifted her head up and focused on the house but Gavin froze in place. Confused that they weren't moving, Myra began to shift a bit in his arms. Not enough that he was afraid of dropping her, but it put a strain while she made little clip-clop noises with her tongue.

Chuckling at her certainty, Gavin began to bend his back leg until his knee struck the ground right outside their home. Myra sat perched upon his upright leg, her green eyes burning into his with deep concern. "What...what are you doing?" she gasped, looking as if she feared he'd suddenly gone mad or was about to tip over in illness.

With his hands full of her, Gavin took in a great breath. He stared deep into her eyes that were still whipping around in confusion but began to slow. "Gaavin...?"

"Myra," he couldn't hide the small tremor in his voice as he weighed the words on his tongue, "when I first met you, over twelve years ago--"

At that she snickered, "And walked right into a beam. Oh, I remember."

Rolling his tongue along his teeth, he coughed and tried to continue. She shook off the memory and locked her arms in tighter to his neck. "I never could have imagined how important you would be to me. What you would mean to me. There is no chance in the void I would have made it through these past two years without you."

"That..." her jovial tone flash froze and she nuzzled her cheek against his a moment. "You're the strongest person I know," she said, trying to flatter him.

"Myra, for a long time I faced this world with you held at arm's length, never knowing if anything between us could be more, be so wonderfully better."

"Yeah," she nodded her head, her teeth tugging on her bottom lip, "that was shit and then some."

It was. He didn't realize how truly he hated it until she was in his arms, laying beside his body in bed, pressing her cold feet into his back in revenge, or tenderly wiping his forehead from a fever. For too long Gavin ignored how badly he loved her, how his heart entwined with hers of its own accord all those years ago. And when that pressure was removed, when the two were free to wrap around each other yet again, it felt as if everything in his life clicked.

It wasn't easier, but it was better because she was there with him.

"You're a light all of your own, one that can shake away the greatest darkness in thedas. When I look at you I feel...stronger, braver, happier than I ever dreamed possible. I never want to face another day without knowing you are by my side."

"Good thing we already got ourselves a place..." Myra's laugh faded as she honed straight in on him, her lip beginning to tremble.

"Myra Sayer Theirin," he smiled wide while staring deep into her meadowy eyes, his hands locked safely around her back while her warm body pressed harder into his knee, "would you do me the prestigious honor of letting me be your husband? Of marrying me?"

Her mouth fell open and she slapped a hand to it. "By the Maker's ballsack!" Myra shrieked, her eyes so wide the whites seemed to fill her face. She began to quiver, her teeth biting down on her fingers while Gavin hung on a heartbeat for an answer.

"Um, Myra..." he glanced around, his stomach burning in terror that he gravely miscalculated, "is that a...?"

"Fuck yes!" she screamed while falling forward to kiss him. Her lips traipsed up and down against his while she kept repeating her declaration. A thousand "fuck yes's" landed upon him before she paused and began to laugh, which he joined in on. _Maker's breath!_ He wanted to scoop her up and dance with her. Happiness nearly cracked his face in half from a smile that dug in so deep it may never leave. He hadn't felt this much joy in his soul in far too long.

And she said yes. She really did.

Forgetting about her earlier plan of being carried across the threshold, Myra slid off of Gavin's knee. She planted her feet on the cobbles and rose up, but offered a hand to him. Happy to take it, Gavin stood and stretched. He moved to tug his fiancee into a hug, but she was pulling further away with her fingers locked around his.

"Where are you going?" he asked while jabbing a finger back to their unpacked house.

"To get married!" Myra shouted in glee.

"What? Now?"

"Yes, now. Why wait?" she was practically giggling while swinging back from her mad dash to press a kiss to his lips.

"Because..." Gavin scratched his head. Didn't weddings take time? There was planning, and shipping in relatives, and something involving a feast, and a bunch of sewing inside a chest. But then Myra's exuberant, joyful eyes burned into his and he smiled. "Yes," he nodded. "Now, let's do it now."

"Right! I'm sure we can wrangle up a Mother out of the chantry. Uh, I'll have Bryn stand by me, I assume Lambert can do it for you."

Gavin nodded his head with her planning, the excitement swelling in his heart as well. Married! He was about to become a husband in the range of anywhere from an hour to a day and he felt only joy. There was no nagging sense of failure, no terrified twitch that this was improper or should be weighed more carefully. How long did he ache for this too? To have his hand knotted with Myra's for as long as they both lived? It was too much to hope for.

"I can gather together the agency people, tell Mom. Oh, do you think you can get Dad?"

At that he blinked furiously, his feet stumbling. "Perhaps it would be better if you fetched your father, and I assemble Reiss and her people."

Myra snickered, "Nah, I show up and Karelle will lock him off behind thick doors. But you can waltz right in under the pretense of Knight stuff. It'll work perfect."

There was that trepidation Gavin knew should be in there. _"Hello, Sir. How are you? Your daughter and I are going to be wed. When? In about an hour, could you consider joining us at the chantry?"_ He was a dead man.

Sweet fingers drew up his cheek and he turned to look over at the woman on his arm. Myra's freckles were in full form, buoyed by the flush on her cheeks as she kept hopping on her toes. The smile was indelible, touching not only her strawberry lips but her summery eyes and crinkling up the sides of her nose.

"Okay," Gavin nodded, "I'll fetch your father."

Myra swung over to place a kiss to his lips which he returned greedily. To think, their next one could be as husband and wife. Or the next tenth, they may pause to make out on the way to finding people.

Suddenly, Gavin pulled away and glanced back at their little house with the door still open. "Wait a moment," he said and began to dash back towards it.

"What are you doing?" Myra called, her voice both peeved and buoyed in laughter.

"Just one second," he added while leaping over the crates and running into the living room. At the hearth he paused, and gentle hands hefted up the cane he just placed on the mantle. For a moment Gavin ran his fingers up and down the smooth polish, remembering both the hand that crafted it and the one that held it. A tear beaded up in his eye, but he knew it was full of happiness instead of sorrow.

Making certain to close the door on his way out, he ran back to his waiting bride who glanced at the cane and smiled sadly. Gavin extended it a bit and explained, "So my Mom and Dad can be there too."

Myra slid her arm around his back and lay her head upon his shoulder. "I love you," she said, "beyond words, and numbers, and stars, and other fancy things I can't think of to count."

Placing a kiss to the top of her golden head, Gavin sighed as his soul felt lighter than it had in years, "And I love you."

Together, they walked down the street towards the chantry and a hastily slapped together, sort-of royal wedding. Before they made it off their block, Myra shouted for all the neighbors to hear, "We're getting married!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Surprise

Breath hitched tight in her throat, eyes peeled across the darkened tiles, Myra leapt out of her hiding place and ran for it. The cool air of rising night plastered against her cheeks and tugged her hair back. For a moment she risked glancing back into the shadows, but it looked as if he was gone.

Right. Just got to make it to the city gates and she'd win. That was easy. Squirreled away up high on the city roofs where almost no one bothered to look, Myra could spot the archway and the massive doors thrown open. It was in the distance, framed by the purples and oranges of the dimming sun, but still visible. She'd gotten a lot more closer than she thought she could.

Taking a quick glance around, Myra spotted her next landing spot. She dropped into a full on run, both of her bare feet paddling upon the roof's slanted edge. All of Denerim faded away while she focused dead center on the leap. There was a house an alley's jump away, doable. 100%. No way she'd miss.

With her heels rising up from the roof, Myra began to fly into the air when a black spot stepped right into her path. Fuck! Cat! The kitty mewled in consternation at the human trying to correct her falling path from landing right onto the hissing ball of fur and claws. _Shit, shit, shit!_

Twisting her body as far to the side as she could manage, Myra's toes clung to the gutter of the roof but couldn't dig in. The kitty's yellow eyes drifted over hers a moment, the pair locking in a challenge, then it yawned just as Myra began to plummet.

_Fuck you, cat!_

Her hands dug out fast, fingers locking onto a windowsill. It stopped her from falling to the ground and breaking something, but her shoulders screamed at the stretch. Tipping her head back, Myra watched as the cat rose to its paws and sauntered off the roof as if it did nothing wrong. She could try and climb back up...though there weren't any good handholds here. Why didn't people leave ladders attached to their houses anymore?

No. At this point, down was her only option. She prayed that he got hung up somewhere too. Maybe in that little overturned apple cart she spotted towards the north section. Working her way down quickly, when Myra's bare feet touched the sticky and crisp street she wiped her sweaty palms down her blouse. This may work out even better, no way he'd expect her to be taking the street. She'd walk on past leaving him none the wiser while he scoured the rooftops. Ha!

With a bit of swagger in her step, Myra walked towards the back of the house. She may be reckless but she wasn't an idiot -- taking the main road was instant doom no matter what. A little alleyway wound its way through here splitting apart a bunch of shared gardens where flocks of chickens glared at her for trespassing.

"Sorry ladies," Myra tried to soothe the ruffled feathers, but the hens were having none of it. More than a few puffed up like they were going to go right for her legs and Myra cursed, "What is it with the damn animals today?" She hefted up her shirt and took a whiff. The scent of sweat was there, but no death or blood. Certainly not fear.

"Yeah, yeah," she skirted around the back of the gardens while giving a wide berth to the chickens, "you watch it or I'll eat you."

Right ahead she could see her salvation -- the wall circling around Denerim. Get there, flatten against it into the shadows, and she was home free. There was a damn river in the way though. Less a river, more a moat of shit and piss which she really didn't want to wade. The only way to get to the wall was to swing past the last house on the block.

Before she turned to the right and an easy freedom, Myra glanced back towards the palace where they began. He had to be out there somewhere in the city, probably snorting in a huff while digging in hay to find her. Ha! With a silly twist of her hand, she saluted up towards the rising moon in the sky and took a step into the shadows of the house.

Fingers latched onto her upper arm and dug in without being too tight to hurt, but strong enough to keep her from breaking away. _Damn it!_ "Found you," a voice whispered from the dark edge of the house. He pulled her body with a swivel of his legs to jam her back right up against the old wooden wall.

His eyes burned even in the darkness, brighter than any flame. Myra squirmed as he placed both hands astride her head, effectively capturing her. She could still win this, though. Throw him off, dodge, maybe go for a feint and...

The wind stirred behind, wafting his scent into her straining nostrils: oak, steel, and a hint of juniper. He had to have been running all the way from the palace without stop to beat her here and he still smelled amazing. Myra ceased squirming in her pen and she stared defiantly into Gavin's eyes.

"You win," she declared before bundling his shirt into her grasping fingers and pulling him in for a kiss. The chase drove her blood wild, heat from the run transforming to the lustful ache that begged to be stroked and kneaded until it burned white. He was clearly feeling it too, the gentle hands replaced by hungry ones that scooped down the wall and grabbed onto her waist.

Practically growling in her mouth, Gavin hefted Myra up into his arms. She greedily swept her legs up around his body, her spine sliding higher against the back of the house while his tongue danced in and out of her mouth. With all the fervor in his blood, the champion of their little game dug his lips into Myra's neck.

She moaned at the forceful kisses, squirming in his grip while his hard stomach knocked right against her engorging bits. When Gavin bit down, Myra squealed loud enough a flock of pigeons erupted into the air. He broke away a moment; the concern returned in an instant. But Myra latched onto his head and pulled him right back to work.

_Blighted blood of Andraste!_ Gavin's fingers dug into her bony ass, his teeth nipping a line along the exposed collar of her blouse she specifically left partially unbuttoned for the night. A whimper of need burbled up Myra's throat and out her mouth. She tried to swallow it down, afraid he'd once again panic and worry, but his burning fire eyes whipped up to hers.

In those amber fields flashed his rampaging desire to rip all her clothes off. Biting on her lip, she attempted to send back the same, when Gavin hefted her away from the wall. Myra was about to ask where he was taking her, when his lips plunged deep onto hers. Not caring a whit where the man was carrying her, she greedily dove back, lapping up his far too pretty lips before nipping against the bottom one.

With Myra devouring him, Gavin steadily walked the pair along the alleyway towards the main road. Suddenly, he shifted her higher, his foot lashing out to strike against a door. The thing ripped off its latch and shattered open against the far wall. Myra trembled a moment at the force of will, her eyes darting over to the still rattling door, before Gavin marched her right through the hole he made and inside some stranger's house.

Bit odd, but maybe it was a shortcut back to their place. She trusted him because who wouldn't? The famous Knight carried her through the dusty room she just realized was duskily lit with candles. Flames danced in the darkened room, softening her husband's skin to a gorgeous sheen.

Unable to take the temptation any longer, Myra grabbed onto his shirt and yanked on the buttons in her reach. It fell apart revealing the chiseled frame of the man carrying her around like a sack of flour. His mop of dark chest hair called to her hands first, but she couldn't stop drawing her fingers right across his pecs -- both flexing as hard as stone to keep her upright.

"Daamn," Myra muttered, in shock she was allowed to touch such a thing. Lips burned against her neck, her mouth falling slack as Gavin sucked harder on her tender skin. Double damn! Her veins were in flames, every inch of her skin sparking from a small touch. A big one and she was liable to fully combust.

Gavin lifted his head from her neck, the air striking against her enflamed skin. She wanted him right back there, nipping his way lower, but he locked his lips on hers. Myra moved to curl her palms up to his hair when he opened his hands. Gasping in shock, Myra let out a little shriek as she fell through the air.

It wasn't more than a breath before her ass landed right onto a mattress she couldn't see, but that fear, that feeling of floating before the plummet, awoke the sleeping dragon inside. Gavin stood in place, his eyes beaming down while he shrugged off the shirt Myra started to free. Blessed Andraste, he was beyond belief. With his chest heaving from the run, carrying her ass, kicking open a door, or just delicious lust, he seemed to be flexing every muscle in his body. The biceps that'd been locked tight to her hips were both begging for her hands to dig into their rock hard curves.

Grabbing onto the bottom of her blouse, Myra tugged it right over her head. It wasn't until one of the buttons snagged on her hair that she remembered those damn things clasped it. She'd wanted to be all coy, maybe slowly undo each one while he waited in torment, but she was the one incapable of lasting for one second more. Gavin's burning eyes shifted down across her breasts, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Bloody hell, that made her squirm harder, Myra aching for her damn trousers to get out of the way.

She in turn glanced down to find his own pants raised in a big way. Locked in his arms, she could feel the start of it but had no idea how ready to go he already was. Myra began to reach for his bulge, when Gavin dropped down fast. His hands pinned her to the bed, both landing right next to her hips and she met his insatiable eyes.

_Blighted Maker_ , her heart thudded like war drums in her chest, _how much more of this could she take?_

That pink and powerful tongue lapped out to wrap around with hers while his fingers yanked off her trousers in one go. One hand skirted up her thigh, his fingers worrying the muscle on the rise skyward until he glanced across her pubic hair. A chuckle from his lips broke into her mouth, "No underthings?"

"Something told me they'd get in the way," Myra smiled, her feet locked around the back of Gavin. She dug her heels into his ass, slightly squealing at all the cushion she wanted to get her hands on next.

His smile turned fully devious as he eyed her up, "Good plan." Leaping up onto the bed, Gavin pinned her back fully, one hand massaging her breast while the other...

"Blighted Ass Bites!" Myra cursed in bliss as he drew a finger deep inside of her. At the touch of her wetness, which reached near historic levels after all this teasing, Gavin moaned deep in his throat.

"You are so..." he began.

"I can tell," Myra said, a whimpering rising in her chest as she tried to bear down on his finger. This was more than just a prolonged bit of foreplay, she was raring to go right this second.

He nuzzled his mouth against her throat, a kiss here, a lick there, a nip upon her earlobe, before Gavin whispered, "I want to screw you into next Sunday."

Unable to hide the laugh even while she clenched down on the fingers inside her, Myra sighed, "Well, you did win."

Gavin moved to stand, sadly pulling his fingers out of her. Struggling to sit up, Myra watched as he yanked off his trousers revealing he had the same thought as her to go small-less tonight. By the void, his cock swayed a moment at the force of his disrobing, seeming to call to her lips, or hands, or vagina. She didn't care, really. It was his choice, but damn did she hunger for it in any of the menu options.

Bending over, Gavin reached for Myra. She moved to lay back, assuming he wished to be on top, when his hands both skirted under her. With that same ease he used to get her in here, he lifted her body off the mattress. His eyes shifted down her trembling body before landing right back on her face.

With a roll of his tongue, he ordered, "Turn around."

_Oh Maker._ Fully shaking in anticipation, Myra spun on her feet to find she did land on a bed stripped of any sheets or blankets. Her hands wrapped around the post as she shifted her stance wider in delectable anticipationSu.

For a breath, nothing happened. No hand touched her, no leg slid hers further apart, no cock pressed tight to her ass. She was left hanging upon the ledge, wondering when she'd either fall or be pulled to an unending bliss. And he was doing it on purpose. _Damn him!_ Myra dug her nails in, goosebumps rising across her body while her mind threw out every possible touch, kiss, lick, and fuck before her. This was better than being blindfolded because there was little chance of the strap getting caught on a ring.

Fingers curled against her stomach, slowly tugging her back. When his hot lips landed beside her ear, she felt his ecstatic cock slipping against her butt. "You know what to do," Gavin whispered. Unable to hide her smile, as if she wanted to, Myra raised up on her tiptoes and spread herself further apart. His fingers drifted first outside her thighs then inside, kneading her muscles and tempting to drive her through the roof with all this teasing.

She was about to tell him to get a move on, when his palm landed flush upon her pubic hair and the tip of his cock pushed against her lips. It stumbled too far forward a moment, his cock slicking right up to her clit. Gavin had to readjust, and when he thrust his hips forward he bored right through her. Gasping in ecstatic joy, Myra began to meet him thrust for thrust.

His hands raised up from her stomach to cup her breasts, both teasing her nipples until they were as beyond aroused as she was. A grunting rose in the lips nibbling at her ear, Gavin thrusting with a steady beat. Each push deeper inside of Myra brought her closer and closer, her entire body aching for a release. They'd played too long this time. Maker, if she was in this much agony...

"Mmm," her husband groaned, the warm breath lapping against the nape of her neck causing Myra to tremble. Or maybe it was the cock inside of her. Probably both. He slowed a moment in his thrusting and whispered, "Touch yourself."

"I'm liable to fall over," Myra gasped, her eyes darting to the bedpost she was clinging to.

"Don't worry," his hands released from her breasts to land upon her hips and dig in, "I've got you."

With her husband holding her tight, Myra drew her finger between her legs and rubbed her clit up and down. The moan was instantaneous, Myra seeing spots as she knew just how to jump that final hurdle. Gavin picked up his pace, his cock thrumming through her at the perfect speed. Her entire body began to sway with his force, Myra's clit swiping past her finger instead of the other way around, but she didn't fall. All of his remaining strength was devoted to keeping her upright and hanging on this edge.

"Harder," Myra ordered, gritting her teeth to keep herself from exploding. Always quick to do as commanded, Gavin's cock parted fast through her, slamming against her insides that enflamed to push back against her finger. Another swipe and she fell into that blissful pool where her entire body hummed in harmony. If a state of perfection was ever possible, it was that moment right before...

Another thrust and Myra's entire being imploded. "Sweet fucking Maker," she gasped as the orgasm took full control of her brain. Digging her nails tighter into the bedpost to focus on something, she shuddered while squeezing with the vaginal contractions right against his cock.

"You came?" he asked, pausing a moment while Myra trembled in rapture to try and remember her name or how to speak.

Shaking her head, she laughed, "You have to ask?"

A shudder reverberated in his throat, no doubt as he kept pulling himself back from the brink. "Bend over more," Gavin said. He didn't tug or shove her down, but as Myra gladly worked her hands down the bedpost until she was staring at her filthy toes, his hands slid across her back. "Blessed Andraste," her husband cursed, his legs shifting as he seemed to widen his stance to drive himself as deep as ever.

Myra's entire body wiggled, her breasts flapping about from the force parting through her. She bit into her cheek, clinging tight to the waves of euphoria still casting out of her vagina. Maker, it felt so damn good, his cock barreling through and bumping into parts never before explored.

Wanting more, she raised her toes a bit higher. When Gavin thrust, his fingernails dug into her hips and he gasped, "Blighted hell!" A smirk rose on Myra's lips as she internally clung to the trembling cock, already her insides growing wetter and stickier than they had been. As Gavin pulled out of her, the force of nature that swept her up and fucked her brains out vanished.

He wrapped his arms around her bent over back and tugged Myra into a hug. Laughing, she spun to face him and kissed his lips. Sweat dotted his brow, his face wiped in exhaustion, but a great smile on his face. "I love you," Gavin whispered, barely able to swallow the grateful sigh.

Myra drew her fingers along his jaw, messing with the scruff he never shaved anymore. At the chin, she gave it a tug and said, "Damn straight you do."

Laughing, he buried his face into the top of her head, his naked chest cradling her face. Myra took in a deep whiff of her husband, who smelled so damn delectable she could almost talk herself into having another go. But...she had business to get back to. Damn that whole adult shit.

Wiping a hand against her forehead to try and get her hair back into place, Myra said, "We should probably get dressed quickly before whoever owns this dump comes home and finds us both here, naked as all get out."

Her husband smiled but didn't release her from his hug, "I don't think that will be an issue."

"Why? Wait..." She cast an eye around, noticing the candles that were all lit inside the boarded up apartment with nothing but a bed and no other furniture. "Did you set this up?"

Gavin shrugged and tried to glance away. He would have rubbed the back of his neck, but his hands were cupping her naked ass. Myra's mouth dropped open, "How in the void...? How did you know I'd come this way?"

"A lucky guess. Even if I'd caught you elsewhere, I'd have carried you here," he explained.

"But we always, ya know, kiss a bunch then make it back to our place for the real fun."

Gavin's hungry grin, the one that could make her squirm in her chair from across the room, beamed at her. "I couldn't wait that long."

"You are..." Myra chuckled at all the work he put in for her foolish plans. Her love of playing -- so many others would have called her childish for it, but not him. Curling her hands through his hair, Myra sighed, "You are amazing. And I love you."

"I love you too," he said back instantly, his lips pressing the same sweet as a peach pie kiss against hers. Holding hands sex was nice, but sometimes Myra wanted the thrill of the chase and then banging quick in a back alley. Lucky for her, she could get both with him.

"But I do need to get dressed," she sighed, sliding out of his warm arms. While she wiggled back into her blouse, Myra continued, "I left a few runes baking that I need to check on. Not literally, of course."

"Good," he nodded, "because after the last explosion I had 'concerned neighbors' tracking me down at the palace for weeks."

She yanked on her pants and buttoned up the fly fast. "A few minor sparks and they all think I'm going to burn down the whole block. Don't worry, I think I figured out what went wrong last time."

"Myra..." he shook his head slowly.

"I'll keep it to the table outside the city until I get it perfected," she sighed, "I promise. Spoilsport."

"You knew what I was when you married me," Gavin leaned forward to peck her on the lips. He'd managed into his own pants, but kept the shirt off. Blighted Maker, it almost seemed a crime at times that she was the only person he felt comfortable to disrobe around. His was a body that was gifted to thedas by the Maker personally. But Myra liked being rather selfish about it all too. Like one of those Kings of legend who hoarded all of the treasures of the world into his private collection to never be seen by another naked eye.

Taking one more kiss before she stepped back, Myra ran her fingers through her hair to get the knots out. "Shouldn't be more than an hour getting everything in shape."

"I'll keep a candle lit for you," her husband nodded.

Myra made it towards the door that he no doubt was going to nail back up after dousing all the candles and cleaning up. For a moment, her hand curled up against her stomach and she smiled to herself. The pause was enough to draw Gavin's attention.

When his eyes landed upon her, she said, "Oh, before I forget to tell you again, I'm pregnant."

"You...? What?!"

Giving a little wave, Myra said, "See you back at home." With her husband left dumbstruck, she dashed out into the night, already climbing her way back up to the roofs of Denerim. The unobservant city slept on.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Future Queen

The cry reverberated through her teeth and out her hair. For the first few window-rattling screams she tried to ignore it, but when it failed to cease Anjali threw away her work, launched to her boots, and went in search of whatever cat was being bathed to death. It wasn't inside some demented man's dungeon she wound up, but the nursery. Though, looking around at the innumerable fluffy duck paraphernalia the dungeon would have been preferable.

Barely pausing to take in a breath, the wail resumed and she paused at the great tears dripping off of emerald eyes. Both stared through the bars in his cage, chubby pale fingers clinging tight while he stared in horror out into the unfeeling world. Folding her arms, Anjali glanced around the room. Surely one of the numerous nannies or those maidens always around the princess would rush in and solve this problem.

The baby muttered something and then stuffed a hand into his mouth. Finding that wasn't what he wanted, he began to bawl again and Anjali decided she could take no more. Forgetting her promise to herself, she stomped over the pastel colored rug and reached inside the infant prison. "Blighted hell," she cursed while locking her hands against the baby's chest and hauling him up.

The change in scenery was enough to cause the crying to gurgle to a stop, but by the time Anjali lifted the boy to her eyes, she was out of ideas. His pajamaed feet kicked back and forth above the crib while she stared directly into his soul. "Stop crying," she ordered.

A great line of drool descended off of his thin lips turned red as blood from all the hysterics. The boy seemed unaware that he was covered in it, more snot dripping off his nose courtesy of all the tears. "Why does anyone create you?" Anjali sighed to herself. "You're piles of body fluids that sometimes smile."

Eyes the same color as her love honed in on the strange woman forced beyond her comfort zone to have to hold him. He babbled a moment, more of the drool leeching from the folds of his chubby face. "That you received from your father," Anjali declared as if it was fact. In truth, she knew next to nothing of the man. He existed, he could clearly produce seed to make children, and Rosamund wisely picked someone with brown eyes. That was enough for the assassin turned ambassador.

They'd bump into each other on occasion, though it was so rare Anjali would fail to recognize the man wedded to her love and he'd babble as if terrified she might excise his heart or something. It was hardly worth her trouble. Though, if he began to pressure Sapheela in any way, then she had a lovely bejeweled box to keep it in.

The child Rosamund worked so hard to create began to stir. He kept lifting a leg only to jam it down fast, as if he became some sort of cricket attempting to play a song. It only made Anjali groan harder, her arms growing more saggy from the weight. "Fine, you've stopped. I shall return you..." she moved to place the baby back but the tears began instantly.

"Maker's boils," she cursed, scooping the baby up into her arms. In doing so, she pulled him closer -- the child's grubby hand sliding across her chest and tugging upon a buckle. "What do you want?"

Babbling in its undeveloped tongue, the boy bobbed his heavy head a moment and continued to try to tug on her shirt. "What do people do with you in these situations?"

She would spend time around Rosamund after her births, but usually while a nanny or someone else tended the baby. "Ah," Anjali spotted the chair that she'd often find her love curled up in attempting to trick the babies back to sleep with. "This should work."

Hauling the child higher in her arms, Anjali plopped into the chair and stared dead center into the boy's eyes. Her death glare that would send full grown qunari scampering for the hills fell upon deaf ears. The boy looked up a moment, more babble falling free, while his feet planted firmly upon Anjali's thighs.

The crying was so long past it seemed as if it never even occurred. "Out of the dozens of people who could deal with you, why did it fall to me?" she sighed to herself, her hands locked under the baby's armpits. Rosie was no doubt ensnared in some political battle of wits, but what of all the nannies? The nursemaids? The various servants who had to view cleaning up after an incompetent, shit-stained, wailing infant about the same as dealing with nobility?

Or were they all hiding, hoping for anyone else to deal with the problem and by accident it fell to the assassin wandering the halls?

"Was this all you wanted?" she asked, staring into the baby's eyes. It was hard as he kept focused upon her chest. Hopefully he was not wishing for a snack, because she had no chance of providing it. "To be free of your cage?"

That first year with Rosamund pregnant and freshly married, Anjali lived in fear that she'd be cast aside at any moment. After all, she was the confounding mistress to the princess -- more pain than pleasure as all who met her would say. She tried to be _helpful_ with the baby, but it didn't extend very far. Helping Sapheela through her pregnancy was easy enough -- rub her weary body, hold her close when she needed, try to catch a breath from her rampaging lusts that could drive a satyr into retirement. But when the first baby appeared, Anjali was lost.

Luckily, Rosie was so exhausted she didn't seem to notice how often her lover wouldn't draw too close. By the time Lizbeth was talking and walking, Anjali had a better grasp on things. At least she could do what the kid wanted when Lizzy could tell her. And now she was back to square one yet again, doing her best to pretend as if she knew a thing about babies all because she had to fall in love with a princess.

"My mother would fall down dead in a heartbeat if she saw this," Anjali confessed to the baby standing on her lap. Having a child was to have been her future -- at least if it was a girl the first go around, she could stop. Someone to carry on the line of Seers to service their village. Her mother stopped at one and, for a time, Anjali assumed it was due to her father's absence. But now, after suffering the unending torment of having a child around, she realized that her mother wished to have a baby as much as Anjali did.

Too bad she mothered like it as well.

"I don't hate you," she said to the baby who couldn't speak in any tongue. "I can't understand the point of wanting you, but..." Maker guide her, Rosie adored her babies. How many times did Anjali, in trying to hunt out her lover, find the princess dressed for bed just watching her children sleep? It was normal for royalty to shirk off all the childcare duties to others, but not Rosamund. No doubt she learned it from her father and mother, both of whom should be here holding their grandson instead of some untested, untrustworthy assassin out of Rivain.

How in Andraste's holy name did I wind up here?

A good question, one she may never have an answer for. She always viewed herself as a piece of driftwood caught in an eddy. There was no point to fight against the inevitable, so why not lay back and savor the trip? The forces of fate pushed her into the Scarlett Ribbons and she gladly took up that life. It seemed easy enough, until...

Coughing, Anjali shifted the baby in her weary arms. Until she had to go and fall in love. Not just love, but this debilitating fear burned into her very marrow that she could scarcely comprehend. Some days Anjali, the killer without hesitation, lay in bed terrified that she'd give in to her old instincts. That she'd run up against a rock in the river, or find the stream switched directions and her first thought would be to bail entirely.

Rosamund would never forgive her if she did.

It was practically written on her face whenever Anjali would take a trip whether on business or to stretch for a bit. The princess would smile politely, wish her luck with a kiss to the cheek, but her eyes warned her to come back. That if Anjali didn't return, she could never try again.

Seven years on and she should be used to this life. It was a glorious set up, really. She had her own room, there was even a servant who'd lay fresh sheets on the bed, change the towels, even oil her leathers if need be. Meals were spectacular and fattening, warming her bones better than any of the mess of beans she'd have to cook up on the run to or from a job. And she shared her bed with a woman that made her wake up smiling. Perhaps they couldn't always sleep side by side, maybe she had to stand away from Rosie during ceremonies or parties, and on occasion Anjali would drift through the shadows of the castle to honor some fop's issues. But she had her.

She had a woman she could never deserve. A princess that made her laugh, caused her heart to skip a beat, and whose kiss lingered on her lips for weeks. All the other detractions that came with would be easy to ignore -- Anjali cared nothing for politics, she enjoyed stretching in her sleep alone, and the occasional bouts of traveling solo were nice -- save the bundle of joy clutched in her hands.

Everything else stealing away Rosamund's attention would pass quickly enough, but not this incessant need to breed. This one was only six or seven months old and already she was making careful inroads about yet another. No doubt the king and queen weren't helping, both smothering their grandchildren in slavering affection.

You do enjoy her pregnant...

Anjali never believed in that power of the feminine her mother preached. Masculine, feminine, in the end the real power of life came in who had the hilt of the dagger and who bore the blade. But Rosie felt different in her arms when she was building something inside of her. She was always forceful, like a wind that would wear down a mountain, but an edge grew sharper than any frostbitten breeze heralding an avalanche. As if she felt the need to protect and shield those in her care with a power no single person could possess. Also her breasts would swell to the point Anjali doubted she could get both her hands around one. That was delightful in and of itself.

"So this is my life, little Prince," she whispered to the boy who was back to drooling. "Why are you called prince while Cailan is also? Or my Rosie princess but her daughter as well? It's very confusing. Ferelden has no finesse when it comes to language. Did you steal away whatever words you felt were light enough to carry when building it?"

The baby didn't answer her, probably too busy weighing those light words, but he did blow a bubble of saliva with his lips. Absently, she swiped the edge of her cuff against the never ending spittle cataract and looked deeper into the boy's eyes. Something must have caught his fancy as his lips lifted and a great smile wafted across his face. She couldn't help herself, Anjali bowled over by the baby giggles escaping from her prisoner.

Her smiling brought even more from the baby who began to dance upon her thighs. His diapered butt stuck out far, swinging his hips around as if he wanted to spin and spin in a circle. Smiling, Anjali plucked him up and turned him in her lap. When he faced away from her, the laughing slowed and she could hear the return of a cry.

But the moment he swung back to her face, the baby chortled in surprise and peals of giggles bounced off her. "I do not comprehend why you find this so much fun," she admitted, her eyes drawn to the tuft of black hair molded into an upside down peak at the top of his forehead. It wasn't too strong but he was going to have to do something about it or be labelled the 'evil prince' all his life.

"I cannot understand why babies are any fun," Anjali continued to expound upon the fears clinging to her heart. "But...Maker save me, I love her. As much as I may not understand you, I do know that."

And you fear.

You, mighty assassin who stalked the grasslands of Rivain without a single lion catching your scent. Who slipped inside the ship off the coasts and slit all the throats of pirates who were pillaging local villages. Who left all she knew, all she learned, to leap feet first into this cold, backwater land of princes, and arls, and flavorless stews. Because of her.

And you fear that when she takes the crown, when she becomes what she will be, what she's destined to be that...

"What am I going to do when your mother becomes Queen?" Anjali whispered to the baby. He didn't answer, save another giggle, but a voice from behind caused her to sit up.

"This is a surprise."

She craned her head back over her shoulder to spot Rosamund dressed in her typical office attire leaning in the doorframe to the nursery. "Never imagined I'd ever find you holding a baby."

"He..." Anjali swallowed hard, terrified that Rosie overheard her heartfelt pleas, "he was crying and-and it seemed as if no one else was of the mind to silence it."

Her love's hand swooped around the back of her son's head, buffing up the hair, before her other curled against Anjali's shoulder. "That explains why I was summoned out of a meeting."

"For the love of Andraste," Anjali rolled her eyes, "Did they truly think I would 'silence' the baby permanently?"

Rosie snickered a moment, her red lips suckered in a pout before she turned to her baby and smiled wide. He in turn latched onto the sight of his mother, the giggles coming full force as she gently poked at his belly. "You're full to bursting, young man. What about the diaper?" After her hand slid around the back she paused and smiled, "Nope, dry as well. Are you having fun with Anjali?"

"Perhaps he is," she sighed and thrust the boy into his mother's arms. "But I am finished." Rosie transformed in an instant, her hands greedily scooping up the boy as she tucked him safely to her chest. Her eyes softened at the edges until Anjali expected to see a continual stream of maternal tears dripping off the sides. Even her lips hung looser from her normally tightly held tongue, the mother babbling to her child in a language only they could understand.

Anjali moved to rise from the chair, happy to leave Rosie to her baby. For a moment, the mother was fully immersed in her happy child. She hefted his chubby cheeks up to hers and bumped her nose into his. That caused a few more giggles from the baby, and Rosie joined in. Maybe it should open up Anjali's heart more, the sight of mother and son was warmer than the Maker's love, but she shuffled further into the cold.

"Wait," her Sapheela turned and a free hand gripped onto Anjali's upper arm. With the baby clinging to her hip, this great princess who'd one day rule an entire kingdom reminded Anjali of the women in villages and towns she'd dash through on her way to any life but that.

"You have business to attend to..." Anjali began, tipping her head down.

"Yes, I do," Rosie pressed tighter, her emerald eyes cutting right through Anjali, "with you." Turning to her son, she pecked a kiss to his cheek and smiled. "You, young man, should be taking a nap. I know, screaming is normal for you now, but naps are good. They help you grow big and strong." She babbled to the baby while tucking him back into his prison. His green eyes whipped around, begging for anyone to help free him from this wrong but there was no assistance coming.

While Rosie tucked a treasured blanket with bouncy mabari up to his chin, she sang a little and soothed down his ruffled hair. The baby continued to talk, trying to keep himself awake, but his mother turned away. Tough love and all. It either gets easier after this, kid, or a lot harder.

After finishing with her son, she threaded her fingers inside of Anjali's. In shock, the assassin stared down at their shared grip which Rosie began to tug upon. To one of the flocks of nannies who must have run off to warn the princess, she said, "Keep an eye on him." The mousey woman nodded, her eyes barely flickering over to the scary assassin who wormed her way into the nursery.

Dumbstruck, Anjali stumbled behind Rosamund as she pulled her away from her baby boy and into what looked like a random office. No one was inside, but a few lamps continued to burn up expensive oil. When Rosie dropped her hand, Anjali impatiently slicked it through her hair and sighed, "I'm sorry about ruining his nap. I didn't know that's what was occurring and thought..."

A finger landed upon her lips, and Anjali's eyes snapped up to Rosie's, which were diving deep into hers. "Things will change when I'm queen," she began and internally Anjali groaned. She prayed her love hadn't heard that part. "My time will be more usurped than it already is, I cannot deny that."

"You take on so much already."

She tipped her head to the side, the Princess full of youth and vitality siphoning more and more of the costly duties away from the ragged shoulders of her father. At this point, it seemed as if all he handled was sitting on the chair during court and maybe saying a word or two during feasts. She was really running the kingdom now in all but name.

"I know I do, I am dedicated to Ferelden," Rosie raised her head, her eyes brimming in tears. She'd often break into them when she'd overhear her daughter's or son's cries and be unable to run to their side. Duty chained the mother in a box while the princess had to be at work. Perhaps that was why Anjali came to hate seeing her with her children. It was a reminder how easily she too could be cut from her life. One more obstacle that a little pruning would clear up.

"Anjali," she breathed her name in that dusky voice that made the assassin shiver, "I learned a long time ago that this job takes and takes, and if I want to survive I have to keep a part of myself back. Here." Rosie picked up her hand and lay Anjali's palm flush against her chest. She knew the woman was referring to her heart, but Anjali couldn't deny the small thrill of her fingers thrumming against Rosie's breasts.

"My children are in here, my few hobbies, and most importantly so are you." Both her palms cupped Anjali's cheeks, the tiny woman tugging the assassin's forehead to hers. "I'm not giving you up. Not now with a baby and a child running under foot, and not when I ascend to the throne. I love you beyond...understanding at times. It's," the woman bleeding her heart out to her paused, "it's rather amazing sometimes the fervor you cause in me."

Slowly, Anjali drew her hand up Rosie's chest, her fingers climbing until they slid back along her jaw and cupped the back of her head. "Nonsense. You're incredibly passionate, perhaps the most passionate woman I know."

The princess snickered a moment, "Only when I'm with you." Her trembling lips pecked against Anjali's, Rosie's chest flattening out against the assassin's while the assassin lifted her love higher to deepen the kiss. It wasn't easy, loving a woman destined to lead a nation never could be. It wasn't what she ever foresaw in her future, even her mother scoffed in shock when she was told the news.

But by the Maker, it was what she wanted. Stepping away from her Sapheela wouldn't just crush Rosie's heart, it'd obliterate Anjali's as well. "Forgive me for holding these thoughts inside so tight," Anjali blathered in her native tongue, tears blinding her eyes. "I feared that voicing them might give them substance or...or that you'd find wisdom inside of them."

"My beautiful heart," Rosie whispered a phrase that didn't quite make sense in Rivani but was so beautiful rolling off her tongue. "Please don't think you have to hide from me. My life is yours."

It was foolish to say. Her life belonged to the people, to the court, to her children, but... Anjali glanced down at their hands locked together. Absently she circled her finger and thumb around Rosie's ring finger. _You'd pledge yourself to her in whatever way she asked: marriage, fealty, to the death. Anything. Everything._

"I love you," Anjali whispered, choking on her own sentimentality.

Rosie pressed a kiss to her cheek, her long eyelashes swiping past before she slid down to her feet, "And I love you."

Time would pass and maybe Anjali's fears would come to fruition. Perhaps the crown would drag down Rosie until she had to shake away the assassin in her life. The children could cause it as well, or even that tacked on husband.

Maker take her, but the woman who got through life by taking it by the reins, by refusing to bend to the demands of destiny, had to trust in another's fate and see what would come.

"You," Anjali coughed and blinked a moment, "I'm certain there are a dozen of your stuff shirted Banns waiting for your attention."

"Two dozen," Rosie tipped her head, "and one Arl watching over them." Anjali moved to step back and release her to her duties, but Rosie's hands clung tighter to her skin. When Anjali looked into her eyes in confusion, the princess smiled, "I think I need to take a little break and reclaim a piece of myself that's been ignored for far, far..." her fingers drifted across Anjali's hips swirling to follow the curves before both dug into her ass, "too long."

"My Majesty," Anjali laughed, greedily lapping her tongue into Rosie's mouth.

"No," she shook her head a moment, those eternal emerald eyes shining. With a shove, Rosie tipped Anjali back onto a desk, her hands yanking apart the assassin's leathers. Her voice panting, Rosie kissed her with a flourish before she leaned over to her ear and whispered, "Your Sapheela."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Family

He couldn't stop reaching for the sword at his hip despite there not being one present. Whenever the breeze wafted, or Gavin had to shift on his legs, instinctively his hand would drift right to the side to steady the slip of a nonexistent sheathe. It was the castle. When called to visit the palace he was always in at least half armor and armed as much for appearances as anything. But today was different.

A loud squeal reverberated through the autumnal gardens followed by a dozen voices rushing to its aid.

Today was very different.

Hordes of children dashed about in play, tiny feet flapping while party clothes ripped and stained against the juices of overripe fruit and grass. The adults shrugged it off, grateful for the reprieve from having to tend to happy children. Stains and tears could be solved later. While all of the babies in the age range from under a year up to six ran around the garden in pursuit of each other, their parents and guardians stood at the sides. A few kept a careful eye on the proceedings, but the rest were happy to drown themselves in the wine or food.

At least the cheese was excellent, which shouldn't come as a surprise given the guest of honor.

Somewhere under the pile of tiny legs and arms their beloved King was laughing while his many grandchildren all throttled him with love. A few parents tried to tug their babies off, especially the ex-mistresses of the prince, but his Majesty would wave their hands away and insist that he didn't mind taking a tiny foot to the solar plexus. It was all in good fun.

"You look as out of place as a qunari in an Orlesian court," a voice drummed beside him and Gavin turned to find the Princess slipping closer. She held her son in her arms, the boy close to one year old himself. Her arms wained from the growing weight, but the child looked exhausted, his head dangling down in what had to be an uncomfortable position.

Absently swiping a hand back over his recently shorn head, Gavin sighed, "This is different from what I am used to."

"Really?" she cracked a smile and tried to shuffle her baby higher, "You and Myra have been married for a while now."

"Three years."

"Maker's breath, time flies. And this is your first family party?"

He blinked a moment, trying to find a polite way of saying that while he spent many holidays and birthdays in Reiss' home and that side of Myra's life, being with the royal family side was new. "I seem to always be called to another part of Ferelden whenever it is a feast day," Gavin said instead, causing Rosie to crack.

"So you're saying it's my doing. No wonder father was insistent _all_ his children attend," she sighed to herself, then turned to the boy. "Blessed Andraste, you are a weight and a half." Her son found it hilarious, a giggle wafting from his lips at the thought.

Gavin turned from the Princess to gaze around the garden, when he felt her eyes land upon him. "Ser Gavin," she commanded, his back straightening up on instinct. When he slid to his sovereign, it wasn't a direct order he received but a squirming child thrust into his arms. Trying to not panic at the very important baby clumsily entrusted to him, Gavin cinched his hands tight.

"My lady...?" he gasped, locking the boy's back tight to his chest. Arms and legs were free to flap around while Gavin wound both his biceps against the prince's midsection to sucker him in safe.

"You're going to have figure it out rather soon, might as well get started now," Rosie chuckled while watching him nod his head in terror. The baby stopped his mad tirade a moment, no doubt because his chances of breaking free from Gavin's grip were impossible. Delicately, Rosamund skirted her fingers over her son's forehead, attempting to smooth the hairs back in place.

Babies. He...he had a grasp on this. Forlornly, his eyes darted over to the massive pile of grandchildren. There were already five, including the one in Gavin's hands, soon enough to be six. He could handle one baby crying, even knew how to carry one or change a diaper as the constant press of children in the palace would require pants changes from the most unlikely of places. But to have so many in one place...

The concept of a cacophony of voices crying out at once froze his blood dead in his veins, while the King laughed uproariously at his grandkids. One sat perched in his lap, while two of Cailan's from different mothers were dashing about snatching up all the flowers for their grandfather. Most were weeds, but King Alistair was happily bundling them all together to make a bouquet -- when the child in his lap didn't take to ripping the petals off.

"Scared yet?" Rosie asked, her eyes sizing him up.

Gavin hefted the royal prince a bit higher and felt his heart beat louder through his body. "At times," he confessed, "and others I am excited."

The princess smiled as if that was the right answer. "How is Myra doing?"

"Just bloody wonderful," his wife's voice cut from behind, causing both to turn to find her. She had a hand cupped under her bulging belly that filled out almost overnight. "I look like a middle heavy snowman," Myra complained. "One small tip and down I go!"

Her shoeless toes dug into the grass. It was rare for her to wear any after her poor feet and ankles swelled up beyond anything they owned. Gavin kept insisting they should buy a new pair for her, but Myra was dead certain they had to return to normal after the baby was out. Maybe if he purchased a pair similar to ones she already owned and snuck them into the closet...

"Oh blighted Maker," Myra gasped, her hands sliding over the undeniable bulge under her dress.

Reaching over, Gavin cupped a hand against her arm and pecked a loving kiss to her cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"Better now that the bushes over there are well watered. This kid's taken up all the good real estate left inside of me. Pretty sure my bladder's had to hide away in my lungs in the interim." She grumbled to herself, but her eyes misted over as she kept massaging her stomach. Leaning closer, Gavin wrapped one hand around the small of her back to allow his wife to rest her head upon his shoulder.

Not more than an hour or so before this party, Myra lay upon their bed in nothing but her smalls -- the hems tucked delicately under her popped belly. She spoke to the baby inside, telling it all about her day while he stood to the side and watched. He'd missed a lot of her second trimester, off in Highever on business, but Gavin swore the moment he returned that he'd stay by her side no matter what. In public, Myra made a show of grumbling about the pains of pregnancy and how much it wore on her, but in the privacy of their room she'd curl both palms over her stomach and talk incessantly to the baby.

He suspected she was putting on the show to cut down on her parents asking about a second or third, though he and Myra had already privately begun talks about such an endeavor. It all hinged upon how this first one went. Gavin prayed every night, even when he was far from Denerim, that the Maker would protect them both in His loving embrace to the end. If he lost Myra...

With a wicked smile, she turned to him, "I see Rossie tricked you into holding her escape artist of a son."

"He is not..." Rosie began, her eyes whipping to Gavin's bulging arm to make certain her boy remained in lock up.

"Uh huh, how many cribs did he break his way out of?" Myra asked while folding a hand over her chest.

"Four," the princess confessed with a sigh. "Last time he managed to pile up all the stuffed animals in the room to climb out on."

"Good thing you've got your assassin," Myra chuckled while jerking her head towards the woman favoring the punch bowl. Rosie followed suit and sighed to herself.

"Indeed, though I don't think Anjali ever foresaw herself as a baby bounty hunter," the princess continued to stare at her lover a moment longer, before she smiled to herself and turned to Gavin. "Perhaps you will need to hire her services in due time?"

"Beg pardon?" he gasped.

"A baby of Myra's..." Rosie snorted and shook her head, "You'll need all the help in thedas."

"Blighted hell," Myra growled, "you sound like my mother. I think I can handle a baby, okay. Even if it comes out shrewd and can climb like a cat."

"Uh huh," Rosie crossed her arms, her eyes opening wide a moment while taking in Myra's assessment.

"When," Gavin shifted on his toes, growing more aware of how the little prince kept waving his arms and legs in a need to be let down. "When are they capable of climbing?"

Both women turned to the man doing his best to not sweat and chuckled. Rosie scooped her son up out of his waning arms, but the boy didn't last long in the air. As she placed his wobbling feet into the grass, she sighed, "You'll know the second you're picking one off the top shelf."

"Sweet merciful Maker," Gavin whispered to himself, his eyes shutting in prayer. A kiss pressed to his cheek and he glanced over to find Myra's smiling face filling his vision. As terrifying as a child overladen with her exuberance and skill would be, it would also have her great heart and brilliant mind. With one hand curling over her stomach and the baby within, Gavin bumped his forehead against his wife's. It'd be okay. And if not, there were a few knights who served under him that he could call upon to subdue one little baby.

"Yes, yes," Rosie called to her boy who was stomping in the ground as if it wronged him. "Go find Pampy too," she sighed, releasing her son into the wilds. He managed a few wobbling steps towards the mass of children before the boy was swept up into the play.

"They grow so fast," the princess mused to herself, her arms crossing in front of her chest. "I swear it was just yesterday I was teaching Lizzy how to walk and look at her now." She gestured to the brown eyed girl who was doing her best to perform a cartwheel. The princess had the basic idea down, but after tipping onto her head, she'd pause and then flop to the side. It didn't do much to slow her down though, the girl shouting for her grandfather to keep watching until she got it.

Gavin's palm circled over the top of Myra's stomach as she nuzzled tighter to his neck. He'd only been back for a week and so much in his world had changed it felt as if he walked into an entirely new house. There were so many stacks of offerings from all over thedas to guard against their oncoming storm it looked as if the place was about to burst into pastel confetti.

"I shall not play as your puppet," a woman's heavily accented voice cut over the laughter and light breeze as the Comtess and her husband both stomped away from the gate.

"Here it comes yet again," Cailan groaned back. "I ask you to do something, something simple, easy, things a mabari could handle, and your default approach is to call me a brigand dog-lord and act as if I have chained you to the ground."

Comtess Dynesia growled and shook her head, a smattering of her native tongue whipping across the Prince. Tucked inside her spewing bile was the dreaded 'dog-lord' before her defiant eyes stared hard at her husband. Cailan chuckled, a hand placed to his hip, "Yes, yes, feel for the poor, pretty daughter of a Comte forced into this marriage she agreed to. Truly, it's a tale that will shatter hearts across thedas."

"You are a vile, twisted, worm of a man," Dynesia hissed, leaping tight into Cailan's face while waggling her finger at him.

The prince sighed, his blue eyes honing in on the woman, "You forgot unambitious, cold hearted, and lugubrious."

"I was working to them!" she screeched, the woman seeming about to tear out the prince's eyeballs with her fingernails.

Gavin instinctively leaned tighter to his wife as if to protect her should the Comtess spilt apart into a demon, but Myra and even Rosie seemed unsurprised by the display. A few of the children were looking over, and the baby's mothers were staring a bit more intently, but the rest at the party were incapable of caring about the epic fight.

"Do...do they need someone to break them apart?" Gavin whispered, his eyes honing in on the pair that were fighting fully in the Comtess' language now.

"Throw a bucket of water on them, maybe," Myra sighed, rolling her eyes. Confused, Gavin turned to her and she must have read his true concern for someone's safety. Placing a hand to his cheek, Myra snickered, "That's their foreplay."

"What?"

"Yes, I fear it's become rather pronounced as of late," the Princess groaned while stretching her neck.

"All the servants working at Cailan's estate know once those two raise their voices they best dash off to the safest far ends of the palace or get caught in the crossfire."

"You know this?" Rosie seemed surprised at Myra's depth of knowledge.

His wife snorted, "Gonna ask how next? I talk to 'em sometimes. They come along, we strike up a conversation, usually while kvetching about shems mostly. Someone's gonna have to tell those two to tone it down though. Heard they scared the ever loving hell out of the Teyrn."

Rosie groaned fully now, her fingers worrying over her forehead, "That was a diplomatic disaster I never anticipated. Cailan bedding her certainly, loudly even, but..."

Standing taller, Myra ran her hand against Gavin's arm and whispered in his ear, "From one minute watching those two get into an epic screaming match, to suffering their lovey dovey eyes at the breakfast nook the next morning. That poor Teyrn's head was spinning like mad."

"I don't understand," Gavin continued, his skin itching to rush over and defend someone though he wasn't certain who. There'd been nothing physical, thankfully, but their eyes were both flashing, and breath buffeting from flailed nostrils, and... _Oh. Ah, it was like when..._

Turning, he caught Myra's perked eyebrow, a glimmer of mischief that could easily snag him resting in her eye. Barely able to contain the smile that transformed into a blush, Gavin wrapped his hands around Myra's back and pulled her closer. Arms sliding under her belly to support it, he buried his burning face into the back of her head. "I am grateful I don't have to yell at you."

"Me too, you're so bad at it I'd break into fits of laughter." Myra giggled at the thought, her fingers darting down Gavin's exposed forearms. Humming under her breath, she whispered, "My softy." He was and he didn't mind at all. Gavin moved to brush his lips against the nape of her neck, when her entire belly trembled as if she swallowed an earthquake.

Panic seeped into his bones, Gavin leaning back fast. "Myra...?" He didn't move his hands away from her belly that continued to tremble, hoping to protect it.

"What?"

"Your stomach, the baby..." he gestured to her dress which was quivering to match whatever was happening inside her. Was it labor? No, it couldn't be. It was far too soon. Far too soon for anything healthy to...!

Her palm smoothed against her stomach and she gripped onto his hand. "Kid's got the hiccups, again. I think we got a heavy drinker on our hands for how often this happens."

"Hiccups?" he gasped, his veins yet flushed with the acid from panic.

"Yep, all the time now. Had 'em for two hours straight in the middle of the night."

"I've heard that drinking milk can calm them," Rosie said and Myra glared at her.

"Tried it. Tried everything. I even finagled myself into sitting on my head, nothing works. Ugh," she stretched her neck a bit and attempted to make more room in her body for the hiccuping baby. "Maybe walking will work or keep me distracted." Myra stepped into the gravely path with Gavin happy to follow her.

A great groan erupted from the pack of children and a very flushed King rose from the pile. "Sorry kids, Grampy needs a break."

"Oh!" a few whined.

Struggling to stretch, Alistair paused and he placed a hand to his forehead. More than a few eyes darted over to their King who seemed to be suffering. Before any could offer their assistance, he waved over his eldest granddaughter. "Toffee," he called to Elizabeth by her nickname, "can you help Pampy to the bench please?"

"Kay!" she cried, all the flower petals she collected scattering from her hands as she guided the old man to the stone seat. For a moment, she scrambled up beside him and gave a quick kiss to her grandpa's cheek. He smiled at that, but before Alistair could return a hug, the girl dashed off to join her cousins in a new game.

Tugging up his stark white hair, the King twisted his head around to spot Myra hopping around the garden. "Wheaters," he called, waving his hands towards her. Together Myra and Gavin stepped to the man's side. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, Dad. Usually fine. You blighted ask that every time you see me. It's not as if my innards are just gonna fall out one day. I'm pregnant, not cursed."

He chuckled at Myra's assessment, his eyes rolling towards the Son-in-Law, "Let me guess, she's always like this."

"On the good days," Gavin confessed when an elbow found its way into his side. Fair enough.

"Have you felt it kick yet?" the King who couldn't get enough of babies asked.

"Kick, punch, head butt, lunge forward as if it can tear through my skin...Which is all your fault," Myra waved a finger at her father and then her husband.

Gavin blinked a moment, "Mine?"

"Yes yours, and yours," she jabbed back at the King, "and mom's too. Three warriors in here is three too many."

"Uh," Gavin bit into his lip, his voice falling soft, "four, actually."

"Right," Myra winced instantly, "Four. And all four are converging together to beat me up from the inside out."

He tried to put on a smile, Gavin siding an arm around the back of his beautiful wife, but it was stinging. The hurt never vanished. "I seem to recall you can do quite a bit of damage on your own as well, love."

She rolled her eyes far, but slipped her body near as if she needed to support him. "If the kid's gotten its hands on a stick while up in there I will be damn impressed." Her jocularity snapped in an instant as Myra turned to her husband. Hands swiping up his cheeks, she closed her eyes and pressed his forehead to hers.

It would be okay. He had her. Soon he'd have another bright light in his life. He just wished that...

"Bryn!" Myra suddenly squealed, twisting away from her husband faster than a snake's strike. He barely had a chance to release his hands before she waddled away towards the elven woman standing near the far gate.

"My!" she shouted back, "Your Mom said you were up here and I thought to stop by."

"How's it been...?" The two old friends fell back into chatting far away from the hanger-on husband. Bryn's moving away was hard on Myra, but every time they reconnected again it was as if no time had passed.

"I assume this means Reiss' spare room will be full up," the King whispered seemingly to himself.

Gavin nodded a moment, "The last time she was here, she and Myra leapt off the cliffs overlooking the harbor."

"Well, might want to gently remind my daughter a few dozen times that she's carrying an extra passenger. Or tie her to the chair until the urge passes," he snickered to himself before turning to face the children who were quickly tuckering out one by one. Little heads conked out nestling on piles of leaves or wherever they fell while a few dogs wandered past to either lick up any excess sugar or snuggle beside the babies.

"Come have a sit by me, son," the King patted the bench beside him.

Glancing around a moment to find nearly all the other adults were busy, Gavin moved to slide his nonexistent scabbard to the side and sat down. "Thank you, Sir," he said, tipping his head to the old man. Alistair had his eyes screwed up tight a moment as if he was trying to shake off some internal pain, but they shot open and he turned to Gavin.

"You know you can call me Dad if you'd like. I mean, you're in the family now whether you like it or not," he chuckled.

"I do like it," Gavin raced to insist, always feeling on edge around him. "I mean...I love her, and I want to-to do what's right for her, and..."

The King smiled a moment at Gavin's stumbling, "So, call me Dad. Or Pops. Pampy if you're so inclined like the rest of them."

He'd made the offer numerous times to Gavin starting around the time of their wedding, but it was hard for him to spit the word out while looking at the man he swore to serve. "I will...try, Sir," he said instead.

"Fair enough," the old man shrugged, lifting a weight off of Gavin's shoulders while he stared around the little garden. Hoping that was enough to give him a reprieve, Gavin turned to try and find his wife, when Alistair spoke again, "But I know you called Reiss 'Mom' once."

That caused Gavin to blink furiously, his brain struggling to remember when that might happened. Right. At her place, when she was teaching him how to handle a baby with colic and every other infant matter she could think of. It fell out of him almost without thought.

"I lost a bet with her over that. She is going to be smug for weeks, you know," his King didn't grumble from the son-in-law causing him to lose, but laughed. The foggy eyes shifted over to Gavin who was stewing inside of himself. It should be simple enough, it'd clearly make him happy and he wanted to make the King happy. That was more or less a Knight's calling even if the circumstances behind it could change. A simple word...

"Hey," Alistair shook him from his dark thoughts, "I'm kidding. Well, not about Reiss being smug, that's a given. It's okay, Son." He reached over to tenderly slug Gavin in the arm. "Dad, no dad, I'm glad you're here. With her. Giving me another grandbaby to fuss over."

"Thank you, Sir," Gavin gasped, his eyes screwed up tight as he released a breath.

"Are you okay?" the patriarch of the entire country asked.

Gavin tried to nod his head that he was fine. People kept wondering how the new about-to-be father was handling all this, often snickering as if he should be terrified. While he was scared of so many ways that Myra or their child could be put in danger, he didn't fear this step into fatherhood. But something nestled deep in his heart that would never leave.

"I miss them," he blubbered to the King sitting beside him. "I wish...I wish that Mom could be here, and Dad. That they'd..." Gavin fell silent as he tried to conjure how his parents would adjust to becoming grandparents. To watch his mother with one hand wrapped around an infant, her other clutching tight to the cane. His father holding the baby up to his eyes and staring deep to find the child's soul.

"They're here," Alistair said, a hand landing upon Gavin's shoulder. The King tugged him into a half hug a moment. "They're always watching over you, probably over Myra too. Lanny in particular. She loved keeping her nose stuck in everybody's business."

Gavin snorted at that thought. His mother didn't seem to be that much of a gossiper, though she did have a habit of knowing things that by all rights she shouldn't. The real worrier was his father. Maker, the idea of the great Commander having to race about his home in order to baby proof it for the grandchild... And Mom would insist they visit all the time, every...every chance he had.

"Know what I think," Alistair said, breaking Gavin away from his dark thoughts. "I bet right now Lanny and your old dad are sitting with your soon to be baby. She's filling its head with all kinds of arcane knowledge, and tactics, and bawdy jokes that'll make a dwarf blush."

The thought make Gavin smile, "And my father?"

"The templar?" Alistair shifted in his seat and an eye darted over to the boy, "Let's just say if the first time the baby sees me it starts screaming we'll know your dad was involved."

It was a nice idea, to think that his parents could know their child before they did. That they were looking in from across the veil, that they at least knew how much Gavin missed them and wished they could both be here every day. Knitting his fingers together, Gavin watched the calluses and knots of a life built swinging weapons and riding horses. Maker willing, soon they'd be cuddling a warm baby tight to his chest.

"I admit," he said, still lost in the thrum of his life's work told in scars and dents to his flesh, "given how much you and my father seemed to despise each other, I am surprised that you let me into your life. Into Myra's..."

Despite all of Gavin's fears to the contrary, when he informed the King of their very impending nuptials, the man slapped him on the back, grabbed a few bottles out of the wine cellar, and hightailed it to the chantry. There was no threat of a duel, no trying to ferret his youngest daughter away to safety. He did cry a lot, but they seemed to be tears of happiness.

"Son," the King began with a sigh, "I don't call you that just 'cause I like to sound old and folksy. I'm Maker awful at playing the spoons, for one. You are family to me."

"But my father...?"

"Yes, yes, we got on about as great as two cats shoved in a sack and then dropped in a river. But I'd be the absolute worst person in thedas to treat you terrible because I didn't like your dad. I mean, what kind of adult would take that out on a boy? Especially when your mom meant so much to me."

He leaned back on the bench, the one dedicated not only to the memory of Lady Rutherford but her husband as well. It was a much simpler memorial than the giant onyx statue, but the King seemed to spend most of his time sitting on it playing with his grandchildren or watching the garden unfurl with dawn's light.

"Lanny, we both spent a lot of our youth trying to reclaim our lost family. Then we realized that the real answer was building it with our friends, with those we adore beyond reason, with our kids. You've always been family to me, even before you and Myra finally got it in your heads to tie that knot."

Gavin snickered, "Here I assumed it was Reiss who talked you into okaying our relationship."

"She tried, believe me. I wouldn't have argued with her either way but...I knew it was inevitable." His lips lifted in a small smile as he gazed across the bluebells wafting in the breeze. "One of those twists of fate only the Maker could create. For being a great being, the unknowable of unknowables, He sure seems to have a sense of humor about such things.

"Besides," Alistair slapped a hand against Gavin's knee and the old King sat up, "you're a good man, and while it's a father's prerogative to think his daughter could do better, she could have done much, much worse."

"Thank you, Sir," Gavin wasn't certain if that was a compliment or not, but it let him breathe a bit easier.

Alistair folded his arms tight to his chest, "For all we argued, glared, got into pissing contests over nothing...your father -- he was a good man."

At that Gavin's eyes shot open wide. While no one ever told him explicitly what came between the King and Commander, it was obvious to all that they couldn't stand each other. Warmth rose in Gavin's veins at the man who seemed to have every reason to not like Cullen praising him.

The King's warm brown eyes slipped over and he smiled, "He'd have to be a good man to raise someone like you."

"That is...thank you. Thank you so much," Gavin blubbered, feeling the tears stinging in his eyes.

"Though your mom could have done better," the King snickered to himself, "but that's old friend prerogative talking now. Wherever she is I hope she's happy with him, happy with herself..." His eyes darted over to Gavin, "because I'm certain she's happy about you."

In turning to try and wick away the tears before his sovereign, boss, and father-in-law saw them Gavin caught sight of Myra. Her hands were waving wildly in the air as she was regaling Bryn with a tale so entertaining her elven friend was in stitches. She'd resumed braiding her hair again, though this one cut off at her shoulders while it bobbed and weaved with the story.

There were days he'd wake with an ache in his chest so deep all the dirt in thedas couldn't fill it. Then he'd turn in bed to find Myra curled up beside him. No doubt with one hand flung over the pillow as if she was protecting it. Dawn's far too early light flaming her starry freckles, which after all these years he still didn't have a number for. Her bright eyes that carried both the unknown chaos of the future and a summery reminder of his past gently shut in her slumber. And those little hints of bumps to her ears that were all her own, that made her Myra -- like her heart, her exuberance for life, and her unyielding tenacity.

Maker, he prayed their baby would be just like its mother.

"There is one thing you could do for me," the King said, snapping Gavin away from the love of his life.

He turned his attentions fully upon the old man who seemed to be glancing around in concern. Oh Maker, how bad could this request be?

Alistair patted his hands like paws and shrugged, "When it came to the kids I didn't get a lot of say in naming them. Royal lines and all..."

"What about Myra?"

"You've met Reiss," he shot out fast, causing Gavin to chortle a moment. "Though Myra is a good name."

"It's beautiful," he nodded, having whispered it far too often to himself before succumbing to sleep to not adore it.

"Just, for the baby," Alistair began. Leaning over, he whispered his request into Gavin's ear while around them the children giggled and chased each other armed with lollies. Weary parents tried to grab onto them but they didn't seem to be having much luck.

Soon there'd be another chasing after them.

"Think upon it," the King said as he tugged away. "But, if Myra shoots it down it's not worth starting a row over or anything. Now..." he clapped his hands and sat up, "I think we should get to the birthday cake before all the kids destroy it."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dad

Maker's sake, why was everyone in his bedroom? He hadn't felt this surrounded since the siege of Denerim. Or that time he had to take a shit, a badger leapt straight out of the latrine hole, he panicked, fell over with his pants between his ankles, and the entire damn court had to see what their ol' shrieking King was up to. Rather comparable all things considered. That badger could have put some ogres to shame.

He tried to turn in his bed, but his body refused to cooperate. Too much, too fast. Yet again. What'd he been up to last night? It wasn't drinking, was it? The flock of doctors Rosie kept sicking on him would cluck him to death if it was. No. Maybe he was wrestling with his grandkids. That'd take out his knees and back, but this felt deep. Bone deep. Vein splintering deep.

Soul wringing deep.

A hand was wrapped around his. Huh. He hadn't felt it before. Turning his head a bit, his weary eyes opened enough to spot a tuft of white blonde hair sitting beside him. What was Reiss doing in the palace in the middle of the day? He couldn't see much, his vision shaking like wobbly pudding, but she seemed to be gritting her teeth.

"Is there anything else you can try?"

Ah, that'd be Spud. She had on her 'trying to sound diplomatic when I really want to pound your face in' voice. Whoever she was talking to was lucky she wasn't Queen yet. Sometimes Alistair suspected he was the only thing to keep her from snapping and going full tyrant. Not that he could blame her. Somedays he thought about hauling up every Bann and Arl that pissed him off, and dropping them in the dungeons for awhile until they could stop whining at him.

It wouldn't really solve much beyond ensuring his head would be fit for a pike, but the dream was nice.

"I'm sorry, your Majesty," a different voice answered his daughter. A high one with a major whine that made Alistair flinch.

"Reiss..." he whispered, trying to shuffle deeper into the pillows.

The hand holding his clenched tighter and her beautiful face loomed ever near, "Alistair? What is it?"

"Shut him up," he groaned before fading into a small wasteland of darkness. It was nice, a bit cold for this time of year, but the blankets of unending nothing had a soothing quality to them.

Alistair was shaken out of the darkness by a few voices whispering amongst themselves. When he risked a peek he spotted his son had joined into the mix along with Rosie's lover. The three of them were chatting about something, probably Rosie was yelling at Cailan, Cailan was yelling at Rosie, and the assassin was quietly watching. Or Anjali was tearing into Cailan. It seemed to depend on the day with her.

"What do you want me to do?" his son had his arms crossed, his head tipped down. Worry wafted off him in droves.

"How should I know?" Rosie's screeching voice caused her father to stir. She never sounded like that unless she was nearing on tears. _What was the matter?_

"Alistair," Reiss tried again, rising with him, "here, you should remain resting." Her hand cupped behind his head, feeling as distant as a tower a mile down the road. Slowly she lowered him back to the bed, Alistair glancing over at her.

"Hey," he attempted to smile but his face felt numb. Damn near everything felt numb really. "Look at you all here. Don't get that very often," his voice rasped out of barely functioning lips.

"No," Reiss' big beautiful eyes were budding up with tears. She clasped both her hands around Alistair's one and pulled it to her lips. "No, you don't."

"Wh..." he glanced around in confusion, "where's Myra?"

Both Cailan and Rosie stared at each other, their lips clearly zipped tight. Reiss pursed her mouth and then attempted to put on a smile, "She's indisposed at the moment."

"Sounds like Wheaty," Alistair tried to laugh but it ended in a choking sputter. That'd been happening a lot lately, damn early morning phlegm. Or was this night? What time was it anyway?

And how'd he get into bed in the first place?

A commotion blew through the darkened room, something invisible shoving aside both Rosie and Cailan until a tiny voice cried out, "Pampy!"

Shifting in his bed, Alistair couldn't stop the smile in his heart wafting over his lips. "There's my Toffee," he called out. Just at the edge of his watering sight he spotted a full head of black hair and the biggest brown eyes he'd ever seen. She had her hands wrapped around a drawing, no doubt meant for her silly grandpa, but Rosie had a grip onto her daughter's shoulder.

"Lizzy, now's not a good time," she whispered down to the girl who was staring hard at Alistair.

Her bottom lip was shoved out and the old man braced himself for an oncoming pout, but Toffee began to sniffle instead of wail. "Mummy?" she craned her head up to Rosie who was lifting up her daughter's hair before laying it back down again. The poor girl looked frightened beyond belief; they all did. Was there a damn pride demon waltzing through the palace?

Or...

He couldn't feel the pain, but he remembered it seizing up his chest like a cold vice, air refusing to reach his lungs as he tipped to the ground. Was that how he wound up in bed? Maker, was that why everyone was gathered around staring at him in fear?

Don't be silly, he was fine. Alistair tried to put on a smile to assure them all, but in shifting it felt as if an entire  lung collapsed into custard. The beautiful woman beside him gripped tighter. Her eyes that'd faced down so many unending horrors without flinching began to well up. "Reiss..." he tried to turn to her, to mop away her tears, but she was futzing with the blanket stretched over him. _Was she even aware she was crying?_

"Come on, Lizzy," Rosie bundled up her daughter and began to drag her out of the room, "Let's go find Grandma, okay?"

"Mkay," the girl nodded a moment, her eyes as wide as cheese wheels while she watched her grandfather stretched out in bed.

"Toffee," he called to her before she was pulled away. With a lift of his fingers, Alistair waved to his first granddaughter. She didn't smile, but she held up her drawing high as if he absolutely had to see it. Sadly, she was pulled away before Alistair had a chance. Well, there was always later.

"Dad..." Cailan slid a bit closer to his father, but he seemed uncertain as if he too wished to be escorted out of the room. "How are you feeling?"

"Just peachy," Alistair gasped through his cracked lips. "Water please?" He turned to the woman at his side and Reiss moved to reach for a glass, when his son coughed.

"The healers said no fluids until...until we're sure."

Her head dropping down, Reiss mumbled into her chest, "I'm sorry, Alistair. You'll have to wait." The tears wouldn't stop now, each drop plucking at his tender heartstrings.

With a shaking hand, Alistair cupped her cheek and whispered, "'s okay. I can wait. I'm good at that."

His eyelids grew heavy and sleep trounced him away before he even managed to pull his hand off of Reiss. The waking world came in spurts to the point he wasn't certain if he imagined it or not. Rosie and Cailan both staring forlornly down at him from above.

One saying that, "Something should have happened by now."

And the other backing it up with, "Why isn't it working?"

Anjali holding a crumbling Rosie tight to her shoulder while Cailan furiously scribbled notes on Alistair's old desk.

Reiss always sitting primly beside him, her eyes never wavering.

Where was Myra? She was busy, but she wasn't _that_ busy. Not enough to not be here when...

A woman's head poked into the room and Alistair's eyes shot open wide as his nose filled with the scent of copper. Blood clung to her apron as she leaned in to speak with Rosie a moment. The princess nodded and gripped onto Reiss' shoulder. "You should go," she said, but not like an order to get rid of her. More as if she didn't want to have to do it, but it had to happen.

Sighing, Reiss nodded her head. She moved to stand, but before letting go gripped tighter to Alistair's hands. "Stay with us," she whispered to his ear, her lips pressing the order against him as a kiss. While Rosie plopped into the chair, Reiss vanished out the door taking the bloody woman with her.

"Spuddy?" he turned his head to his daughter, trying to follow the events and coming up with a lot of question marks. "What's going on?"

"Don't worry about it, father." She too was crying but in her 'it's all bundled up inside' way. Cailan was the worst of the bunch. The last time Alistair remembered seeing his son cry was when he was twelve and took a fall off a horse. Scared the ever loving piss out of his parents, but the boy seemed more angry that tears of pain shed from his eyes than from any serious injury.

"How does he feel?" his son asked, big tears dripping down his cheeks.

Rosie lay the back of her palm flat to Alistair's forehead and she sighed, "Warmer than before."

"Then it's working..."

"We don't know. We won't know until..." her lip wobbled as she struggled to suck in a breath.

Aware that he was being talked over like an obstinate roast that burned on one side and remained uncooked on the other, Alistair reached over to grip onto his daughter's cheek. "It's okay, kiddo."

"Dad," Rosie shook her head, clearly not listening to him.

"It's okay," he repeated, uncertain what else to say. Maker, sleep sounded so good. To stretch out for a few hours and give in to another nap, a long one without any problems that needed the King to prod his thumb into.

But he made a promise to Reiss, and it sure seemed like his kids needed him for something. Something bad. Blinking a moment, Alistair honed in on his daughter, "You look nice."

Rosie snorted in a painful laugh, the tears rising higher in her eyes. She glanced down at what looked like one of her more elegant gowns practically sewn onto her body. "This...I didn't mean to wind up wearing this. I'm far too overdressed."

"Better to be overdressed than naked," he said sagely while nodding his head.

Both of his kids cracked up a moment, though the laughs were raw they didn't come on the wings of humor. He could feel it now, those cursed flames of the pyre circling around the room. The air stank of death and loss. Where was Myra? Why was that woman covered in blood? What was going on in his own damn palace?

"Dad, if you want to rest," Rosie began to gesture back to the bed he was incapable of leaving. Alistair moved to shake his head, already too exhausted to follow through on the idea, when the door to his room opened.

It wasn't Reiss who returned, nor the nurse of gore. A great dark form stood in the opening and practically filled it. Alistair sucked in a breath, his eyes opening wider in terror, when the shadow lifted as the intruder stepped forward. Gavin stood where it seemed death had been, his arms wrapped around something swaddled in a blanket. He looked exhausted, maybe even more worn out than Alistair, with stains across his shirt.

"Dad," Gavin said as he slid in right beside Rosie. Her eyes opened wide and she stepped back to give him room. Extending the bundle in his arms lower, the man continued, "I want you to meet your grandson."

The new father began to laugh in joy as he lay this perfect, fussing, pink baby on Alistair's chest. A mop of brown hair curled up the slightly squeezed head. Struggling to sit up higher, Alistair smiled wide as he watched a fist no bigger than his thumb lift in life. The baby's lips smacked, taking in more of the air he was born into.

Gavin cupped a hand down his newborn son's back and announced, "Duncan Theirin Amell."

Grinning wide at the newest addition to join the pack, Alistair drew his hands up to the baby's scorching hot head. Maker, newborns were like reaching into a fire. The cheeks were already a little chubby, one pushed against Alistair's chest as he stared deep into his grandson's slumbering face.

"Amell?" Rosie was the one who asked, her father too far gone in baby land.

"With my mother gone we decided it was time her name returned. No one can hurt her over it now," the man cinched his eyes up tight and took in a sigh.

"Myra?" Alistair turned away from the baby to stare up into Gavin's face. "How's Myra?" The noose cinched tight against Alistair's neck. If they sent for Reiss...

"She's good," Gavin said with a smile, bringing one to the King as well. "Exhausted, and in a lot of pain, but trying to catch herself some sleep. She did wonderful." He sounded as if he was liable to explode in pride.

Baby Duncan wiggled his feet, the poor limbs trapped inside of pajamas far too big for him. Absently, Alistair circled up around the full dark hair, "He'll need a hat."

Gavin snickered to himself, "I believe Mom is working on that at the moment. We left most of the baby clothes back at our place."

"And a bassinet, diapers..." Alistair began to list off everything he could remember from his happiest baby days. Internally, his brain was ecstatic to stare at this tiny being formed from two people he loved. Hello there, Duncan. One day I'll tell you all about your namesake, how he was willing to take a risk on your silly grandpa, and that he...he saved the life of the grandmother you never got to know.

The baby tugged on his grandpa, stretching a bit across the old man's blanket, when his big eyes opened wide. Bright greens the hue of a fresh summer garden stared right at Alistair. He smiled, about to comment on the vibrant color, when the wailing began.

While Gavin moved to scoop his son safe into his arms, the old King laughed uproariously. "Well, now we know the templar warned him about me."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

An Angel Watches Over You

_"I see the moon,_

_The moon sees me._

_Maker bless the moon,_

_and Maker bless me."_

The bundle in his arms barely stirred, despite the terrible assault he was putting on such tiny ears with his horrific singing. Words tumbled free nowhere in tune, ragged at the edges as if he rasped them off a block of wood with a chisel.

_"I see the stars,_

_The stars see me._

_Maker bless the stars,_

_and Maker bless me."_

Alistair tipped the rocking chair back a sliver on his toes, trying to mimic the soothing waves of a boat but he need not bother. Those bright green eyes were shut up for the night, thick eyelashes cuddling tight to cheeks that after a bit of time in this world took on a drop of his daddy's tan. The curtains were slung open, giving the King a view not of the night's sky pocked with stars but someone attempting to get a sow to move. Seeing as she was heavy with a litter and in no mood for anything, she looked about two seconds from biting off the man's poking stick.

_"I see the world,  _

_The world sees me._

_Maker bless the world,_

_And Maker bless me."_

Out there was all of Ferelden waiting for him many with questions about why that old fart of a King suddenly vanished into his rooms. Was he ill? Was he dying? Had he already died and no one thought to tell him? Alistair didn't care about all those politics. In here he had all he needed.

_"I know an angel_

_Watches over me."_

His breath caught in his throat as he gazed down at the tiny baby whiffling in his sleep. Baby Amell. He spotted his Toffee had written it in big letters to put outside the nursery door. She loved making signs for anything and everything, probably that calligraphy class her mother insisted upon.

The first baby Amell with his unwanted family name stuck to it. Who would have thought?

_Lanny, your grandson is perfect. But I bet you already know that._

Leaning over, Alistair brushed his lips against the soft forehead. He whispered with his kiss the last words of the song.

_"Maker bless the angels,_

_And Maker bless you."_

Duncan stirred a moment, his lips smacking open to reveal that helpless, toothless grin of a baby. Blessed Andraste, he had Lanny's lips in a perfect replica down to the same deep bow at the top. Certainly as thick as hers and her son's. By the void, the boy was in trouble with the girls on that alone.

But, he was cursed with Alistair's honker of a nose. It was tiny now, snubbed in tight during the baby years but he remembered far too well what it looked like on Myra. Duncan would be saddled with the same, no doubt in a few years time. A nose that entered a room before he did.

"Well," Alistair whispered, his lips darting near the soft forehead once more, "at least you got Reiss' eyes to balance it out."

The baby fell back to his drowsy sleep, Alistair shuffling to tug the knitted cap back on over his head. Under his breath he began to hum the same lullaby, his toes working the rocking chair while he sat in bliss. Duncan's cheek snuggled against his grandpa's forearm, the thick lips both parted in a tiny snore while they smooshed together on his side.

"Here's where you went off to..."

Alistair sat up in surprise, his eyes darting out the window to find the sun had shifted a bit. Did he too fall asleep with the baby in his arms? Craning his head to the side, he watched as his Wheaty slid into the room. Dressed in a white nightgown with her blonde hair loose around her head she looked like an angel. Dipping to her knees, she curled a finger against her baby's chubby cheek.

"I swear," Myra laughed, "turn my head for one second, and already he's sneaking off."

"The teenage years will be hell," Alistair chuckled, even as he couldn't stop cooing at the infant.

Myra smiled a moment before she turned to him, "How are you doing, Dad?"

"Me? Who cares about me? I didn't create this," he gently lifted up the baby, causing Duncan's hand to slip off his arm and dangle freely. Kid was out cold. "All I did was take a nap for a few days."

"Yep, that was one epic nap. Even had everyone coming in..." Myra licked her lips a moment and bounced back and forth on her knees. "You, ya know you got Mom good with that."

"Oh?"

"Never seen her so worried up to and including that time I broke a very important Bann's butt-ugly statue. Which I still say I was doing him a favor," she laughed while tugging back on a mitten that slipped off her boy's fingers.

Alistair smiled at her gentle touch, not that he had any doubt she'd become a good mother -- though Reiss wasn't quite as certain. "Wheaters," he reached over a moment to catch her fingers, "you did good. He's..." Incredible. Perfect. Everything good in this word. Something that Alistair never thought was possible. "Beautiful."

"He is," she smiled, tears welling up in her eyes. "And a great sleeper."

"That won't last," Alistair said fast.

"I dunno, we've gotten him..."

"My, you did the same damn thing. First two weeks out you were a model baby, then at a month or so you transformed into a hellion in nappies. Which I think still holds true."

Her eyes rolled sky high, but she didn't race to call him on it. "Regardless, I'll take what I can get right now."

People weren't telling him much of anything at the moment. Somehow everything was fine. Myra was fine. The baby was fine. Rosie was fine. Cailan was fine. The sparks that leapt out of the fireplace and charred up a rug to cinders were fine. It was all fine despite the world never working that way.

"Kid," he reached over, his weak fingers running up her arm, "are you really okay? From popping this guy out?"

"Yeah, yes, Dad. I'm tired, and still in a bit of pain, but it went well," she was trying to smile to hide away a lie. He knew enough to know that and glared a moment. "We just pushed it along a bit. Tried to speed things up."

"You can do that? I thought babies came when they did."

She tipped her head, "A bit of magic can, if one is pressed for time. But there's a cost."

"Sold your soul to a demon?"

Myra chuckled, "As if any would buy it. No, just wearing down more than I anticipated." Her skin was pallid, her eyes straining against the weak light, but he wasn't exactly in a position to point that out. No one was willing to let him near a mirror but he knew enough. "But I'm doing good otherwise."

He could ask why she sped up Duncan's arrival, risked not only her life but her baby's for a few extra hours. But he needn't bother. Twisting his neck a bit, Alistair instead asked, "How's the new baby daddy handling it all?"

"In true Gavin fashion, panicking but secretly in a closet so it doesn't affect me. I think it all hit him at once that we are in charge of this tiny life. So, when he's not insisting Duncan be wrapped in five blankets and always have two pairs of mittens screwed onto his tiny hands, he's staring in rapture at him."

Lifting the slumbering baby a bit, Alistair sighed, "I don't blame him."

"Dad, I'm..." Myra paused, her lips working in and out as she weighed something in her mind. It took her so long, Alistair turned to her in surprise. It was rare for his daughter to not whip out her thoughts the moment they sprang into being.

Suddenly, she lashed forward, her arms wrapping around his body and she tucked her face to his shoulder. "Thank you," Myra blubbered, "thank you for...for waiting. For not, ya know..."

He could feel the tears dripping off her eyes, the poor girl having been through one hell of an emotional ride in the past few days. "Hey, My, it's okay. I'm here."

"I know, but all that time I kept worrying that you wouldn't be. I was stuck screaming my lungs off and pushing while you might have been... And you'd be upset because I wasn't there. I was really upset I wasn't there. Mom wanted to be in two places at once."

Alistair laughed at that. No doubt Reiss had runners constantly checking in on Myra doubled over in labor, while she sat at his side. He'd been exhausted beyond life itself until that tiny body was placed to his chest. Somehow it didn't seem worth falling back to sleep as long as he could stare at the baby. And, by and by, strength returned to his wrenched limbs until he felt good enough to get out of bed for a bit.

"Was it your idea to send Gavin in with Duncan?" he asked.

"His actually. He wanted to make certain you could...that you'd meet him."

His heart bubbled over in a giddy warmth at the thought. "Did you know he called me Dad?"

Myra snickered at that, "Mom's gonna be so jealous. I mean he's only been calling her that for a few months now. She's fully lost her leverage."

Joining in with his daughter, Alistair sighed, "Poor Reiss, I guess I'll have to make it up to her."

"And how do you intend to do that?" a new voice broke from the doorway. Myra turned to look but Alistair need not bother. He knew it etched into his marrow and forever buried inside his heart.

"Mom?" Myra stuttered, already rising to her feet.

"You should be in bed," Reiss said, wrapping a hand around her exhausted daughter's shoulders. Then she glanced down at her ailing husband, "both of you should."

"We were getting some granddad and grandson time in," Alistair cracked a laugh. Reiss' hands skirted over to cup under the baby but she didn't fully lift him free of Alistair's arms. She just held Duncan a moment as if needing to remind herself he was here in the world, healthy and beautiful.

"You can bond later. You need sleep, and I bet this one's about to wake up for his supper."

"Blighted hell, he was practically suckered to my tit all afternoon," Myra groaned before folding her arms over her chest.

"Babies tend to grow a lot, and they need food to do it," Reiss explained while Myra made the yapping noise with her hand. Barely rolling her eyes at her daughter's antics, the grandmother lifted her grandson out of Alistair's hands and placed him into Myra's. His little Wheaty transformed in an instant. Her eyes softened to joy as she cuddled her baby up to her nourishing chest.

"Hello there, Dunny," she whispered to her boy. "Are you waking up?"

Seeming to sense his mother's presence, those big green eyes popped open and so did his lips. He stared around in confusion until Myra's hand curled up against his cheek. There was no way he could see her yet, but the baby's fidgeting slowed at the touch and he nuzzled tight to her.

"So damn cute," Alistair sighed, still trying to peek in on the baby.

"And hungry," Myra laughed at the start of cries for milk beginning in the baby's throat. "Yes, Mom. You're right. You're always right. Oh, before I go...Dad," she tipped Duncan up a bit, whose tears paused at the change, "what is it?"

"A baby," he said, jabbing a finger towards Duncan's tummy.

"The nickname," Myra sighed. "What have you got for him? There's already a poll going and everyone needs to know."

"A poll?" he glanced over at Reiss who shrugged.

"Castle kitchen staff, the elven servants, a few Banns, and of course the agency. They're all betting on what you were going to call mine, so...before there's riots in the streets."

He blinked a moment and stared over at the baby bearing the lips of the woman who first landed in his heart, eyes of the one that would forever claim it, a nose just like his, cheekbones the spitting image of his youngest daughter's, and skin with a touch of the young man he was proud to call a son. And the tiny cleft chin of the templar, but there had to be something of the man floating around in there.

"Perfect," Alistair whispered.

"Okay, I get that you think he's cute, everyone does, but the nickname. Ya know always food related, kinda weird but also endearing after you've heard it a million times..."

"That's it," Alistair sighed, "Perfect." It was the first thing he thought of when he spotted Duncan, same as how it worked with the rest of his children. There was nothing else that was right.

"No," Myra shook her head madly, "No, it's like, ya know, Spud, or Wheat, or Toffee, or Celery Stick. Which I still can't understand."

"That boy was green as a frog when I saw him," Alistair insisted always having to defend that one even if his Celery found it endearing. At least he'd clap every time.

"Sure Dad," Myra rolled her eyes, "but give me something. Something to give to the others who are wondering..."

"Wheaters, I don't know what to tell you, but that's all I've got."

His daughter glanced over to Reiss who was leaning carefully upon the window seat with her lips pursed in thought. "I cannot, we cannot, you cannot call him perfect. Rosie would murder me. Pretty sure Cailan would too. He's grown rather attached to the father mantle. What about something else, something like uh...mushroom?"

Reiss tipped her head, "That's what he used to call Gavin."

At that Myra's eyes opened wide, "You gave one to my husband?!"

"He was like a mushroom as a baby with this huge head and thin, little body. Which shouldn't be a surprise given how many books he's got crammed up in there. Lucky for you the body part caught up to the giant noggin."

Myra shook her head in shock, "Why am I just hearing this now? We've been together for years and you...you gave him a food nickname too."

"I don't use it anymore with him. So, yeah, mushroom. Fine," Alistair waved his hands through the air not caring about some pool or bet.

"No, people will know. You never repeat them and people have serious records about this stuff. I know..." Myra snapped her fingers, shaking the baby who would really like to be getting around to his dinner now. "Acorn. Because he's this lovely tan and has bright green eyes like a fresh acorn. See. It works."

Alistair shrugged at her assertions while Reiss sighed. "He never puts that much thought into it, but..."

"I never put thought into anything," Alistair mumbled to himself.

"But that will be good," Reiss continued. "Tell everyone he's acorn. I don't know if anyone had that on the list."

"Maker's balls, I can't remember either," Myra groaned, looking about to pass out.

"Go lay down, feed him. I'm certain Gavin will watch over him. Watch over you both."

"As if I can stop him," his daughter cracked a smile. She hefted her baby up a bit, who was doing his lip smacking and growing more and more incensed that a nipple wasn't put inside of them. Myra paused before heading out and wafted Duncan under her father's nose.

"One last kiss before his nap," she said as if it was no big deal, but he could hear the worry tinging in her tone. It wasn't a one last kiss before they both went down, it was in case he didn't wake back up.

Dipping his head down, Alistair planted a peck to Duncan's cheek. "You're perfect," he whispered into the baby's ear, then caught a flash of fire in Myra's eyes, "even if I have to call you acorn."

While Myra trundled her baby off to the room she and Gavin were staying in for awhile, Alistair leaned back in his chair. After a moment he began to laugh causing Reiss to beam a question at him. "Just a mushroom, wheat, and an acorn. They're a shepherd's pie waiting for the lamb to wander in."

Reiss smiled and shook her head. Her bun was a mess, barely wadded up behind her and it looked as if she'd slept in her clothes for the past few nights. Alistair sighed, "You look exhausted. Maybe you should take a quick nap...?"

Chuckling, she ran her hands over her face to try and scrub it, "I'd love to but there's a lot left to handle..." She didn't go into the play by play, no doubt including helping Myra, adjusting to the pair having to keep their baby up here instead of at home, and him. Alistair was probably the biggest problem on her honey-do list.

"Come here," he reached over with his hands and gripped onto Reiss'. She smiled at the tenderness, but as he began to limply tug her back she shook her head.

"Wh...what are you doing?"

With one hand curling onto her hip, Alistair guided her ass to his lap. That damnable woman tried to fight a bit, insisting that he was still healing and she was far too heavy.

"You've never been too heavy the entire time I've known you," he laughed, not about to give up. Accepting defeat, Reiss relaxed and eased onto his legs. They were rather upset about the addition but when he buried his nose into her hair, and locked his arms tight around her stomach Alistair didn't give two figs in winter about the legs.

"This is silly, you know," she said while turning her head to face him. Beautiful green eyes stared deep into his and Alistair smiled wide as he found himself falling inside them. Reiss' warm hand suckered to his cheek, the palm folding down his white whiskers while they rocked together.

Brushing his nose against her good ear, Alistair whispered, "I'm rather known for silly. In fact, I thought it was why you liked me."

"There are other reasons," she grinned, causing his heart to flip itself over. Thirty years on and Reiss could still do that. Glance at him from across the room with a green fire in her eyes and his tongue would drop. Or lift her lips in a smirk and he'd gladly prostrate himself on the floor at her command.

Nuzzling his face against Reiss' long neck, Alistair began to increase the rocking. His room felt soft for once. Normally, it was bulging with hard edges, orders, people rushing this way and that. With the warm afternoon sun, a slow beat of the chair, and the love of his life in his arms it transformed into a cuddly sanctuary where nothing bad could ever happen.

"So...Amell?" Reiss began.

"Yeah, that surprised me too. But I assume he's thought it through."

She rolled her eyes much like their daughter did. "Is there anything Gavin has not thought through? The boy is always thinking. I am amazed at times that either he or Myra can stand each other."

"Don't tell me you still wished she'd gone for that cold oatmeal elf?"

"He was not..." Reiss began to defend her position before she backed off, "No. I only anticipated our daughter going through a mercenary band phase. Perhaps stumbling home with her head filled with new holes. But Gavin is..." Her soft white rolls of hair nestled against Alistair's chest as she thought, "He's the perfect balance against Myra's more grating qualities."

"She keeps him from being all stodgy and stuck up too," Alistair said to defend his Wheaters.

"True," Reiss tipped her head to the side before both of the old coots lapsed into contemplative silence.

Her body locked in his arms, the assuring heartbeat thumping in time with his, and the warmth that radiated from her soul were all trying to lure Alistair to a nap. Sure, he probably needed it. If he was lucky he'd be fast asleep before Spud brought in her next contingency of doctors. Those people had far too cold of hands for where they liked sticking them.

The rocking slowed and Alistair took a deep breath. Reiss turned at the change, concern marring her summery eyes. "I keep thinking about that first night when we had Myra." He brushed back a strand of hair from Reiss' eyes and cupped her cheek. "She was so tiny, the tiniest thing I'd ever seen."

"You could not put her down," Reiss said.

"No," he laughed in agreement. "I couldn't. All those healers and midwives kept gesturing to the bassinet they brought in special, but I was not letting that little infant out of my fingers. She needed me. Needed us both."

Reiss smiled, tears welling up in her eyes. Leaning forward she brushed her forehead against Alistair's. "Which lasted until she was about six and decided that she was going to run away and join a pirate ship."

He laughed hard at the memory, his baby Wheaters with her hair tucked into blonde pigtails, a russet sack at her side overstuffed with essential toys, and an eye patch knotted around her head. She was so damn certain that was all she needed while she marched head held high towards the harbor. In the end, she got onto a little schooner, took a quick trip around the bay, and returned to her parent's panicking arms in under an hour, proud of being made a pirate.

"She needs us even more now," Reiss whispered. "Both of them do."

Alistair's throat caught at the tears welling up in her voice. He dug his hands into her, his honker flattening into the back of Reiss' head to try and bury away his own fears. "I love you," he whispered into her hair. No matter what -- the distance, the trials, the lonely nights, the challenges of being with a woman who could never live with him -- he would always love her.

"I love you too," Reiss said, her gnarled hand locking in with his trembling one. She turned fully to face him, her eyes drowned in tears. Unable to take the sight of her crying, Alistair shut his eyes tight and kissed her beautiful lips. Maker, she was so warm, so full of life. She could never die.

Puckering for another kiss, Reiss curled her hands down to grip onto, sure enough, his shoulders. That made Alistair smile even while lost in the throes of making out. So many years on and she still adored them. His stupid smile broke apart their passion, but not the love as Reiss opened her eyes to stare into his.

"That night, holding my baby girl, sitting beside the woman I love... It was the happiest I'd ever been."

"Alistair," she shifted in her seat, clearly not wanting to have this conversation. "You shouldn't..."

"Just, give me this, okay? Then I'll switch back to flippant, I promise," he begged while staring deep into her eyes. Reiss glanced down and all the stress that he put upon her, that Myra did as well, appeared in an instant. She bit into her lip and nodded her head.

"Reiss, you are everything I never thought I wanted. And though we've had some setbacks, sometimes..." he drew his finger through her hair to glance across the scar tissue wrapped around where her ear used to be, "horrible ones, yours were the arms I always wanted to return to. The voice I wanted to hear speaking my name. The eyes that'd crinkle with a laugh or roll when I was particularly stupid. Maker knows I don't deserve you, but He also knows that I thank Him every day for you."

The tears were in full on waterfall mode now, practically gushing while she sat silent save the occasional sniffle that shook her frame. Alistair swiped at his own face, surprised to find a bit of moisture clinging on his cheeks. With a shrug at the moment of sentimentality, he smiled, "So, uh, that's it. Back to being the old joker who never..."

Reiss buried her face into his chest, her arms locked tight around his back as she begged him. Begged him to not die, to get healthy, to stay with her for years to come. It came out so fast, all Alistair could do was rub her back and let her water his tunic.

When her pleas paused, he patted her bun and shrugged, "How can I possibly say no to someone so beautiful?"

She pinched into her eyes and sighed, "Swear it? That you'll...you won't, just...swear it, okay."

"Reiss..."

"I know. I know how time works, how life works, how Maker damn unfair it all is, but I don't care right now. Humor me."

Glancing his lips against her forehead, Alistair breathed, "I swear, I will do everything in my power to not die."

"Good," she nodded her head. "Now," the petrified woman who almost faced the death of her lover vanished in an instant as that feared detective who could run anyone's life returned. "You should get some sleep."

Reiss stood up out of his lap, but Alistair clung tight to her hands. At her confused look, he said, "Stay with me."

"Alistair..."

"Nap with me. You look exhausted," he gritted his teeth and rose to fiery bones. Teetering from the effort it required to puncture the air and get himself on his feet, Alistair gripped harder to Reiss until he steadied himself.

"I can't," her lips formed a dozen words she didn't say while her eyes darted over to his large and very comfy bed. "There's tons of things to do."

"The kids can manage," he said, his fingers already pulling apart her bun. "They're gonna have to figure it out eventually."

Reiss shook her head, letting the waves of snow fall down to caress her shoulders. Biting on her lip, she stared right into Alistair's eyes. "What will people say?"

Lifting up both of her hands, Alistair placed a kiss to one, then the other. As he tugged her closer, the pair falling into a never ending embrace, he whispered, "That I'm the luckiest man in thedas."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Our Star

He'd barely shifted into his dreams when the piercing wail rattled his brains. Squinting in the heavy shadows, Gavin fumbled to try and find a flint on the nightstand, but there was nothing in the way save a massive pile of towels. Why were there towels beside the bed?

Maker, he was too tired to remember. And the wailing was growing.

"Myra," he reached over towards the body beside him. By the moonlight and few embers left in the fireplace he spotted the side of his wife's nose. She groaned at his patting her back.

"What?"

"The baby..."

Scrunching up her nose, her exhausted voice mumbled, "What baby?"

Gavin scoffed, "Our baby."

"We don't have a baby."

He waited for a joke, but nothing came. Myra slumped back to sleep, a hand bundling the pillow up over her exposed ear. Not about to be shaken so easily, Gavin roused her again. "He's crying, I think he might be hungry."

With a huff, Myra flopped over onto her stomach and buried her face deep into her pillow. Waving her hand through the air, she said, "So go feed him."

Glancing down at his shirtless chest, the man sighed, "I fear that might be rather difficult for me."

"Well, try harder," Myra muttered, her voice slipping back to exhausted snorts as she succumbed to the comfortable bed. Maker's blighted bones, why did they get such a mattress? It should have been filled with nails and rocks, not the fluffiest goose down on thedas. Escaping it on the hour was nigh on impossible, and to think he once considered it too firm.

Groaning, Gavin placed both of his bare feet onto the floor and willed his weary body to rise. He wished he could know the time, but deep in his soul he suspected that it hadn't been all that long since Duncan first went down. Perhaps an hour or two when the poor, spent parents collapsed into bed in a pile. And he was up yet again, angry at the world.

"Shh, sh, sh," Gavin cooed as he approached the cradle. The old wood swayed as he attempted to rock Duncan back to the bliss of sleep, but the boy was having none of that. Great big tears welled up in those green eyes, both spilling to the sides and drenching his silk pillow. A gift from the Queen, no less, which Myra had no idea what to do with. She feared getting it stained, but feared the woman learning she didn't use it more.

"Okay," he abandoned his attempt to trick the baby back to sleep, and reached down. Scooping his fingers under the warm back, Gavin lifted Duncan high into the air until a wailing mouth plopped against his skin. More tears continued, coating his father's chest, but as Gavin placed a hand against the back of Duncan's head and began to bounce his knees, the screaming slowed.

"There," Gavin continued, bobbing and weaving with his son, "it's not so bad." The drips of baby frustration cooled his skin as Duncan shifted to press his face directly against his dad's chest. When his lips puckered tight to try and suckle, Gavin groaned. He glanced over at their bed, but Myra was long gone across the veil.

"Sorry, but breakfast isn't being served at this time," he said while walking his son out of their bedroom and into the hall. The old house creaked, the entire floor leaning to the right side, but Gavin kept his eyes on the window ahead. Beyond, the lamps of Denerim lit the entire area a haunting blue, which helped to guide the weary father into the spare bedroom. Soon enough it would be Duncan's, but for now it held all of the baby gifts they were too damn exhausted to find space for.

A rocking chair sat inside, a bow still on it because they already had another two. Gavin eyed it up, but he knew if he sat he'd fall asleep with Duncan unsecured in his arms. His infant son shifted, both pajamaed fists landing against Gavin's skin as he tried to latch onto nothing but a bit of flesh.

Patting a hand into his boy's bottom, Gavin danced back and forth on his feet while staring out the window. It was nice to be back in their home. While the palace provided them with numerous helpful hands it was also impossible to escape from anyone. Sometimes he just wished to be left alone with his wife and new baby without everyone needing to poke their nose in to ask how things were going. Though, at the moment, he would certainly welcome a night wet nurse. Had there not been inroads with an elven woman who gave birth a few months back?

Everything in his life divided into before Duncan and after. With the fog of exhaustion squatting on his brain, all of the memories formed before Duncan remained illusive. Perhaps Myra would remember, or...was Reiss behind it? There was something of a...

The baby shifted, his little tummy scrunching up tight. Gavin girded himself for another round of wailing, when Duncan tipped back, stared wide eyed a moment, then sneezed so hard on his dad his forehead bounced against Gavin's chest. Laughing at the mess Duncan stared in horror at creating, Gavin scooped his son into his arms and tried to wipe away all the baby mucus. Most of it wound up in his hands, which he couldn't put back on Duncan.

Sliding through the room, Gavin reached for a pile of baby blankets and smeared the snot on that. Later. It was a problem for later. For now...

The focus on solving the problem died in an instant as he gazed down in wonder at his baby. He had a baby, a son. With ten little toes, ten tiny fingers, a nose that had amazing spraying distance, and the biggest green eyes. Reiss said it was the elf in him, his irises even larger than Myra's were as a baby. But his ears were as flat as the shem holding him. Good or ill, it was doubtful anyone would know he carried elven blood in his veins by looking.

Duncan wiggled a bit, his hands thudding through the air as he seemed to stretch on his back. "What are you doing?" Gavin asked in a soft voice. The baby's fist bounced against his stomach and then he gurgled. It didn't seem to be a stress gurgle, more a happy one. He wasn't to the smiling or giggling stage yet, not that the King wasn't doing his damnedest to get one out before they left. Perhaps this was Duncan's way of giggling before his lips got it figured out.

"Do you like this?" Gavin asked while running a finger over his crimson pajamas. "I made them, you know." The fist landed again, more gurgles escaping while the baby kicked his feet as if he was trying to swim. "From..." Gavin bit down on his lip as he lifted his son higher.

"From a very special coat my father used to wear," he smiled even as his eyes filled with tears. It'd felt a foolish idea to him even as he made the first cut, but when he slipped Duncan into the hand-sewn pajamas acceptance and peace enveloped him. "My father, he let me play with it all the time. Even when I could barely stand in it."

Absently, Gavin's fingers traced the yellow piping that circled along the crimson. Once it followed the swoops of the surcoat, now it cinched up his son's growing belly. "He'd adore you," Gavin whispered to the baby. "Sure, he'd act all stoic and uncertain, but...Mom. Mom would leave you alone in his arms while she had some other problem to solve and when we'd return Dad would be sitting in a chair with you fast asleep on his chest."

"And my mother," he shuddered in a breath while curling up beside the window. "What can I tell you about her?" Duncan gurgled, a bit of drool coming back up. Wiping it away with his fingers, Gavin pressed his cheek against the cool window.

"She saved this whole world. I know, the whole thing. I can't believe it. I certainly didn't when I was little. The world it's big, bigger than big, and she... There's no doubt she'd love you. She'd be sitting right there watching over you, making certain you were healthy, you were full...you were happy."

With a hand cupping under his baby boy, Gavin snuggled the warm miracle to his cheek and he laughed through the tears. _I'm so happy, Mom. Tired, which you'd probably laugh at and nod your head about. But happy. I have this tiny infant with part of you and part of dad inside of him. And I have Myra.  _

Maker's breath, what would he do without her in his life?

"You know," Gavin whispered to the baby pressing against his cheek, his lips covering Duncan in kisses as he spoke, "it was your grandfather who told me to go after your mom. The last thing he told me, in fact. I wonder if he knew..." Tucking Duncan tight to his chest, Gavin placed a hand to the window. His eyes darted up away from the Denerim skyline towards the speckled stars dashed across the indigo night. It took a moment, his overexerted brain struggling to find the right one, but when he did he smiled.

Turning Duncan around to get a better view, Gavin smiled, "That's Fenrir. Our star. It brought my father to my mother. It guided me all across Ferelden back into your mom's arms. And it's yours too, Duncan. That star watches over you, and protects us all."

His son yawned, rather unimpressed with the astronomy lesson, but Gavin placed a palm against the window pane. Cold from the dark street tried to seep in, but it couldn't make it past the warmth of his hearth. Mom, Dad...thank you.

"Did...?"

The voice caused Gavin to wipe at the tears in his eyes and he turned with Duncan to find Myra stumbling towards them. She'd attempted to throw a robe on, before remembering they weren't in the palace any longer. One arm made it around her body, while the other dangled on the floor pathetically catching all the dust.

Pausing, she looked down at her baby boy before focusing on Gavin, "Did I say we don't have a baby?"

"Yes," he nodded.

"Maker's balls," she groaned while reaching for Duncan. When his mother's fingers glanced across him, the baby's fists began to wave. No doubt he knew a meal was coming quickly. Myra tucked him in tight to her chest to keep him safe, then she sighed, "Don't tell my mother I did that. I will never hear the end of it. Oh, or Dad."

"I doubt your father would pick on you for it," Gavin said. He draped one hand along his wife's side and the other danced like a spider against Duncan's belly. The baby may not be capable of smiling, but Gavin couldn't stop adoring him.

"Pick on?" Myra scoffed while tugging aside the long neckline of her nightgown. "I'm worried he'll think I'm recusing my rights and adopt this kid on the spot. Did you see the way he was looking when we left? Like one of those evil witches in stories who steal away babies. Carrying on like we were being banished to the ends of thedas. As if we weren't going to see him again in a day."

She whined about her father because it kept her from worrying. They didn't have the energy to worry about his sickness. At least, by all accounts, it sounded as if he was improving. Reiss was going to remain up at the castle unless Myra required her but otherwise things were progressing well. At that announcement, Myra had jammed baby Duncan into the pack on her back, turned on her heel, and waved goodbye.

"There we go," she said as Duncan latched on quickly, his greedy belly filling fast. "Maker's sake, you were hungry."

"Told you," Gavin shrugged. Even with the barb against her, he couldn't stop stroking his son's cheek or rubbing his wife's back.

"And my mom was worried he wouldn't take to the breast right away," Myra said while pacing towards the bed. "This kid loves to eat, no doubt about that." As she sat down, Duncan curled up in her hands, Myra sighed to herself in clear exhaustion. It was too bad he couldn't feed their son, at least then they could take shifts.

When Gavin rubbed the back of his neck in uncertainty, Myra focused up from her maternal bond. "Go on back to bed. Get whatever sleep you can before this little demon starts up again with his demands. How can you already know you're royal? You can't even see past your nose," she whispered to her son who was happily gorging himself.

Glancing back down the hallway where a now cool bed waited for him, Gavin sucked in a breath. "If it's all the same, I'd...I'd rather stay up with both of you." He shuffled on his feet, not wanting to face an empty bedroom.

Myra's eyes honed to concern in an instant but she shifted over to let him sit beside her. "Gavin?" she turned her head to him.

Slotting in beside the love of his life suckling their baby, Gavin wrapped one arm around Myra's shoulders. Her head landed upon his chest while he too helped to heft the infant up to her breast. "I don't want to leave this," he whispered into the warm room.

Myra turned her head and, with her lips placed next to his cheek, whispered, "You never have to."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Empty Rooms

The desk waited for her, looming larger into view as Rosie gingerly stepped into the quiet room. There was no glass of brandy sitting upon the table beside the fireplace, no book with pages tumbling free left on the stuffed chair. She took in a deep breath to try and steady her nerves, when the smell struck her on the jaw.

Out of everywhere in the palace -- the bedrooms, the stables, the pantries, every room that turned vacant and cold -- here she found it. Peppermint.

Drawing her finger against the desktop, stripped bare of all essentials for fear of unsavory eyes seeing them, Rosie let her nose trail the scent. She slipped into the chair turned to the side as if it...as if it were waiting for someone to return. Memories flooded her mind, pounding against her weary brain so exhausted from the torrential downpour that it winced at even the happy ones dredged to light.

All of maybe five years old, she sat propped up on a few tomes in order to see over the desk. A quill in hand, her tiny fingers traced all the periods at the end of sentences in the parchments left upon her father's desk. She was so proud of it, as if she was doing the same hard work her Dad did.

"Spuddy?" his voice rang out from the fireplace where he'd been stoking the flame himself. "What are you doing?"

"Work." Her voice was steady, clear, before age hammered in regrets and questions, when it was simple. I wish to do this, so I do.

He'd laughed. He always laughed. "What kind of work? Important, I bet. Here, let me have a look."

With a hand gripping onto the back of his chair, he'd peered down over her tiny shoulder at the blots and stains she'd gotten all over his job. He could have scolded her, perhaps he should have. No doubt he'd been up all night rewriting the mess or having to assemble various advisors to decipher what the young princess destroyed.

But did he?

Never.

"See Daddy!" she snatched up a few pieces of parchment in her fists, the ink puddles dripping off the sides while thrusting them to him.

"I do, kiddo," his easy smile made her smile too. Picking one of any number out of her hands, he'd lifted it to his nose to inspect the lines she scribbled all around. After clearing his throat, and dragging a finger down it, he winked, "It's good work."

Pride. Blessed Maker, but he taught her how to feel that, to have her heart swell with joy at making him proud. It could be for a silly little nothing, like making a mess of his missives, or forming an alliance with the dwarven kingdom and growing it to the point other nations were looking to Ferelden. To her dad it was all the same.

"You're gonna be a great Queen one day, Spudkins," he smiled, laying his work flat to let her keep doodling.

"I know," she barely paused in her work, the quill etching its way back and forth over the vellum while her tongue stuck out. Even at age five she took it serious whether it was warranted or not.

He stared down at her while she worked, those hearth brown eyes always keeping watch even as she graduated from messing up his missives, to homework, to creating her own royal orders across Ferelden. And through it all the pride in his eyes never vanished. Even when she'd pull away in teenage rebellion, even when they'd argue about what was best for her or the country, even as age clouded him from her, the pride remained.

Rosie glanced back, her breath catching in hope, but no comforting shadow hung behind the chair save her own. She wiped at her cheek to clear away the never falling tears, when the smell returned again. Peppermint as brisk as a new-fallen snow during Satinalia. Using her nose, she picked at the small drawer right in the middle of the desk and tugged it forward. Bottles rattled, the ink growing dull and thick from age. Rosie moved to pull one out to inspect it when a red and white candy rolled into view.

"Do you know what good girls get?"

"Candy!"

"Yes," he laughed, fishing into his secret drawer where all the treats were kept. "This is for you finishing up all your queeny lessons before nap time." Into her hand he'd press the candy which she'd stuff into her mouth without pause. When was the last time she'd have had a candy from his office?

Before she left for finishing school? Rosie turned the chalky disc coated in dust around in her fingers. It was ancient, no doubt long turned sour by time, but a part of her -- the little girl in the back of her mind with her knees up to her chest crying in the corner -- wanted to pop it in her mouth. To pretend for just a minute that he gave it to her for being a good girl who finished up her Queen lessons.

Laying the candy on the desk, Rosie moved to close the drawer when her eyes caught a folded up sheet inside. It was pressed tight without an envelope or wax seal but bore her name. Not the legal one, not the one that was being embroidered onto bunting in preparation of the coming change. The one that she knew she'd never hear spoken aloud again.

_Spud_

Her fingers lifted up the edge of the paper, a breath lodging in her throat. It was less that she feared what she'd find and more how it would easily destroy her. A week on and it took everything in her arsenal for her to be able to get out of bed. But, if he left it, then he wanted her to read it.

It was her duty.

"To my daughter, Rosamund Moira Penelope Solona...

Maker, I am not writing all of that down. Spuddy, if you're reading this then, well, you know how this kind of letter goes. I've been trying to think how to start it all. Would you want the platitudes? Maybe me saying that I'll keep a seat warm for you over here? I will if you want, but it'll probably smell like sweaty socks so careful what you ask for.

I know that what you are facing right now will seem insurmountable. An entire country just landed on your lap whether you want to deal with it or not. People will be staring at you waiting on pointed shoe for any and all decisions to come flapping out past your lips. And they expect good ones too. You can't just insist everyone carry a chicken under their arms at all times for fresh eggs.

But I also know you, Spud. I know that while I floundered and stumbled through what was all but locked around my neck, you flourished. You're good at this kid. You were good at it even before I... (He scratched furiously through whatever word he wrote to the point the vellum tore). I watch you directing advisors, running arls and banns off each other like it was a childhood game, ruling with a just hand and it makes me proud. Never once have I worried about leaving Ferelden in your hands. Never once did I stop and think that anyone else could do it half as good as you.

But I worry about you. About all of you. My kids, my grandkids, because this unending void I forced upon all of you isn't easy. I wish it was. I wish I could kiss you on the cheek and take the pain away, but the Maker never got it to work like that. Bit of a goof up on His end, really. I'll put in a word or two when I get to the other side and see if I can fix things.

You are strong, but don't break. Take the time you need for yourself. Love. Maker's breath, love your babies. Give Toffee and Kettle Corn all the kisses in thedas for me. Let them stay up late just once. Tell them Pampy said it was okay.

And love Anjali. Look, I didn't call her assassin or anything.

Crud. Should I scratch that out or keep going?

The job will pull at you, constantly. The stress. The fear. The enormity of balancing an entire kingdom on your shoulders. Let her be there for you. You're a right stubborn pain when you want to be, all of my children are. And you think you're the only ones who can fix things, the only ones that can solve it all. Maybe you're right. But there comes a time when you fall back, when the burden grows too heavy even for your powerful arms, and you need someone to take the weight.

She's good at that. Ten years on and I am amazed at how she sticks by your side. That isn't something you find often in another person, so don't let the crown keep her away.

That's all I've got. I wish I had some wisdom to impart, maybe a few fancy aphorisms I stole off of signs hand painted on old barnwood. But this is me. Kid, I love you. I loved you the minute I pulled you into my arms, walked you around the castle, and gave you your real name.

That's right, I'm telling the Maker your real name is Spud so good luck with that.

You'll do spectacular. You all will.

Take a breath.

Enjoy life.

And give my grandbabies a few more candies before dinner.

Love for now and ever,

Your Dad."

Her eyes wept while her lips smiled. Even with the crushing weight of his loss pounding down her chest, Rosie couldn't escape the laughs always mixed in with the memories. Places where he'd carry her on his back, rooms that they'd duck into while pretending to escape armed bandits, secret nooks that they'd have tea parties in while old men in scarlet robes tapped their shoes in annoyance. He may have been the King, but he was her father first, and both were gone.

All her life Rosie was allowed to sit at the desk, to get up to mischief as she dipped her finger in ink or scratched a letter opener into the top. To place her feet on it, or spill tea on accident. She always sat here, but never alone.

For the first time in her life, she stood up from the seat of power with no one behind her, with no one sitting in the armchair, with no one waiting for her by the bookcase. Folding the letter up tight, she stashed it under her dress right beside her heart. While Spud wished she could lay here in his room, openly weeping for the gaping hole in her life, Rosamund couldn't afford it. She had a job to do.

Closing the drawer, Rosie snuffed out the candles left burning the moment her father...ceased to be. No, that wasn't right.

He was never gone. He lived in every scrape to this old castle room, in the rather odd taxadermied animals scattered across the halls, in the massive cheese cellar that would never run dry. And, most importantly, in the hearts of all who knew him. She may never have another day with him, but she didn't lose him.

Licking her fingers, she moved to put out the final candle -- a fat one that'd been burning for seven days straight, when she paused and stared down at the old candy. It barely glistened in the candle light, dust turning its hard shell to ash. Curling her palm over it, Rosie's heart beat with the frivolity of such an issue. There were dozens of problems outside that door all waiting for her, perhaps more. She should leave the candy here. Toss it into the garbage heap. Ask someone else to deal with it.

Take a breath.

Scooping it into her fingers, Rosie didn't place the awful thing in her mouth, but she dropped it into her pocket alongside the keys to the royal suites. Foolish as it may be to cling to something so ancient as a sentiment, her life could use a bit more foolishness in it.

Her breath snuffed out the last candle, only holy smoke rising through the darkened room. Squaring her shoulders, Rosamund opened the doors to find a pair of guards standing right outside. Both saluted, their fists clanging against their chests.

She'd wiped away all signs of pain on her face, reverting to a calm neutral, which both men were reading and finding comfort in. Still... Her hand dug into her pocket, rolling the last peppermint in her fingers.

With certainty flooding her veins, she lifted her head, "I am ready."

The guards fell in behind, both addressing her as she would be forever known, "Yes, my Queen."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UN8oLGBNXpE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Dirge of Hope

Instinctively, Gavin slotted his shoulders into position, the polished armor across his chest gleaming as it struck the sun. Which was when his son grabbed onto his dangling hand and shouted for everyone in the parade route to hear, "Daddy! Have potty."

"Maker's breath, now?" he groaned, well aware of the various nobility whipping their glares over to the armored knight who had a hopping toddler to deal with. Sneers from below mourning veils tried to slice him into pieces for disrupting the atmosphere with a reminder of life. Taking a quick glance to find a spot, Gavin hefted his son up into his arms and found a back alley for him to use. Which was about when Gavin realized that 'have potty' actually meant 'I've already soiled myself, and you should solve that please.'

"Great, just, perfect timing..." he moved to reach for the satchel that never left his side only to remember that it was now resting in his wife's hands. "And your mother has the change of trousers."

Always trying to be helpful, his son smiled wide and took off bare assed through the nobility all trying to get into position before the march to the chantry. "No Duncan, wait!" Gavin tried, but he was far too slow to stop the determined two year old. Feet paddling against the stones, the boy giggled as he enjoyed the feel of freedom and fresh air on his derriere. A few of the more catatonic nobility clucked their tongues while those who'd dealt with toddlers recently smiled in sympathy.

Duncan wrapped both hands around his mother's leg, suckering tight to her while he stared up wide eyed at her. "Mummy, potty!" he shouted for the world to hear.

Myra had been stationed close to the head of the procession, necessitating his half naked son to more or less flash every single person on the way to her. Not that he cared, the child smiling wide at his mother who was barely clinging together. She ran her fingers over her son's head, the curly brown locks shifting before Myra sighed, "Go ask Daddy to take you, Dunny."

"Too late," Gavin gasped, just catching up to the slippery eel. "He's already made a mess and you have the backups."

"By the void, we haven't even started yet and you already..." Myra hissed, angry not at her son who couldn't contain his accidents, but the world. She buried her face into the massive baby satchel, words grumbling from her tongue while Gavin wrapped a comforting hand around his son. It was hard to say how much Duncan understood what was going on, though he seemed to know something was wrong. For the past week he refused to sleep in his big boy bed, his green eyes trailing each of his mother's heart wrenching tears.

"Here," Myra waved at Gavin the backups that were nowhere near as nice as the first ones. He plucked them out of her fingers and got his son redressed and diapered in record time. It looked as if the procession was getting ready to move out and there was no chance a funeral would wait for a half-naked baby.

When Gavin placed his son on the ground, he glanced back to his place in the march beside the rest of the Knights. "I should return to my men..." he began, his eyes swerving up to cradle Myra. She'd been two parts angry, to one part broken in half. He understood all too well the pain, but had no concept of how to help, and it was killing him piece by piece as she twisted and turned from any light.

"Mummy," a little hand landed on her skirt, coating it in mud. The mother who'd barely been able to get out of bed, much less dress or bathe herself didn't even glance at the mess. "Want Daddy!"

"Duncan," Gavin folded to a knee, trying to get his boy to look him in the eye. He'd been on a daddy kick for awhile now, ever since Gavin returned from a small matter down the coast. Even when he was in the middle of making supper, his son insisted on being underfoot as if he feared that his father might vanish in an instant.

The boy was pressing on Myra because she was the real decider in the home, even as she bit into her lip and stared at nothing. Turning his son to face him, Gavin said, "You need to stay with your Mom. I'm going to be right back there...see, with the other knights."

His boy shoved out his bottom lip, unhappy with the proper arrangement. "No," he shouted, then used the only blackmail at his disposal by throwing his arms around Gavin's neck to bury his little face into his father's chest. "Want you!"

"Son, I know--"

"Stay," Myra whispered, her voice cracking against the wind. "I mean, you're family. Married to me so it has to count. And...if anyone says anything I'll hit them." She folded up a fist and waved it, but there was no joy in the joke. It could very well not be a joke, she seemed to have lost all the laughter in her soul.

Rising to his feet, Gavin curled a hand around Myra's back and tugged her closer. "Are you certain?"

"It's what he wants, and Maker knows I can't get him to stop shouting for you when he's in that mood." She bit on her lip, crying the tears of a mother exhausted and worn from the past never ending days.

"Myra," he whispered and with a finger pushed back the single hair that escaped out of the plaits she wore with bright yellow flowers in them.

"Please," her lips quivered and there was no man or woman in thedas who could stop him from honoring her wishes. Nodding his head, Gavin plucked up Duncan's hand and pulled the boy close.

"Of course, I only want to do what you need."

Myra sighed and turned away from him to stare ahead where her sister waited to begin the procession. Behind the Princess, no, Queen, rested the litter holding the body. Gavin caught sight of it when he was trying to wrestle Duncan into place, his breath stopping in his throat at how unlike the man it looked. How strange it was to see King Alistair without a smile on his lips or a laugh in his heart. The soul truly had fled from his shell, the life fully dampened in a flick of the Maker's wrist.

"I wish I knew what that was," Myra shuddered to herself.

A blaring of trumpets arose from the sides and the royal guards chosen specifically for their valor and strong arms hefted up the King's body onto their backs. With a set to her head, the future Queen placed a foot forward and began the royal procession from the palace to the grand cathedral.

The first line was family, the eldest child leading. To the side in the widower's position was the Queen Mother, her face veiled so thickly behind black lace it was hard for anyone to see how she was affected by the loss. For the other children it was much, much easier to tell. Cailan and Rosamund's husband Frederick stood side by side directly behind Alistair's litter, both carrying the torches. While Frederick looked stoic and prepared, Cailan was a besotted mess. His eyes were yet bloodshot, and Gavin had to be the one to fish him out of an old brothel near the alienage before stuffing the prince into a suit. While Gavin braced himself for the rancid brewery that would waft out of the prince's mouth, nothing came. The man didn't teeter or fall in drink; all of the wear on his body was due to grief.

Behind them walked Rosie's children, hand in hand with Cailan's. The official royal line to continue on. The Queen's lover was given a guard position behind the children, though she'd forgone the armor to dress in her usual black and crimson. At least it fit in well with a funeral. While Anjali did what she could to grate upon the 'baby Knight' floating around near her life, there was almost no venom remaining in her barbs. She seemed to do it more out of habit than spite and Gavin couldn't bring himself to care.

After the guards, the King's less immediate family were given preference based upon their nobility. It was into that mix that they dropped Myra. She was the King's daughter, no question, but she was also a bastard and they did adore clinging to precedent in such ceremonies. Gavin offered to talk Rosamund into letting her near the front, and he suspected the Queen would easily allow it for their father's memory if no other reason, but Myra refused. She wasn't in the mood to fight anyone, her heart broken.

Lifting her chin up, Myra fell into place walking beside a pair of Banns who were cousins of the Queen Mother. Gavin sort of skirted in between the two rows, throwing off the parade's lines while hoping no one cared or noticed. He kept a tight grip on Duncan, well aware that it would take nothing more than a shiny glint of gold to distract his son away. As the procession walked past the castle gates, a song began to bleat from the trumpets. He'd heard it often in the chantry, his son sitting on his lap while Myra humored him. One of fear and sorrow in the darkest of days that was met by Andraste's love with hope and renewal.

Gavin began to hum the words to himself, when a great cacophony of voices rose from the see of Denerim. Every person who lived in the city flocked to the streets, crowded them out to watch and mourn as their King passed from this world into the next. And all of them, from the oldest woman who survived the blight thanks to their King, down to the tiniest tot clutching a golden coin with Alistair's face minted on the side, carried the song in their throats.

The air itself grew heavy with a million unshed tears, a thousand heartfelt sobs. Grief on this magnitude reached up and blotted out the sky. Even though the sun shined with nary a cloud to puncture the blue sky, the raw mourning escaping from hundreds of thousands of people -- perhaps all of Ferelden itself -- twisted the air around them. The blue took on a morose grey tinge, the sun shuddered away from their view, unable to fight against that much pain.

Ahead of him, even through the voices singing for their lost King, he heard a single cry. It was brief, a quick gasp like a breath snuffing out a candle, but he winced and reached forward. When his hand cupped against his wife's shoulder, she gripped tight to it and let herself go. Gavin could feel the walls inside his own mind begin to shudder. It'd been hard to be her rock for the past week.

Against all common sense and self preservation, he came to think of the man as kin. He did not call him Dad just to humor him, Gavin meaning it in his heart. And to lose another one in such a short amount of time was...unthinkable. But Myra needed him to be strong for her, to keep a tight watch on their boy who was having troubles understanding why he couldn't sit on his grandfather's lap anymore. It wouldn't vanish once he was released to the pyre, that pain lingered in every breath, every thought. It was etched deep into the bone, but it could lighten. He'd found joy in the most unexpected of places with her, with his boy, with his friends, and with the man they were all keening over, from the streets of Denerim to the peaks of the Frostbacks.

Feredelen was crying.

"Daddy," the hand tugged on Gavin's, Duncan attempting to both get free and his attention. Suddenly, his boy's body went slack as if he lost all control of his legs, "No walk."

Gavin grabbed onto both of Duncan's arms, lifting him back to stand but the two year old was nearing ever closer to launching into a tantrum. Which was exactly what he did not need now. Perhaps ever, but that seemed to be impossible to hope for. Glancing around at the crush of people, one eye darting down to Duncan's lip that was perched out far enough for a pigeon to land, he sighed.

"Climb aboard," Gavin decided, dropping quickly to a knee so Duncan could scurry up onto his shoulders. The boy's tiny hands smudged against the metal armor before finding purchase between the breast and back plate. Behind him, Gavin felt a royal shoe knock into his heel. He nodded his head to acknowledge that the procession was leaving without him, while internally snarling. Could they not behave and act like civilized people even during a funeral?

Too much of his father inside.

Wrapping a hand around the back of Duncan to keep him steady, Gavin darted forward to stand near Myra. She cast an eye back, making certain her family were near, but didn't say anything. The bags under her eyes told him enough.

With a turn of his head, Gavin honed in on the street ahead. He was an expert at staring at nothing after too many days left guarding unimportant things if only to give the knights something to do. Sadly, his two year old boy was not as well trained. Inching higher, Duncan wrapped his hands around Gavin's forehead so he could get a better look at the people. No doubt that was what he really wanted, always scurrying up as high as possible to see what adult bodies eclipsed.

Maker save him for when Duncan would be able to climb as well as Myra. Gavin was not looking forward to having to brave the heights he was at best okay with in order to fish his son down.

"Daddy," the voice shouted near his ear, Gavin wincing at the noise, when he felt his son's entire body sway. A hand snapped up instinctively to pin to the boy's side and keep Duncan in place, while Gavin tried to see what he was up to. Wiggling wasn't surprising, there was no way his back of cold metal could be comfortable to sit, but...

In the shadows gracing the ground, he caught it. An extension off the lump on his back lifted up and began to twist back and forth. "Duncan," he groaned, his heels stopping up instantly, "Stop waving. You can't do that here. It's not the time for frivolity."

"Why?"

"Because," he winced, his eyes whipping around the gathered crowds who were all staring agog at the toddler unaware of the somber event.

"Why?" the mocking bird continued.

"Because I ordered you to, that's why," he pulled out his stern voice that'd brook no trespasses, the child silencing a moment as he butted his pouting lip into the back of Gavin's head.

"Kay," Duncan muttered, both hands returning to lock around his father's neck, when Myra turned fully around. Her eyes skirted around the nobles glaring from behind, then back out to the line of people all pushing to get a view of their late King.

"It's okay, Dunny," she reached towards her son but didn't lift him off of Gavin's back. After rustling his hair a moment, she picked up his hand and gave it a shake. "You can wave all you want."

The little shoes lifted in glee, his body twisting to match the arm pumping through the air. Myra smiled a moment, her own hand raising to do the same. "Dad wouldn't want everyone all gloom and doom," she sniffled through the grin, "He'd be waving just as hard as his grandson."

With one hand keeping his boy safe, Gavin wrapped the other around Myra. She didn't stop waving to the crowd who were returning some of them now, but she rested her head on his shoulder. After placing a kiss to her warm forehead, Gavin lifted his hand off of her stomach and gave a single wave to the crowd. A young elven girl, at most a year older than Duncan, giggled on her mother's shoulders and returned it.

Even through the acrid pit in his stomach, Gavin smiled.

By the time they reached the chantry, nearly everything was in place. The mourners were already sat, filling up the back standing area. A handful of chairs were left unoccupied at the front, no doubt for the close family. Queen Beatrice led the line in, her arm held by the Grand Cleric of Denerim. Both women shuffled in slowly, trailed by Rosamund and those important after as the entire chantry fell silent. Eyes watched their Queen Mother and future Queen as well, both for sympathy and scrutiny. Ferelden wasn't just mourning their King but his rule as well, while wondering what changes would come next.

Myra moved closer behind Cailan's family, her hand wrapped around Duncan's while Gavin held him too. The boy was still pumped from the parade he got to be in, his jaw jabbering no matter how often Gavin leaned down and tried to shush him. It would be a miracle if they could make it through this without Duncan doing something loud and embarrassing.

Pausing, Myra crumpled into a flimsy chair. Gavin moved to sit beside her, but she waved a hand and said, "That's Duncan's seat." While she helped hoist their wiggly son up onto the chair, Gavin fell to his weary legs full of questions.

He turned back to look at the chantry overstuffed with people, most of them forced to stand and wait. "He doesn't need a chair, he could sit in my lap."

"Gavin..."

"It will allow someone else an opportunity to sit," he whipped back around, trying to determine who would need the chair the most, when Myra's warm fingers graced his jaw.

She turned his eyes to her, her lips thinned to almost nothing. "It's Duncan's, okay. It's...it's the only way we could get it to work."

"Get what to...?" he asked, when a body began to push its way through the multitude. A few were fighting back, but whoever was coming would brook no trespasses. Hunched over to try and sneak in unnoticed, Reiss paused at the row holding her daughter.

Reaching out, Myra gripped onto her hands and helped guide her aching mother to Duncan's chair. With a shattered smile, Reiss scooped up her grandson who was ecstatic to have her here, and sat with him pivoting around in her lap. She was stoic, her skin pale and wan, but no tears leeched from her eyes, and her mouth remained neutral.

"Gammy," Duncan began, "shoes." He pointed at his feet, showing off his latest party trick of naming the various articles of clothing he had on. Reiss patted his full stomach and pressed a kiss to the back of his head.

"I see that," she said to him before closing her eyes.

Gavin glanced behind her head to catch Myra's eyes. "I'm sorry," he mouthed and Myra shrugged. Reiss had no official standing in the court, nor in the royal family. She wouldn't be given any rights to even attend her love's funeral much less sit. But Myra found a way, even if she was to act as their son's nanny for the day.

"Daddy!" Duncan squeaked, fishing a piece of flint out of his pocket. Confused where he got it from, Gavin happily accepted the gift and tucked it away.

"You're going to be a terrible sneak thief," Reiss whispered to her grandson, her eyes fully upon the boy in her lap and not the man's body being laid to rest upon the pyre. He couldn't blame her, even Gavin was having troubles looking towards the King being doused in more holy oil by the sisters.

They would have done up his skin earlier to make certain the body burned, but it was tradition for the chantry clerics performing the rites to give one last drizzle. For their King it seemed as if every sister, mother, and grand cleric wanted a censer of their own. As the Grand Cleric dabbed her final spray of oil upon Alistair and slid back to the rows of chairs near the altar, a woman stood off the gilded throne.

Her hat stretched high through the air, hiding away what had once been orange-red hair that Gavin as a child foolishly asked if it was on fire. Porcelain cheeks marred by age and also pain fell flat while Divine Victoria leaned over Alistair's body. Using the sleeves of her fine robes, she wiped away the oil that spilled onto the King's eyes -- so he could see the Maker fully in all His glory.

For a moment, it wasn't Divine Victoria who paused to look down at the deceased but Leliana. She bit into her lip while staring at Alistair as if he were asleep and about to rise. The moment passed in an instant and the Divine turned to the assembled masses.

"People of Ferelden," she shouted in her Orlesian accent. It should throw Denerim off, but they knew this sister. She fought in the Blight, she was born in these lands. Ferelden claimed their newest Divine as much as Orlais did, sometimes more fervently with the King often siding with her more liberal proclamations. "We have come to mourn not only the loss of a King, but a father, a husband, a son, and friend..." she paused, unexpected tears jamming in her eyes, "for whom the world is lesser without."

She moved to turn to Beatrice, the Queen veiled in black sitting in the first mourner's chair. It was designated for the widower, the one who lost not only a friend but partner in life. Divine Victoria tipped her head, assuming she'd finished her recognition, when the Queen Mother suddenly stood. A few hands reached for her, Rosie in particular to tug her mother back to the chair, but Beatrice was set. Turning in place, Queen Beatrice hefted up her dark skirts in her fingers and stepped through the rows of chairs. Her thick veils were aimed right at Myra and Gavin.

No...no, she was staring at Reiss.

"Blighted hell," Myra cursed to herself, "I didn't think she'd notice."

Gavin's entire body tensed, uncertain what he could do if the Queen attempted to have the King's lover booted from his funeral. While he wanted to protect Reiss, and he knew the King's wishes would be for her to remain, it would reflect very poorly upon him if he even raised his voice against the Queen in mourning. For her part, Reiss lifted her head in defiance and stared right into the Queen's darkened eyes.

Saying nothing, Beatrice extended her hand to Reiss. Myra and Gavin shared a glance before both glared at the royal palm hanging in the air. Slowly, Reiss shifted Duncan off her lap and into Gavin's. By the time he had his son safely in his arms, Gavin realized she did it specifically so he couldn't leap to her defense. With no fear and no hesitation, Reiss gripped onto the Queen's hand and rose to her legs.

It wasn't to the back of the chantry that Beatrice escorted her, nor into the arms of a guard prepared to drag the shattered woman from the chantry. With her skirts rustling against the floor, Beatrice guided Reiss to the front line of chairs. Reiss' lips hung open, confusion written clear as day upon the detective's face as the Queen extended her hand to the first chair Beatrice just left.

"Please, sit," she said, her voice clear enough it rang over the held tongues.

Reiss glanced down at the chair as if it all had to be an illusion or a trap, when she suddenly spun on her heels and embraced the Queen in a deep hug. After returning it warmly, Beatrice patting Reiss' back, the elven woman who'd been Alistair's love for over three decades sat in the widower's chair. Without saying another word, the Queen Mother scooped up Rosie's son and fell into his chair with the boy in her lap.

Every breath was held as if anticipating a great riot to break out. Who does that elven woman think she is? Acting as if she was the one truly married to the King? As if she was his one great love in this world? But no one would voice it, no one would dare go against the wishes of their Queen who was happily whispering to her grandson. Rosamund leaned over to Reiss and the pair joined hands a moment.

Hopping a chair over, Myra took up the vacated seat, her fingers entwining with Gavin's while she pressed a kiss to Duncan's head. Their son, unaware of the unprecedented and heartfelt moment, continued to dig sand out of his pockets and litter it on the floor.

Divine Victoria nodded her head at Reiss, allowing this second widow a view of the body of her lover, before she folded her hands and stepped to the middle of the altar. "The dear King Alistair's first daughter will now speak a few words."

Taking in a deep breath, Queen Rosamund rose from her seat and stepped up beside the great Divine. She looked stoic, as unmoved as the statues bearing her likeness. But for a moment, her body swayed, Leliana wrapping a comforting hand around her as the pair stared out towards Ferelden -- her new kingdom. The rest of the family only had a view of Alistair.

"What can I say about my father that you do not already know?" Rosie began, "He lived his life without pretense, without shadows, and without lies. He was every bit as hilarious, kind, loving, and full of terrible puns as you knew him to be..."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Fault

A massive bowl of beans made the third loop of the table. Myra wasn't watching it. No, she'd been engaged in the time honored tradition of everyone sitting around talking about how lovely the ceremony was, how beautiful the music/flowers/words were, and how it was just what the person who was now ash would have wanted. She knew one thing, her dad would have abhorred those beans. Nary a strip of bacon in them. No, someone added celery, honest to the maker celery into perfectly good beans.

Who did that?

Monsters. Or maybe the undead. What were their thoughts on celery again?

"Uh huh," her husband was nodding, his face struggling to make a smile while he attempted to small talk. Blessed Andraste, so many years on at this and he was still abysmal at it. But he tried. There were few things Gavin didn't try at. The woman he was talking to was older, perhaps as old as her dad, and kept a small nug on her lap. It was tinier than the usual ones Myra'd find scattered around the city, as if it was bred for proper ladies to cart them around in bags they were free to shit in.

She should rescue him, recuse him, or reuse him? Do anything to distract the woman who was less babbling on about her Dad and talking endlessly about herself, but Myra jabbed at her plate instead. The food she didn't want to take swirled around on the baked clay. Way to skimp out there, Rossie. Dad's funeral and aside from the big wigs at the front getting dragon bone plates, everyone else was dining on whatever they had in the back.

Gavin's fire warmed eye drifted over to her and he frowned. To emphasize what was giving him the extra wrinkles, his sight darted to her full plate. She thought maybe he'd think she ate something by mushing it all together into one giant brown glob, but no luck. He'd been on her for the past week to eat something. Drink something. Get some sleep.

What was the point? Her stomach was in no mood for food, her eyes were in no mood for sleep, and her chest... It wouldn't stop aching with every breath.

Silently, Myra's eyes darted over to her mom. Reiss had remained silent through the funeral, but she knew she'd been psyching herself up for it for days. Mom wasn't big on showing weakness, not when anyone else might see. But in front of Myra, in front of Lunet or a few of the others in the agency family, she'd crack. She'd stumble. She'd grip onto her desk and wail in agony and there wasn't a damn thing anyone can do.

The damn nightmares started up again after that. Myra didn't realize how much she'd buried in her brain from the turmoil of when her Mom had her ear cut off until she heard the same soul gutting cry erupt from Reiss' throat. Only difference, there was no Dad there to help the wounded woman through it. Reiss and Myra were left alone, stumbling to try and find any sense in this fucked up world.

"Gammy!" Duncan called while kicking both feet up in the air. He sat between Myra and Gavin, more to try and keep him pinned in, but he couldn't stop waving at his worn out grandmother. She'd put down her spoon and return it with a twist of her fingers, which would make Duncan giggle.

"You should eat your dinner," Myra said while jabbing a finger towards his also full plate. Her boy stuck out his tongue and shook his head. Sighing, she rolled her eyes towards her husband who could get Duncan to do anything he didn't want to, but Gavin was staring directly at her instead.

"You should eat as well," he said, causing Myra to glare at him. She wasn't two years old, she knew what was best for herself. She knew what she deserved.

Snagging a loaf of bread off one of the further platters, Myra began to tear small pieces off and lay them in front of her son. "Here, you like this," she explained. He wasn't a picky eater at home, but when over stimulated by lots of people and lots of change in his world, Duncan seemed far too interested in anything but food. Her Dad would disown him on that alone.

She laughed a bit at the thought while sifting through Duncan's curls. They were practically ringlets now, growing so long as to damn near stop any little old ladies in their tracks until they could pinch his adorable cheeks. Unaware of his looks, just like his Daddy, Duncan snatched up pieces of bread into both fists and shoved them in his mouth. With a wide grin, he chewed, half the bread sloshing down his throat.

"You are disgusting," Myra said to her son who grinned wider and reached with his crumb coated hands for her cheeks. She tipped her head down, letting him smother her in loving goo before she got a quick kiss in against his forehead. "Now eat your peas."

Duncan folded his arms, prepared to fight her on it, but Myra was in no mood for the usual games. Snatching up her spoon, she rolled three of the offending vegetables onto it and held it up to her boy. His green eyes glowered, the boy blessed or cursed with his father's sneer in the trappings of her coloring.

"Nice try, kid, but I've grown immune to that. Eat 'em," she said while hovering the spoon closer to his lips. Duncan didn't open up, but his chubby fingers picked up one of the peas and inspected it. When he squished the overworked pea in between his fingers, green slime squirting out, Myra groaned.

Of course, that was the perfect time for the tallest hat in the chantry to wander by. Gavin practically leapt to his feet, then bowed to his knees in her presence. "Your most holy!" he greet/cried to her while Myra attempted to clean the pea juice off of Duncan.

"Please, call me Leliana. It has been some years since I last saw you."

Gavin blushed, scrambling to rise up far taller than the Divine. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, "My life keeps me busy."

"No doubt. Having an entire treaty named after you will eat up a large mass of it."

"Oh that's..." his eyes wandered away as always happened when anyone brought up the Gavin Treaty. It wasn't its official name, but anything official went out the window with that mess. "It's not anything special."

"I beg to differ. It doesn't often take much to start a war, but ending it before it really began, especially one between three different nations is an impressive feat."

Her husband was gasping now, his eyes darting around the room as if he feared he passed out and was dreaming all this, "I was lucky. Right place, right time and all..."

The Divine smiled, her stained lips lifting not from a force but genuine emotion. "Your mother would say that often to explain away her triumphs as well. Humility runs in your blood."

Gavin folded inward, his amber eyes clouding as he raced to wall away the always eroding pain of losing his parents. And Myra used to act as if she understood what that felt like. Maker's balls was she naive. "I try...to do what is right. What they'd want."

Patting him on the shoulder, the Divine said, "Lanny would be extremely proud of you. And this one..." She turned, her crystal blue eyes falling upon a scrubbed up Duncan. He too was following her, a hand in his mouth while he felt around counting his teeth. It was one of his go to's when he wasn't certain about people.

"Blessed Andraste, he is a beautiful baby. There is much of your mother in there," Leliana praised Duncan whose bright eyes swung over to his Dad. When Gavin smiled at the compliment so too did Duncan.

Her baby yanked his slobbered fingers out and shouted, "Hi!" to the Divine.

"And there is Alistair. I knew it'd be lurking in him somewhere."

At her dad's name, Myra wrapped an arm around her baby boy. Not to protect him, he was enthralled with the Divine's hat now and in safe and friendly quarters. No, it was just because she needed to touch her son. To remind her heart that he was here with her, and that sometimes she could see her Dad's blinding smile in Duncan's chubby cheeks.

"You must be very proud," Leliana addressed Myra who gulped and nodded, tears rising up. She tried to shake them away, exhausted of all the crying, but Gavin caught on. He always caught on, watching, waiting to try and soothe it all away. As if it could go away. As if she wanted things to be normal.

How could anything be normal with her dad dead?

Gliding past Myra being comforted by her husband, the Divine moved towards another table of her flock, when Reiss suddenly reached over to grab onto her hands. Leliana paused and looked down at the crushed woman. With a slow breath, Reiss turned her head to the woman and whispered, "Thank you for orchestrating the service, your Perfection."

Bundling her hands around the elf's, Leliana tipped her head to Reiss. "Alistair was a force that will not be forgotten from this world. Nor the next, I fear." Reiss snickered at that, a tear rising in her eyes. "He was a friend, even during dark times to rather unexpected people. And by all accounts he adored you dearly. It is colder with his passing."

"But he sits by the Maker's side?" Reiss insisted causing Myra to blink. Her mom was not really the chantry going type. She didn't go into it with her daughter, but there was some bad blood when Reiss was a girl and that was enough. Myra didn't much care, she liked sleeping in when she could. _And then you went and married the son of a templar._ Well, at least he didn't insist on attending services every day like the fervid flock.

The Divine paused and tipped her head. She said all the right words during the ceremony, about how beautiful it was when a soul was called across the veil to be with the Maker. How we must carry on his name but not wither in pain. Take joy in the memories and other aphorisms that were pretty but pointless. At least it made everyone else feel better. Myra did her best to not growl with each one.

"Knowing Ali, he's probably already caused the Maker to groan at least once at his terrible puns."

At that Reiss laughed, a real one instead of the polite chuckle she'd managed for the past week. After thanking the Divine again from the bottom of her heart, she let Leliana return to her rounds of comforting the masses. People were upset because people got upset at funerals. They reminded everyone that we're not immortal. One day we're all gonna die. But not everyone was upset about the man they put to the torch. Not everyone here collapsed to their knees when a stuffy little toad of a messenger squatted on their porch and read off the news.

Not everyone cared.

Duncan shoved away Myra's hands and quickly wiggled his way off of the bench. Once under the table, he made a beeline for the staircase that led to the upper states rooms. "Young man," Gavin called to his son who seemed to be on a mission.

He managed to waddle around all the legs and tables and had one foot on the stairs, a hand gripping to the railing, before turning back to his father. "Where do you think you are going?" Gavin's voice boomed over the din of people eating their pain away. It was light hearted, to watch as the toddler tried to escape his parent's evil clutches.

With a big smile on his face, Duncan practically shouted at the top of his lungs, "Find Gampy!"

Silence collapsed on top of them, heads tumbling to chests, silverware hanging limply off fingers instead of scraping over plates. Myra whipped her eyes over to Reiss who was struggling in a breath. She reached for her mom, her hand trying to soothe away the eternal reminder that he was gone. Leaping to his feet, Gavin dashed over to the boy who looked peeved that he couldn't head out on his mission. "You can't."

 Quickly gathering him in his arms, he yanked Duncan back who kept asking, "Why?"

"Mom, I'm so sorry," Myra sputtered, "We tried to explain it, but I don't think...he's so young and..." Her lips trembled, tears bubbling again because she had to face the reminder too. There was no father waiting at the top of those stairs for her either.

It took a moment before Reiss lifted her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, but she forced on a smile while patting Myra's hand. "It's okay." She turned to Gavin and reached out for Duncan. "Here, let me hold my grandson."

Gavin glanced to Myra, uncertain if it was wise, but she shrugged. If it was what her mother wanted right now...

When Duncan fell into his grandma's lap, Reiss wrapped her arms tight to hug him. The boy picked at the table's edge, even as he kept asking, "Why? Where Gampy?"

"Cupcake," Reiss whispered to him, "you can't see your Gampy anymore."

"Why?"

"Because...because he's sleeping."

Myra didn't realize she was bawling silently until Gavin dug into her shoulders. Instinctively, she reached to grip onto his hand to tug him tighter.

Turning from the table, Duncan eyed up his grandmother a moment. "When we play with Gampy?"

"Not..." Reiss pressed her lips to his forehead, smoothing down the curls with her kiss, "not for a long long time. But you'll see him again, one day. And he will play and play with you as long as you want."

The green eyes that passed from Reiss, to Myra, to the boy in her lap watched the broken woman. He reached for her trembling cheek and pushed inward. It lifted Reiss' lips, giving her half a smile which Duncan giggled at. After making his Gammy feel better, he nodded, "Okay," and spun back to sit before the table.

Myra's heart pounded like someone filled it with gravel. She choked on the dust that was once her soul while stumbling to her feet. Both Gavin and her mom looked up and she realized she had no explanation beyond needing to get out. Needing to do something beyond sitting around waiting for it to get better. This stupid pain was never going to get better.

"I, uh..." in whipping her tear-stained eyes around she spotted her sister wandering through the back tables. She hadn't sat nearly the entire time since the funeral ended. "I'm gonna go talk to Rosie," Myra put on a fake smile.

"I will join you," Gavin announced in that there's no arguing with me, and even if you tried I'll be a stubborn ass and follow anyway. He was malleable as clay until that worry streak flared awake then it was like wedging open a mountain. Nodding in defeat, Myra accepted his hand sliding along her shoulders to try and keep her upright. Before she left, she pecked a kiss to her son's head.

Already weary of the sappiness, Duncan wiped it off and got back to playing with his grandmother's silverware. At that Reiss sighed, and tried to keep the really sharp objects away.

By the time Myra made it around the stacks of people growing more inebriated with every hour, Rosie had been stopped up by one of the older Arls. They all looked like white haired prunes to Myra with noses that bulged wide as a potato, but that would be impolite to point out. And somehow her sister could recognize them all on...well, it couldn't be sight. Maybe by smell?

"Myra," her exhausted eyes traveled up to her sister and she bowed her head. The Arl skedaddled away, perhaps aware that Myra was the black sheep of the royal family. No father, no point in keeping her around up here. Certainly no reason for the fancy nobs to humor her existence anymore.

"Did you try the ham?" Rosie asked, struggling to find any topic that wouldn't cause them both to burst into tears. It was a small list.

"Yeah. Tasted like the cook shared a jug of wine with the pig after it was slaughtered."

"I did wonder about the rather acidic flavors," Rosie tapped a finger to her chin, her black gloves leaving a smudge she must have missed on them.

"I was more concerned about the grey ash clinging to the ends. Who'd they get cooking for this? An Antaam?"

Her sister blinked a moment, not having been around enough qunari to get the joke. Scrunching up her eyes a moment, Rosie glanced over to Gavin. "How's your son holding up?"

"Good," Gavin stuttered. He was often working under the Princess, but somehow kept her forever at arms length. The concept of work spine versus downtime collapsing onto the chair was beyond him. "Though, he's already torn though both changes of pants we brought."

Rosie snickered and scrubbed her face, "Wait until you can begin taking him out of the diapers. That is an experience on its own."

"We've started, a bit. He can sometimes figure it out, but then has a habit of waiting to ask until it's too late," Gavin said, easily falling into the small talk trap of the young parent. They didn't want to talk about their dad, or death, or sadness in general. So, talk about how annoying kids can be. That one everyone can relate to.

Myra shook her head, trying to will herself into the light banter, "Once, Dunny pulled down his pants and pissed on a pile of brimstone."

"Oh Maker! Is that...dangerous?" her sister's eyes opened wide in shock and Myra laughed.

"Nah, causes a massive amount of black smoke to go rolling out once water's added to it though. Looked like our son went full evil and scared the ever loving crap out of a customer at the time. You know, I don't think I have seen him back since."

Dad laughed and laughed when she told him. So hard there were tears in his eyes while he bounced his little acorn in his lap. Myra spent more time at the palace than she ever had as a kid because of Duncan. He adored his grampy and that grandfather loved him back just as hard.

Fallen sullen, Myra bunched a fist up against her stomach and shrunk back. She wasn't aware she was crying until Gavin's warm arm wrapped around her shoulders and tugged her safely into him. Maker's breath, when would this stop? Why did every damn happy memory have to end in her crying? Couldn't she have those at least?

"Hm," Rosie turned away from the crumbling pair and began to strike up a conversation with one of hundreds of red robes that were circling to keep things moving. "Yes, yes," she nodded, drawing her fingers over a dozen pieces of parchment before giving her okay. "That one will be fine. And we can determine the rest later."

When they all waddled off, Myra snickered, "Picking which country to invade?"

"Coronation decisions, in particular the cut of official invitations..." She said it whimsically, the same way Myra would talk about picking out a pair of shoes for Duncan, but Myra sneered and bundled her hand tighter into a fist.

"You couldn't wait," Myra's head shot up, her veins filling with venom as she glared at her sister. "It's been, what, an hour? Two? How cold can his ashes even be?!"

"Myra," Rosie raised up her silencing hand as if that would ever work on her, "lower your tone."

"Ha, right. My tone is the problem here. Not you, practically giddy to finally get your mitts on that crown. To sit your ass on the throne and be free to tell everyone what to do."

Myra's voice cracked as she screamed, "Our dad is dead! And you don't even care!"

In a shocking move, Rosie lashed out and grabbed onto Myra's wrist. "Of course I care. How dare you! He was my father just as much as he was yours!" She couldn't help herself, Myra let a laugh escape at how damn certain Rosie was with that sentence. They all knew the truth in their little stitched together family. What was the point of pretending?

Rosie flung her hand back, her fingers pinched together like a fat spider. "Is this another one of your acts, Myra? Making a scene and drawing every eye to you because you aren't getting enough attention?"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Myra groaned. "Not the Maker damn party dress all over again." She could feel Rosie bubbling, wanting to insist that a five year old Myra spilled that paint on purpose in order send an eleven year old Rosie scampering up the stairs in tears. But she wasn't having any of that re-hashing of history. "No, your Majesty," Myra flung her arms out as if she would bow. As if that would ever happen. "It's all about you, dry-eyed, marching around with your nose in a snit, while you slobber over the crown. Your birthright and you finally get it. All it took was our dad keeling over. Bet you hated that he recovered from that sickness and hung around for another two years."

Her sister's hand sliced through the air, clearly heading to strike against Myra's cheek. She didn't react to it, just closed her eyes and let it come, but only a soft breeze glanced instead of the slap. Taking a peek, Myra spotted Gavin with metal fingers wrapped around the crowned princess' wrist. She wasn't straining against him, but Rosie was fuming at his involvement.

"Let's not do anything we will come to regret," he said in a low gravel.

"Too late," Myra sneered. "I should have known better than to come here. To ever come back here again. My whole life you told me where I belonged, and it's not in some gilded palace. The only reason I ever set foot in this place is ash now. So...damn it, I have nothing to end on!" Screaming at herself, Myra spun on her heels and marched towards the door.

Behind her she could hear her husband attempting to clean up her messes, as always, "Your majesty, please forgive..."

Rosie obviously rolled her eyes wide, probably crossed her arms and harrumphed, "Myra acting mercurial? I don't know why I would have expected anything better from her."

Stomping to feel something up her legs, Myra kicked open the door and bumbled into the hall. She wanted to hit something, to hit a lot of somethings and...and watch it bleed. Maker's balls, how long had it been since she last took a job from her mom? Not since Duncan. Her fist closed, the softened skin and polished nails folding tight. Pain registered far away from her digging in, as if her mind was locked in another tower somewhere.

Suddenly a hand grabbed onto her arm. Myra swung up, ready to bash in the skull of whoever touched her, when she spotted amber eyes glaring at her. "Come with me," Gavin growled looking more angry with her than he did his toddler in the midst of a tantrum. Accepting she had no recourse, Myra let him drag her out of the mass of people drifting in and out of the great hall. He practically lived at the palace now, and found a quiet closet off the side and under the stairs.

Gavin didn't speak a word until he shoved her inside and slammed the door. After taking a slow breath, he honed in on her, "What was that?"

"Calling Rosie on her shit before she gets too big for it," Myra said, struggling to cling to her perch. It was made of sand to begin with and the continual rains were eroding it to an inch.

Her husband didn't spit at her, or scream. No, he just narrowed those pinprick candles for eyes and glared. She lied to her son, because that damn sneer still worked on her.

"Fine. I'm the worst person in thedas. Okay. Because she's planning on, on what to wear and how the flowers will look for her great coronation on the day we put my dad to the pyre!"

"Myra," Gavin sighed as if her name was too heavy for him to cart around. "You know she's grieving just as much as you are."

"But she has to hide it, because she's Queen. Oh, all shed a tear for poor, put upon Rosie. Life simply isn't fair. It makes her a beautiful princess, gifts her ample opportunities, gives her children, and then a throne. Truly, I shall light a candle for her sacrifice every day," she snarled, needing to take her venom out on anyone and her sister seemed the easiest target.

"You're upset..."

"No fucking shit!" Myra shouted.

"But not at her. Nor at me," he began in that infuriatingly calm way. Just because he'd been through this before didn't mean he could sit around acting like-like the Professor of Death. He had no idea what she was going through.

Myra scrunched her hand up to her stomach and groaned. Tumbling back in the closet, her back bounced against the wall. He had no idea. "I'm the worst person in thedas," she whispered, her voice full of sincerity as the tears began to burn.

"It's okay," he insisted. "She'll be upset, but in time I'm certain you can..."

"Not about that!" Myra screamed, her moods on a pendulum anymore. "It's my fault. It's all my fault!"

"The fight...?" her slow husband jabbed a finger back out the door as if her kicking up shit with Rosie was anything worth crying over. They did it all the time, they would for years to come.

Ramming the palm of her hand in her eyes to try and smear away the tears, Myra bit down on her lip. "Maker damn it, I'm pregnant!" she shouted to her husband whose lips hung slack and arms fell down to a thud.

"You're..." Gavin stuttered in a breath, "you're pregnant? As in with a child? Truly?"

Glaring death at him, Myra snarled, "Because that's a thing I'd lie about."

He reached over to her, his palm cupping against her arm and trying to pull her into a hug. But Myra felt disgusting, like she had maggots for skin and weeped pus. She didn't want anyone to touch her, not anyone she loved. Gavin let her remain a distance, but didn't let her go either.

"How long have you known?"

"Two days..." she said, her words drowned in sorrow, "two days before Dad..." She couldn't stop the tears now, both eyes washed in them. "It's my fault he died!"

The truth burned inside of her hotter than any rune she could conjure and she'd been trying to swallow it down on her own for a week. She tried to shake it, to hide from it, but it clung to her every waking thought. She killed him, just as sure as anything else.

"Myra," Gavin gasped, "it is not your doing..."

"Yes it is! Because I got stupid. I thought I'd be clever, and make it special. Do something I hadn't even decided yet to tell him, to tell everyone. And I waited, and then he died!" Her lips couldn't stop trembling, her shoulders practically lifted up to her ears as she tried to hide away.

But her husband, her stupid, trusting husband wouldn't let her go. "Meadow flower...it's not your fault. He had a weak heart."

"It happened before," Myra shouted at his face, wishing he'd do what she deserved. Yell back at her. Hate her. Give her the punishment she had coming. Maker, how was she going to tell her mom that she let dad down? "Duncan, he brought dad back from the brink. Gave him a reason to live. I find out I'm pregnant just in time to save him again and I don't."

She'd found out an hour before meeting with her father. He'd even noticed something was off, maybe a twinkle in her eye, or a lightness in her step, to the point he asked if she was hiding something. In true stupid Myra fashion she just shrugged and said "Maybe" while he bounced Duncan on the spring horse.

Then he died. And she could never tell him.

Her body deflated, dragging Myra to the floor. She wanted to be consumed by it, to have the ground split apart and swallow her whole the way the sorrow did. The guilt. Gavin followed beside, dropping fast to his knees while he kept trying to lift her fallen head.

"Myra, you didn't cause him to have a heart attack. It was already weak, from the illness." His palm cupped against her cheek, her acidic tears staining his perfect hand. She tried to shy away, but he wouldn't move. "It's not your fault."

"What?" she snorted in her snot, "It was just his time?"

"Yes," Gavin nodded, causing Myra to throw her arms up in agony. She was so fucking tired of people saying that. No, his time was never. It should be never. Why did it have to be now? Why did it have to be ever?

Folding up his legs, Gavin crashed his back against the wall beside her. He picked up both of her hands in his and smoothed down her skin. "It's not fair. I...I was so angry at the Maker for taking my mom and my dad like that." Gently, he drew back Myra's fallen hair, trying to slide the blonde tendrils back to where they belonged.

"But it was okay. You helped me. And your mother," Gavin paused and a pained smile shattered his calm, "and your father too. I know it hurts, that it will...it will always hurt."

People loved to tell her the lies. That with time she'd feel better. That she'd just remember her good times with her dad and not the gaping hole where he should be. She was so fucking tired of them.

He placed his lips to her steaming hot forehead to whisper, "I'm here, and wherever your father is, I pray he's found my mother and that they're catching up."

Myra laughed in pain, "He'll be unable to shut up about Duncan."

"Very much so," Gavin nodded through his tears.

"Your dad will be pissed."

"He'll get over it," he said with such sincerity, Myra turned and smiled a moment. Her husband cupped her cheek and pulled her head to his chest to listen to the steady beat of his heart. For a time, he held her close, both of them swaying together.

"So, a baby...?"

"I'm sorry," Myra winced, "for not telling you before. I wanted to and then...Dad, and I..."

"It's okay. I understand," he breathed against her, through her, with her. Myra clung tighter to his knees, wishing she could lay beside him for a few hours. "How are you feeling?"

"Nauseous, tired, moody...but that could be the grief too."

Gavin took a moment, clearly lining up his thoughts before speaking, "You should make up with your sister."

"Rosie's not gonna want to talk to me for a month. Maybe she'll have me sent to the dungeons."

"I'll tell her the situation. I think she'll understand."

Myra wanted to argue, to make some flippant joke, but he was trying so hard to fix everything she broke. That was what he did, swooped in and glued up all the pieces. "Thank you," Myra whispered to him.

"I love you," he answered back, his lips placing a kiss to the top of her head. She nuzzled closer to his chest, aching to feel him against her...not in any sexy bom-chick-a-wow-wow way. Just to be together, skin to skin, holding tight against all the bad in this world.

"So...on a scale of one to my ass is on fire," she rolled her eyes up to him, "how terrified are you of having another one?"

"Honestly?" Gavin cracked a smile and his amber eyes shifted over her face while a hand cupped her stomach, "A 6, but I suspect it hasn't fully hit me yet."

She laughed at the answer that rung truer than him insisting he was fine. Tugging herself even tighter, Myra curled her hand over her stomach. I hope my Dad's with you across the veil there, little one. Because he'll be so happy to meet you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Future

"Let me check in back," her daughter was trying to be extra polite while Reiss noticed the strain in her jaw from a customer dropping in at her house and demanding service. How Myra wound up having to deal with people and be nice all the time was a true joke of the Maker.

She sat at their little table beside the fireplace, officially there to spend time with her daughter. In truth, she'd mostly been keeping an eye on her grandson who was marching around the house with massive wellies on. They had to be his father's and it looked as if one could hold all of Duncan. But nothing like a simple matter of physics could slow a three year old down. He paused near the door, the cry of the army he was leading fading fast, and his eyes shot up to the man standing near it.

The giddy grin of whatever game he invented involving a stick and the boots snapped away. Lip stuck out, Duncan stared wide eyed upward at the stranger in his safe home. Suddenly, from the barely walled off pantry a great crash erupted.

"My?" Reiss moved to stagger to her feet, about to help, when her daughter's voice rang out.

"It's fine! I'm fine," she emerged, her face splotchy but whatever she wanted locked up tight in a box. Running a hand under the massive bulge below her dress, she groaned, "This damn thing got in the way. Again." Waddling a bit slower while nursing her very popped stomach, Myra dumped the box into the man's hands and smiled. "Here you go."

He peeked inside a moment, then gasped, "And there's really two enchantments on it."

"Yeah, like you ordered," Myra said while stretching backwards.

"I know, but...I didn't think it was possible."

Reaching forward, Myra cracked open the door and began to shove the customer outside, "Amazing what a person can do when they spend their life figuring out how to do just that and then sell it. Thank you, have a nice day."

She slammed the door and scrubbed her cheeks, "For the love of Andraste, please never come again."

"Troubles?" Reiss hummed to herself while dipping a biscuit into her tea.

"Why is it always the cheapskates who do that? They buy at most one rune, probably on discount because they spun some sob story I let work rather than have to listen to them. And because of that they think they own me. Drop right into my house when the shop is closed? Why not! That Myra's so friendly."

Reiss rolled an eye over at her groaning and very pregnant daughter. "I could have told you that. At the agency, it was the fancier merchants who'd press and press as if no one else in the world existed. Why I preferred working alienage cases. Less coin, but less stress."

"Yes, Mom, you know everything about everything and I..." her rant paused as she reached out and grabbed her son. "Duncan. What's in your mouth?"

"Nuffing," the boy insisted shaking his head madly.

"Uh huh, open it," she snapped her fingers and he dropped his jaw. Barely fishing inside, Myra groaned as she extracted a copper coin. "By the void, you are worse than a dog. Go sit by your grandmother after you put Dad's boots back."

Duncan nodded to his mother and scampered to do as he was told. Wiping a hand against her forehead, Myra waddled her way over to the chair with five pillows in place. She'd use them strategically to prop up her feet, her head, or her back depending on how the day was going. "That kid, and look at me thinking 'oh, let's have another one. They're so cute.'"

Snickering, Reiss kept watch over her grandson who obediently returned the borrowed boots and then scurried onto the chair beside her. "Seems to me you came out the better with Duncan." Myra raised an eyebrow but didn't respond. "He acts just like his father, sweet, listens, is more quiet than brash. And doesn't dig his way out of a swing to go wandering bare-assed through the streets of Denerim."

"Ha," Myra laughed to herself, "sure, throw that back in my face. Just because all you get are the cute grandmotherly moments doesn't mean he can't be a real handful at times."

"Potty training?"

Myra's brow clouded, "We're not talking about that."

That caused the long past that stage grandma to laugh. She scooted Duncan closer to the table where he pointed to the tin of biscuits. "Pwease?" Blessed Maker, he was too cute. There wasn't a person alive who could turn him down when he'd bat his green eyes, pout his thick lips, and then smile so wide a little dimple emerged on his left cheek.

"Sure," Reiss said, happily handing the baby her biscuit. His eyes went wide in pleasure while stuffing the treat into his mouth, crumbs spraying as he tried to explain how good it was.

"Dunny, chew, swallow, then talk," Myra said as if she'd been working on that for months.

"Been a long day?" Reiss asked, turning to her daughter who looked as if she was ready to collapse into a heap.

"Long month, two months..." she glanced out the window as if hoping for a face to be standing outside.

"How much longer was he supposed to be away?"

Sighing, Myra shook her head as if she was being silly for pining, "Not very. Maybe another day. Or be back yesterday. Hard to say precisely. It was one of those humanitarian aid missions."

Reiss puckered her lips. "I don't care for that word."

"What? Aid? Missions?"

Glaring at her, the old elven woman folded her arms, "As if the only people capable of compassion are humans."

"Mom," Myra groaned while shifting in her seat, "I really do not want to get into a semantics argument with you right now. I'm tired, and crampy, and... What I want is for this damn thing to deflate back to normal!" she shouted at her stomach, which looked as if Myra was trying to smuggle a giant's skull under her dress. It was rather surprising as she'd been more or less tiny until about seven or eight months in last time.

But now at six, she popped like a chicken's skin that got too close to the fire.

"You know," Reiss said while ruffling up Duncan's hair, "I could always take him for awhile. So you can have a break."

"Mom, it's...nothing personal and all, but the agency isn't really the best place for him."

Reiss frowned, "Why not? You grew up there. You turned out just fine."

Her mouth dropped a moment in shock before Myra shook her head, "Duncan's different. He's...he's not as big a people person and there are some weird people who walk into the agency."

"As opposed to your rune shop?" Reiss bristled at her home being found as unfavorable for her grandson.

"Let's see for one you have people who need to build a frozen pantry, or light a fire without wood. In the other, murderers, thieves, and the people who want those murderous thieves caught. I was playing in puddles of blood when I was five."

"So?" she wasn't about to back down. Myra had a good life all things considered. And she was happy. Far happier than the childhood Reiss wound up with.

Groaning, Myra leaned back, "I'll consider it. Maker knows we'll need help when we get more. Besides, I thought you were seriously talking about retiring."

When Alistair...before she lost him, Reiss had entertained the thought of stepping back. Even of moving to the palace to spend what time they had together, together. But without him, she doubled down in her work, took to the streets for a few cases much to her daughter's contention. That was a very loud fight with Myra yelling that she should have gone with, and Gavin yelling that no she shouldn't because she's pregnant.

As much as Reiss loved the chase, she was getting too old for it. Settling down in a cozy cabin, maybe taking up watercolors, and playing with her grandbabies all day sounded delightful. Still, she swirled her tea around before taking a drink, there was always tomorrow to decide.

Myra suddenly sat up and Duncan spun in place as if they both sensed a change in the wind. A noise landed outside their house, like someone was trying to knock in a broken board with a bare fist. Their eyes burned into the door, waiting in anticipation as it cracked open to reveal a man with a sack tossed over his shoulder and a great smile on his face.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy!" Duncan cried, leaping so fast off of his chair it tipped over. He ran towards his father who let the sack of filthy clothes plummet and Gavin dropped down to try and hug his son. The boy lashed his arms out, ecstatic beyond measure to have him returned, when Gavin suddenly hissed in pain.

Duncan stumbled back, reacting instantly to hurting his father. "It's okay, son," Gavin said while reaching a hand out to the startled boy. In doing so, his cloak fell away to reveal an arm wrapped tight in a white sling.

Oh boy.

While he comforted his startled son, placing a kiss to his head, Gavin looked up into the wrathful eyes of his wife. "Myra, you're so..." he had eyes upon her stomach, while she was staring at his arm.

"You're hurt?!" she shrieked, jabbing at it.

"Before you jump to any conclusions, it's not that bad," Gavin began.

Myra jerked her chin a bit, "Jump to any conclusions?" she repeated, a sure sign that she was angry beyond measure.

"Duncan," Reiss waved to her grandson, "come sit by me."

"Jump to any conclusions!" she shrieked again.

"It's just a little break, the healers said..."

"Oh, oh great, it's a broken arm. And there were healers involved," Myra slapped a hand to her thighs and tried to pace, but the massive moon around her stomach was making that hard. Poor Gavin looked disconcerted and as if he wanted to reach out to help her, but his arm was bundled tight to his chest.

Realizing that his parents were about to blow up, Duncan dashed over to Reiss. She scooped him up into his chair and reached for an old piece of parchment. Dipping a quill into the ink, she placed it into his chubby fingers and told him, "Why don't you draw something for gammy?"

"Kay," he whispered, his eyes hooded while the real fireworks began to explode.

"Myra, you are overreacting."

"No," she waved a finger in his face, her eyes blazing, "you're under-reacting. A broken arm? Blighted fudging clowns, Gavin! You broke your arm and didn't even tell me! Didn't even say anything in a letter."

He rolled his eyes and sighed, "Because I knew you'd do this. It's not a problem, Myra."

"Not a problem. Not a problem for the father of my child, my impending...look at this!" she waved at her massive stomach as if it was easy to miss, "to shatter his arm just before we're swamped with new baby stuff. No, how could I ever think that might be a problem?!"

"You're acting as if I chose this. It was an accident."

"It's always an accident!" she screamed, quickly reaching the hair ripping stage.

Duncan gulped a moment in between his parent's frothing rage and both eyes whipped away from each other to their son. He had his head hunched down, focusing on drawing a line from one side of the paper to the next, while Reiss kept rubbing his back. "We should not argue in front of our son," Gavin said, clearly hoping that would end it all, but Myra wasn't easily bowed by anyone.

"Fine, follow me," she turned on her feet and walked back towards the kitchen, pantry, and rune storage closet. It was also not really sound proof, allowing Reiss and Duncan the freedom to overhear everything.

"Why are you behaving this way?"

"Maybe because you hid it, maybe because you think so little of me that you wouldn't even tell me you broke your arm, maybe because..."

"Maybe I didn't wish to worry you while you're growing a child inside of you!"

Reiss turned her head, watching her grandson with a tongue stuck between his teeth draw something. It had purpose judging by his concentration, but she had no idea what.

"That's a load of bullshit if I ever heard one. You didn't tell me because you knew it'd prove me right!" Myra was loud no matter where you were in the house. No matter where you were in Denerim, really.

"For the love of Andraste..."

"You can't keep doing this. Every day when you come home I have no idea what state you'll be in. One time it's a new scar, the next a broken bone. What about when you lose a limb? Or you're paralyzed, or hit so hard in the head you can barely remember your name?!"

"Then you'll stop loving me, I assume," Gavin growled.

"Don't you dare put that shit on me! I can't stop loving you no matter how many times you piss me off. That's not the point."

"Then what is?!"

"Gammy?" a soft voice that didn't rattle the swords nailed to the walls whispered beside her.

She turned, "Yes?"

"Can I 'ave a coin, pwease?"

Reiss smiled, with that little pwease she'd probably give him her entire purse just to watch his smile. Maker's breath, he'd be amazing as a con-artist. Thank Andraste he got his father's sense of morality. "Here you go, cupcake," she said while placing a copper in his palm.

Running his fingers over the relief, Duncan smiled a moment then resumed drawing.

"Every MD time I sit in that chair wondering if that's the day," Myra was shouting but also clearly fighting back tears, her voice rippling at the ends. Reiss pursed her lips to hear it, but knew she couldn't do a thing to help.

"What day?" Gavin was growing softer, as if he could diffuse this bomb with his voice.

"That you don't come back at all. That it's your squire at the door, or the other knights holding your fucking sword telling me 'He was brave.' As if I could give two shits if you were brave."

"Myra..."

"If you tell me to watch my language, I swear to the Maker..."

Duncan seemed unperturbed by the naughty words whipping around him. If anything, he'd probably heard worse in his little life. Myra was cursing up a storm by age four courtesy of a very foul mouthed parrot that she snuck into their room and kept stashed in a chimney. Curling a hand against Duncan's back, Reiss glanced over at his drawing. He finished with the first pile of sticks and circles, and moved on to another.

"You can ask Rosie..." Myra was insisting. No, begging. That made Reiss wince to hear. "I'd do it but you'd get all red faced and angry for stepping on your toes. Ask her to be taken off the front. That's all. Just step back."

"Then someone else gets that knock. Someone else receives a fallen comrade's sword."

A great cry of consternation broke out, "You would put your life behind everyone else's. Doesn't matter what you have here, no. Gavin has to be the hero no matter fucking what!"

"Myra..." whatever he wanted slipped away as she rounded past him, out into the living room. Duncan turned to watch, but with tears in her eyes, Myra took up the stairs as fast as she could manage at her size. It was a few beats before the bedroom door slammed and very clearly locked.

Pestilent dust erupted from that slam, filling the air with a virulent awkwardness as Gavin stumbled out to the living room to join his mother-in-law and son. He rubbed his working hand through his hair and sighed. His eyes struck Reiss a moment, before wandering over to his boy.

"What are you working on Duncan?"

"Somefing," the boy said, not about to break from his drawing now.

Gavin sighed and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, "Glad you know how to keep busy." He tried to tug up his overfilled sack, but with with one arm down it was a no go. The bag crashed back to the ground, requiring someone to help him. Realizing that wasn't going to be coming anytime soon, the great Knight stumbled to his stuffed chair by the fire and fell into it.

His eyes drifted over to Myra's, her pillows sitting in place, and he groaned deep in his stomach. "How have you been, Mom?" Gavin said, looking for anything to provide a distraction.

"Well enough," Reiss tried to play along. "Work's been slowing."

"That's too bad."

"Given my line, I'd say it's a good thing for Denerim."

He winced at her logic, "Right, right. And you, Duncan? Have you been a good boy with your grandma?"

"Yes," he spat out, his head bobbing, but he refused to turn from his drawing. It was very important to him.

Fully out of small talk, the man who limped back to his home sunk deeper into the chair. His head burrowed into the back as if he wished it to consume him whole. Reiss felt the stirrings of pity in her soul for his state. In general, he and Myra worked and their love was obvious to all who saw it, but they had this one sticking point that was getting larger and larger with every passing year.

"Daddy!" Duncan shouted, the quill falling from his fingers as he slid out of his chair. He picked the parchment up and dashed over to his father to show it off. "See, Daddy!"

"It's lovely," Gavin shifted a bit higher to peer down while Reiss followed suit. Like the mighty adventurer that ran in his blood, Duncan held the drawing flat as if it was the map to a great treasure. "What's that?" the father asked, pointing to a stick with a big circle on the top.

"Me!" Duncan shouted, so proud of his accomplishment.

"Ah, yes, I can see the resemblance. Love the addition of fingers." He pointed to the end of the arms where another five massive sticks erupted out. This version of Duncan seriously needed to clip his nails.

"And that's Mummy," he pointed to a slightly taller version of his stick figures which he added a great big circle in the middle of, "and that's you!" The other was the tallest on the drawing, with arms that hung down to the ground and feet with great big boots circling the outside edge.

"Who's that?" Gavin asked, pointing behind the image of Myra.

"Gammy! See the hat," Duncan explained as if he was going into excruciating detail on his masterpiece. Sure enough, the line doodling of Reiss had a triangle perched upon the top of her circle head.

"It's lovely, son," Gavin whispered while placing a kiss to the boy's forehead. "You captured her perfectly."

Duncan's lips parted wide to reveal a massive smile. Turning back, he waved the drawing at Reiss. "See Gammy!"

"I do," she smiled at his enthusiasm, when her eyes drifted towards the corner edge. Smaller than the rest of the standing people, one of the stick figures was laying horizontally, though both arms were still positioned up and down. Perspective was difficult regardless of age.

"Duncan, who's that you have lying down?"

"Hm?" he looked down at his drawing as if he'd never seen it before, "Oh, that's Gampy. He's sweeping. We can't wake him."

Reiss gasped a moment, her hand slapping to her mouth to keep the sob in place. Tears burned in her eyes, but she swallowed them back. Her grandson was beaming at her in pride; if she broke down it'd crush him. Chewing on the grief, Reiss nodded, "He'd love it."

Tipping his head back, Duncan stared the same question at his father. Gavin wrapped a hand around his son and backed Reiss up, "He'd adore it. It's beautiful. Come here," Gavin shifted his legs to make a lap for Duncan to scurry into. With a grunt of exhaustion, Gavin gritted his teeth while his son shifted into place -- the boy's green eyes inspecting the drawing for any defects.

After kissing the back of Duncan's head, Gavin glanced to Reiss who was staring out at nothing. Every foolish little thing reminded her of him. Sometimes just watching Duncan sleep curled up in his bed, he'd be the spitting image of Alistair when he was far away from the stress of being King. Well, he's free of it now.

"Where's your mummy?" Duncan asked suddenly, causing Gavin to whip his head down in confusion. "Gammy is mummy's mummy," the boy explained slowly as if afraid his father wouldn't understand. "Do you have a mummy?"

"I..." the father's breath caught and he smoothed down his son's runaway curls. "I did."

"Where is she?" They'd only recently started explaining genealogy to the boy, causing him to often ask people about their parentage. It was a bit fun to watch stuffy Banns give their entire family history to a three year old whose greatest concern was that everyone have a Mom. If he didn't become a great hero, perhaps running an orphanage would be in Duncan's future.

"She's with my father," Gavin walled off, his lips flattening in thought, "at the Maker's side."

"Oh," Duncan looked down at his drawing as if he forgot something important. Craning his head back, Duncan stared at his father. "Do they have custard?"

Gavin chuckled a moment at the serious question, "Probably the best custard in thedas."

"I want to go," Duncan insisted and his father crumbled in an instant.

Reaching the good arm far around, he tugged his boy tighter into his chest for a deep embrace. "Not for a very very long time, you hear me."

"Kay," Duncan sighed, his heart clearly set on this magical custard. The boy twisted around a bit, but his father was in no mood to let him go. They hadn't been apart too long, it was true. And he wasn't fighting off in some battle or taking on brigands. He was assisting with a storm that rolled off the sea and flattened and flooded a lot of the land. Admirable, as if that wasn't etched into every inch of Gavin's skin. But it could have cost him so much more than a broken bone.

And that would surely kill her daughter.

"Are you at all concerned about Myra?" Reiss asked, tugging the father away from his son.

Gavin gulped a moment, then nodded, "Often. Constantly. Whenever I close my eyes." Each admittance of the truth seemed to draw the steely resolve from him.

"What about her concerns?"

"She's..." he sighed, shifting back and forth in his chair, "she's moody right now. I understand, filling with a baby will do that, but...given time, I'm certain she'll calm down."

'She always does' remained unsaid. Reiss hadn't been privy to this fight before, but she knew it existed. Her daughter made a few mentions, at first as something to complain about, then her roundabout way of asking for advice. For Myra to come to anyone for advice with nary a joke on her lips meant it was deathly serious to her.

"When Alistair and I first came together, he was always worrying himself grey over me. _You work with criminals. You work in the alienage. You only have Lunet as backup. No offense, Lunet._ It was infuriating at times because I knew myself. I knew I could handle it."

"Yes, precisely," Gavin said, his head lifting higher to have someone on his side.

"For thirty years, I shook off his rebukes and his concerns because I knew what I was doing," Reiss continued, her hand caressing the scrap of flesh where her ear should be. "So know when I say that you are being a righteous ass and should listen to your wife I have a lot of experience in that department."

"I'm not..." he began but Reiss wouldn't hear it. Shit, she had trouble hearing it. The man was so soft spoken she had to position herself directly across and try to read his lips most times. At least Myra could bellow with the best of them.

"I am well aware that I am stubborn beyond belief. Myra would snort in agreement if she were here, and Maker knows she got her fair share of it from me."

Lifting up the coin with her dearest love's profile stamped onto the top, Reiss let her thumb travel over it. How many times did she dig her heels in? How many times did he nearly tug his hair out in frustration? How could she have made it easier on him before the end?

"You're getting old," Reiss said to the coin, "you're growing more sloppy. It happens to everyone. But more sloppy, more tired, more distracted means more mistakes. And in this world you chose, more mistakes equals death." Her eyes darted right to Gavin's, the man staring around the room at everywhere but her. He looked as if he wanted to tell her off, but he was raised to respect his elders even if it bit him in the ass.

"I can't just..." he sighed, "If I don't do it, then someone else less qualified, less capable, less seasoned might attempt it and not pull it off. They could die. The people they're trying to help could die. And that blood would be on my hands."

She closed her eyes, hearing the same words repeated in her voice to a shirtless man who left his crown at home. "Alistair, it has to be me. I'm the only one they'll listen to!"

"And what if you die?!"

She didn't. She pulled off the miracle and kept on keeping on. Even when things grew dark, darker than... Reiss did her best to not think about her kidnapping, to not feel hot breath down her neck, to not remember the rush of blood gushing off the side of her head. But it was in there. And it didn't have to be. If she'd just listened.

"Your wife needs you, your children will need you. There comes a time when one has to step aside and let others pick up the mantle. When you choose your life instead of nothing but the drudgery before death."

Gavin didn't shout at her, not that she expected him too. Nor did he calmly attempt to pick apart her arguments, or even easily rebuke them. Maker knew it was full of hypocrisy coming from her. If it was all so easy to turn your back on your life's ambition, why didn't she?

Hindsight. It was why they kept the elderly around after all.

Instead, the boy pressed his lips to his son and tried to crush him in a hug. When the door above them cracked open, all three heads craned up. Myra was quiet walking down the stairs, her bare feet barely making a sound while trudging to the living room.

"I'm not apologizing," was the first thing she said, aimed fully at her husband who remained quiet. "But...there's stuff you should know about. Mom too, I forgot, um..."

Pausing by the firelight, her blonde hair took on an otherworldly glow as if she was lit from inside. Duncan wiggled out of his dad's arms and rushed over to wrap around his mother. "Ugh," Myra groaned, the boy's face dipping into her rotund stomach before she got a better grip and hugged him back.

"Mummy, see!" he hefted up his portrait of their family, Duncan's only concern in the world right now. Myra's gritted jaw and haunted eyes softened like butter left by the hearth.

"It's beautiful," she smiled to her boy. "Is that Mom's hat?" she asked, jabbing at the triangle that looked almost nothing like the one Reiss really wore. Duncan whipped his head up and down fast causing Myra to chuckle, "You're getting really good at this. Maybe Rosie can use you as official portrait drawer for the crown."

"You had something to tell me?" Reiss began, her eyes darting over to the man who remained silent.

Duncan pulled away from his mother in order to lay his drawing flat on the table. Scurrying up into the chair beside Reiss, he snatched up the quill and dipped it deep enough to coat half the feather in ink. Most would have chastised him, but they were all too distracted with adult pain. Happy to be lost in his throes of simple childhood, Duncan smeared a few ink stained fingerprints over his masterpiece before he started to doodle more.

"It's something Rosie told me about," Myra began, her fingers tugging on her hair, "She's, uh, she's hosting a little get together for all the kids and grandkids on Dad's birthday. The real one, not that fake one we all pretend is the real one."

Reiss nodded her head, one eye casting over to her grandson. "That sounds lovely," she said. "And like something your father would have adored."

"Yeah," Myra coughed, "and she, um, she said you should come. Could come, I mean. Not an official order or anything."

Flinching, Reiss turned to her daughter, "I don't know if that's such a wise..."

"Mom, I get that you think the palace isn't your place anymore. Not without dad around, but..." Myra hefted up and down on her toes, "she's my sister, he's my brother, there's a good dozen nieces and nephews running around now. They're all family and you are too. Plus," she shrugged her shoulder, tears dancing in her eyes, "Dad would want you there. I...I want you there."

She hadn't been back since the funeral, that elven detective having no reason to set foot back in the human spheres of politics. Myra went on occasion, usually at the Queen's urging or for her husband. But Reiss couldn't do it. Even if she had a reason, the thought of wandering those halls where she first met him knowing that even if she opened every one of the multitude of doors he wouldn't be behind a single one... No. It, it was too hard to contemplate.

"Gammy," Duncan draped his head against her arm, his eyes rolling up to hers. He didn't seem to want anything, just to remind himself that she was there. It started after they lost Alistair and Reiss doubted it'd vanish anytime soon.

"Okay," she nodded her head, her hand sliding around to grip to the back of Duncan's chair and keep him safe. "I'll go to this party."

Myra smiled bittersweetly, "Good, I can tell Rosie to expect you. She was gonna bring out cucumber sandwiches, which is a perfectly good waste of both bread and cucumbers if you ask me. So," her weary eyes drifted over to her husband, "that was it." Turning on her heel, Myra moved to march back to her room.

"Wait," Gavin called, the man turning quick to try and catch her fingers. She glanced down where he touched her and didn't shake him off, but she sighed deeply.

"I'm not in the mood to fight right now."

"Myra," he guided her closer to him, Myra's head thrown back in exhaustion until he got her body right in front of his chair. Rather than stand, Gavin pulled on her until Myra collapsed onto his lap -- massive stomach and all.

"What are you doing?" she asked. It wasn't a flirtatious giggle, nor was she frothing mad. She seemed fully confused by the move.

Burying his face into her shoulder, Gavin wrapped his good arm around his wife and snuggled her tighter. It took a moment before Myra turned and hugged him back. Even pissed as hell, she clearly missed him. In shifting, she must have glanced across his broken bone as Gavin once again hissed in pain.

"Sorry," Myra apologized before frowning as she must have remembered that's what started their whole fight. "I can get some salves to try and heal that up. There are a few in back from..."

"Wait," he repeated, apparently the only word he had left in his arsenal after the browbeating he received. He drew his cheek against hers and sighed. "I missed you beyond counting, Myra. You and Duncan. Every night, every day, every breath."

"We missed you too," she said, frowning.

His amber eyes burned right into Myra's as he swore, "And I never ever want to lose you."

"Gavin, it was just a fight. They happen..."

"Not..." he chuckled a moment, "no, I understand now. You're right."

"Come again?" Myra blinked in surprise.

"You are right. It is time, beyond time that I stepped back from my full duties."

Her jaw dropped open while Reiss turned back a moment to hide her grin. "You'll, you'll get off the front line? Ask Rosie to-to make you a general or however it all works? I mean, you should have been promoted ages ago but everyone's all worried about nepotism, as if stopping a war shouldn't count for a big medal or..."

Gavin skirted a hand higher up his wife and sighed, trying to stymie off her babble. "More than that," he said cryptically before fully shifting gears. "Myra, we can barely fit in this house. Between your runes and my mess of weaponry that should be locked up better we're already full to bursting. And there's another baby on the way."

His hand scooped over her stomach, tenderly rubbing it as if he was making a wish. Maybe he was. Myra watched a moment, her eyes set to mist before she shook hard and honed on him, "What are you getting at?"

"I think it's time we moved out to the estate I was given."

"But...but that place is, it's...huge. Like way too big and fancy. I thought you hated it."

Gavin shrugged, "My duty as a knight is to tend the land, to keep watch over it, and while I have let it fall to the groundskeeper for the past few years, it is not right of me to put so much on him."

"What about my shop?"

He snickered a moment, "You are the only enchanter who found a way to work two enchantments onto one rune. People will travel from miles, across countries, to buy off you. Plus, I think we could find an entire tower for you to work in without having to worry about strange fumes or smoke pouring into the eating area."

At that Myra smiled, "An entire tower would be a good start. I mean, if I'm really going to get that lightning and ice one to work I'd probably need a wing..." When Gavin frowned deeply, she chuckled. "Move? Leave Denerim for a fancy palace in the forest? Are you serious? You can't be, I mean this is..."

"It's a house, Denerim is a city. My home is you, and my son, my family. I can keep my vows, offer up my services to the crown as I swore, and still come home to you every night."

Reiss could see tears rising in her daughter's eyes at the prospect. All Myra wanted was for her husband to not risk his neck so damn much, but the idea of him being with her always was almost too much for her to bear. Diving forward, she plucked a tender kiss to his slack lips and the elderly grandma turned away. The fruit of one of their unions was happily sketching away on his parchment, unaware of the new plans for his future.

Smiling, Myra turned her head towards Reiss, no doubt about to tell the woman what this estate boasted. They'd gone once to visit it, but that was all that Reiss knew. "What...?" Myra whipped back to the man she sat on, "what about Mom?"

"My..." Reiss began, knowing that this was the best possibility for them all. "Don't worry about me."

"By the void, why not? We can't just, I mean she'd be here, but with Dad gone and..."

"Why not come with?" Gavin shrugged as if it was so simple. "Duncan will adore having you around, and with another on the way," he waved to Myra's stomach again, "we'll need all the help we can get."

"You don't want me there getting in the way," Reiss began, lifting up her hand.

"Believe me Mom, this place is huge. We may not see you for a week. And there are a few elves working there," Myra's voice lifted up to a singsong, "cute ones."

"Myra!" Reiss lashed out, her cheeks turning bright red at the idea.

It was Gavin who glared, "Cute ones?"

"What? Not for me," she jabbed at her chest and rolled her eyes. Myra adored her husband but she didn't quite have the same blinding focus he did when it came to love. Not that she'd ever act upon it, but even Reiss got to hear the occasional comment on a rather nice set of ___ walking around that day.

"Mom," Myra reached over to her, "think about it. You want to retire. Why not do it in luxury? With us, and your grandkids, and seriously this place is so big. There's a fountain with a fountain in it. Double fountains. Dad was out of his mind when he handed that one over to Gavin."

Reiss tipped her head down in thought. A simple elven farm girl who was barely literate when the blight began. Orphaned by fourteen, she and her siblings transformed into Ferelden refugees hanging on by a thread outside Kirkwall. Thrust into the army of the Inquisition to survive, she thought she lost everything upon leaving it. Stumbling into the employ and arms of Alistair was beyond anything she ever could have imagined for her life. He was her bedrock, even if he acted like a silly trampoline. He gave her Myra, the drive to create her agency -- which was flourishing across Ferelden and talks to open one in Cumberland.

That little, knock-kneed elf scrabbling to pick beans on their tiny farm would spend her golden years in an opulent palace with her children and grandchildren. It was beyond comprehension.

Smiling, Reiss nodded her head. "All right," she laughed a moment at the absurdity, "you're right. I will, I'd...I'd love to."

"What Gammy?" Duncan asked, focusing up from his drawing at the tears of happiness sliding down his grandmother's cheeks.

She tucked her arm around him and rubbed her nose against his cheek, "I'm going to live with you."

"Weally?" the quill tumbled from the boy's fingers as he fully focused on her.

"Yes," Reiss laughed, "Really. Forever and ever and ever." Her grandson who carried the lineage of three amazing people and herself in his blood wrapped himself tighter and squeezed while he squealed in delight.

Myra turned to embrace her husband as well, Gavin burying his face in her neck while he swayed her in his arms. The joy was palpable, nearly sparkling in the air as the little family growing larger every day, faced a new, wonderful future.

"Ah," Myra slid back to get Gavin to look her in the eye. "There's one other thing I should have mentioned, um..."

As her eyes darted around, her fingers clawing through the air, Gavin's smile faded to instant concern. "What? What is it? Myra, are you...?"

Her mouth opened, no words dropping free, before she shrugged and with a big smile announced, "I'm carrying twins."

Gavin's entire face plummeted to the ground. "T-twins?" Horrified, his eyes slid down to her stomach, "There's...two? Two babies at, at once?"

"Yep."

"Sweet merciful Maker," he prayed, his eyes shut tight.

Laughing, Myra said, "You're so cute when you're horrified beyond imagination." The poor man was sweating bullets, his adams apple bobbing in agony. Myra chuckled at it again before she glanced behind at Reiss who was only smiling. "How come you don't look scared?"

"My, you're as big as a house. It was blighted obvious you had multiples in there. Are you sure it's only twins and not triplets?"

"Triplets?!" Gavin shrieked.

"Yes," Myra raced to soothe his ruffled feathers, "only two. Which..." She picked up his good hand and waved it over her belly. "We can handle this. We've taken on a lot worse with a lot less prep."

He bounced his forehead against hers and a great smile rose on his lips. "Yes," his golden eyes opened and their only concern was for Myra. "Yes, we have."

"Did you hear that Duncan? You're going to have two baby brothers or sisters," Reiss said to her grandson who was far more interested in her tin of biscuits than any babies.

 Gavin groaned once more, but Myra cut it off with a kiss. "I love you," she said, buffing her nose against his.

"And I..." he sighed deeply, "I cannot imagine my life without you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Love

After fetching a glass of water and reading from the thickest book in the stack, Reiss finally managed to lean over and kiss her grandson goodnight. His green eyes trailed her, a concerted sneer on his lips while she pulled back.

"Sleep well, Duncan," she ordered, Reiss needed elsewhere, but the boy reached over. How in the Maker's name did his hand even get out from under her seal tight tuck? Too much of his mother in there.

"Gammy," he pursed his lips together, his nose scrunching in concentration. "Where do babies come from?"

Blighted hell. It wasn't a surprise he'd have babies on the mind right now, but... Leaning to him, Reiss drew back his brunette curls and smiled, "Ask your mummy when you next see her."

"Okay," he was resigned to not getting the answer he most wanted, but it seemed something best left up to a brash Myra and combusting Gavin. Certain that he'd finally go down this late into bedtime, Reiss moved to slide off of his bed when the boy coughed. She paused and turned to the little child propped up on new pillows in the biggest nursery room she'd ever seen.

His big, elf-green eyes flared as his thick lips asked, "Where did I come from?"

Because a girl, who'd struggled to find her place in this world, fell in love with a boy who wanted to do what was right. The boy was scared and lost, but the girl took his hand and brought him into her arms.

And that girl was made because a foolish elf let herself fall for the King of Ferelden. While that silly, heartfelt boy tripped deep into her. If not for assassins targeting him, if not for that girl closing her eyes and leaping into the unknown, there would be no baby to make her grandson.

The boy came to be because a templar dared to love a mage. Because the world shifted and shuddered when mad men broke against the walls. Rather than scurry into the darkness, those two people stood at the edge and said this far, no further.

Because a templar and a king risked their lives to save a mage trapped beyond anyone's understanding. Because even as thedas faced eternal destruction, that templar and mage trusted in their hearts and risked everything to try. Because that mage called upon that far flung templar from her past, despite the scars gouged between them, and let go of their pain together.

Because an elven refugee -- after so much loss, and hatred, and pain in her life -- opened up her heart. Because the king, weary of his crown, of the ice coated around his royal skin, let the elf dressed in armor melt it.

Because a young man, a boy really, walked up a set of stairs with a golden ring digging into his fist and was brought to his knees by the beautiful girl before him.

"Love," Reiss whispered to Duncan, who bunched his lips up harder. He wanted concrete answers, but she couldn't give him one. He came from so many people facing untold horrors, rising back to their feet, and forging into the world while trusting their hearts to another's keeping.

The boy's nursery door blew open and Gavin rushed inside. Sweat coated his brow and he guzzled in air, no doubt from running the entire length of this massive estate. Reiss turned, her heart rising in her throat until she spotted the great smile on his face.

"Two girls," he cheered, "both screaming their lungs off right now while Myra helps scrub them down." The tears in his eyes transferred to Reiss who hugged tight to her grandson. There was another piece of Alistair brought into this world, two pieces who no doubt would act just like him and their mother. Maker have mercy on them all.

It wasn't fair. But life rarely is. Even still knowing that truth, we get up, we stand against that darkness, and we trust in the person holding our hand.

Take a breath.

Be happy.

And love.

THE END
