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peopleofthedas2011-06-03 09:27 pm
Trouble & Strife: Epilogue: Part One.
Title: Trouble & Strife: Epilogue: Part One.
Characters: Alistair, Maddy, Zevran, Philippe, Leliana, Anders, Ser Bryant, Wynne, Shayle
Rating: T
This chapter: Some events that occur during the months following the Landsmeet...
As I finished it very late, this Chapter is being issued unbeta'ed. I'll get it checked and updated later, but I figured it was better to put something out on time. Apologies if you find any errors which are bad enough to be distracting.
-oOo-
Ser Bryant had to bang on the great doors of the Circle Tower many times before anyone came to open them, while Wynne huddled at his side, wrapped in her cloak against the biting wind off the lake. When they finally creaked open he saw the last thing he expected: a mage, a small dark-haired woman with a timid demeanour. She took only one look before averting her eyes from him, paying great attention instead to the stone flags on which they stood.
“Keili, child, where is everyone?” Wynne bustled into the Circle and stopped dead, looking around. Ser Bryant followed her, carefully closing the doors behind him. There was not a Templar in sight. It was as though the Avvar columns holding up the ceiling had wandered off on business of their own.
“Wynne?” The young woman seemed taken-aback at the sight of the elderly mage. “They left…. they all left, day before yesterday.” The expression of relief on her face when she turned to him from the mage disturbed Ser Bryant. Mages did not usually look at Templars as though they were their one remaining hope of salvation. Not that she looked at him precisely. She turned towards him, addressed him, but her eyes remained on the floor.
“We’ve kept to the schedule, ser, enforced the rotas. Made sure everyone goes to prayers every three hours, starting at dawn.” She swallowed, nervously. “It’s been difficult; most of the priests left when the Templars did.” She looked up at him for the first time, her eyes wide and earnest. “I’m glad you’re here, ser. I was so afraid our curse would catch up with us, with no-one to protect us from it.”
“Curse, child? What nonsense is this?” Wynne hustled the younger mage further in, scolding gently all the way. Ser Bryant followed, looking around at the changes since the last time he’d been here.
The apprentice quarters appeared much the same, the children perhaps more subdued than he remembered. There appeared to be a marked lack of older apprentices, few seemed to be in puberty.
The quarters given over to harrowed mages were sparsely populated, and those mages they encountered seemed disproportionately relieved to see his armoured bulk in their midst.
The library was deserted.
When they entered the senior mages quarters Wynne stopped dead. “Mercy me,” she exclaimed, looking around.
The entire place had been refitted, the comfortable beds, the desks, armoires and dressing tables all removed. Bunk beds, much like those in the apprentice quarters were rowed up in every cubicle, each one neatly made and with all belongings stowed in a trunk at the end. Ser Bryant opened one, curious to see if it was even occupied, and saw mages robes in a familiar rusty red, neatly folded. Tranquil robes. There were no personal belongings at all, and no-one in the room. Just rows and rows of accommodation for Tranquil workers. He felt sick. The King and the Warden had warned them what they might find here but the reality…
Wynne’s mouth was shut in a thin line. “Follow me,” she snapped, setting off at a brisk pace, not looking to see if he obeyed.
The Tranquil quarters were everything they feared. All accommodations now removed, the entire floor had been converted into an enormous workshop. Tranquil mages sat in rows at long tables, crafting runes, inserting them into the staffs, swords and armour that lay in piles behind them awaiting attention. Others worked at smaller tables, crafting lamps, trinkets, knick-knacks. The air was thick with the sparkle of lyrium and Ser Bryant seized Wynne’s arm to prevent her from entering.
“First Enchanter, you can’t go in there.” Her grief and fury were palpable, only long control preventing her magic from leaking out. The addition of lyrium to such a potent mixture of emotions…
She tried to pull away, to enter the room, her eyes travelling along the ranks of the Tranquil, but Ser Bryant retained his grip, refusing to permit it. Occasionally a small sad noise escaped her, as she saw the face of some colleague, but she appeared to be searching for one person in particular.
He was fairly certain he knew who.
She turned on her heel after a moment, blazing a trail to the Templar quarters, so that he had to stride out to keep up. Her face was set into a frown, her focus all in one direction. There was not a soul up here, the various rooms neat and tidy, stripped of personal possessions. An occasional sock, an old helm were all they saw, until a discarded letter on one of the dressing tables caught their eye.
You are ordered to take up a fresh posting in Jader immediately. There were more instructions, all written out in the neat script of a clerk and it was signed Brother Guido, Divine Legate on behalf of Divine Beatrix III. The date on it was the same day as the Landsmeet.
Wynne turned it over in her hands. “He must have had them written out and ready to be sent, just in case.”
Ser Bryant nodded. “Efficient of him.” He wondered if his own ‘fresh posting’ had been delivered to the Gwaren chantry. “I’ll send word to every chantry and monastery to hold awaiting the King’s orders. We should have done it before leaving Denerim really, but…”
“…but we needed to see what the situation was here.” Wynne’s voice was weary, the task ahead of them monumental. “I have to wonder how many clerics and Templars will leave Ferelden, accept their new orders.” She straightened her shoulders. “First, though, I want to know whether Irving is still alive. Perhaps up in the Harrowing Chamber…”
In the end they did not need to go so far as that in order to find the former First Enchanter. They went first to the Knight Commander’s quarters; my quarters now, thought Ser Bryant, not quite believing it. The files, rotas and suchlike there were intact; apparently Cullen had left for his own posting with no belief that his actions here must be hidden or erased.
It was beyond these, on the final corridor before the stairs to the Harrowing Chamber, that they found a closed door. Wynne hesitated a moment before grasping the door handle.
“Do you want me to go in ahead of you?”
“No.” The shake of her head was emphatic and she gripped the door handle with new purpose. “No.”
The door swung open under her hand, exposing what no doubt used to be a comfortable room. Now it was a mess, the bedding soiled and scorch marks on the furniture. A pile of what, at first glance, appeared to be firewood turned out to be a small chest, blown into splintered fragments by mighty magics.
“Oh, Irving.” Wynne rushed to the bed, where an old man lay sprawled, unmoving, looking at the ceiling. His eyes were vacant, his hair and beard tangled. On his arm the purple of fresh bruises mingled with the yellow of old, suggesting that he’d been in more than one fight.
The former First Enchanter turned towards her, and Wynne made a soft sound, brushing the hair back off his forehead. He wore, not one brand of the Tranquil, but three, the lines overlapping. There was no recognition in his eyes, no awareness, nothing. Ser Bryant had never seen such a thing; Tranquil weren’t like this, they were awake, aware, they knew the people around them.
“Oh, Irving, what did they do to you?” Wynne’s voice broke, but her fingers were already moving over his bruises, looking for major damage. After a moment she relaxed, infinitesimally and turned to Ser Bryant. “Get him water, he’s shockingly dehydrated. Those brutes must have abandoned him here when they left. Why would they do such a thing?”
As he went to do her bidding, returning to the Knight Commander’s quarters to use the water rune he’d seen on the wall there, the thought crossed Ser Bryant’s mind unbidden and unwanted, disgust at his brethren sharp and bitter in his throat. Guilty secret. The First Enchanter had been too strong for the Rite of Tranquillity, forcing the Knight Commander to try again, and yet again. No Templar would want that knowledge in public view. I’m only surprised they didn’t just quietly kill him, or ship him to Aeonar in secret.
Ser Bryant filled a cup with fresh water and, before returning with it, closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the wall. The task here was monumental; the remaining mages were meek and terrified, of little use for the King’s hopes and plans; there were no Templars for him to command, each one would have to be drawn from their dwindling numbers across Ferelden’s chantries; a small army of mage children were currently in transit from Vigil’s Keep, they must all be protected and trained with the alarmingly small resources available.
Andraste grant me the strength I need to do my duty.
He pushed himself away from the wall, and went to do his first and most immediate duty; tending to the needs of the ruined, mindless, former First Enchanter.
-oOo-
It was bitterly cold in the Frostback mountains at that time of year. This caravan was almost certainly the last to make it to Orzammar before spring, and the guards hurried to check them in, wishing to get the great doors closed again as quickly as possible. Cargos must be checked and temporary brands applied. Bribes exchanged hands in the customary fashion, ensuring that the checks were not quite as thorough as perhaps they could be. A couple of humans, furtive and scared, turned out to be apostate mages, choosing to accept King Bhelen’s open invite to live and work in Orzammar, rather than accept King Alistair’s amnesty and train in the Circle Tower.
Once the routine business was settled there was a peculiar visitor to deal with, a dwarven woman dripping jewellery, bejewelled chains adorning her scarred throat.
The guards conducted a hurried conversation in an undertone, huddled over the letter she’d handed them.
“So, do we ink her or not?”
“Says here she’s Shayle of House Cadash, sent by King Alistair to see King Bhelen.”
“Surfacer then, if the human king sent her. Lyrium trader, maybe. We ink her.”
“You ignorant sodding nug-humper. There is no House Cadash. Doncha remember that big plaque the Shaper put up a couple of years back? Cadash was one of the Houses that gave their last descendant to Caridin to put on the anvil.”
They regarded Shayle for a moment. She stood, motionless and apparently uninterested, blind eyes staring ahead.”
“She’s no golem.”
The brighter of the two guards grunted and addressed Shayle. “Missus… er… Milady, we have to ink anyone coming from the surface. It’s how things are done. I hope you don’t have a problem with that.”
She turned towards his voice, her whole body moving as one in a way that was quite disconcerting. Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I do not care about such things, but if the implement you use is sharp, you must be very careful. This body is extremely squishy.” Her voice was hoarse, ruined, the vocal chords straining to produce the words.
“Er… right, right, it’s just a paintbrush, see.” He held it up for inspection and then realised what he was doing. “Not that you can see it, but… just hold still a minute.”
There didn’t seem to be any difficulty with that. She had the appearance of someone willing to hold still all night.
The procedure complete, he watched her trundle off, with her merchant companions. One of them, the last to pass, winked at him. “She’s a card, right? Hundreds of years old, apparently. Knew Caradin personally, can you believe it? My bet is that Bhelen will declare her a Paragon.”
They passed through the Hall of Heroes, and into the Commons. The guard was left looking after them, stroking his beard. “A Paragon, eh?” He murmured to himself, thoughtfully. “I wonder if she’s fertile…” He’d be off duty in an hour, and Steward Bandalor owned him a favour. Might be worth seeing if he could sneak in the back of the Assembly, try to snag her quick before someone else did.
-oOo-
Evening sunlight spilled through the window of the palazzo, lying warm and golden on the mosaic-tiled floor. Luciana brushed out her long dark hair with long languorous strokes. A maid had already brushed it once - the pins from the principessa’s elaborate hairstyle were scattered on the dressing table – but Luciana liked to brush it again herself, enjoying the feel of the bristles sliding over her scalp.
The maid had been dismissed, leaving the principessa to conduct her daily rituals and muse upon her day. Her nails must be polished back to perfection, the creamy flawlessness of her skin inspected, cleansed and cared for. She had so few weapons left at her disposal, and her beauty was still the most potent part of her armoury. In the wake of her brother’s downfall it had cushioned her from her cousin’s wrath; the man was a fool, but a fool who understood the value of having an attractive well-bred woman at his beck and call. Luciana had no real objection to falling in with his schemes – attending his dinner parties and applying her wiles to those whose influence he wished to woo – she had been offering the same services all her life, first for papa and then for her brother. It was the way of things.
In return he left her alone, allowed her to remain here in the palazzo of her birth, left her to enjoy her entertainments and her many lovers.
She put down her nail file and used a buffing cloth to bring a glossy shine to the perfect ovals of her nails. The evening light moved, slanting across the thick buff parchment on her dressing table; a letter from Empress Celene stating, in strangely cold terms, that her presence in Orlais would not be required after all. The tone of it had made Luciana a little uneasy; did the Empress know that she had been behind the removal of her proposed betrothed? Orlesians could be so touchy; they did not understand the way of the world. Her Corvi had not yet returned from that particular task; she would be glad to have her Crows at her side again; there were many pitfalls in Antivan politics, and she’d felt extremely exposed these last few months.
She picked up a pot of her favourite face cream, a thick concoction made with cucumbers, too strongly scented to be suitable for day wear. It was expensive, but the alchemist who prepared it for her swore that it would inhibit wrinkles better than any other and certainly her skin had been much improved since she began to use it, oils lost to the harsh Antivan sun replenished nightly by the rich cream.
Luciana applied in generously, covering her face in fragment replenishment and then lifted her chin and closed her eyes to smooth the pale green stuff down her throat. When she opened her eyes, two faces looked back at her from the mirror, her own – her eyes dark with fear – and that of an elf, his golden eyes hard and cold above the amused line of his mouth. A cold pinprick touched her throat, his dagger, and she swallowed carefully.
“Good evening, Principessa.” His voice was smooth and melodious, his accent pure Antiva City. Merciful Andraste, a Crow. Her mind raced through those who could have sent him, seeking an out from this predicament. The Corvi de Nobile could no more be bought off than their mercenary counterparts, but they could be reasoned with, could be persuaded to take a counter-offer back to their master.
She spoke carefully, mindful of the dagger at her throat. “Who-?”
“Who sent me?” His rich chuckle might have been appealing at any other time. “Well now, that is a fair question. I think it truest to say that I sent myself. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Zevran.” He hesitated and then chuckled again. “It would no longer be fair to introduce myself as a Crow. I left that fraternity quite some time ago.”
Zevran, Zevran… she knew the name, she was sure of it, had heard it sometime recently. A former Crow, but there was no such thing apart from-
“You! They say you fought the Blight, the Archdemon!” She stared at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand, what can you possibly want with me?” She moistened her lips, taking a desperate throw. If he was not of the Corvi, then perhaps… “You have taken a private contract on me? Name your price, I shall meet it.”
The smile vanished. The expression that met hers in the mirror plumbed the depths of cold rage and her heart skipped a beat. She would not be able to buy her way out of this, nor offer the smiles that were her primary coin.
“There is only one price you may pay to me, Principessa, in exchange for your continued existence. In fact, you are already doing so.” There was no warmth in his tone now, no amusement. “The cream you have so generously smeared upon your skin is a special preparation, rather more special than you are accustomed to. It seems likely that already you feel a tingling on your face and throat, and also on your hands, as you used them to apply it.” He shrugged. “A necessary addition, but you have my permission to wipe them, if you wish. Your face, though… ah, that is another matter. We shall stay here together for a while, a few hours at least. After a time, you will experience a great deal of pain.” Now that he mentioned it, there was a slight tingling in her cheeks and neck. She opened her mouth to say something, anything to bring this to a halt.
He produced a wad of cloth and stuffed it in her mouth, muffling the first panicked protests. “I apologise for such crudity, but I cannot have your screams drawing attention, you understand.” The smile returned, the generous mouth curving in the mirror. Luciana saw her own eyes wide and terrified above the crude gag. It was difficult to be sure, but she thought a trace of redness was beginning to show in her creamy skin. She wiped her hands frantically on her dressing robe, trying to halt the tingle that was beginning there, also.
“I trust you are comfortable, Principessa? It is going to be a long night, I fear.”
-oOo-
“Here, drink this.” Leliana’s soft voice cut through the fog in Alistair’s mind and he took the cup of hot tea from her gratefully. Despite the blazing fire in his sitting room, he was chilled, having gone too long without sleep. Philippe dozed fitfully in a chair, while Zevran perched on the windowsill, knees against his chest, tense as a wire, staring out into darkness. The remains of a largely ignored meal were scattered on the table, the third to have been delivered by anxious servants during their vigil.
Muffled sounds emerging from Maddy’s bedchamber - only ever used as a dressing room until this night - cut through Alistair like a knife and he put the cup on the table, returning to restless pacing. “Maker, how much longer? Surely she can’t go on like this.”
“It will be dawn soon.” Zevran was the only one of them not to sound drawn and weary, his voice and posture as alert as ever. “The sun rises earlier now, yes? Perhaps Sacro Andraste will deliver them all with the light.” He shrugged. “It is often so; the elderly die at dawn, and babies are born then, also.”
Alistair rubbed his hands over his face. “Perhaps if I’d put my foot down, made her come home from the Bannorn earlier…”
“Hush, Alistair.” Leliana folded him in a comforting hug. “You know she wouldn’t have listened, there was so much work to be done. Even now, only half of the spring planting can go ahead. Anyway, I am sure that it will not have hurt her. Anders stayed with her, she was well cared for.” She stroked his hair, and he allowed his shoulders to drop, comforted against his better judgement. “She will be fine, Alistair, I am sure of it.”
Even knowing how Leliana used words and tone to convince people of things that she did not necessarily believe, he was still drawn in by the power of her statement. Maddy would be alright. The babies would be alright.
A scream from behind the closed door of her room ripped away the comforting fiction. He was heading for the door before his brain began to catch up to his feet.
“Alistair, wait-” Leliana tried to insert her body between him and the door and he brushed her aside.
“That was my name! She screamed my name.”
“It doesn’t mean what you think, Alistair it’s best if you-”
He opened the door, shutting off the rest of the argument. The bedroom was chaos, with bowls of water and bloody cloths strewn everywhere. Maids scurried around, in the process of replacing one set with another, fresh set. Anders knelt in the midst of all this, his back to the door and his hair escaping from its ponytail. Beyond him…
A slight shift in the mage’s position displayed Maddy, seated on a low stool and clinging to a thick rope looped over a beam. Her face was shiny with sweat and her hair clung to her face and neck. At the sight of her husband, her weary face lit up.
“Alistair,” she gasped.
Anders’ head snapped around. “What are you doing in here?” Blue light hovered around his hands. “Someone get him out.”
“No!” The sharp negation came from Maddy, and from that moment on wild brontos could not have ejected him. “Alistair, please, help me.”
“Of course.” Ignorant, terrified, but nevertheless willing, Alistair surged forward, knocking over a bowl of water in his path. “Anything.”
Anders looked at Maddy, exasperated. “You want this big oaf in here, knocking stuff over? Fine, but he needs to keep quiet and out of the way.”
“Non.” Despite her obvious exhaustion, Maddy’s chin took on a stubborn tilt. “This is not at all what I want. It is not working, Anders. You know this.” She doubled over in sudden agony, hanging heavily on the rope, unable to continue until her contraction passed.
“What? What do you mean it’s not…” Alistair couldn’t even bring himself to say it, instead rolling his eyes towards the stressed mage.
Anders pushed his hair out of his face with his wrist. “Look, she’s tiny and having twins and it’s… not easy. But we can do this, I can do this.” Determination rang through his voice, but not conviction, not enough to convince Alistair at any rate.
When the contraction ended, Maddy dragged herself up on the end of the rope, one of the maids behind her, offering tentative support. “Alistair,” she panted. “Please, take me outside.”
“Outside.” Alistair nodded. Outside, right, he could do outside. Delighted to have a simple instruction to follow, he moved in closer, carefully slipping one hand under her legs, while she wrapped tired arms around his neck with a relieved sigh.
“Alistair, please, think for a moment. Where are you going to take her?” Leliana’s voice cut through the fog of purpose that enshrouded him.
“Outside.” Hadn’t she heard? Maddy wanted to go outside.
His wife’s voice, the only one that mattered, murmured near his ear. “Take me to our tree, Alistair. The Vhen’alath is calling to me.”
If Maddy wanted to go to her creepy tree, that was good enough for him. It certainly beat pacing helplessly. He set off, out of the bedroom door, fleetingly seeing Philippe’s startled face and Zev’s watchful one as he swept past, Maddy cradled against his chest. There was some kind of wetness on his shirt, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting Maddy to the tree. Leliana ran at his side, trying to pull Maddy’s shift down, to cover her from the sight of the servants. Alistair supposed that kind of made sense, so he allowed it. He had a single mission, and provided no-one tried to stop him, anything else was alright.
Presumably the sight of the wild-eyed King, cradling his heavily pregnant wife, with blood running through her shift and down his shirt, was too intimidating to intercept, for no-one tried to get in his way. As they passed through the Orangery, Maddy tensed up, burying a muffled scream in his shoulder, and for the first time he faltered. She shook her head fiercely, and as soon as she could speak she urged him on.
“Don’t… don’t stop.”
Alistair nodded, brushing Anders’ half-heard protests, and Leliana’s fussing, out of his way and soldiering on. Outside the Orangery, the first grey light turned the shadows grey, highlighting the massive outline of the impossible tree. The air was sharp and cold and he vaguely wished he’d brought Maddy a cloak, or at the very least a blanket, something to lie on. What had he been thinking?
He stood for a moment beneath the Vhen’alath, with Maddy still held in his arms, unsure how to proceed, and it was Zevran who came to his rescue.
“Here, mio fratello, use this.” Zev’s light, melodious voice was soothing after the sharp protests that had followed Alistair downstairs, and even more welcome was the short cape he stripped from his shoulder and laid on the grass for Maddy to lie upon. Mio fratello, my brother, he mused as he carefully laid his wife with her back against the trunk of her tree; he supposed Zevran was, at that. How strange, after everything that had happened.
The instant Maddy touched the tree some of the strain bled out of her face. She shifted her position clumsily, one hand on his shoulder to steady herself as he knelt beside her, until she was on her knees facing the tree, her hands against the trunk. She was nodding and whispering, and behind them he was vaguely aware that Zev was directing all except close friends and family out of earshot.
On her other side Philippe tentatively knelt, his face tense and anxious in the growing grey light. Anders stood with his hand on Maddy’s head, frowning in concentration, but his magic was drowned in the sudden flood of taste and texture that burst over Alistair’s tongue. Wild strawberries, just like when the Vhen’alath had been planted. In the still air the tree began to rustle and move as though a high wind blew and in the same moment Maddy bore down, her hands pressed hard against the bark.
“Yes,” she whispered when the contraction passed. “Again.”
Again she bore down, while the branches bent and shook. Alistair watched in awe, turning his eyes to Anders for confirmation that this… this was alright.
The mage shrugged. “I don’t know what- It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. She’s not the only one talking to the tree. They are, too, I can feel the connection.”
Maddy nodded in response to some silent communication and turned to Alistair. “Be ready.” Her eyes were bright and confident, despite her pain and she seized his hands, showing him what she wanted. Obedient to her wishes, he crouched down low, his hands on Zevran’s cloak below her.
An invisible, inaudible gale rocked the Vhen’alath, while Maddy bore down harder than ever, the strain distorting her face. A bright burst of wild magic hit the back of Alistair’s throat and into his awed hands slid a bloody, slimy bundle.
A baby. It was a baby. “Oh, Maker, it’s blue. It’s not breathing”
“Quick, bring it to me!” He followed Anders’ command numbly, watching as the mage cleared the airways and cut the cord with a neat swipe of hot magic, followed by a blue glow. A weak, thin cry rose up into the crisp, cold air. Beyond him Maddy was bearing down again, the Vhen’alath creaking under the strain of intangible winds. He heard Philippe’s gasped imprecation, a prayer to the Maker; it was he who held out his hands for the second child, and Leliana who caught the exhausted Maddy as she stumbled to her hands and knees to expel everything else. Philippe brought the messy bundle to Anders, tears rolling down his face.
“Congratulations, mon frère.” The words didn’t mean anything. Alistair’s brain had seized up under the enormity of what had just occurred. “You have two beautiful…” Philippe looked to Anders for help, and the mage looked up from cutting the second cord.
“Daughters. You have two perfect daughters.” With a cheerful but tired smile, Anders went to check Maddy, to ensure that she was alright.
Daughters. I have two…
“You should get them indoors, yes?” Zevran, ever the voice of practicality, cut through his shock, and he looked up to see the elf’s face impassive, his eyes telling a different story. “It is very chilly.”
“Maker, yes.” The sun was rising, an early spring sun, weak and cold. “Maddy, too. But first…” He felt a little foolish doing it, but manfully ignored both his audience and his own involuntary blush. Alistair turned to face the Vhen’alath, holding up his babe much as ancient man must have done, giving thanks to long-dead gods. “Thank you.” The words were awkward, but they came from the heart. “Thank you.”
Beside him he heard Philippe whisper, “Merci beaucoup.”
For a moment Alistair would have sworn he felt the touch of an alien mind, the presence of a great love and joy that mingled with his own. Then it was gone, and Leliana was taking his daughter from his arms, so that he could carry his tired but jubilant wife into the palace and get all of them into a warm bed.
Once safe in his arms, Maddy snuggled against him. “Je t’adore, mon mari. You were superbe.”
Alistair kissed her tangled hair, still stunned. It felt likely he would remain so for some time. Possibly until his daughters - his daughters, Maker! - were fully grown. “I love you, too, Maddy. I’m a lucky, lucky man.”
-oOo-
Late spring sunshine flooded the orangery and Maddy hummed as she worked, planting up seedlings for the garden. In a cradle, carefully shaded from the sun, her babies snoozed in a warm spot, blessedly quiet for once. The twins rarely slept at the same time, and the opportunity to spend a little time with her fingers buried in soil was a rare and precious treat.
Noble ladies, inviting the Queen to their lunches and soirees, had finally grown accustomed to her turning up burdened with her daughters, the dry-nurse relegated to carrier of baby comforts. Maddy refused to hand her daughters over to others unless absolutely necessary. The chances of her and Alistair having other children was remote, given his Warden blood, and both parents did everything they could to spend as much time as possible with them. Princess Philippa and Princess Wynnie - each parent having chosen one name each - thrived under this treatment, and were rosy, happy babies who brought joy to their parents and well-wishers.
“Maddy, love, I’ve got a visitor you’ll want to meet.”
She frowned, reluctant to lose her pleasant hour among the plant pots, even as she turned to her husband. Alistair’s air of suppressed excitement dispelled her irritation. Whoever this visitor was, it was apparently worthy of her time.
“Hush, quietly, or you’ll wake the babies. Who is it, mon mari?”
A sister has arrived from the Val Royeaux Chantry. She’s offering to join us here in the Ferelden Chantry and ensure that our side of the rift is documented for history.” Maddy blinked stupidly at her husband, now practically dancing with enthusiasm. Nothing in this description suggested that she ought to be similarly thrilled, or that she might wish to give up her precious free time to meet the woman.
Maddy tried not to be cross about it, but Alistair knew better than this. A note of irritation bled into her voice. “This is good news, cheri, but surely not needful that I should meet her?” She waved a hand at her worktable. “I have all of these to pot up and you know how little time I-”
Alistair interrupted her, grinning like a loon. “Trust me, love, you’ll want to meet her.” Without even allowing his wife time to wipe the soil from her hands, he turned and beckoned to someone in the hall. “Come in, come in.”
The woman who entered was not much more than a girl, blonde and slender, wearing the garb of a priestess. Maddy gaped a moment and then ran to her, disregarding her soil-encrusted fingernails and anything else other than the impossible, astonishing presence of this slim girl who smiled at her so shyly.
“Henriette. Oh, Henri, I can’t believe you’ve come to us.” This was the last remaining member of her family for whom she held affection. Everyone in the world that Maddy loved was now right here and her heart swelled with joy as she embraced her niece. Behind Henriette’s shoulder, Alistair beamed, inordinately pleased with himself, as though he had personally arranged it. For all Maddy knew, he had. She tugged Henri by the hand, leading her to the cradle. “Come and meet your cousins.”
-oOo-
no subject
Poor Irving... what an awful fate :( I loved Shale's return to Orzammar and the guard's reaction just cracked me up. Zevran's revenge was quite spine-chilling, but very apt.
And finally, Alistair and Maddie are parents! :D Henriette turning up at the last minute was the icing on the cake. I hope they all live happily ever after :D
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Shale was included just because I couldn't resist displaying once again how the dwarven mind works :)
Zev... Several readers hinted strongly that they thought Zev should be giving the Principessa an Antivan smile. I like to hope I went one better.
Part two of the epilogue will (hopefully) be issued next week. That will be the very last bit. I'm sad too, but also thankful. I've been on a writing schedule for a full year now and am pretty wiped out.
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Shayle: BWAH! I love dwarves.
Zevran: Perfect, and fitting.
Alistair and Maddy: Best parents ever, or BEST PARENTS EVER? Y/Y Also, "If Maddy wanted to go to her creepy tree, that was good enough for him" is classic Alistair.
Henriette: Yay! I was wondering what happened to her.
You: Awesome.
Me: Now what am I going to look forward to on Fridays?
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Zev and Alistair brothers, Zev an uncle! OH, those are going to be some spoiled little girls with uncles like Zev and Phillipe.
I have adored this story.
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Can't wait for the last part! and then I'll be sad - no more story to wait for every Friday. ...Unless the good author will write some other? continue Secret Service or (and) write the @Alistair in Antiva" one? (after a well deserved rest, of course :) )
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Virtue and Vice, my Antiva story is still in the plotting stage. I made up most of the T&S plot on the hoof, which worked but made life complicated. I'm hoping to learn a lesson in advance plotting this time.
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I am sad to see it all end!
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My next Zev will be even darker. I guarantee it.
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Shayle <3
Zevran without mercy is creepy as hell, and still very Zevran. I'll be afraid to read the story if you make an even darker Zev, but of course I won't be able keep my hands away from it anyway.
The last part was just "Aaaww." So much love.
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I have to confess I'm looking forward to finding out if I can do justice to it.
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Shayle Cadash = AWESOME
Zevran = Holy f--k scary but damn fitting
Twins = d'aww
and here ends my summary of how I have felt while reading this. Beautiful work, as always, can't wait for part two!
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People forget, for all that he's a wonderful romance and a good friend, that Zevran is a Crow. He's seen and done things that most people only know from nightmares. He is NOT a fluffy pet puppy, he's a trained killer. I found his revenge most fitting. The contrast between his physical appeal -- voice and looks -- and what he's doing to the Principessa is very effective. Blood can only be repaid in blood.
I'm glad that Alistair and Maddy's daughters are safely delivered. Your contrasts among how the three men waited for news was a nice piece of characterization. I really appreciate the fact that Maddy finally gave birth among people who love her and in a place where she was strong and protected. I like to think that, thanks to the Vhen’alath, there might yet be one more child for Alistair and Maddy. It's a pleasant thought.
And finally, it's good to see Henriette happy and whole.
It's been a good ride, and I've enjoyed it.
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So thank you :)