Chapter Text
-oOo-
The palace was unusually quiet, hushed, amplifying the Warden Commander’s aggravated growl.
“I couldn’t give a flying fuck what orders the Chancellor has given. Last time I looked, Eamon wasn’t in charge here.” Aedan’s temper, uncertain at the best of times, teetered on a knife’s edge, held back only by the knowledge that the Captain of the Palace Guard – currently giving him a nervous look reminiscent of a deer faced with a wolf – was only following orders. He took a deep breath. “Captain, you have two choices: you can let me through right now, or you may go and tell Alistair that Aedan Cousland is here.”
Naming the King without any honorific was no accident, but a deliberate reminder of how close he stood to the throne. He and King Alistair had faced down an archdemon together and in these increasingly complacent times it did no harm to remind people of this fact.
Aedan kept his tone level, watching the Captain turn over his options. “You may think you have other alternatives. Let me assure you that you do not.” There was no doubt in his voice or bearing, regardless of the fact that palace guards littered the place, many in easy shouting distance. The Guard Captain measured him with his gaze and Aedan knew full well what he saw: six foot six of solid muscle, fully armoured and with a greatsword on his back so heavily runed that it left sparkling lights in your aftervision when you looked away.
Time to temper the threats. He’d done this kind of thing so many times over the years, it had become second nature.
“Look, Captain, I know you’re in a difficult position.” Aedan gave him a crooked grin. He was still seething, but his anger was aimed somewhere quite different than the man in front of him. How dare Eamon give orders that Alistair was seeing no-one? Ten to one he knew I was on my way. “But you know, and I know, that however sensible it is to keep most people away from the King right now, Alistair wouldn’t want that order to apply to me.” Especially not now. Aedan kept that thought out of his face. Let the guard decide that the King’s best friend should be admitted. The fact that they were also lovers wasn’t yet common knowledge.
The Guard Captain appeared to have decided that discretion was the better part of valour. “As you say, Your Grace.” Aedan relaxed slightly, not at all put out by the appellation. It was only natural that, to a servant of the Crown, he was an Arl first and Warden Commander second. “If you would be so good as to wait just a moment, I will send a servant to check whether His Majesty is able to receive you.”
“Good man.” Aedan looked around the antechamber, finally settling on a chair in the antechamber that seemed likely to hold his weight. While he waited, he wondered what kind of reception Zevran had received when he’d shown up.
-oOo-
Zevran had suffered no such mishaps. When Alistair had left their chamber in the Vigil, shouting for his horse and his guards, Zev had gone with him, riding through the night to reach Denerim mid-morning, resting the horses only when they must. It was a weary, dust-stained group who drew rein before the Palace and waited for the gate guards who scrambled to admit them; while grooms took away their tired horses, Alistair called for his Chamberlain, a small, balding, harassed-looking gentleman who hurried out to meet his King.
“Your Majesty, I-”
“What news?” Alistair cut through any intended courtesies, his eyes intent under a troubled brow.
“Nothing yet, Sire. The Queen is closeted with the healers; they are doing all they can.”
A little of the tension went out of Alistair, an acceptance that – whatever happened – at least he was not too late. He swayed slightly and Zevran caught his arm.
“Alistair, you should bathe, eat and rest, yes? Nothing shall be gained by exhausting yourself further.” Zev nodded to the Chamberlain, who was regarding him with a wooden expression that nevertheless spoke volumes. The court, the nobles, had never known how to treat him; an elf, a foreigner, an assassin, but also one of the Heroes of the Blight, and the Warden Commander’s live-in lover. “Arrange food and hot water for your master, and do not allow others to plague him. The only news he desires is of his wife, yes?”
“Zev… you’re not staying?” Alistair’s voice and expression were dangerously unguarded; Zevran hastened to reassure him.
“I shall bathe and eat at the Warden compound and be with you again within the hour.” He lowered his voice, so that only Alistair, stood directly next to him, may hear. “Courage, caro mio, I shall not desert you.”
-oOo-
He was drowning in guilt and remorse; it coursed through his body like poison. To be with his lovers while his wife went into labour. To be immersed in pleasure when his unborn child might be in danger. What kind of man was he, to be so neglectful?
Alistair bathed without feeling the hot water on his skin, ate the food put before him without tasting it. He’d been a fool to think he could escape his life, his duty, even for a little while. An idiot to believe that life might offer him even a taste of joy unpolluted by the burdens of his Theirin blood.
He didn’t deserve it. He’d never deserved it.
Bathed, fed, and clothed in garments befitting his station – the word dripped bitterness even in his mind – Alistair ran out of distractions. He was not permitted into the Queen’s chambers, where the will of the healers held sway. And, in truth, Marie wouldn’t have wanted him there anyway; he knew that well enough. He could have gone down to Eamon’s office, sought an update on matters of state, but he couldn’t face the inevitable accusation in his Chancellor’s cold, calm grey eyes. Eamon hadn’t approved of him leaving for the Vigil. Eamon had been proved correct.
So, instead, he paced.
Fidgeted.
Sat in chairs, on sofas, in his comfortable sitting room, for mere moments before returning to pacing.
Indulged in a great deal of profitless self-flagellation.
Fidgeted some more.
-oOo-
It was in this state that Zevran found him.
Finding a route through the palace that did not involve a great many wearisome and unnecessary explanations to guards and officials - who would no doubt feel that the Warden Commander’s elf had no place at the King’s side - was a matter of the merest simplicity to Zevran.
Indeed, when this business was over, he would be having some stringent words with the Palace Guard Captain about the security, of lack thereof, which surrounded Alistair. A quick trip over a wall which the guard rotation left unguarded for crucial moments, a simple climb to a balcony, a small distraction so that he may slip down a shadowy hall and the thing was done. Prudently, Zev chose not to bypass the guards on the King’s personal chambers, although he had no doubt of his ability to do so, merely informing them with enormous confidence that the King was expecting him. Having reached such a privileged part of the Palace unchallenged, they accepted this without question, and the King’s face of obvious relief when they told him Signore Arainai was here to see him confirmed their belief that everything was as it should be.
Once the door had shut behind them, leaving Zev alone with his paramour, he measured Alistair’s mental state in a single glance and immediately took control.
“Come, amore mio, come and sit with me. We shall drink a glass of wine together. Here, it will relax you.” Zev busied himself among the bottles on the sideboard, deftly slipping into Alistair’s drink a mild sedative – not enough to make him sleep, just enough to take the edge of his anxiety – and took both goblets to a sofa, where he sat and patted the seat beside him, in clear invitation.
Alistair chewed a short thumbnail fretfully, eyeing the innocent brocade sofa as though it was made of iron nails and hedgehog spines.
“Zev, I don’t think I-”
“Alistair.” Zev kept his voice low and calm, but the tone brought Alistair up short. “You shall sit beside me and drink your wine, or you shall kneel at my feet and lap it from my hand. Which is it to be, hmm?”
The troubled King subsided, some of the agitation leaving his frame. He cast a rather hunted look at the door which led to a short corridor, outside which were a pair of his personal guards. The chances of them bursting in were extremely remote, but Zev could see the cogs whirring behind Alistair’s eyes as he obediently sat beside Zevran and took the proffered glass.
But what is life without a little risk?
With this in mind, Zevran sat, with his arm stretched comfortably across the back of the sofa, and watched Alistair sip his wine. It would be only a short time before the gentle sedative began its work, bringing Alistair much closer to his usual self.
If Zevran was certain of one thing right now, it was that his schiavo needed to relax.
He judged his moment, waiting until Alistair’s fretful fingers ceased to twist the goblet, until some of the strain went out of his neck and shoulders, until the lines of worry and self-blame began to smooth from his brow.
“Well now, that is better.” Zevran took the empty goblet from his lover with a murmur of approval and set it on a nearby table. “And you shall be better still for a small distraction, yes?” The low, soothing tone he used worked its magic, drawing a sigh from Alistair that drained away a little more tension. “And so, caro mio, I think it best if you now unlace your trousers and draw out your beautiful cock for me.”
The sound Alistair made could best be described as meep. He stared at Zev like he had run mad. “You want me to- Right here? I mean…” A glance at the door spoke volumes.
“You fear that someone will walk in and see you?” Zevran’s chuckle was rich and genuine. “People do not barge in upon their King, caro. You know this. They knock and wait to be admitted.” He injected a little more command into his tone. “Now do as I say. If I must instruct you again, then I shall chastise you.”
He watched Alistair’s beautiful, expressive eyes widen, no doubt imagining the guards outside hearing such a punishment. Whatever doubts Alistair might be harbouring about the wisdom of this game, there was no question regarding his interest. The hesitant hand that strayed to his laces grazed over a tell-tale bulge, drawing an approving smile from his padrone.
“Bueno, that is good. Pull the laces wide apart, schiavo mio, and hold yourself erect for me. I wish to see every inch.”
- With his trousers wide open, as instructed, Alistair hooked a thumb beneath his erect cock and lifted it free, closing his eyes as he pushed it forward, hiding from Zevran’s watchful gaze.
“Look at me, schiavo mio. There is no shame in this.” Hazel eyes opened obediently and were, indeed, filled with shame. But the same shame filled Alistair’s cock with blood, so that it stood proud, pulsing between his fingers. Zevran smiled at his lover, his slave. “Beautiful, caro. Now, continue to hold your cock erect for me with one hand, and caress yourself with the other.”
-oOo-
This small action, which had seemed so simple in the safe sanctuary of their rooms at the Vigil, was an enormous trial here in the palace. There was no question of disobedience, no thought in Alistair’s mind of using his safeword to escape the ordeal. But, as he slid his hand slowly, oh so slowly, over the shaft of his cock, Alistair could feel the accusing eyes of generations of Theirin Kings on him. That thought was enough to make the breath catch in his throat, despite the feather-light quality of his touch. Zevran’s intent golden gaze, lingering over his exposed erection like an additional caress, brought a moan to Alistair’s lips. He ghosted his palm over the swollen head, providing the merest friction; already he could feel the tightness behind his balls, the dam building at the base of his cock.
“Bueno, that is beautiful.” The soft approving purr of his padrone’s voice pulled him further into a sea of contentment. Nothing could touch him here; not the proximity of the guards, not Eamon, not even his own doubts and fears of paternity. “A firm grip now, my slave, and slow strokes. Pleasure yourself for my entertainment.”
Zevran had never spoken those words in Common before. My slave. Hearing it so boldly, so openly, drove Alistair’s hips forward and his head back; it was a guilty pleasure, a secret fantasy, painted in a vivid shade by Zevran’s audacious hand. His fingers closed around his shaft in obedience to his master’s voice, taking the first firm stroke, knowing that he couldn’t last long. My master, my padrone.
My Zevran.
For the tiniest sign of approval from this man he would do anything, dare anything. Every stroke of his hand was for Zevran, every pulse of his cock was due to the molten gaze fixed upon him. His balls were drawing up tight and hard and the moan of pure need that was drawn from him was a plea for permission. Alistair gasped out words, knowing that – if Zevran chose - he could be punished for speaking without his padrone’s say-so.
“Please, padrone… please.”
The honeyed murmur of his master’s voice promised neither chastisement nor release. “Another moment, schiavo mio, you are too beautiful as you are.”
Alistair whimpered, catching his lip between his teeth, trying to wait, unable to stop his measured strokes without permission to do so, his hips coming up from the sofa, his back pressed hard against the cushions. Another moment… and another… another… Oh, Maker, no more, please.
“Well done, caro mio, you may come.”
With an anguished cry of sheer thankfulness, Alistair released his grip on his control, sensation surging up from the base of his cock, the dam broken and the floodgates open. Powerful shudders ripped through him as he spurted, still holding himself upright as his padrone had commanded, so that his seed flooded down over his hand, lubricating the final strokes.
Awareness of the world returned, to find that Zevran had moved in beside him, proffering a handkerchief to clean up the mess.
“You are truly gorgeous, miele mio.” A strong arm slipped around him and Alistair realised only then how weak he felt, how pleasant it was to lean against his lover. “You shall rest now, hmm?” A tender kiss on his temple, barely felt as he floated into a state of bliss. “Sleep, tesoro. Zevran is here.”
-oOo-
It was thus that Aedan found them when he was finally admitted: Alistair curled against Zevran’s side like a large child, fast asleep. Zev put his finger to his lips and Aedan nodded, taking a seat quietly and pouring himself a glass of wine. The long ride was enough to fatigue them all, but it was worry and stress that had put lines of strain on Alistair’s face. Even now, resting in the safe haven of Zev’s arm, his hands were balled tight and a crease marred his forehead.
Zev mouthed quiet words, mindful of the sleeping man at his side. “Any news, amore?”
Aedan shook his head. According to the Chamberlain, the Queen was finding the labour hard. She was a slender woman with narrow hips, and the child had come too soon.
It was going to be a long day.
-oOo-
In the end it was a long two days in the King’s apartments, three in total since the Queen’s labour began.
Food arrived at intervals, news arrived less frequently. The healers were doing the best they could, but the contractions were fitful, insufficient to expel the child. The Queen was exhausted, buoyed up only by the restoration spells provided by the mages in attendance. The messengers made respectful and reassuring noises, but no-one was fooled. There was a good chance that the child would die if it did not enter the world soon.
All Zevran’s coaxing failed to convince Alistair to go to bed and rest properly; instead, all three of them dozed in chairs and on sofas, Aedan and Zev doing what they could to distract Alistair when he was wakeful. They played cards, reminisced about old times, and when all else failed to divert him, they kissed, caressed, tormented Alistair until he couldn’t think about anything at all.
When the messenger knocked at the door once again, they were playing cards for enormous, if fictitious, stakes. They flung down their cards immediately and Alistair opened the door with the same trepidation he had shown on every occasion a knock had sounded.
At the sight of Wynne, her robes bloodstained and her face weary, Alistair’s knees nearly gave way.
“Wynne!” He clutched at her as if to test that she was real. If Wynne was here, rather than in the Queen’s chamber, then it was all over one way or the other. “Is she-? Is the-?” He couldn’t ask, didn’t dare say it out loud, but Wynne’s bright smile was like the sun coming up over the horizon.
“Congratulations, Alistair.” Her grip on his hands was warm and firm. “You have a daughter.”
“I have a- Really?”
A daughter. I have a daughter. The bubble of joy that welled up in him was only stopped by the next question to occur. “And… Marie… is she-?”
“The Queen is as well as can be expected. It was a difficult birth.” Wynne swayed slightly, and Alistair remembered his manners and ushered her to a seat. Aedan poured her a glass of wine, which she took gratefully. “She is likely to make a full recovery, but… we had to save the baby, you understand.” Wynne’s gaze was careful, watching Alistair closely. He wondered what she was looking for. “I’m sorry, Alistair, but it is very unlikely that your wife will have any more children.”
“Er…oh.” Alistair watched Wynne sip her wine, wondering what he was meant to feel. Probably not relief, which was the main emotion bubbling under his bewildered joy at being a father. No more cold dutiful conjugal visits to his wife’s chamber, where he felt like an unwanted intruder. No more lying atop an unmoving body, using thoughts of shameful secret desires to generate the erection required to make heirs.
He was free. There was guilt at his relief, but it still felt like being released from confining shackles.
And he had a daughter. A grin split Alistair’s face, so wide he feared the top of his head might come off.
“Can I see the baby?”
-oOo-
Joyful bells pealed out over Denerim spreading the news of the new heir. A day of celebration was declared and the taverns served out free ale to the jubilant cityfolk, courtesy of the King’s coffers. Riders were sent to the Teyrns, Arls and to the Bannorn, informing them of the good news. Over the next few weeks they would flock to the capital for the Princess’ naming ceremony; a vast and complex banquet was planned, which the King’s harassed Chamberlain was already working hard to arrange.
Alistair himself slept, worn out with worry, his lovers curled protectively on either side of him. Earlier he had ventured into the Queen’s bedchamber, braving Marie’s indifference in order to see his daughter. This had not been as great an ordeal as he had feared; the Queen was tired but jubilant, her position now assured. She had accepted her husband’s chaste kiss on the cheek and proudly directed his attention to the bassinet containing the Heir.
He could hear the capital letter when she spoke the word.
With one careful finger Alistair pushed aside some of the lace with which the bassinet had been copiously draped. He was completely out of his element in this - very feminine – room, where Marie would be regally receiving the nobility during the remainder of her confinement, propped up in bed as she was now, her hair freshly dressed and wearing elegant nightrobes. In this, her private domain, the ambience was of lace and floral scents; it lacked the essential sockiness of his own rooms, which no amount of assiduous cleaning by the servants could entirely remove. Alistair felt huge, clumsy, unwanted and unwelcome; but more than anything he wanted to see his daughter.
The first glimpse of her was like a punch in the gut; it completely took his breath away.
She was so tiny.
So perfect.
The sensation that welled up within Alistair was like nothing he’d ever felt. The whole meaning of life lay open to his gaze, her eyes tight shut, her hands scrunched into tiny fists. For this he’d been born, for this he would die, for this he would strive every day of his life to be worthy.
His daughter.
-oOo-