My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  "You were right," her words bit through the starlit air.

  Alistair blinked, "I was? That'd be a first. Wait, what was I right about?"

  "Myra, the palace and..." Reiss sat up and she stared over at her sleeping baby, "It was my fault. She was taken, on my watch. I can't...you can protect her at the palace, keep her safe and--"

  "Reiss," Alistair joined her, both of them focusing on the tuckered out girl with bright green eyes who seemed unaware of how close she walked to death. "It's not your fault. Morrigan didn't want your blood."

  "But I couldn't stop her," she gasped, tears beginning. Alistair was quick to try and sop them up. "I tried, and I tried, but it wasn't enough. I'm not enough, not to protect my baby."

  "You are." Maker's sake. Not this old argument again. He wanted to see his baby, to see Reiss, to be with them both, but Alistair was coming to accept that it wouldn't get to be as easy as strolling down the hall whenever he wanted. The templar was blessed.

  "I failed her," Reiss mumbled, her head falling towards her lap. "And you should take her with you, keep her safe. She'll be getting onto solids soon, and I can stop by the palace on some days and nights. It wouldn't...it shouldn't..."

  "Stop."

  She turned her head towards him, Alistair barely able to stop the tears soaking into his palms. "Please, stop beating yourself up. Thinking that you have to live a life with your daughter, our daughter, hidden away at the top of some unassailable tower. I know this was bad. Really bad, and scary, and I hated every Maker damn minute of it, but..."

  Sighing, he wrapped his hands around Reiss' shoulders and pulled her forehead to his. She returned the sentiment, her fingers plying apart the beard that sprouted down his chin during their exile. "You know where you belong, and Myra belongs with you."

  "What about you?" Reiss gasped, "You deserve to be with her too."

  "I will. I...it's not that hard for me to dip in and out, or for you both to..." He sighed and figured now was the best time to reveal the bit of information he'd been holding back out of fear of how she'd rip his head off upon learning it. "I've been having a room set up, something for her. Myra. When she gets older and doesn't want to be seen with her parents. I swear I think that starts at age six now. So if you're busy at the agency on a case, my Wheaty can stay with me. Have her own space and not have to deal with castle political bullshit."

  Alistair gritted his teeth, expecting Reiss to lash out and rip his face off. He began laying the plans the minute he returned after the agency was attacked, needing to give his daughter and the woman he loved some kind of safe harbor should the worst happen. And, knowing how against it all Reiss would be, he never had the balls to tell her.

  "That's," Reiss turned back to their baby, then him, and she smiled, "a good idea."

  "Really?" he gasped.

  "Yes, really. To give her a space, a spot, so she's not just the bastard daughter or is mistaken as the help's brat. Her own room. This won't be easy," Reiss sighed, her forehead bouncing against his.

  "Doesn't mean it's not worth trying," Alistair curled his hand back against her cheek and it found its way up to her bun.

  She snickered at that and sighed, "You can take it out." Unable to bite down the smile, Alistair undid her hair, the golden strands sifting through his fingers. He could sit and comb it for hours, adoring the feel of every soft wave before they were all banished back under her hat.

  "I'm scared," Reiss said, "of what the future will bring. Of trying to..." She paused and began to laugh, at first it was a bracing haw haw but it quickly picked up steam into a mad giggle. Alistair slowed in combing her hair to look concerned at the sudden turn. "I have a King's child. A child with royal blood. We...we made a baby together. It's, this is madness."

  "Yep." He scooted her closer to him, his lips placing a kiss to the tip of her nose. "It's completely bonkers when you stop and think about it. And I wouldn't change a thing."

  He fell in love with a stubborn as hell elven woman whose life was poking into murders and chasing down villains. It wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't often required to sit on a fancy chair and tell entire Arlings what to do. And those two people, those busy, overcommitted, confounding people made a baby. A baby who'd one day grow into her own fascinating young woman no doubt with golden hair, bright green eyes, and a penchant for getting into trouble. Given her parentage, that was pretty much guaranteed.

  Tugging Reiss downward, both lay back upon the bed. His lover, his wife, this gift he'd never imagined how much he ached for, placed her hand upon his chest. She drew her fingers up and down, trailing some long ripped apart embroidery. After a time, she whispered in the dark, "Do you think we'll pull this off?"

  "Only time will tell," Alistair admitted logically. Then he pressed his lips to her forehead and whispered, "But I'd bet on it."

  EPILOGUE

  Epilogue

  Thirteen Years Later...

  The sickle's blade barely sliced through the tall grass, most of it clogging on the handle instead. Groaning, he let his arm fall slack, the scythe scattering to the half mowed field. Barely caring, he wiped his arm against his forehead and tried to clear away the sweat dripping into his eyes. He should have worn the field hat left on the kitchen peg, but thought after shaving his hair off it wouldn't be needed. Why did he keep forgetting about the damn sun?

  "Gavin," his father's voice broke him from staring at nothing. The wiry boy shed his shirt behind, leaving his ropey body exposed to the sun while his father remained nearly fully clothed. Even his tunic reached all the way to the wrists, exposing a hint of that pink skin that easily turned red during summer. In that matter at least Gavin made out better.

  He wished he had his father's wingspan however.

  To Gavin's quarter acre that was cut apart and left to dry in the summer heat, Cullen managed nearly half going on three fourths. Which, his father kept eyeballing as if he assumed Gavin was slacking off. "You've stopped," he pointed towards his son's fallen tool.

  "It's jammed up again, this grass is too tall," Gavin complained, then winced at the knowing look in his father's eyes.

  "And whose fault is that?"

  "Mine, Sir," he mumbled, his head falling to his bare chest. It practically glistened in this heat, sweat clinging to every part of him whether exposed or not. One of the aides to the abbey took to calling him caramel. The caramel boy out in the fields, hands calloused and raw from the never ending work. She didn't last long here once his father overheard it.

  Cullen twisted his larger scythe down, the honed blade digging into dirt. He first tried to sponge off his own overworked brow, then patted Gavin on the back. "Mine too. I kept putting this off, because Maker knows there were a hundred other things to handle in the abbey."

  Their home rested in the distance, the field of grass twisting down the road that led to it. If he squinted he could just make out the white stone walls that'd let him out of this heat. Once he finished out here, Gavin was going to strip to his drawers, dump a bucket of well water on his head, then lay on the cool floor for a good hour. Assuming his father didn't have more chores.

  Who was he kidding, there was always more.

  Cullen jerked his head to his son's scythe, "Did you remember to sharpen the blade before setting out?"

  "Um..." his amber eyes darted around, doing his best to not admit that of course he forgot. He'd been in the middle of an adventure novel when his dad all but grabbed onto the back of his collar and hoisted him out into the field.

  "Son, how many times do I have to tell you this? Keep your blade sharp and it'll serve you best..."

  "Let it grow dull and you only have yourself to blame," Gavin muttered to himself, turning back towards the field. So what if they didn't finish today? There was always tomorrow, or the day after that. Their livestock weren't liable to starve in the interim.

  A great cacophony erupted from the grove of trees further down the road. Father and son both spun to look up in time as a giant fireball crested th
rough the sky. Gavin held his breath, but Cullen merely sighed, "I see your mother's hard at work." It was barely a beat before something smothered the fire before it torched the forest, no doubt ice.

  Cullen barely blinked at the magics being cast at their doorstep, but Gavin tried to stagger up onto his tiptoes. He wanted to sit and watch, but his dad didn't think it a wise idea. They didn't exactly forbid him from it, but his parents kept finding better things to keep him occupied during the lessons. Gavin heard a soft grumble in his father's throat that was clearly code for 'Get your head out of the clouds and back to work.'

  Yanking up the little scythe he'd had since he was ten and first let to roam their slice of countryside, Gavin glanced over at his father. He knew the stories, the heroics people sang of him, but every time they'd bump into a person who fought in the wars in awe of the great Commander, Gavin kept thinking, 'Him?' Surely they must have gotten their famous warrior confused with an old farmer who tended to grumble into his food and always had one eye on the door. If it weren't for his mother...

  That was a whole other big problem he could barely understand. Slicing off a few more tufts of grass in the hopes of beating oncoming summer rains, Gavin gave it a few more beats before asking as nonchalantly as possible, "How long do you think the lessons will last?"

  "As long as is necessary," his father answered, a familiar grit in his jaw. He didn't pause in his work, but his voice softened, "You know your mother, she gets an idea in her head and..." Cullen twisted his head around to gaze back to where the fireball erupted from, "And we all better keep up or be left in her dust."

  That caused Gavin to laugh once, the idea of his mother speeding past either of them ludicrous. He bore a few early memories of her sometimes giving chase to her little boy, but she'd been confined to a chair and cane for most of his life. They would play by her sitting in the meadow while he'd zip back and forth bringing her things she asked for. It wasn't until he was much older that he learned they weren't making some exotic potion to save the fairies or whatever story she concocted. She was giving him busy work, and his father would pick up all the stolen objects to return back for the next day's game.

  A new sound, strange to his ears, caused both Cullen and Gavin to look up from the field. Magical explosions, templars on tears, even a stampede of druffalo were commonplace, but this was fresh. Hoofbeats churned up the dirt path, tugging behind them the rattling of wheels and carriages tipping around the bend. Gavin froze, his fingers gripping tighter to the scythe. Visitors? But...they hadn't had anyone stop by the abbey in months. Winter could see an uptick, villagers seeming to be bored or wanting to check in on the grumbling old war hero for stories. Summer, however was a different tale.

  He turned to his father for orders and spotted a sneer rising along the man's lip. Whipping back, Gavin noticed a crest stamped to the door of the carriage and a flag bearing a mabari waving upon the back. Cullen sighed, "I should have expected this. Would have been nice to have been told before but..."

  "Father?" Gavin turned to him, curious and confused. There were few people who could truly rile him up, the man was practically a kitten with newcomers. But this one seemed to be causing him to spit hot nails.

  "How about you go and greet our new visitors?" Cullen stretched his neck, "Give me your scythe, I can clean it up and put it away."

  "The field...?" Gavin pointed to it as if he really wanted to continue. Normally, he'd take any excuse to flee from farm work, but if his father was so put off by this visitor how much of a donkey's buttocks were they?

  "Can wait until later, but not too much later. Go on, get running. If you see your mother, when you see your mother, tell her I'll be by soon," Cullen said, giving his son leave.

  Unable to stop the smile, Gavin turned and gave in to the freedom. Running with the top speed his lanky legs provided, he was halfway to the road that'd take him back into the abbey when his father called out, "Son! Don't forget your shirt!"

  Gavin was wiggling an arm into the old, oversized tunic as he stepped through the front gates to find a single carriage waiting in their courtyard. A few eyes peered out of the doors in the abbey, patients and aides alike curious but no one willing to take the first blow. He spotted the driver sitting up on the seat, casually checking her pockets as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Right. Okay. You can do this. Not as if you haven't spoken to strangers before.

  Sort of.

  Sometimes.

  He took a step forward, when a white blur zipped past him. It ran so fast he felt the wind off of it and spotted only a line of colors -- mostly greens but there was a spurt of yellow mixed in. Gavin blinked to focus his eyes and when they did, his jaw locked up. The girl hopped back and forth on her feet, her hands yanking on the door handle to the carriage as if it was second nature to her.

  "Dad!" she cried, tugging it open and all but hurling herself in with a great hug. The man was quick to catch her, white hair shining in the summer heat but a bright smile growing stronger from the hug.

  "Wheaty! Maker's breath it's good to see you. Here, one more hug," he ordered, tugging her close.

  They had the exact same smile, energetic and infectious stretching from the chin to the eyes, the realization of which caused Gavin to blush. He'd often catch the smile out of the corner of his eye while walking the abbey or from across a dining table and wonder things about it. Things that would make his father grumble more.

  "What is this?" her father tugged at the blonde braid tossed over her shoulder, "When did you start going all farm girl on me?"

  "Da-ad," she groaned, but then giggled like a nightingale. "How's things back home? What about mom?"

  He smiled wide, "Why don't you ask her yourself?" Reaching back into the carriage, he drew forth a woman's hand. She was thin, her hair lighter than her daughter's, as she strained to reach around to complete the hug.

  "For the love of Andraste, this is foolish. Myra, move out of the way so we can get out," she chastised. The smile didn't dim in Myra's face, but she obeyed, practically skipping backwards so first her father could step down.

  Gavin knew that face, it was on more than a few paintings across the parts of Ferelden he was allowed to visit. There were even a handful of collectable coins bearing it that he'd gotten mixed up in his collection. Blinking like mad, his mouth dried out as he realized his father sent him to greet the King with no warning or training. What did one do upon meeting their Sovereign? Bow? That seemed almost too informal. He bowed to the Arl. This was...

  King Alistair stopped staring around the courtyard long enough to have his eyes land upon Gavin. Yelping but managing to keep it internal, Gavin tipped his head downward. That caused the King to laugh and wave the boy closer. Was that an order? That was probably an order.

  His foot slid once, when the woman's voice ordered, "Would you move your ass already?"

  "Sorry, love," Alistair stumbled further away, "old bones ain't what they used to be." Turning back to the carriage, he got a good grip onto her hand and tugged her out.

  She was a stunning elven woman, her long, pointed ear prodding through a mass of blonde hair. Hers was the kind of beauty that made young men hold their tongues in fear while also finding themselves unable to stop staring. Gavin felt himself straightening up more when her green eye landed upon him than the threat of a King did.

  "Mom! How was the trip? Did you stop at the pancake place? What's Muse been up to? Or my friends?"

  Myra launched towards her mother, and the woman turned her head sharply to reveal that her other ear was missing. A knob of scar tissue wrapped around what looked as if someone either hacked away the elven point or it was caught in something and ripped off. Neither mother nor daughter seemed put off by what was perhaps an old wound. "My," she chastised, "speak into my good ear please."

  "Right, fine. I asked...!"

  "The trip was serviceable if not long. We got the strawberry ones this time. Muse has been sleeping and farting all the time, and your friends sent along
a good hundred or so letters for you," she answered quickly before cracking into a grin.

  Myra's jaw dropped and she stuck a hand on her hip, "You heard me the whole time!"

  "No, but I know my daughter. Come here, one more proper hug already without your father's ass in the way."

  He laughed while they embraced again, then whispered near her remaining ear, "I happen to have it on good authority that you enjoy my ass."

  "Alistair," she chided, her palm swatting against his shoulders. The woman looked as if she was about to kiss him, Gavin politely turning to stare at the horizon, when he felt her eyes land upon him.

  The King turned to see what caught her attention and smiled, "Don't tell me, you're the welcoming squad."

  "I..." he dipped his head down, uncertain if it was polite to stare a King in the eye, "I am."

  Alistair crossed to him and picked up his hand. Gripping warmly to it he smiled, "Good. Better you than your father, ol' grouchy puss. How is he? Sour as a lemon scowling down bitterdrop lane I bet."

  "It, um..." he had no idea how to respond, but the man continued to talk over him.

  "Maker's breath, when did you get so tall?" the King gasped. It took everything inside of Gavin to not sneer at the idea. While he was taller than his mother, he didn't reach anywhere close to his father yet and seemed to have stalled out. Unaware of any offense, the King held his hand low to the ground, "I swear, last time I saw you you were this big. And had a metal bucket on your head to go fight off monsters."

  A pretty laugh caught Gavin's eye and those vibrant green eyes he'd tried to not stare at for months landed on him for a breath. It was long enough for his cheeks to flare hotter than the fire she'd been launching earlier through the trees. Mumbling incoherently he turned to stare down at the ground, unable to make eye contact with anyone.