Trouble & Strife: Chapter Thirty Six

[scarylady]

Much love to bellaknoti the Comma Fairy Extraordinaire, who's reliable, and lovely, and tidies up my chapters.

Link to the beginning, for anyone joining us for the first time: www.fanfiction.net/s/6144534/1/Trouble_Strife

Title: Trouble & Strife: Chapter Thirty Six
Characters: today we have Alistair, Maddy, Philippe, Anders, Leliana, Zevran, and the addition of Teagan.
Rating: M (for language and sexual references)
In this chapter: Our illustrious procession arrives at Redcliffe. Waiting for them are letters bearing news both welcome and unwelcome.

 

-oOo-

 

Coming to Redcliffe always felt strange. He could never get over how small the village was, and even the castle seemed shrunken, but it was the people who made it most odd. There were men and woman in the village and the castle who, as a child, he had sneaked off with to go fishing, or fought with when they called him Eamon’s bastard. There were older ones, too; those who had cuffed him for being cheeky, or sneaked him food when he was in disgrace.

Now they turned out en-masse to greet their King and Queen, and bowed deeply or curtseyed to the floor as Alistair passed by. He’d grown accustomed to it over the last couple of years, but here in Redcliffe it seemed wrong and probably always would.

Teagan at least was his usual self; polite, pleasant, and well-equipped by his birth and breeding to be at ease in any company. His greeting in the courtyard was as formal as that of any Arl, but once everyone was settled into their rooms, and he could speak to the royal couple alone in his sitting room, the formalities were dropped.

“Alistair, it’s good to see you. Madeleina, you look radiant; I heard the news. May I offer my heartiest congratulations? Eamon is beside himself with joy, I imagine.” Teagan shook hands with Alistair and kissed Maddy’s cheek before taking his seat.

“The other news that reached me ahead of you is rather startling.” He indicated a sheaf of letters on the table. “The Banns have assumed that, given Eamon’s position, I know something of this supposed miracle, and have bombarded me with requests for information. Is it indeed true that blighted land has been restored?”

Alistair confirmed it and Teagan shook his head, dumbfounded. “I confess I thought it a tall tale spun by farmers, but I should have known better. It’s not the first time we’ve seen Andraste’s blessing conferred, after all.” His gaze went to the mantel, where a tiny leather pouch in a glass case stood in pride of place.

“If you have blighted fields on our route, Teagan, I’d be happy to assist.” Maddy cast a mischievous glance at Alistair. “Provided I’m allowed.”

“Just so long you don’t push yourself as hard as you did in Lothering, my dear.” Alistair was bound and determined that she was not going to work herself to death over this.

“One or two of my Banns will be delighted to hear that, dear lady, but in truth we are not so agricultural in this part of the country as in the heart of the Bannorn. The majority of our trade is from lake-fishing; in view of the expected problems with food this year, all the villages on Lake Calenhad are working hard to smoke as much fish as possible. We also use the rivers pouring out of the lake to drive watermills, and grind grain brought in from our neighbours. This industry will ultimately benefit from what you have achieved already, and the millers will be most grateful.” Teagan smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Arl Wulff, on the other hand, will no doubt be thanking Andraste on his knees for this boon. Both his own lands and those of his Banns in the heartlands are badly affected.”

Alistair nodded. “We’ll be going there once we leave Orzammar. Our hope is to assist West Hill, but the heartlands aren’t on our route. It’ll be all we can achieve to help West Hill and Amaranthine before spring planting.”

“I can understand that, as those are the worst affected, but I can imagine the squeals of outrage from the Bannorn already.”

Alistair changed the subject; the whole matter of the Bannorn, and the votes he could or could not garner this year, had been giving him a headache for weeks. “Teagan, have you heard anything from the Circle? With Connor living there, I was hoping you may have news.”

A crease appeared between the Arl’s eyebrows. “Very little, I’m afraid. There are rumours that the First Enchanter is ill, but those remain unconfirmed. I haven’t had a letter from Connor for,” Teagan stopped to tick off the time on his fingers, “four or five months, I think. It was before I went to Denerim for your wedding.” He fiddled with the stem of his goblet, frowning. “I’ve asked our Revered Mother whether everything is alright there; she says that those Templars passing through the village on their way from and to the Circle Tower haven’t reported anything, and that young people do forget to write. She thinks I’m making too much of it.”

“You haven’t been up there to see Connor, then? I was hoping for a first-hand report.”

“I’m afraid not.” Teagan studied the King’s face. “What’s all this about, Alistair? Is there a problem with the mages?”

“You’ve heard what happened in Denerim?” Alistair enquired, and Teagan nodded in response.

“Yes, I got a letter from Eamon. It makes me thankful that my nephew is safely locked in the Circle, to be honest. I shudder to think what would have happened if he had manifested magic now, although I believe that children are still being taken to the Circle, not to Denerim. The Revered Mother has seen a few travelling under escort.”

“If she didn’t see anything to worry her, then I suspect they were the lucky ones.” Alistair drummed his fingers on his chair arm, wondering how much to tell Teagan. He was a good man, Eamon’s brother, and not given to idle chatter. Also, if any action had to be taken against the Circle Tower, then Redcliffe would be their best base of operations. “You might want to get yourself a fresh drink, Teagan. I have a tale for you that will make your hair curl.”

-oOo-

 

“A letter for you, mon frère.” Maddy entered her brother’s room with a sheaf of post in her hands. “It got mixed up with ours, probably because of the Imperial seal on it.” Laughing at Philippe’s expression of distaste, she turned to leave the room.

“Stay, ma chérie, it may be news about the attempt on your life.” He broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of heavy parchment. He scanned down the page, his face growing unusually hard.

“Is there a problem, Philippe?”

He looked up and the expression vanished, replaced with the gentle irony she was more accustomed to seeing. “Dearest Celene seems to feel that I have spent sufficient time in Ferelden and desires me to return to Ghislain immediately.” Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “For some strange reason she believes that my excellent estate manager is incapable of running things without my supervision.”

“C’est des conneries!  Frederique has been running the place since you and I were children.” Maddy frowned direfully. “She wants to separate us.”

“Undoubtedly, my dear, but it’s unlikely to be malicious. Celene is too coldly political to serve us such a trick. No, she merely intends to remind me where my loyalties should lie.” Philippe hesitated, before continuing, “There is something else, though…”

“Oh?” Maddy scanned her brother’s face anxiously. “It’s bad news? Tell me, quick.”

He turned away, walking to the window, the letter clenched in his hand. His voice was light, unconcerned. It didn’t fool her in the slightest. “She informs me that, with you safely married, it is time that I too begat an heir. She asks me if I have a suitable Orlesian lady in mind, as otherwise she will find me a wife from among the minor royalty of Antiva or Rivain.”

“Oh, Philippe…” Maddy knew he’d been dreading this for years; in truth, they both had, but she had proved exceptionally lucky in the man she’d been offered. There could be no such good fortune for her brother. “I’m so sorry, mon chéri. When must you leave?”

He turned to her, smiling mask firmly in place. “My love, I have no intention of returning, at least until I see my nieces or nephews born. I shall write to Celene and inform her of this. She can hardly protest, under the circumstances.”

Maddy had no such certainty; the Empress was not accustomed to being crossed, even in minor ways. She kept her reservations to herself, knowing that Philippe was just as aware of them as she was, and hugged him tightly. “I’m glad you’re staying, at least for a while. While you’re here, I feel I have all my family intact.”

He returned her embrace and kissed her cheek. “For you, ma soeur, I shall endure the mud a little longer.”

 

-oOo-

 

Alistair found the news in one of his letters just as interesting, and not quite so unwelcome. Before he’d even got the end of the page he had his head out of the door, asking one of the guards to send Anders up to see him.

By the time the mage arrived, he’d finished Bhelen’s letter and was ready to hand it over. “Read this.”

“Andraste’s flaming knickers!” The exclamation told Alistair that Anders had reached the part where he’d paused. He waited patiently until the mage finished reading. When Anders looked up, his face was unusually sombre. “Six Harrowed mages fleeing to Orzammar? It’s unheard of. What in all the dark corners of the Fade is happening at the Circle?” He did a quick reread. “What’s this King Bhelen like? Are they safe there?”

“Relatively.” Alistair took back his letter and frowned over it. “They may get looked down on for being surface-dwellers, but their magic won’t matter to the dwarves. What worries me is what Bhelen is up to. His abilities as a politician are incredible; he can run circles around me. I need the lyrium trade if I want to play politics against the Chantry. He now knows that the Chantry and the Circle are causing me problems… it’s bound to weaken my negotiation.”

“Can we get them moved elsewhere?”

“Where?” Alistair had been feeling for months that he was failing to protect a portion of his subjects, and his frustration with the situation was beginning to show. “I’m the Maker-damned King and I don’t have anywhere I can keep mages safe from the Grand Cleric’s madness.” He rubbed his hand through his hair. “It’s a ridiculous situation, and I really wish I had better control of it, but if I dive in feet first now, I’ll only make things worse. No, they’re safe from the Chantry there, at least. If I moved them, and they ended up in her clutches as a result, I’d never forgive myself.”

Anders’ frustration was starting to get the better of him, too. “Alistair, we need to go to the Circle, find out what’s happening.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? Maker, I wish Orzammar was on-route to the Circle. It would help to hear the mages’ story first before we blunder in.” The King thought for a moment. “I need to spend a couple of days here; Teagan has some of the Banns arriving today to spend time with me, after that we’ll make the trip up to the Circle. But I’m leaving Maddy here; I don’t want her anywhere near the new Knight Commander or his fanatical Templars.”

 

-oOo-

 

Whilst superficially as polite and urbane as ever, Philippe was in a foul mood. Had it not been their first night at Redcliffe, and had Arl Teagan not arranged music and dancing for his guests, he would have stayed in his room. As it was, he felt honour-bound to support his sister, remaining at her side and bowing over the hands of country lords and having their simpering daughters pushed in his face. He cursed his rank and title; here, even more than in Orlais it seemed, he was a prize to be fought over. Well, they were to be disappointed. Celene apparently had no intention of selling her prize pig to anyone less than royalty. She’d disregarded him for so long, he’d begun to hope… but it seemed she had merely been saving him until last.

While the Orlesian Prince bowed and smiled and murmured compliments, bitterness and resentment swarmed in his stomach like a wasp’s nest. The onset of the music and dancing brought no respite. Various sweet young hopefuls hovered, each hoping to snag the accolade of the first dance with royalty. Every stop on the itinerary it had been the same and Philippe was weary beyond measure of pretending.

It was poor Teagan who, all unsuspecting, brought the wasp’s nest boiling up and flying free.

“Won’t you dance, Your Highness?” Arl Teagan was on his way to the floor with Leliana on his arm. The bard’s cautious expression suggested that she, who knew Philippe a little better by this time, had a suspicion all was not well. “If you don’t have a partner, I’m sure any number of young ladies would be delighted to oblige.”

Philippe stared at his host, urbane wit and charm deserting him. Sacré Coeur d’Andraste, that was the problem, wasn’t it? They were all willing to oblige, just as the ones Celene would approach would be willing. The idea turned his stomach, the mere notion of submitting some poor woman to such a life for the sake of a title. Not to mention his own potential misery.

Leliana jumped in, trying to save the situation, but it was too late. The wasps were on the move. “My lord, I don’t think that Prince Phili-

“You’re absolutely right, Seigneur Teagan, I should like to dance.” Philippe cut across Leliana’s words as rebellion soared. He would regret this later, no doubt, but tonight he would dance. “Do not concern yourself with me, I shall find a partner of my own.” He bowed correctly to them and turned on his heel, scanning the room.

There, by the door.

-oOo-

 

Zevran was well aware of the position in the room of his Prince, just as he was aware of every other person, notable or otherwise. The vantage he had chosen gave him a clear view of the entire room; Kallian stood behind Maddy, all was well there, leaving him free to scan for trouble. Being accosted by an occasional noble - mistaking him for a servant, despite his fine clothes, and trying to send him for drinks - was a nuisance, but this was nothing new and was easily dealt with. There was usually a kindly person nearby willing to prevent a scene by whispering the correct words in the ear of the thirsty one. There was a time when the warning would have been Antivan Crow or Blight Companion. Now he heard the sibilant hiss of King’s Assassin. That was somewhat amusing, and did his reputation no harm. The rumour was creating a clear space around him however, which was less amusing. Being able to see was one thing, being seen was quite another.

So, when Philippe swiftly crossed the room and bowed before him, it seemed likely that the entire room observed it.

“Signore Arainai, I beg that you will do me the honour of granting me this dance.” This was no polite murmur, the words rang out loud and clear. Flags of colour were flying in his principe’s face; someone must have severely upset him to cause such loss of composure.

Zevran stared at him, torn between concern and amusement. In Orlais or Antiva, two men dancing together would be nothing particularly out of the ordinary. In Ferelden, one was expected to be discreet with such proclivities. So, seeing it that way, why shouldn’t an Orlesian and an Antivan dance?

His lips twitched. So we shall shock these staid Fereldens, eh? Buono. “Mio principe, the honour would be mine, but I do not know the lady’s steps.”

Unholy glee bloomed in Philippe’s blue eyes, chasing away the shadows. “That is of no matter, mon amour. I am proficient in them.” Therefore it was Zevran who held out his arm and Philippe who laid his hand atop that of the elf. The drawing in of shocked breaths surrounded them. Really, Zev couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such fun. He led his prince into the line that was forming.

 

-oOo-

 

“Maker’s Breath, what is your brother doing?”

Maddy was already watching the display, her shoulders shaking. “He appears to be dancing, mon mari.”

“With Zev?”

She choked slightly at the horror in Alistair’s voice, stifling a giggle. “So it seems.” She observed them for a moment. “They dance very well, don’t you think?”

They did indeed make a very graceful pair, showing a mastery of the intricate steps which was quite charming. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, this dance was not one which required a changing of partners, so no staid Ferelden gentlemen were forced to suffer the indignity of being faced with Philippe as his lady. Three down from them in the line Teagan was moving from shock to amusement in the face of Leliana’s obvious approval.

“Smile, dear, it would not do for people to think you disapprove of your brother-in-law.”

At Maddy’s mild admonishment, Alistair straightened his face, bestowing a benign smile upon the dancing. The banns and lords couldn’t know that there was a suggestion of gritted teeth behind the smile, and this sign of the King’s acceptance caused an unexpected side-effect: after a short hesitation, one of the minor lords bravely took the bit between his teeth and led the man he’d been conversing with into the dance. There was another ripple of horror across the room, but this time there were a few twitching lips and an outbreak of coughing as the younger people tried to hide their amusement.

Maddy beamed upon the new dancers. “You see, mon mari? We will set a new fashion and Ferelden shall become quite cosmopolitan.”

“Ye-es.”

-oOo-

 

When the set ended, Zevran swiftly escorted his dance partner from the hall, deftly avoiding all those who wished to accost them.

“Zevran, what are you-?”

“Hush.”

An unoccupied sitting-room being the first suitable space they encountered, he bundled Philippe through the door and locked it behind them. Philippe looked better; the dancing had driven away the shadows from his face, but the assassin was not deceived. Something dire must have occurred to cause such a reserved man to make such a spectacle.

Zevran leant against the door, Philippe’s wrist still caught in his fingers. “Which is it to be, caro mio? Do you wish to tell me what has upset you, or shall I ravish you until you forget all about it?”

Minute movements of the elegant frame before him suggested the latter, but his prince shook his head, a sad smile on his handsome face. “I owe you an apology, mon cher. I have made you an offer that I shall not be at liberty to fulfil.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

Instead, Philippe reached inside his close-fitting doublet and withdrew a piece of parchment. Zevran released him to take it, and swiftly scanned over the few lines of ink. After a moment, he refolded it and handed it back. “So reality has intruded upon you. There is no need for this tragic face.” Zevran lifted his hand, brushing down the smooth cheek to the clenched jaw. “I know not of Rivain, but a royal bride from Antiva will not be concerned with your preferences. Provided you get her with child, then the rest of your life will be your own. She will expect nothing more from you.”

The pained choke from Philippe might have been laughter. “You make it sound so simple.”

“You have no taste at all for women? There are ways to make it easier on you, to make the differences less intrusive. I know of these and can instruct you.”

Philippe blinked fast and turned away, hiding the gleam of tears. “Zevran, I-” There was a moment’s silence as he fought with himself. “You know what I want.”

“You hoped to live in a romantic dream? My Prince, it does not exist.” He wanted to reach out, to soothe the hurt which was so visible in the man’s tight shoulders and back. But reality must be faced. “Philippe,” this made his prince turn; never once had Zevran called him by name, “your dream is not possible. I am the son of a Dalish whore and you are an Imperial Prince. A liaison between us would be tolerated, but nothing more than that. Not… that thing you said.”

Although Philippe’s face was still drawn, a smile dawned. He took a step forward and smoothed back a strand of blond hair. “The ‘thing I said’ was marriage, Zevran. I want you and only you. Is it so terrifying that you can’t even say it?”

“It is foolish, unnecessary and impossible. Marry a princess, make an heir, it need affect nothing.” Only a whisper of space separated them, Zev leaned forward, tipping his head up, allowed his voice to drop to a murmur. “Why do you deny yourself? Take pleasure where you can.” For a moment he believed he’d won, thought that Philippe would give in to the desire raging in both of them. He could feel the heat of his prince’s body, the warmth of his breath. Blue eyes gazed into amber and the assassin trembled, waiting for the kiss that seemed inevitable.

The moment passed. Philippe’s eyes closed tight, anguished, and his forehead dropped to touch the top of Zevran’s head. “I can’t. If I were commoner or you were noble. Perhaps then I could. We’d be lovers then, a compromise, but not an impossible one. As things stand you’d be seen as my toy, my whore. I won’t do that to you.”

“You think I care? You think I would mind?”

A brush of lips on his forehead and Philippe withdrew, his composure falling back into place. “I care. I shouldn’t have danced with you; it will have given the wrong impression. I shall have to rectify that.”

Zevran swore long and fluently, reverting to his native Antivan to relieve his feelings. “You seek to protect my reputation?” Frustration was beginning to turn to anger. “Do you know what reputation I own out there, mio principe?” He stabbed a finger towards the main hall, for once allowing his fury free rein. How dare this man think he was defined by something as trivial as sex? “King’s assassin, hired killer. I could sleep with half the Ferelden nobility and that would remain unchanged. You could bend me over the high table and fuck me in front of them all and the only reputation affected would be yours. I’d still be the vicious killer, the Crow. They would still fear me.”

Philippe simply stood, allowing the storm to wash over him. When Zevran paused for breath, his protest was mild. “That isn’t how I see you, mon cher. Would you have me treat you badly, merely because of your profession? Should I show you no respect, because others offer you only fear?”

With these words it finally slotted together in Zevran’s head and his anger drained away. Respect. To Zevran respect and fear were inextricably tied together; a Crow was respected because he was feared. For Philippe respect meant something entirely different. It was a gift he offered to someone he believed deserved it. It was a gift that was being offered to him. He had repeatedly attempted to trample on it, and this incredible, impossible man continued to offer it.

It took Zev’s breath away.

He needed to think.

“I apologise, mio principe. I think I understand.” His hand was on the doorknob, he had to get away. “I must go; I shall see you later, perhaps.”

Zevran fled, melting into the shadows of the dimly lit corridors, leaving Philippe where he stood.

-oOo-