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"Alistair."
No answer. Ophelia tilted her head, scratching her fingers lightly through her husband's hair. His only reaction was a grunt before he burrowed deeper under the covers. She pursed her lips, resisting the urge to smile, and tried again, lowering her voice to a purr. "Alistair..."
He didn't move save a twitch of his fingers as they tightened stubbornly in the sheets. She narrowed her eyes and tugged on the blankets, jerking them down to his waist, baring his freckled, scarred skin to the cool air. Alistair groaned, flinching at the chill before his head disappeared beneath the pillows in protest. "Go awaa-aay," came the muffled whine. "Can't a king get a proper night's rest?"
"Not today, he can't." She leaned over and kissed the line of his spine between his shoulder blades. "Things to do, my love." He hummed sleepily under her lips when she moved lower, peppering kisses down his back. She nudged the blankets down, feeling him relax beneath her as she mouthed, licked, just above the smooth, rounded cheeks of his ass, honing in on her target. His breathing slowed as he drifted back towards sleep, completely unsuspecting... vulnerable.
She struck with pearly white teeth.
Alistair yowled, flailing wildly out from under her, almost throwing himself off the bed entirely as she laughed. He winced as he rubbed a hand over his flanks, fingers probing at the mark her teeth had left. He scowled at her. "Maker, woman," he complained. "Did you have to bite so hard? What's so urgent that you needed to use your teeth? On my... hindquarters, no less!"
"You weren't waking up." Her lips quirked as she leaned forward to give him an apologetic peck on the nose. "And we're seeing the puppies this morning."
His face lit up, amber eyes widening in childish delight before he leapt out of bed, her stinging bite forgotten. "How could I forget?" Alistair practically skipped around the room to grab her arms and tug her upright. His enthusiasm was infectious, leaving her grinning as he swung her around. "This is the best kind of morning!"
Mabari were a tricky thing. Very little was understood about the imprinting process, save that one couldn't force it or undo it. Nobles usually got around this by restricting access to the puppies during the first eight weeks, increasing their own chances of success. Nothing like the local stable boy, or a noble's bastard child, walking out with someone's prized tenth-generation pup to grate on a highbrow ego.
She followed Alistair as he raced down the stairs. They were dressed casually, tunics and doeskin trousers suited for a visit to the kennels. The lack of finery allowed them to bypass the usual salutes and general kerfuffle that occurred whenever they ventured anywhere. By the time the servants and guards realized who had just passed them by, the snickering monarchs were already around the next corner.
Ophelia chased after Alistair even as she reviewed her mental checklist of precautions, her plan to stack the odds in Alistair's favor. She'd made sure they would be the first to get a look at the new litter. The sire was her own Bear, blooded on darkspawn and doing his best to personally see to the mabari re-population efforts. That would surely help. She'd been making nightly sojourns to the kennels at least three times a week for the past month and a half while Alistair slept, just to whisper stories of his bravery and courage to the unborn pups as the mother dozed.
The air was thick and cloying as they stepped out into the courtyard, moisture sticking to her skin immediately, making her grateful for the lighter clothing. Alistair, unperturbed, took her arm in his, practically dragging her towards the kennels. She squeezed his forearm. "Easy, my love." The castle was mostly quiet, dawn only just beginning to slide pale fingers through the ink of the night sky, but there were still guards on watch and a few hurrying messengers, yawning servants beginning their chores. Such a hurry was sure to attract notice, and she wanted as few people in the kennels as possible.
"Sorry," he apologized, slowing to a more kingly gait and falling into step beside her. "I just... I've always wanted one. Never got the chance when I was young. You know Isolde didn't exactly like me."
Ophelia's lip curled at the name. She still owed that woman a kick in the teeth, regardless of how dignified it was.
"Of course, the last thing she wanted was for me to have a mabari," he continued, oblivious to her ire. "Said a bastard didn't deserve one. Still, I kept thinking if maybe, I don't know. Maybe if I got one to like me, things would be a little better." He snorted derisively. "Childish, I suppose."
Oh, Alistair. She dropped her head to his shoulder. "I don't think so. You wanted a friend. That's all." She stopped him long enough to kiss his cheek. "And now you'll have a few more."
"Careful," he warned her teasingly, nudging her with a hip. "People might start thinking you're fluffy and sweet underneath that queenly mask of yours."
The puppies were wiggly, fat, and absolutely adorable. They ranged in color from black to brown to blue. The squealing started as soon as Ophelia and Alistair were in sight, stub tails waggling as tiny puppy paws scrabbled at the wooden partition for attention. Alistair balked beside her and she jerked to a halt, wondering where the joyous man she'd been following had run off too. "So what do I..." He made a vague gesture with his hand, looking lost. "I've never done this before."
"Just go in and pet them," she encouraged.
"For all we know, they'll all hate me. Devour me as soon as I step in, death by puppy tongue," he joked. She frowned. On the surface he appeared relaxed, but underneath his jesting, she heard a thread of insecurity and the lingering of an old hurt.
"Trust me." Ophelia gave him a push. "They'll love you. Just play with them a bit. You may walk out with the entire litter.
She hung back, resisting the urge to go in herself as Alistair shook himself before stepping into the pen. He was immediately swarmed by the puppies, and he sank to the floor with a grin, settling down as the pups crawled into his lap, gnawed on his trousers and boots, licked at his waving fingers. She tightened her grip on the partition. This needed to work; he needed a mabari. It would hardly do for a king of Ferelden not to have one. More important than that, however, this was for him: one little thing she could give to help ease the sting of a role—a life—he'd never wanted.
He was focused less on the politics of this moment, however, and more on the joy of being surrounded by tiny, squirming bodies, though a few had wandered over to the pile of fabric that served as their bed. She watched closely, alert for any sign of a deeper connection; something more than simple fascination with a new stranger. "They're all so adorable," he said, scooping up the large red male who'd been chewing intently on his shoe. "I could name you Barkspawn." But the puppy squirmed, little squeaks as he objected to being held and Alistair quickly set him back down. Ophelia frowned as the pup huffed at Alistair, waddling away. She quickly schooled her face into a neutral expression as her husband glanced up at her. "He, ah, didn't like me very much," Alistair chuckled awkwardly, scratching at his chin. This isn't right, she thought.
"Try another one," she suggested. There were still a few puppies left that hadn't moved off, hadn't.... she hesitated even in the privacy of her own mind to use the word rejected. But the red's reaction had been clear. No imprinted puppy would leave their new companion so quickly.
Alistair scratched at a little grey female next, but this one didn't even wait to be held before nipping at Alistair's fingers and turning her back to focus on a toy at the other end of the pen. Not another one. Andraste, what did I miss?
Puppy after puppy wiggled away from Alistair, refusing anything more than a light scratch or a pat. His face fell with each new rejection, until eventually he sat alone, the puppies piled at the other end of the enclosure to sleep. She couldn't understand it, her heart breaking at Alistair's utter dejection where he slumped on the floor. One of the puppies, any of the puppies, should have bonded with him. "Alistair," she started, reaching down to squeeze her husband's shoulder.
He shook his head, throwing her a bitter smile. "Don't worry about it. Clearly my charm chased them off. At least one of us got something, though." What? He can't mean— but Alistair nodded towards the corner of the pen, and she turned to look, a surge of defeat tightening her hand on the wooden partition.
A fat little brown pup, eyes locked squarely on Ophelia, sat panting in the corner. Its tiny tongue lolled as she finally noticed it, whining at her happily. No, no no no—
Alistair stood abruptly, dusting the backs of his trousers where he'd been sitting. "The mabari just love you, my dear." She recognized that look, that blank grin: the mask he wore when he was deeply wounded but couldn't show it, retreating behind cheer and good humor. "I have a few things to attend to, but I'll see you again later, hm?" He kissed her lightly on the mouth, dodging her hands before striding out of the kennel.
Something nudged at her boot, and she glanced down. The tiny mabari that had bonded with her had found a way out of the pen, sitting on her shoe. It whined at her again, reading her mood. "I don't understand," she growled, hands clenched. "At least one of you should have imprinted. It was perfect."
"Your majesty?"
She turned carefully, cautious not to step on the ball of fur at her feet. The kennel master, George, leaned on his cane, squinting watery blue eyes at her. He was old, ancient, withered and wrinkled. His skin burned brown, years spent in the sun with the hounds, grey hair stuck out from his head like tufts of straw. He hadn't changed one bit from his visits to the Highever kennels when she'd been a child. "What are you doing over there?" he rasped.
She sighed, her mask slipping for a moment. "I was in here with his Majesty. But it didn't exactly go to plan." Her heart twisted again as she thought of the look on Alistair's face, heartbroken and rejected. "No imprintings, except this one to me."
"Of course it didn't," George growled, wrinkling his nose at the Queen. "That's Maybelle's litter. All imprinted but that little runt on your shoe."
"You mean—" Hope unfurled tiny shoots in her chest.
"We moved your Bear and Daisy's litter. Didn't like the pen they was in." George shrugged. "They're back down the way at the end. Sent a message this mornin', must have missed your Majesties."
She didn't even catch his smile as she turned to jog out of the kennel, chasing after her husband.
"Alistair!" she shouted, ignoring the strange looks as Alistair kept walking, refusing to look at her. Unseemly, undignified, inappropriate to see a monarch chasing and shouting like a common fishwife. At this very moment, she couldn't care less what it looked like; Alistair was, and always would be, more important to her than any social norms.
She finally caught up with him as he turned a corner, stopping him in an archway with a hand on his elbow. "Alistair, stop!"
"Look." he whirled to face her, that fake smile still plastered on his face. "I know what you're going to say, but I'm fine, darling."
"Alistair, if you would just—"
"I mean, you're the hero of Ferelden." He shrugged, and Ophelia ached at the resignation in the gesture, the self-defeat. His voice cracked. "I can hardly compete with that, a royal bastard who can barely find his trousers in the morning, much less rule a countr—"
She stopped him with a hand over his mouth. He blinked in surprise, brows furrowing. He mumbled something behind her hand but she ignored it. Every once in a while, these dark thoughts of his welled up again: insecurity, old hurts, the idea that he somehow wasn't worthy or good enough. She did her best to nip it in the bud whenever she saw it, but things like this never failed to stir them up again.
"You," she said carefully, "are an excellent king." He snorted, the sound muffled and she narrowed her eyes at him. These thoughts must have been lingering for some time under the surface. "Not only are you a wonderful ruler, but this so-called hero wouldn't have gotten as far as she did without you." His amber eyes softened a little, but she kept going. "You are one of the kindest, bravest men I know. You're silly and occasionally get on my nerves, but I love you, as do your people. You have no idea how much you mean to me. And if you truly trust my judgment..."
She paused, head tilted, waiting for Alistair's sheepish grunt of assent before continuing. "Then you'll believe me when I say you are far more valuable than you give yourself credit for." When she dropped her hand, he slid one arm gently around her waist, the other hand lifting her chin so he could press a lingering kiss to her lips.
"I love you," he murmured against her mouth, cradling her face in one callused hand. "What would I do without you?"
"You'll never have to find out," she said fondly, carding her fingers through his hair. She'd have to be more thorough rooting out these doubts of his in the future, but for now, he seemed soothed, if not happy. He kissed her again, warm and affectionate. She would have been content to stay there a little longer, but there was a yip! at her feet.
They glanced down. The mabari pup had finally caught up with her. It sprawled, panting, draped over their toes. It woofed again. "Determined little fellow," Alistair mumbled.
"Still want one?" she asked, scratching lightly across his scalp, making him groan and lean into her hand.
"Obviously," he snorted, eyes closing. "But I don't think you can just hand imprinted puppies over. Even I know that's not how it works."
"It's a good thing for you, then, we have a blank litter to see, isn't it?" she said slyly, taking great delight in the reveal.
His eyes snapped open. "But I thought—" he sputtered at her grin.
"Had the wrong litter. Ours was down the way."
"You didn't think to lead with that, maybe? 'Hello darling, sorry about that, I have the correct litter now, and by the way, you're amazing and handsome and—'"
"Didn't we just cover this?" She arched a brow.
"Doesn't hurt for a king to be thorough."
They stood once more in front of a pen, this time in one of the darkened corners towards the back of the kennels. She should have seen the differences right away: there were fewer pups in this litter—only five—but they were larger, with thicker heads and broader paws. Bear's doing, no doubt. They'd be gigantic when they were grown.
Alistair seemed frozen with indecision, his face twisted with doubt as he stared at the puppies sleeping in the center of the pen. He grasped the wooden partition, hemming and hawing. Stalling. She reached out to touch his arm. "Alistair."
"I know, I know!" He waved his hands. "I just, I know I'm going to step in there and they won't like me."
"King of Ferelden," she teased. "Scared of a few puppies?
He shot her an exasperated look as he finally stepped into the pen. "Not helping, dearest." He was careful not to disturb the puppies, moving quietly as he began to crouch down. But she'd been waiting long enough.
Alistair startled at her soft whistle, as did the puppies, who jolted awake. The brindle runt on top of the pile yawned, exposing tiny white needle-teeth in a little pink mouth. The others followed suit as they began to roll apart, untangling themselves from each other with grumbling whines. "Why'd you have to do that?" Alistair huffed. At the sound of his voice, the mabari pups all swiveled their heads to face him. "I was going to go slow; you know, take my time and just..." He stopped, and she couldn't stop the huge smile from crossing her face, because the puppies had stopped, too. Five sets of eyes stared intently, unwaveringly, at Alistair. He lifted a hand nervously to wave at them.
"Are they supposed to do that?" he whispered to her. "Creepy."
A blue female took the first step, then the brindle runt, and then the whole litter was galloping across the floor to slam into Alistair like a tiny fuzzy wave, throwing him off-balance until he fell back against the pen wall. The puppies crawled over his legs, climbing and yipping, licking eagerly at his hands and clothes, trying to tug him down as he laughed before letting himself tip over onto his back as the pups swarmed over him.
She watched fondly, her heart swelling, at the sight of her husband as he gathered the squirming puppies up, closing his eyes at the licks to his face. She didn't say anything for a long time, just standing quietly as Alistair enjoyed himself, sprawled there on the ground covered in mabari puppies. It wasn't kingly, but it was... right.
Eventually they all settled down, the puppies curled up and dozing. Alistair stared at the ceiling, a goofy smile on his face as she leaned over him. "So," she said, reaching down to ruffle his hair. "You're going to have quite the pile when they're all grown."
Alistair craned his neck to look down at the puppies. "All of them, you think?" he said hesitantly. "I mean, they all like me but how do we know they're all mine?"
"Only one way to be sure," she said, reaching down into the pen to pick up a soft red ball. Alistair grimaced, his arms tightening around the puppies. Afraid they'll leave. Oh, love, I wouldn't do that to you. No, she was confident on this outcome.
Ophelia tossed the ball. Alistair held his breath as the pups lifted their heads, watching curiously as the toy bounced and rolled across the pen before coming to a stop against the opposite wall. The runt of the litter, curled over Alistair's arm, squirmed away to trot after it, pouncing on the ball with a tiny growl. The others yawned, dropping their heads back to Alistair's chest. "Well," he chuckled. "Four out of five isn't bad."
The brindle waddled back, dropping the ball onto Alistair's face—"Oh, very nice, thank you. And covered in drool! My favorite." — before dropping to the floor to snuffle at the king's hair.
"You know what this means, don't you?" he said, reaching up to scratch fondly at the runt's spine.
"What's that, Alistair?"
He grinned at her. "We're going to need a bigger bed."