My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  "Shit!" Alistair cursed, earning a glare from his daughter. "Spud," he tugged her hand to the hem of his shirt, "hold onto this tight and don't let go for anything." She nodded her head, her eyes wide despite the smoke biting into them.

  Glancing down at the scabbard on his hip, Alistair shifted his son to his left hand and unsheathed his sword. Maker, I hope this thing isn't just for show. It glinted like gold in the sunlight, those damn jewels jammed into the hilt instantly nipping into his hands. Stupid, stupid, the whole thing was bloody stupid! The shadow glared up at him and slowly the cloak's hood tipped back to reveal a man with a bronzed tan and the makings of a tattoo across his face. Of course it was a fucking Antivan Crow. Why not?

  "What am I doing today? Oh just sword fighting with a fancy pants golden back scratcher while holding my infant son and daughter. Perfectly normal, why are you asking?" he babbled to himself while eyeing up the man advancing. How was he going to do this? How could he possibly fight while holding a baby? They never covered that in training!

  The assassin's lips cracked open, revealing a silver tooth glittering in his wicked smile. For a bit of flare, he rotated his daggers around his palms before letting loose a feral scream and ramming towards the dais. Alistair braced himself by knocking Spud back and trying to put his babyless shoulder in the way, when a guard leaped off the wooden platform. She heaved her sword through the air and with the help of the fall, cleaved it into the man's shoulder.

  Screaming at the agony of iron slicing apart his meat, the assassin scrabbled to stab at her sword arm, but she already yanked out her blade. Deflecting one dagger, the guard swung her arm wide and moved to slice through the air where the assassin's head was. Ah shit! Alistair turned fully around, blocking Spud's view of the decapitation to save their lives. He pinned her head tight to his leg, but they all heard the head splat into the ground and bounce three times before coming to a rest in the gutter.

  Carefully, Alistair tried to catch his daughter's eye, "It's okay, Tater Tot. I'm here. It'll be okay."

  Her eyes were open wide enough they looked white, but she bobbed her head at his words, her fingers clinging so tight to his leg they pinched flesh below. Alistair wrapped his armed hand around the back of her head and placed a kiss to the top of her head. Turning back he began to thank the guard for her bravery, when they moved out of the smoke -- a good dozen or so assassins all wearing the same black cloak and brandishing a variety of weapons.

  "Sire!" The guard who protected them slunk back at the advancement until she butted up against the dais. He was out of ideas, barely had any to begin with and this. How in the void could they stop this?

  The assassins came prepared, but so was the Ferelden guard. Knocking through the useless and panicking nobles came the uniforms that normally stood around in Denerim protecting it from pickpockets. Blades met with blades, the enemies falling to chaos as the good guys took on the bad ones.

  "Sire," the woman repeated again. He blinked against the smoke to find her sheathing her sword and extending a hand to him. "We should get you to safety."

  Nodding, Alistair tried to work Spud around to the guard, but his daughter shrieked and pinched even tighter. "Spud, I need you to...Sod it!" He didn't want to hand her off until she was safe anymore than she wanted to be. Dipping to a knee, Alistair tossed his useless sword to the ground and struggled to scoop up his daughter. "Get on!" he ordered. Her tiny fingers scrabbled up, trying to traverse the finery not built for climbing. As she reached his shoulders, her hands formed a garrote against his throat.

  "Let's not choke Daddy, okay," he tugged her hands forward before securing the baby and then leaping off the platform. As his boots hit the ground he mumbled to himself, "Your mother's going to kill me later, anyway." The second guard was rounding up all the handmaidens, trying to shoo them towards some building but that wasn't who the assassins were after.

  Nodding once at his life saver, Alistair jerked his head towards her. "This is your show," he said. Barely stumbling at that, the woman turned on a copper and sped off down an alley. With a baby in his arms and a two year old clinging to his back, Alistair followed the woman through narrow passages, over drunks woken from their stupor, and down another five turns until coming to stop in a part of Denerim he'd never seen before.

  The guard kicked in a door without a thought, ricocheting the boarded up wood and nails through the air. She shoved her body in the way of any shrapnel and waved them inside. "Quickly, get in."

  Musty with age and lack of use, the room loomed with unspoken words and barely cremated ghosts. He felt Spud trembling on his shoulders and he had to drop down to a knee. She clung tighter to him, not wanting to let off, but Alistair needed to breathe. Slowly, his daughter slunk down until she stood on her feet, but he didn't rise up. Sliding around on his knees, he wiped a finger over her cheek. "Are you okay?" Her massive eyes darted over his shoulder to the guard, then back down to her father. Nodding once, she trapped her tongue between her teeth.

  "Thank the Maker," he gasped, tugging his daughter to him for a hug. "That makes one of us." His son demanded attention as well, giving out a wail against all this ill treatment. "Yes, I know, life isn't fair. Welcome to it," he sighed, placing a kiss to the soft forehead.

  "Sire..." the guard flattened back into the doorframe, her eyes hunting around the edges. Alistair turned away from his children to watch her. "I fear someone may have followed us."

  "Maker's breath," he groaned, wishing the damn fat ass in the fancy chair in the sky would see fit for one thing in his life to go right. Staggering to his feet, he nodded his head at the guard. "Right, of course they did. Why blighted wouldn't they? Probably brought a pack of wyverns with them as well. I'm going to need your sword."

  "Your Majesty?" she drug her words out, terrified to disobey but also unwilling to let him do something stupid.

  Alistair passed her the baby, which she scooped into surprisingly relaxed arms, and then snatched up her sword. "If they're after anyone, it's me."

  "Sire, I can't let you..." she began.

  "Yes you can, because," he swallowed down the bramble building in his throat, "we've already got the backups in here that need to be kept safe. Got it?"

  She looked like she wanted to argue with him, but nodded, "As you say, Sire. Ah, you should..." Shifting the baby to the crook of her arm, she yanked her helmet off. Alistair wasn't certain what surprised him more, the steepled points to her ears, the lush gold blonde hair she knotted into a bun, or the whisper of a smile on her lips from his idiotic move.

  His fingers glanced across the helmet, that deeply stupid section of his brain falling dumbstruck by an unexpected beauty appearing out of nowhere. Shaking it away, Alistair sighed, "I'm afraid that's not going to fit me." Tapping his forehead, he confessed, "Fat head and all." She struggled to bite down a smile at his self deprecation.

  "Here," Alistair picked up his son out of her arms and dropped him into the helmet. The baby sat inside of it, his blue eyes opening wide at this strange, new angle on the world. Watching in concern, the guard eyed up the King as if he was mad. "Baby armor," he explained before passing his son back to her. "And Maker is his mother going to murder me ten times over when she finds out about this."

  "Daddy..." A little hand tugged on his sleeve and he turned to find Spud with her thumb jammed tight inside her mouth. Oh Maker. "I'm scared."

  "I know, Tater Tot. But, you've got to be a big girl, a big sister for your brother here. He's going to need someone to sing him songs, and...no, singing's probably not smart. To make funny faces. Can you do that?"

  Her eyes rolled up to her brother who was still gazing at this new world in shock. She sneered at the idea, wanting no part of his orders. "Please, Spuddy, you stay here with your new friend..." Alistair glanced over at the guard and faltered.

  "Reiss," she said, bouncing the helmet and baby in her arms.

  "Ser Reiss. She'll keep you safe, and maybe let you braid her hair." That last part got Spud's a
ttention, her eyes lighting up as she no doubt took into account Reiss' mounds of golden waves.

  "M'kay," Spud muttered before popping her thumb back in place. Alistair needed strength to leave them both, to abandon his children in order to drag away the ones coming to kill his family, and there was only one place he knew to find it.

  Wrapping his arms around his daughter, he tugged her tight to him and whispered, "Through fire and ice, lightning and dragons, I'll come back for you. Always."

  She smiled at the line from the book they always read together, her hands patting against him. His two year old daughter didn't care about the dangers ahead, the possibility of getting her chubby fingers on fresh hair to braid chased away any fear. Alistair released her and snatched up the sword. It was well balanced, the hilt firm, and a guard that would actually protect his damn hand without jabbing back into his side. He ran a pinkie down his still nameless son's cheek before turning to leave.

  "Sire," Reiss' hand snagged onto his and he stared into her hauntingly yellow-green eyes. "Are you certain this is wise?"

  "Of course not," he snickered, extending his hand out and slapping on his armor of bravado, "it's my idea." Alistair slid out to face down the assassins come for him on his own terms. They'd know that the King of Ferelden was not such an easy target after all. "Oh..." he jogged back and stuck his head in, "don't actually let Spud braid your hair. She just ties knots in it until it all has to be cut out. It's very bad. Bye!"

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Pieces

  Alistair barely got his blade wet before the real professionals swooped in to finish off the assassins. Smoke drifted through the Denerim square, permeating up tipped over tables leaving vittles and other puffed pastries to rot on the ground. "Is everyone okay?" Alistair shouted, trying to waft away the fog with his armed hand. People ignored the King, their focus all on either panicking, -- understandable -- or bossing everyone around for not bending to their noble whims. The latter Alistair shoved aside with his shoulder, earning him a deadly glower and a "Well, I never" until the Bann got a good look at the face.

  "Sire? Thank the Maker you're all right," a voice called out through the haze. Alistair'd know his not-uncle anywhere and he paused waiting for Teagan to catch up. Time had been less than kind to the gentle Arl, walloping him good over the years as if every stressful moment from his life landed in one go. But that didn't stop Teagan from throwing up a gentle smile to all who crossed his path.

  A woman clung tight to his arm, her fingers worrying over the Arl's no longer white finery. Alistair didn't recognize her, but he barely bothered to look at her face. He was too busy trying to pierce the fog for answers. "Yep, I'm just great. Really spiced up the party to have these stabby clowns added at the last minute. In fact, I'd love to sit down and have a long conversation with whoever thought to invite Maker damn Crows."

  Teagan tried to shake off the woman, but she wasn't about to let up, her talons dug in tight. Instead, he sighed and patted her clutching arm before grabbing onto Alistair's hand and tugging him closer, "Sire...where are the children?"

  "They're--"

  "Milord," a bombastic voice echoed above the roiling din of cries, its bass deep enough to cut through solid rock and roll up Alistair's legs. Turning away from Teagan, Alistair spotted the cocksure walk of the man partially responsible for all of this.

  "Commander Cade," he greeted him, unable to stop sneering, "I hope you've got a great explanation for what in the void happened here."

  "We should get you to safety," Cade continued over top the king's words. He wasn't an ugly man, not by any means. If you were to take a side of beef and by some demon wish turn it human you'd have an approximation of the Commander of the royal guards. Everything about him was meaty, from forearms thicker than ribeyes to a nose broken and reset so many times it nearly fell flush against his juicy cheeks. Whenever Alistair met with the man he felt an instant craving for roast pork.

  "Funny, I'd have thought my own damn city would be plenty safe. Well, aside from the shopping rush before Satinalia. Then you're just asking to have your kidneys perforated by an old lady bearing a hat pin," Alistair babbled to himself while surveying the bodies being carted towards the dais where he sat with his children what felt only a minute ago. He ran into a few assassins on his way back to the square but nothing worthy of being called a Crow. Maker, even Zev had better moves than the two that all but leaped onto his blade. One had his eyepatch slip to the other side, causing him to run headfirst into the wall. Alistair meant to knock him out for questioning, but then the man tumbled face first over the retaining wall and then another twenty feet to his squishy demise. Maybe a soothsayer could make out something in his entrails decorating a laundry line.

  Shaking away his thoughts, Alistair jabbed the bloodied sword at the piles of bodies, "Did you catch any alive?"

  "Afraid not, Sire," Cade shook his beefy head back and forth. Pink etched along his cheeks, breaking up the marbling of his skin. The man had been exerting himself.

  "Who were they?" Teagan asked.

  "Assassins," Alistair sneered, "as a group. One out of two guesses whose." While the House of Repose was always a good guess, they'd been on okay terms with Celene and her little love in elf with the Inquisition's help. It seemed unlikely she'd let her in house assassins off the lead that easily. There wasn't an official reason for Antiva to come after him, but Antivans never went in for proper politics. Treaties and diplomacy got in the way of all the best stabbings.

  "Sire," Cade spoke up, rocking on his tiny feet. "Perhaps it would be best if you..."

  Alistair ignored the concern dripping from people paid to keep him alive. Dropping to a knee, he ran his hands along one of the dead bodies. Lacerations to the throat and...ah, it was a thigh wound that got him in the end. Nasty way to go, better than a gut one at least. He rifled through the pockets but they all turned out empty almost as if they were ordered to remove all identification before leaping onto a guard's blade.

  "Welp, I'm out of ideas," he said, slapping his hand to his knee and staggering up.

  "It might be in your best interest if you leave it to the professionals," Teagan said, those sparkling blue eyes darting over the Cade.

  "Aye, Sire, we will do all we can to get to the bottom of this disaster. You have my word."

  Alistair nodded, his eyes darting over the bodies. There were a good half dozen, but he couldn't find the one that elven guard decapitated. Hm... Shaking off the thought, he turned to his Commander, "How many were hurt?"

  "We're not certain yet," Cade hemmed.

  "Some of the nobles were trampled in trying to escape," Teagan spoke up.

  "By other nobles who nobly ran right over top each other," Alistair groaned, well aware that when it came to the gentry it was every man and woman for themselves. Probably while you threw a gallon of pitch and lit a match behind you to slow the others down.

  "Please, Your Majesty, this is a matter for the guards to handle," Cade said. "And we're gonna drag it out of someone, believe me."

  Alistair tipped his head, accepting that he was in no position to go running around Denerim solving mysteries. For starters he looked like a right pillock with a pipe and hat. "Is the area secure, Commander Cade?" he asked, looking over the destruction of what was supposed to be the introduction of his son. So much for chiseling out his name now.

  "Yes, Sire. We've made certain of it."

  "Good," Alistair sagged before turning to Teagan, "Spud and the baby are holed up in the abandoned house at the end of the northern street. Blue chipped paint, rotted, Spud's probably ripping some poor guard's hair out. Take Marn and get them back to the castle."

  "Of course," he said, tipping his head and almost causing his stupid hat to fall off.

  "Spud can have whatever cake she wants. I assume Marn can handle the baby and..." he shook off the pain burrowing at the back of his head trying to chisel away his kingly stance. Alistair wrestled away the idea that he almost lost them both and kno
tted it away for later. Way later in the emptiness of his room where no one would see.

  Patting Alistair once more, Teagan yanked back on the stricken woman clinging to him. He glanced over at Marn who shouldered through the flock of stricken handmaidens. Despite being in the thick of it with her own little one at her side, Marn was steady as a rock, with a face that could make a Qunari shit his little loincloth. Somedays Alistair wished she had been around for the blight. She'd probably have ripped an ogre in half with her bare hands.

  "Ah," Alistair shouted, causing Teagan to turn back. Rolling the sword in his hands, he presented the grip to his uncle. "Can you return this to the guard I borrowed it from? Thanks."

  Nodding that he understood, while also eyeing up the bloodied blade with a wary look, Teagan and Marn set off to find his children. Alistair wished he could go with, that he'd be the one to scoop up Spud, press a dozen stupid kisses to his son's forehead, and then load them both up with all the sugar in the palace, but he had king shit to do, and sometimes that took priority.

  "Commander Cade, gather up the dignitaries from Antiva and Orlais. I think it's time we had a little chat."

  ***

  "Sire?"

  Maker's breath he was tired of hearing that. Day in and day out, sire this, sire that. As if all of Ferelden couldn't stop thinking about his, er...uh. Andraste, don't let them be imagining the royal scepter. He glanced up from his stance, arms folded tight into his armpits as if he was about to draw two daggers from behind him.

  It was the Orlesian ambassador who spoke first, her dark eyes darting around the room as she somehow settled in while standing at attention. While the rest of Ferelden preferred to keep themselves dressed simply in the event they'd have to get work done, she was always swooping through the corridors with the extended hips of her outfit trying to knock down any end tables in the way. He heard that the scaffolding under her dress used to be wider until she wedged herself into a tighter hallway and someone had to cut her free. Lady Cherie was of noble blood about the same as him, a bit less bastard but there was some second wife in there or something. He ignored most of the dossier figuring it didn't matter. In the fifteen years since sidling near the throne they'd been through seventeen Orlesian ambassadors. There was a point when two arrived, couldn't decide who should stay or go and, after dealing with Alistair for a month, both abandoned ship back to snail land.