My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  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 agains
t 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 ge
t?"

  "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.