My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  "Where are they? The Sister, her templars, the...the ones who were going to perform the rite?"

  Perhaps the elf finally spotted that Alistair was not in his usual hearty mood. A vein he'd been noticing in the morning mirror bulged off his forehead and he clawed at the hem of his garment as if it was made of straw dragging across his skin. Instead of responding with a cheeky bon mot, Zevran tipped his head. "They are taken care of, though the Sister demanded clemency."

  "Of course she did," Alistair growled. Despite her being the ringleader behind the whole disgusting idea, he knew she'd cling to her cloth the second things turned on her. He could have ordered the assassins to ignore it. Zevran being religious when it suited him might have argued but he had a soft spot for Lanny as well and could have been talked into it. What stayed Alistair's hand was...he didn't even know. At the moment he wanted to kick the Sister off a mountain.

  Zevran waved his hand to cut through the king's red haze, "There is a problem, however. A couple of her templars slipped out of the back while we were embroiled."

  "What?!"

  "We think they came here to try and finish the job," now Zevran's eyes slipped through the crowd growing even more menacing than before. Alistair wasn't stupid, no one wore those creepy orlesian masks to obscure their faces. But far too many of the nobby ones showed up tonight; hidden somewhere amongst all the gentry in Ferelden were a couple of snakes.

  "Andraste's flames," Alistair cursed. "Okay, I'll hunt for them." The assassin eyed him up in disbelief, but Alistair waved it away. "You get out there and dance with Lanny."

  "I take it she is still unaware," Zevran spoke carefully. The king bobbed his head back and forth already having the same argument in his head. Yes, telling her would be wiser so she could prepare herself should they fail. It made the most sense to not keep it from her. But Zevran didn't read the guilt in her letters, the grief from her choice in Amaranthine. Lanny was many things, but heartless was far from it. Other people could sleep at night after having to burn the city to save what they could. They'd understand that old idiom about cracking chickens to make breakfast. Lanny however was...he wasn't about to give her the option. She was strong, and Alistair needed to believe in that.

  "I'll find the templars," Alistair repeated, then waved his hand towards the woman still standing in the midst of dancers doing her best to look uncomfortable and out of place.

  "As if you need to tell me twice." Smooth as a still pond, Zevran slipped through the crowd. His hand cupped around Lanny's waist, while another picked up her arm. "I believe you owe me a dance," he cooed, his eyes only on her.

  "Do I now? You know I'll figure out what you two are playing at," Lanny spoke loud enough for Alistair to hear.

  Whatever Zevran responded with, and it was probably dirty, faded into the voices of the guests as Alistair merged into the crowd. He should have sent Zevran. People looked past an elf, even one dressed all in green leather and glittering with knives. It was a little harder to disguise the king of Ferelden even without the damn crown on. But Alistair needed to hit something, anything and he was afraid if he didn't take his anger out on the one's coming to hurt Lanny, he'd turn it on some noble bragging about his golden socks which would lead to a headache and possible war down the line.

  Your Majesties, and Highness followed in his wake as he shoved through the crowds. Alistair murmured something about the snack tray being good and that people should try the pickles. That got a few confused looks, but he didn't care as they turned in obedience to find these mythical pickles. Everyone already thought their king a fool, might as well cement it. He had to find them before they could get to her, even if his plan was madness. With what felt like half of Ferelden crammed into the great hall, discovering two secret templars was like looking for a well dressed needle in a refined haystack. Whipping his head back and forth, Alistair tried screwing his eyes tight in the hopes it would somehow make the conspirators appear.

  A smell drifted above the cloying perfumes and colognes of the lords and ladies crammed into a poorly ventilated dancehall while wearing heavy wool. He shouldn't know it, having never taken the stuff, but sometimes Lanny bore that same right-after-a-lightning-strike scent after she'd been casting up a storm. Lyrium, and someone took a ton of it for the smell to be powerful enough to overcome the cheese tray. Following his nose like a mabari, Alistair sniffed the air towards a dark haired man leaning against the back columns. He wasn't dressed in the templar armor, it'd be asking too much for them to walk about in their full skirts. But his eyes kept skittering around the edges, his arms folded against his chest as he failed to blend into the background, and a sword dangled upon his hip. When those calculating eyes turned away from the woman dancing with an elf, they landed upon the king baring down upon him.

  "You...your majesty!" the man struggled to rise up to a salute and Alistair grinned internally.

  "Hey, how about you come with me?"

  "My lord?" he asked, the eyes drifting back to Lanny.

  "I need to get away from the crowd for a second and I could use some backup if," Alistair jerked his head towards the rest, "the nobles get a bit rowdy. You never want to come between an Arl and his shrimp puff. Learned that the hard way."

  "I, uh," the man had no excuse that could hold up to the king's request - that was the one good power of the crown. Even still, Alistair grabbed onto his arm and dug in with his fingers. He felt chainmail hidden beneath the emerald finery, cementing that he'd picked right.

  "Come on, just a quick slip out the back." Dragging the man, Alistair stepped backwards through the columns into a short hallway that connected to another bustling room laden in smoke, a longer hallway, and finally an empty antechamber.

  The king released his hold on the man but kept an eye on him. "How are you liking the party? Festive enough for you?"

  "It is quite grand," the templar said. His fingers twitched as if he ached to reach for his sword, but in the presence of royalty he knew better.

  "I guess. We had a grander one a few months ago. Funny thing is, this wasn't even supposed to be fancy. Not like this anyway, with the fountains and shiny lights and ten lutists. Who needs ten lute players? I think we even have one of those turquoise chickens running around."

  "Turquoise chi-? You mean the peacock," the templar said, then he grimaced at correcting the king. Alistair waved it away with a chuckle. He was known as a man of the people, someone who didn't shout 'off with his head' for speaking your mind. A real gentle soul.

  Only the glimmer of lanterns from the distant party broke through the room far away from the festivities, firelight glancing upon their shoes. A sliver of the templar's eyes were visible in the stricken room, but they were unobtrusive and bored. He'd already written the king off.

  Laughing again, Alistair gestured out the window, "Lovely night. You know what happened on this day three years ago?"

  "No, sir," the man shook his head, staring out the same window. Stars pocked through the cloudless sky while a nearly full moon rose like the diva amongst a chorus. It was beautiful.

  "Not a Maker damn thing," Alistair said. The templar turned towards him, finally sensing something amiss, but the king of the people, the simple one, smashed his fist against the man's jaw. A familiar ache radiated up Alistair's knuckles and a pang of nostalgia lapped over it. The templar's head snapped back from the unexpected blow. He tried to throw a fist in response, but the king easily dodged it. Wrapping a hand around the man's neck, Alistair held him still while he pounded his fist deeper and harder into the man's nose until he felt that old crack. Blood dribbled out of the broken nostrils pooling on the templar's ivory ruffles.

  Even through the certain throbbing headache and hazy vision, the templar reached for his sword, but the king yanked it free first. "What are you...?" the templar cried. Then he gagged on his own blood dripping into his mouth.

  Still smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world, Alistair inspected the templar's sword. It was a fine blade for a tre
asonous bastard. He'd had better of course, but there were perks to being a king. Alistair's knee smashed into the man's stomach and he barreled him against the wall, the sword's edge millimeters from the templar's throat. "Do you know why we threw this party? Why all of the Arls and Banns and -- I think even the Teryn is here -- got in their fanciest dancing shoes and trucked out here?"

  The templar shook his head carefully, his eyes wide in terror. He went from not striking the king because of treason to realizing he couldn't strike the king because he wasn't good enough.

  "We put all this on just for you, for your little conspirators," Alistair smiled watching the man's mouth slacken in shock. He wasn't supposed to know, no one was. They'd been working on it for months, scheming to try and take down the Arlessa of Amaranthine. But they forgot that Lanny had a habit of making friends, allies, people who really didn't want to see her harmed. People who loved her. "You came here to take her away, to..." Alistair shuddered at the idea burning in his soul, "but it's not going to happen. No one in the chantry, in the templars, in all of Ferelden will ever brand Lady Amell. Do you hear me? No one!"

  Nodding in fear, the templar accidentally pushed his throat deeper into the sword's edge. He couldn't stop his adam's apple from knocking into the blade as he struggled to find any words to save himself.

  "I trust you could tell them of this. Let all the rest of your conspirators know that she's protected beyond your reach."

  Screwing up his eyes, the templar nodded again then risked speaking, "Of course, your majes-" He didn't finish his sentence as Alistair drew the blade clean across his throat slicing apart the vocal chords.

  "Oh wait, they're already dead," the king stepped back, letting the blood soaked body flop to the floor. Crimson rivulets burst through the gaping wound to expand to a river seeping into the grout and across the stones. It was going to leave a hell of a mess to clean up. Alistair felt bad he didn't do it outside where the rain would help wash it away. Glancing around the room and making a mental note to mention it to Eamon or Teagan so they could send for someone to keep everyone else out, Alistair moved to throw the sword away. He paused and stared at the blade -- the sword of the templars, the chantry, the same one he'd nearly picked up before Duncan saved him. Even in the earliest hours of morn, when his traitorous thoughts kept him pacing through the halls like a forlorn ghost, he knew in his heart he never could have done it. He'd have lasted a week at most in the circle before the first failed harrowing or rite of tranquility sent him running from the tower. To think that Lanny and the rest of them suffered under that constant threat turned his stomach. She deserved better, they deserved better.

  Without even wiping the blade off, Alistair stomped through the darkened hallways towards the light of the dance. There was still one more templar remaining and then they could put this behind them. Have a laugh. Maybe some hot cocoa to finish off the night. He barely closed the door when an elf grabbed onto his arm. "Sire, please, you must listen to me," she begged.

  "Okay," he said, already planning on it.

  "I am with Zevran's company." That drew Alistair's full attention. "There is a problem in the courtyard beyond," her finger pointed through the doors to the garden area where a hundred people stood in the way.

  "Where's your boss?" Alistair shouted too loudly. A handful of nobles glanced towards the man, curious from his outburst. Then their aristocratic gaze noticed the glare in his eye, the rise of his shoulders as he panted from a physical struggle, and blood dripping off his knuckles across the hilt of the sword in his hand. In one breath, they widened away from the king who looked like he'd begun his own revolution in the palace.

  "I don't know, Sire," the elf bobbed again.

  "He was supposed to be guarding..." Alistair drew down his volume and hissed in the assassin's ear, "her."

  "She disengaged and ventured into the courtyard when someone called for her attention."

  Oh no. Alistair didn't realize he began running until he smashed through a side table, dooming a dozen canapés to death. Everyone scattered out of his way, their gilded heels churning through salmon tartar to escape his bullrush. No, Alistair shook his head manically while looking even more like the mad king.He had to get to her in time. Had to...

  His fingers missed in trying to open the handle onto the veranda, but Alistair's body was on a collision course and there was no stopping him. Throwing his shoulder into the door, the glass popped open without shattering. Lanny was here, but blighted where? Another hundred plus people decided moving outside was a brilliant idea. Despite not being lacking in stature, Alistair couldn't see her around the piles of dead rats and birds shoved in people's hair. He tried hopping up higher, doing a dead jump from his knees and scanning in every direction for her, but there was nothing but more wide dresses and wider lapels. As if by decree of the Maker, for a brief moment all the chattering small talk died away at once. Through that gap he heard it, Lanny's polite chuckle.

  Whipping towards the sound and shouldering away frilled up collars and feathered shoulders, he spotted a burst of Lanny's dark hair flanking the sides of a man eclipsing her. He easily loomed over her, his body blocking off Alistair's view of the woman he had to protect. Summoning up his best 'I'm a king, get out of my way,' walk, he sauntered over to them, shoving ladies and gentlemen out of the way with a flick of his stolen sword. Lanny's dulcet voice carried just below the drum of conversation, almost beyond range, but it was hers. He'd know it anywhere. He could still hear it in his dreams.

  No. A sucked in breath reverberated in the night air -- the sound of someone struggling to breathe from the shock of a blade slipping through ribs, blood pouring down their sides taking life with it. Alistair stopped playing nice. Barreling down with all the force of a man trained to be on the front line, he threw apart the nobles now crowding around Lanny. Like dogs, they sensed something was wrong but were only useful at getting in the damn way. He couldn't see her, she was still eclipsed by the templar come to kill her, the one Alistair should have warned her about so she could save herself. She was good at that, for Andraste's sake. He should have told her, trusted her. Oh Maker, let there be time. Just let him get to her before he...

  A halo of starlight landed upon the pair of them, Lanny and a brooding, imposing man, standing apart from the rest were flanked only by a ring of stone planters. They looked to be locked in a strange embrace, their hands knotted together beside their stomachs. Blood dribbled down their conjoined chests, pooling at the bottom of their feet like scarlet rain. Andraste, no. How could he be too late? Alistair grabbed onto the templar's shoulders, prepared to slice his throat the same as the other, when the man's body fell limp against him. He slipped to the side and watched the body smack into the ground, the crimson blood blooming across his chest where a gaping hole struck through, the templar's final air wheezing out.

  "I take it that was the assassin Zevran was looking for," Lanny said calmly. She wasn't hurt, by the Maker's grace she was okay.The templar's own dagger undulated in her fingers while she watched the man who tried to kill her bleed to death at her feet.

  "Are you, what happened?" Alistair stammered. He grabbed onto her shoulders as if attempting to calm her down, but it was he who needed it, maybe to be a slapped a few times as well.

  "The man asked for my attention. I gave it. He attempted to attack me with this," Lanny extended the dagger also bearing the templar hilt, "but was rather surprised when it bounced against my barrier. Which I've had up all night seeing as how someonedidn't want to let me in on the plan."

  "You knew..." Alistair swallowed. Steeling himself for the tongue lashing he deserved, Lanny only crinkled up her face and sighed.

  "I suspected. There have been murmurs of late and..." she wiped her slick forehead, dabbing it with the dead man's blood. "I think you were right, it's time I collect my phylactery from the chantry," she said.

  "Okay," Alistair held her free hand, terrified if he let it go she'd vanish, he'd lose her to the templars or worse
, "in the morning we'll go to the Grand Cleric and..."

  "No," Lanny interrupted. She grabbed onto the sword he stole off the templar and brought it up to her face along with the dagger. "We do it now, in the middle of the night, templar blood fresh upon us, while brandishing their own assassin's weapons. I'll not be a pawn in the chantry's game any longer."

  Chapter Eight

  Bathing

  ?:?? ?

  Lana's fingers parted through the still pond as she spooned a scoopful of water across her arms, her chest leaning off the edge while her hip dug into the stone ground. Without soap, the best she could do was try and scrape the grime off with her nails. Despite the waterfall thundering upwards in the distance, the pond sat still. A green sheen drifted around the edges, not from any algae lurking under the surface or reflecting the sickly sky waiting for a storm to break that would never come. If she twisted her wet hand she could watch the water shimmer like the scales of a verdant fish. Which would probably be some kind of warning to anyone not in the fade, but she couldn't afford to be picky. After five sleeps and two obliterated spiders she needed the wash.

  "Are you going to keep looking at me?" she asked aloud. Having only one change of clothes that everyday marched quicker to their own grave, she never fully undressed. They required a clean as much as she did, so why not kill two pride demons with one fireball? Despite being fully covered and spirits not having a sense of modesty, it unnerved her to feel Jowan's eyes focusing upon her as she wet her skin.

  "It's not like I have anything else to do, thanks to you," he pouted. He always pouted. There were some aspects the spirit got wrong about Jowan, but that mealy mouth was dead on.

  "You're not getting into my mind," Lana sighed, alighting their old argument. In the distance, Nathaniel stood guard -- not that he could do much beyond shouting for help, but it made him happy. It happy. Maker, she was going balmy in here. It'd been too long since she'd seen the third one. It would be nice to have someone to talk to who wasn't going to salute after every sentence or question her every decision.