My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  The moment his fingers brushed against the cool steel of the latch, all his perturbations vanished. He didn't care whether Cassandra wore Mia's chosen dress or ripped it in half on the spot, had no opinion on who would light the candles whether in the Ferelden or Free Marcher orientation, or even if it would be held tomorrow. A smile bloomed in Cullen's heart as he realized that was Lana's plan all along - to blot away his worry by cutting it off at the pass. He had her, his wife, nothing else mattered.

  As Cullen stepped into his room, he started at the heart racing silhouette of a woman facing the windows. Only a solitary candle sputtered on their desk, barely casting any light. Instead, it was the ethereal glow of the moon highlighting her silken skin as she folded her arms to stare into the distance. The moment forever etched deep in his mind flared back - ten years ago the same woman approached him, found him, recruited him, wanted him. She'd stood silhouetted by the glow off the Waking Sea, her body cloaked in duty and loss, the same as his. And now, now she was stripped bare, her heart willingly entrusted to him.

  Sensing the eyes on her, Lana turned from her vigil. The candle light glanced across her naked breasts to glint against a single copper coin dangling across her cleavage. She absently tugged on the string knotted around her neck, holding the coin he gave her. "What is it?" Lana asked, her voice husky with desire, but with a twinge of concern for the man fallen dumbstruck in his own doorway.

  "I," Maker... He re-memorized every inch of her body as if he'd never seen it before, as if he was once again the disgruntled and broken Knight-Captain who stumbled across a cloaked woman in his quarters. Every scar, she'd told him the stories behind them -- the ones she could remember -- and he'd often trace them, kiss them, massage and soothe them. Every freckle he'd fondle, every curve he'd lose himself in. Why couldn't he stop staring slack jawed at her?

  Swallowing again, he curled his toes inside the work boots he should have left outside. He wasn't that brash, certain 26 year old templar. No, deep inside he was 18 all over again watching the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen caress his helpful fingers and smile at him. So many years, the both of them changing, warping due to the hammer of life, chipping apart by duty and loss, but winding back together as the pieces who fit with only each other.

  "I was thinking how much I love you. How I, how happy I am that you're here, with me. My wife. I..."

  Lana gasped, her hand rubbing up her cheek, "Stop, you'll make me cry." She laughed at herself, at her own heartfelt tears staining her fingers. "Cullen," she beamed her easy smile that'd lifted his heart through so many dark turns, "you're my husband."

  "I am," he smiled, his focus on his toes knocking into each other. He doubted he'd ever understand why someone like her would take him, choose him, want him, but he had every intention of living up to that lofty position for the rest of their days.

  Lana's fingers crested over the copper, two sides made whole, and placed a hand on her hip, "Then close that door and get over here. We have a wedding night to get to."

  Blessed Andraste, bride of the Maker, to you I offer my eternal gratitude for giving me the love of this woman. Kicking his boots off, Cullen did just as his wife asked - falling in love with her all over again.

  THE END

  Guarded Love

  Alistair's life isn't all bad. He's King, he's got two kids he adores a wife he's vaguely aware exists. The only thing missing in that blissful domestic picture is someone to love. But all in all, things are weirdly working out for him.

  That all changes when assassins dare to come after him and his children on the little prince's naming day. With a threat daring to be so brash to attack the King, he takes on a personal bodyguard. Picked seemingly at random from the City Watch, Reiss thought she was little more than an average elf trying to make it in thedas. Now it's all on her to keep the King alive against this enigmatic threat, and try to ignore the fact she keeps blushing whenever he smiles.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Naming Day

  Half of Ferelden must have shown up for this damn thing, a fascinating array of body odors floating through the crowds shoving near his ramshackle dais. Someone took the time to nail up a flag to cover over the hole behind him, but in their haste barely notched it in. Alistair couldn't stop fiddling with the nail head sticking out towards him, when he wasn't waving to his citizens or switching the bundle of blankets from one arm to the other.

  The chair beside him loomed in emptiness, every third or fourth person having to comment on the lack of the Queen. He'd smile as best he could, then offer up some cheery joke about how ol' Bea was off walking orphans or something. A few were kind enough to smile at their silly King, but more than most would linger over the silent seat. Maker, how much longer was this going to take?

  Stubby fingers tugged on Alistair's scabbard, causing his sword to pitch backwards until it jammed against the chair. He glanced down at the moon faced girl with eyes of emeralds. She began the day with her black hair braided tight and wrapped around her head like a lady should. Within an hour she had half of it down with weeds she considered flowers jammed in. "I'm bored!" she pronounced, folding her arms across her chest. "I want to play."

  Alistair had to bury a chuckle at his daughter's obstinance. He happened to agree with her, but this was tradition. "Spud," he warned in what passed for his father voice which couldn't even discipline a fly for falling into his soup. For his efforts he got the slow eye roll of a two and three quarters year old. She insisted upon the three quarters even if she was nearing a full four quarters with every day.

  "Why don't you go curtsy to those men in shiny hats over there," he said pointing at a few of the city guards. Denerim was kind enough to loan out their crew for this little meet and greet. Their polished steel helmets poked through the crowd of coiffed men and women hoping to wave at the newest addition to the palace.

  For her part, his daughter looked over at two of the guards standing in as much rapt attention people paid to do it could. He thought she'd take him up on it. Someone had been teaching the princess how to properly curtsy like a lady and Spud loved it, though her approach was to grab both sides of her dress, spin around in a circle, and then squat as far as her legs allowed. Sometimes she'd forget about the squatting part and spin and spin until nearly passing out. Being only two, this of course delighted the Arls and Banns who had to find everything the princess did absolutely adorable. This time, however, she pinched up her little nose and frowned.

  "Don't want to," she said, kicking her fancy shoe into the chair that was supposed to house her mother.

  Alistair bit back a groan then reached down for her. "Come up here," he said, tugging her up to the extra chair. Scrabbling with his help, Spud didn't sit down to watch the crowds still sliding in and out through the reception line. Instead, she stood up in it and reached for the banner behind.

  "Your Highness," a voice whispered from behind him where a bevy of nurses, handmaidens, and other busybodies waited in case he screwed something up, "it isn't ladylike for a princess to stand on her chair."

  Sighing, he whispered to Spud, "Pst, you're not being a lady."

  "'S okay, I'm a dragon now," she insisted, before giving out her feral roar that might startle a kitten.

  "Your Majesty," the voice insisted, all but jabbing him in the back of the head.

  He shrugged, "Sorry, you can't tell dragons what to do." The woman groaned, used to dealing with Alistair's petulant ways, but another chuckled beside him. Glancing over, he spotted the smiling lips of a city guard. Dressed in the unitarian uniform that rendered all gender down to a faceless lump it was impossible for him to tell who was hiding inside that tin can, but by the giggle he'd guess a woman.

  About to ask the guard if she was all right or if standing in so much metal all day baked her brains away, Alistair's focus was pulled to the lump in his arms transforming itself from a mass of blankets to a gaping maw demanding attention. It wasn't a cry at this point, more a wheeze, but the moment it broke all voi
ces across the bustling square died. Everyone turned to look at the little prince giving his first speech to the masses. It was hard to make out the words, but the gist seemed to be "I want something now!" About on par with most royalty.

  "Well, good morning to you too," Alistair cooed at his son, running a finger across those chubby cheeks. Slowly, he rocked the bundle back and forth in his arms trying to calm the cries. For a moment they stuttered, just as they had when Spud was that tiny. Maker that felt like it was just a few days ago.

  At her brother's sounds, she dropped to her knees on the chair and peered her eyes over the arm. She blinked a few times, watching the baby swaddled in the royal christening gown apparently all Theirin's wore since Calenhad. It was so ancient, Alistair wasn't certain which would get him in bigger trouble if he broke it, the gown or the baby wearing it.

  Spud sat up and clapped her hands, "I want to hold him."

  "Ah..." He glanced over at his daughter and thought to the last time he let her hold an egg. She was very gentle with it for the first ten seconds before her toddler curiosity made her wonder if eggs could survive being dropped from a parapet. Turns out the answer is a resounding no. "Next time, Spuddy," he said, trying to rock the prince back to sleep. The baby was having none of it, already on to Alistair's limited tricks.

  Spud folded her arms up and stuck out her bottom lip. Maker, just what he needed, two kids screaming at the top of their lungs. Slipping the prince into the crook of his arm, Alistair snaked an arm around Spud's shoulders. Hauling her close, he planted a kiss on her forehead and mumbled, "You don't want to hold him anyway. There's unholy demons coming out of the back end."

  It was doubtful she understood half of what he said, but the wobbling bottom lip sucked back in and she smiled. The prince had only been in existence for a couple weeks and already he was proving to be a bigger handful than Spud ever was to both her parents. While Alistair and Spud bonded as he'd snatch her up every night to take her on a walking tour of the castle so she could drool over all his finery, the boy wanted nothing to do with either of them. And the toll he took on his mother was wearing everyone in the castle even thinner than expected.

  Weighing the screams that were growing more urgent, he turned to the one woman behind him he recognized. "I'm thinking someone's hungry. Marn," Alistair spoke to the wet nurse who had her own one year old clinging to her skirts for the ceremony, "I hope the kitchen's open."

  "Always is," she said lifting the boy out of Alistair's arms. While Marn fished out the anatomy Alistair was lacking to make his son happy, he turned back to the crowd only to have thirty pounds of princess land in his lap. "Dear Maker," he groaned, his thighs unprepared for such an attack, "warn me next time."

  "Sorry, Daddy." For her part Spud only smiled at her father's pain, those emerald eyes sparkling with total sincerity. They never worked on her mother, but he melted to her whims at them.

  "Come here," he said, turning her around to sit properly on his chair that probably bore an indent from his ass. Just what it needed to get even flatter. Lifting up Spud's hand in his, Alistair waved with ferocity at the people who really didn't give a shit about meeting their king. They were all here for the prince, who he still had to officially name. Granted, that was the point of the day, gathering everyone in the square to tell the world that there was another little set of lungs screaming through the palace.

  "Did I have a name thing?" Spud asked, kicking her heels haphazardly against the chair.

  "You know you did," he said. She'd asked the damn question a good thirty times since her nanny pulled out one of the fancier dresses and told her about today. Still, it wasn't like he had anything better to do. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair spotted the back of a contented baby's head suckling away. Pinning his daughter tight in a back hug, he chuckled, "You were a handful and a half that day. Whenever anyone tried to hold you, you'd howl and howl until I'd pluck you away then boom, instant smile."

  "And Mummy was there!" Spud announced.

  "Yes, your mother was there apologizing for your atrocious behavior. Quite unbecoming for a baby," he laughed into her hair. Beyond them stood the rest of the gentry, most crowded around the few snack tables someone set up. Isolde, the self appointed godmother, floated in and out through them while Eamon hung by her side. There were few Alistair cared about out there in the crowd, but they were all supposed to care about him.

  Spud tipped her head back against his chest so those ornery eyes could beam up at him, "Did I really wear the same dress as him?"

  Alistair reached over to run his fingers over the hemline of his son's dress, the ends drooping close to the ground as if the long dead sewer was daring him to mess it up. "Yes, you did. You were so tiny you fit along my arm." Spud yanked up his forearm, her pudgy fingers darting across as if she was measuring it.

  "Nu-uh," she said, shaking her head and laughing at the absurdity of growth.

  "It's true, I swear."

  "Daddies shouldn't tell fibs," she said. Someone taught her that Princesses shouldn't do that and now Spud loved to run around insisting no one else should either. It was hard to tell her to knock it off when she was technically correct.

  "I'm not," Alistair said, done in by a two year old. "Marn, you'll back me up on this."

  His old adversary rolled an eye at him as she was currently busy fulfilling her hired role. Marn had little time for Alistair, and while she warmed up to letting the father near his children, it moved from the blood freezing breath of a frost dragon to the chill of being lost in the Frostbacks and thinking about eating your own toes. He hoped by the time his son was a year old he'd reach 'I might put you out if you're on fire, if I'm holding a bucket and it's not too much work.'

  Speaking of, the demanding guest of honor detached himself of his own will and began to do that newborn baby wheeze at the indignity. Spud huffed in Alistair's lap at the cries, and he chuckled. She was going to have to get used to it, they all were again.

  "Your Majesty," a voice oozed from before him and Alistair turned from Marn trying to appease the demanding royal suckered to her tit to a demanding Bann suckered to the royal coffers.

  "Bann Cyrill," Alistair groaned, wishing he didn't have to know that name, or any of them come to think of it. He'd tried calling all the gentry Bob for a week once when Eamon was out of court. It made for a delightful game until there was talk of rebellion and bringing in chevaliers.

  "May I give blessings onto the new son of Ferelden?"

  "I dunno," Alistair shrugged, "may you?"

  Cyrill's weaselly face with the sunken in eyes darted around the dais hoping to find someone to come to his rescue. When none of the women either employed by the King or sworn to protect him offered a hand, the Bann chuckled, "Yes, quite witty, your Highness."

  He didn't seem to be in any mood to fade back in with the happy crowds, so Alistair turned to Marn and extended his hands. "Here, give him to me." The nursemaid shot her legendary dagger eyes through him, but Alistair only shrugged and jerked his chin at the anchored Bann. He wanted to give over his son for the damn fealty swear as much as Marn did but there wasn't much choice.

  Scooping the prince up into the crook of his arm, a limp cry echoed from those tiny lungs. Spud twisted around in his lap, her unimpressed eyes boring into the baby. She reached a finger towards him to try and touch a cheek when Alistair lifted the boy away. He spotted a pout burgeoning with her bottom lip, but there wasn't anything he could do. It was tradition.

  Cyrill placed his thumb to his lips and then against the boy's forehead. "I, and my lands, swear fealty to protect and honor this son of Ferelden," he said, his murky eyes glazing over. "Have you announced the name, yet?"

  Alistair juggled from one arm to another the baby who was getting tired of people treating his head like a thumbprint cookie. "Trying to get some insider information to win a bet? You know how this works."

  "I would never dare cheat, your Majesty," he mumbled, looking shocked that Alistair would dare d
emean him. As if all of Ferelden didn't remember who stood with Loghain during that fateful Landsmeet, nor would they ever let him forget. Betting on the winner was the way to succeed in both horse racing and politics, but getting it wrong with only one could end in your entire family being slaughtered.

  "Daddy."

  "In a minute," Alistair said. The baby began to cry, a more pressing one than before and as his hand drifted lower Alistair figured out why. "Marn, tell me you brought another nappy."

  "That'd be the third this morning," she said, already dutifully whipping it out of her satchel for him.

  "Boy knows his feces at a few weeks old. He'll be a natural at politics."

  "Daddy!" Spud insisted, tugging on his sleeve and throwing off his concentration of getting the damn dress off without soiling it.

  He yanked his arm away from her and turned to glare at her, "What is it?"

  Smoke burst through the crowds, rising maliciously as if the street suddenly caught on fire. Screams echoed all around as people began to beat feet back and forth, scrabbling to escape. In the chaos, he couldn't tell if they were screams of fear or pain. Forgetting the change of pants, Alistair rose off his seat. With one hand wrapped around his son, he reached over to pin tight to Spud's tiny fingers. The acrid fog rolled through the crowds, trying to reach towards the dais. It stung his eyes and sure enough, both of his children began to cry as well from the pain they couldn't escape.

  "We need to..." was as far as Alistair got when he spotted the darkness moving through the crowd. Shadows blacker than night shifted through the fog. One of them approached past the scrambles of nobles trampling each other for freedom, his head held high and a set of daggers glinting in his hands.