A Life Most Ordinary And Wonderful [Closed]

[Alistair Theirin]

((Justinian 5, 9:38; Afternoon, Denerim Marketplace; Nicolette O'Hara ))

Alistair still found himself testing reality at odd moments: waking up in his own bed, walking in the gardens with Constance, reading to the children at night. A quick, surreptitious pinch of the tender skin on the underside of his forearm, a brief jab of pain, and he would relax with a sigh of relief. Constance knew what it meant; he had told her everything that had happened, and her blue eyes would watch him calmly and with no hint of censure, her hand squeezing his lightly … or occasionally giving him a pinch of her own elsewhere if they were alone, the shock of it and her faintly teasing smile further proof that he was awake and home, thank the Maker.

What dream might Titus have used to ensnare Constance? He didn’t ask. Even with the friendship and affection that had grown between them, he harbored no illusions of being the love of her life, but it was enough when combined with the awareness that she had indeed become every bit the queen she had hoped she would be when he had proposed. The queen that Ferelden - and he - had needed far more than any romantic fancy.

She had deftly maintained order while he’d been gone, enough of the palace staff knowing just enough to help her reinforce the fictions that she used to explain his absence: he was ill, busy elsewhere in the palace, traveling in Ferelden, traveling abroad. By the end of the six weeks that he’d been gone, the excuses had begun to wear thin and the rumors had begun to swirl, and him showing back up gaunt and shaggy probably hadn’t helped, but he was alive and after the doubters had determined that he was in his right mind, they had accepted his return. They’d been less accepting of his refusal to disclose where he’d been and what he’d been doing, but he had not given them any choices in the matter. Constance knew the whole truth, and he would tell Teagan, once he figured out just how, but for the rest of Ferelden, the news that the King thought lost at sea more than a decade earlier had been alive and held prisoner by a Tevinter magister who had drained his blood a drop at a time for years to tap the power - real or imagined - of Calenhad’s legacy would cause nothing but an upheaval that the nation was not ready to withstand. And that was leaving out the Qunari and the Crows.

Alistair himself hadn’t yet fully unpacked everything that had happened in that short span of time … and he wasn’t yet feeling any real need to. The most important memory: his father’s acknowledgment, and his blessing, along with the knowledge that he’d freed Maric from years of torment, was enough to infuse him with the calm surety that had been sorely lacking for most of his life. He was Ferelden’s King, Maric’s son, of the blood of Calenhad, and whether he truly believed that blood to be dragon-touched was immaterial, because the true inheritance of that line was this Kingdom and the duty to keep it whole.

He’d decided to keep the shaggy look, though he’d had the shoulder-length hair neatened a bit and the full beard trimmed back to a goatee; what had begun as an attempt to alter his appearance (with limited success) had become a look that he liked. Reviews had been mixed; Constance kept her own counsel, as she tended to do on low stakes issues. Donal had gotten used to seeing him like that, while Ingram had accepted it with an air of martyrdom (after he had been trimmed up, of course). Bran and Peter liked it, Elena and Arwen did not approve, but more than his changed appearance lay behind their reproach.

He hadn’t lied to them about why he was leaving. He refused to do that, but he hadn’t told them why, either. Only that he had to go and that he would be back, and it hadn’t been thoughts of Constance that had helped jar him out of the dream that had once been everything he’d wanted. It had been the memory of four children waiting for him back in Denerim who had already known more than their share of loss, and the promise he had made to them.

The three younger ones had forgiven him quickly after he had returned, though they clung to him fearfully, worrying every time he was out of their sight. Elena remained aloof, keeping him at a cool arm’s length … but at the same time staying close, brown eyes watchful. Seeing the pain and worry he’d caused them distressed him; someday he would be able to tell them why. For now, he focused on making it up to them, with bedtime stories, games and plenty of hugs. Material things had long since stopped mattering to children whose every need - and a good many of their wants - were seen to, but taking the time to take them out to select a special treat had always been a favorite activity.

Which was part of the reason why they were out and about in the Market District today, the other reason being a final quelling of the rumor mill that had him the latest husband to fall victim to the Carringstone Curse. Constance had remained in the palace, as indifferent as always to the whispers of speculation. Peter and Bran wanted to visit the weapons shops and Arwen had requested a toy shop that specialized in Orlesian dolls. Lena had declared that she didn’t need anything, but she had accepted Alistair’s request to come along, and he was hoping that the dress shops might soften her resolve.

Their first stop had been the bakery, and Alistair munched happily on an apple and cheddar scone while the children downed their chosen sweets. Music floated on the air, and Arwen perked up, listening to the lively sound of a veille.

“Can we go listen? Please?” she wheedled, the playful gleam in her brown eyes suggesting that she already knew the answer. His youngest niece loved music and dancing, and the other three seemed more than agreeable, as well, so with Ari on point, Drake lumbering at the rear, and the rest of the guard spread loosely around them, they moved in the direction of the tune.

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

It had been quite some time since Nicolette had been in Denerim. The layout was much the same, but there were changes throughout which interested her as she passed through; new buildings, fresh faces. She was happy to see that Josephine’s bakery was still going strong, and that Shaara’s tailor shop was flourishing. It was a pleasantly sunny day, and what made it even better was that this time she had Celeste at her side.

Theoretically speaking. Right now, she was in the basement of a nearby house, and Nicolette was serving as the distraction. It was a Red Jenny contract, and the owner of the house, despite being what Celeste would refer to as a ‘prick’, enjoyed music; playing nearby was a ploy to draw him out long enough for Celeste to have a good rummage through his belongings and find the piece of paper she needed. She would probably leave a gift or two in his wine store, too.

And it was such a good day in which to play. The marketplace was crowded, but not so much that people were concentrating on shoving past each other rather than pausing for a moment, and more than one passerby stopped in their tracks to listen. The songs she chose were light, summery pieces, and she skimmed on her toes within the small circle she had staked out for herself, plait swirling. Oscar and Thibault had taken up residence at her sides in case of trouble, but none seemed forthcoming - moreover, she spotted a man who matched the description of their target on the edges of the crowd, so there was no need to worry about whether Celeste would be out in time. She could give herself over to the music for the time being.

The crowd flowed a little in front of her, allowing four children to push their way to the front. One, a girl with sparkling brown eyes, was almost dancing on the spot, and Nicolette addressed a passage or two of the piece directly to her. As she straightened up, she noticed two guards had also joined her audience, as well as a vaguely familiar-looking man with long hair and a beard.

Before Nicolette could place him, she noticed a flash of blonde hair and a bright bandanna off to one side, which meant that Celeste had finished her task; it would be suspicious to cut off mid-song, though, and Nicolette was too caught up in performing anyway. She led her audience on a lively dance through the notes, and by the time she finished she was a little breathless, but her eyes were shining.

She might have been showing off for her lover a little, but it was worth it.

As she bowed to the smatter of applause, she caught the gaze of the bearded man again, spotted the dark-haired guard by his side, and this time memory clicked into place. An even wider smile replaced the first. “Alistair? Donal? Is that you?”

 

[Alistair Theirin]

It had been some time since Alistair had seen Nicolette, and while her letters to him had arrived sporadically for the first couple of years after their meeting, they had become fewer and farther between as time went on. But he recognized her at once: the long braid, the brightly colored blouse and skirt, the delight that shone on her face as she played and danced.

And Thibault, of course. The hound sat at the edge of the circle that had sprung up to watch her performance, and in spite of his outwardly indolent pose, none tried to pass beyond the boundary that he had set. The burly head turned toward them as the crowd parted to let them draw closer; the tail thumped twice on the ground, but he did not move from his station.

“Is that … ?” Donal’s grin suggested that he already knew the answer, but Alistair responded anyway.

“Yep.” He'd worried over the years that something might have happened to her. It was good to know otherwise.

Ari had stepped aside enough to give Arwen a good view while staying close as the rest of the guard formed a loose semicircle, relaxed but vigilant. The minstrel took notice of the girl prancing in place and gave her a warm smile, holding her gaze while she played an especially lively measure, the bow flying over the strings of the veille. Arwen grabbed Bran’s hands, tugging her brother into a twirling dance. Well … she twirled; he loped about on gangling adolescent legs that were in the midst of yet another growth spurt, his smile tolerant. There was little he would not do for his little sister.

Elena, meanwhile, had grown curious enough to defrost a bit. “You know her?” she asked Alistair.

He nodded. “We met a few years ago,” he explained. “She’s a friend of Leli’s. Not a bard,” he added quickly as he saw curiosity spark to interest. Goldanna’s eldest had taken to Leliana’s teachings like a duck to water, determined to be able to defend herself and her family should the need again arise. Alistair had made it his own mission to ensure that moment would never arise, but as the children grew older, he was realist enough to know that he couldn’t expect to keep them sequestered forever.

And he took more than a bit of satisfaction in knowing that Lena was quite capable of handling an unruly suitor on her own, though as yet she had shown no real interest in the nobles’ sons who flocked around her at every ball or state dinner.

The tune ended in a flurry of notes, the bare feet of the musician dancing over the cobblestones, skirt flaring out as she spun in joyous time with the music that she called forth, ending with a flourish, then bowing to the applause. Alistair clapped; Donal whistled his approval, then grinned when the amber eyes turned their way, recognition dawning.

“Alistair? Donal?” Her smile broadened in delight. “Is that you?”

Alistair could hear the murmurs of surprise running through the onlookers. He wore no crown, but even those who might not have recognized his changed appearance knew his name, though none of them would have called him by it so openly. But it was worth the rumors that would no doubt be started up to see a friend after so long. “None other,” he replied with a smile, a nod to Aribella indicating that it would be safe to let her past.

Celeste was off to the side, enjoying her minstrel’s performance. The intercepted love letter, which this particular prick had been using to blackmail one of his suppliers to sell him wine at a massive loss, was safely in a pocket of her vest, and she’d liberally dosed the sampler bottles in his shop with fart juice. Nico’s distraction had been perfect, and Celeste was quite ready to allow her lover to set the itinerary for the remainder of the afternoon, exploring old haunts and seeking out old acquaintences.

Except it seemed that one had found her first. The bearded chap was decent looking and nicely built, but the protective way that he was watching the kids suggested that they were his, while she sheer manpower surrounding him indicated that this was not your run-of-the-mill noble on a family outing. She hung back, watching curiously; then the name that Nico had called registered, the sudden ripples of conversation running through the crowd confirming it.

No sodding way …

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

Perhaps she should have not said his name – while the presence of the guards suggested he was not striving for anonymity, it was clear that quite a few in the crowd did not register his presence until Nicolette spoke. But nothing occurred beyond a bubbling murmur, and when one of the guards shot a questioning look at Alistair, he nodded and the woman stepped aside. Nicolette placed her vielle back in the case and left it for the moment, secure in the knowledge that Thibault would guard it, and stepped forward to catch Alistair’s hands and press them, smiling in delight at seeing her friend again. Their correspondence had slowed a little recently, but she had enjoyed every letter he had sent, and she was always happy to run into people who had been nice to her once more. “It is so good to see you!”

She would have gone in for a hug, but even though the guards had been warned away, a strange woman hugging him – or indeed, kissing him on the cheek in the Orlesian style – might start rumours Alistair probably did not need.

He was looking well, and a few wide-eyed children of varying ages were clustered around him. Possibly he had been making best use of his time since they had first met, although Nicolette had heard he had adopted children rather than having any of his own, which caused varying amounts of consternation. Nicolette firmly did not care; she was simply happy to see him well. “Who are your companions?” She smiled at the smaller of the two girls, a bright-eyed young thing who had been dancing as she played.

She had not forgotten her lover, and she turned towards her. “Celeste! Come and meet Alistair.” When Celeste was close enough, Nicolette kissed her cheek. “Alistair, this is my captain-” saying ‘lover’ did not seem quite prudent in front of the children – “Celeste. Celeste, this is Alistair. A friend.”

The grin she now wore was a touch cheeky, as she was currently savouring the expression on Celeste’s face. She had not mentioned that Alistair was one of her correspondents, and she was glad she had not, because she did so enjoy surprising her.

 

[Alistair Theirin]

There would be talk. There was always talk, and if there was nothing to talk about, someone would make something up. Alistair wasn’t about to let the incipient rumor mill keep him from acknowledging a friend, but when Nicolette simply caught up both of his hands in hers and squeezed, he let that boundary stand. Undoubtedly, within an hour, even this chaste greeting would be translated into a torrid affair by somebody - he had no idea if the Trestlebridges were in town or not - but Constance was not one to put stock in gossip. The trust she had in him had been hard won; he’d done more than his share of paying for the sins of other men, but she would believe him when he told her the truth. Nicolette was a friend, and nothing more. He’d even let her read the letters, if she wanted to. Maker knew, there was nothing even remotely titillating to be found. Nico’s letters to him had been delightful stories of adventures in faraway lands, lyrics to songs she had heard, descriptions of the people she had met. His to her were light snippets of happenings at court, stories and songs he’d heard and events in his life. Nothing confidential, certainly no state secrets or intimate details of married life, but he had cherished the correspondence all the same, and seeing her now was most welcome.

“It is so good to see you!” the minstrel exclaimed, beaming up at him.

“Likewise,” he replied with a smile. “You look good.” More than rote flattery; she looked lovely. Traveling on a ship, which according to her letters she’d been doing for the last few years, clearly agreed with her.

“You look great,” Donal corrected him, looking the minstrel over with open admiration. His guard captain and best friend had served as go-between in their correspondence, as no one thought anything of him communication with yet another woman. Alistair had never asked him if they had ever met up for more than an exchange of letters; none of his business.

“Who are your companions?” she asked, smiling warmly at Arwen, who clearly already adored her.

Ladies first. “My nieces, Arwen and Elena.” Arwen dipped a curtsy; Lena offered a polite nod, brown eyes curious. Clearly, she hadn’t yet let go of the bard notion. “My nephew, Bran.” At fourteen, Bran had been aware of the opposite sex for a couple of years, though his heart was still fixed on dreams of honor and chivalry. He blushed a bit, but dipped a perfect courtly bow. “And my son, Peter.” There was no real difference in the quiet pride in his voice as he introduced each one. The decision not to adopt his sister’s children had been for their protection, rather than any lack of filial emotion toward them. They would be in enough danger simply because of how fiercely he loved them and how well that was known; to put them even seemingly in the line of succession would only increase the number of people who might wish them harm. It had been easier to protect them when they were younger, but Lena was beginning to rebel at the limits he sought to place, and he knew that he would have to find a balance to strike, a compromise they could both live with.

Peter, still young and obedient and as yet uninterested in girls as anything more than playmates, mirrored Bran’s bow without the blush. “A pleasure, m’lady,” he offered solemnly. In private, he could just be an eight-year-old boy, buy Constance had schooled him on public comportment since well before he had been the heir to Ferelden’s throne, and while the lad could be a bit more formal than Alistair preferred, he deferred to his wife on this and cherished the time when it was just him and his children, and he could hear his son laugh and see his bright smile and feel as though his heart might burst in his chest with pride and love.

Nicolette’s expression grew even brighter, and she turned to gesture to a blonde woman at the edge of the crowd. “Celeste! Come and meet Alistair.” The woman approached, and the minstrel kissed her cheek affectionately before turning back to him. “Alistair, this is my captain-” the faintest hesitation there, but the look on her face made her meaning quite clear, “Celeste. Celeste, this is Alistair. A friend.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” he greeted the newcomer, extending a hand, “Nicolette has told me about you in her letters.” Alarm bells were going off in his head; Lena’s attention had shifted to the sailor, who wore a dagger at each hip and walked as though she owned the whole of Denerim, and her eyes were bright with interest.

“You look shorter than I imagined,” Celeste quipped, shaking the proffered hand firmly. Damned if she was going to admit that Nicolette had never told her about him … but did Nico know that her pen pal was the sodding King of Ferelden? The guard brigade should have at least been a clue, if not a dead giveaway, and she was careful to keep her hands well away from her daggers, while offering a grin to the dark haired one who’d been looking Nicolette over. He had the look of someone who could be fun. The older girl put her more than a little in mind of Addie when they’d first met, though it didn’t seem likely that her home situation was anywhere near as dire. She recognized the look of yearning, though - and the worry in her uncle’s eyes. She was no more a cradle robber now than she’d been back then, but she gave the girl - Elena - a smile and nod of acknowledgment. “Ever been on a ship?”

“A few times.” The girl’s voice was quiet, but she met Celeste’s eyes without getting flustered. “I enjoyed it very much. You have a ship?”

Celeste nodded. “The Wicked Grace,” she replied. “You’re welcome to visit her.”

“I’d like that.” Elena looked to Alistair, who nodded after a moment.

“We could do that.” Refusing would simply add the allure of the forbidden. Lena’s sea voyages to date had been short - Gwaren being the furthest - and blessed with good weather. His concession got him the first real smile he’d seen from her since he’d returned; for that, he’d have agreed to far more.

“My bed is a pirate ship!” Peter let formality slip a bit in his enthusiasm. “So is Bran’s; we have battles and everything!” Bran flushed even deeper red; he pretended that he kept his bed for Peter’s sake, but his soaring imagination cherished the furniture as much as he had when Alistair first had it made for him.

“And mine is a hippopotamus!” Arwen burst out eagerly. That commission had gotten Alistair a strange look from Master Edwin, but the craftsman had delivered, and Arwen had been over both moons with joy.

“Have you ever seen a hippopotamus?” Celeste asked her.

“Not a real one,” the girl admitted, “but I’ve got a book that has pictures of all kinds of animals, but I like hippos best.” Why, Alistair had no idea; the pictures of the ungainly beasts were unattractive enough, but he’d encountered live specimens on his recent foray north. They lived in the swamps of Antiva around Seleny, and the locals feared the foul-tempered creatures very nearly as much as dragons, and with good reason - for all their bulk, they could move fast, and their tusks could punch through plate armor. Arwen had been delighted with his firsthand accounts, and now regularly rode her bed into battle, declaring it more than a match for her brother’s ship.

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

The ripple of murmurs confirmed both that Alistair’s identity had been revealed to those in the crowd who had not already known, and that more than one person had been startled by her familiarity with the king. Alistair was not reserved in showing his pleasure at seeing her, and was echoed in kind by Donal. “You look great.”

“As do you both. As well as I remember.” Not mere flattery - on one occasion she had come to Denerim and encountered Donal separately from Alistair. It had been an enjoyable evening, the bodyguard’s good looks far from the only fetching trait about him. The smile she shot him was a touch more cheeky than the one for Alistair, and wholly different than the one of cheerful curiosity now aimed at the children.

They seemed intrigued rather than suspicious, and she paid them full attention, returning their greetings with a curtsey of her own. “It is a pleasure to meet you all.” Related or not, there was no hiding the fact that Alistair loved them all. It was as he deserved - king he might be, but the stories they had shared showed he had been dealt a hard hand at the beginning of his life, and he deserved the happiness he could claim.

Speaking of happiness, Celeste had made her appearance. Nicolette had many correspondents, and as such when saying she was writing to Alistair, had neglected to refer to him by title. It would have felt like bragging. Now it afforded her a golden opportunity to savour the look on her lover’s face as Celeste immediately realised who he was. Alistair shook her captain’s hand - doubtless he remembered Celeste from her letters.

Celeste, with her usual display of respect for authority, immediately commented on his height, and Nicolette stifled a giggle behind her fingers. Elena had immediately noticed Celeste, in a keen fashion, and rather than ignoring it, the captain asked her if she had been to sea before. No matter where she was, Celeste always seemed to know how to talk to people. Nicolette was not bereft of that gift herself, but she always enjoyed watching Celeste use it. Now she offered Elena a visit to the Wicked Grace, and the hope glowed in the girl’s eyes as she looked up at Alistair.

“We could do that.” Alistair earned himself a smile with that, but it was not only Elena who had been intrigued by the prospect of a sailor in their midst. Peter, apparently, had a bed in the shape of pirate ship, as did Bran, who blushed at having this revealed. Nicolette chuckled, addressing her next comments to Bran.

“I have never seen a themed bed before. I think I would like a pirate-ship-shaped one very much. Although we might have a little difficulty wedging it into the cabin.” She grinned at Celeste. There was certainly enough rope lying around to make up some rigging, but she was not going to mention that here.

Arwen had a theme of her own, which was a...hippopotamus? Apparently she liked them best. Nicolette could not imagine why - they were powerful creatures, certainly, but terrifying in size, and could move incredibly fast. “It is incredible how big they get. Especially when you consider how small the babies can be.” She held her hands apart, indicating a general size of the smallest ones. “They are sweet at that age.”

Arwen’s eyes stretched. “You’ve seen them? My uncle’s seen them too!”

“I have! In Antiva, and there were some in Rivain. They have some good stories about them, there. Taming a hippopotamus is considered the act of a hero-” small wonder, considering how dangerous it was to even get near them, and had Ferelden been a land in which they resided, she might have thought twice about mentioning this to Arwen - “and there was one mighty warrior who legend has as riding one into battle. The hippo was called Tarawet, and she had her own armour; gold plated, and her rider Amun always rode towards the sun so the light reflecting off Tarawet’s armour dazzled his enemies. Today Tarawet is celebrated more than her rider; there is an astonishing statue of her in Kon-Tarr.”

 

[Alistair Theirin]

From the looks that Nicolette and Donal exchanged, he’d been more than a go-between, but it seemed he’d kept things amiable with his usual deftness; the smiles that the pair exchanged held only friendly affection. The expression on the minstrel’s face when the blonde sailor joined them was something else entirely; she positively glowed, and while her captain gave Donal an appreciative once over, once the green eyes turned back toward Nicolette, it was plain that the rest of them were very much a secondary consideration.

Which pleased Alistair. Nicolette’s letters had made her feelings for her seagoing lover quite plain, but she deserved someone who loved her back just as much, and that definitely seemed to be the case. To his surprise, he did not feel the wistful twinge that had nearly always before made itself known when he was observing two people in love and happy. It had persisted even after his marriage to Constance, though he’d always taken care to not let it turn into brooding over what he did not have. He’d been fortunate that a marriage of political expedience had grown, if not to a blazing passion, to a mutual affection and regard that might well outlast the fiery affairs that he’d often seen burn to ashes. And evidently, his recent adventures had finally convinced his heart to be content with what he had, which was more than he had ever hoped for.

Celeste wasn’t much for formality, but Alistair didn’t really mind the handshake or the quip about his height; he’d had a lifetime of experience in knowing the difference between someone who was mocking him and someone simply making a jest, and the sailor definitely seemed the latter sort. He wasn’t quite so sanguine when her attention turned to Lena, though that was less to do with her manner than his niece’s obvious fascination with her. Not that he didn’t want Elena to be an independent woman who could look out for herself, but he didn’t want her getting the idea that running off to sea was the way to go about it. Nicolette did not seem concerned, however, so Alistair let his misgivings slide and accepted the invitation to see their ship (and he was curious himself, after reading the minstrel’s descriptions over the years).

Talk of ships led to talk of ship-shaped beds, and talk of ship-shaped beds quite naturally led to talk of hippopotamus-shaped beds; Alistair had long since become accustomed to the meanderings of conversation whenever children were involved. Truth be told, he found talking with most adults to be boring by comparison, since most of the adults he talked to these days were so bound by propriety and etiquette that any subjects that might be even remotely interesting were off limits. So was farting, though that wasn’t really a surprise. Bran and Peter considered that and belching to be a competitive sport - when Constance was well out of earshot, of course. Arwen tried, but didn’t quite seem to have the knack for it yet, but Elena, after being pestered incessantly by her siblings one day, had produced a sonorous belch that rattled the glass in the panes and very nearly made poor Ingram - who had chosen that moment to make an entrance - pass out on the spot. Having proved her dominance, she had steadfastly refused an encore. Alistair, of course, never participated in such shenanigans (that was his story and he was sticking to it), so of course, he couldn’t have gotten so inured to it that he came this close to letting one fly in the middle of a state dinner and spent the rest of the evening with his ass cheeks clenched tighter than a miser’s fist on a sovereign. Never happened.

Nicolette had also seen hippos, as it turned out, even babies, which sounded a great deal cuter than the fully grown specimens, but also meant that Arwen would now be wanting a hippopotamus for her birthday instead of the mabari that she’d had her heart set on. And the legend that the minstrel related threatened to add Bran and Peter to the list of would-be hippopotamus riders, elevating the beasts from oddities to the mounts of heroes, and Arwen’s weren’t the only wide eyes as she described the hippo’s golden armor.

Well, maybe he could convince his niece to name her mabari Tarawet.

“Can we go to Kon-Tarr to see the statue?” Arwen burst out eagerly as soon as the story was done, turning to him with big brown eyes that were going to get some unsuspecting young man - or young woman - in trouble in a few years’ time.

Reprieve came from an unexpected source. “That part of Rivain is a bit dangerous,” Celeste told the girl. “Kon-Tarr is a Qunari settlement, and they don’t tend to welcome outsiders.”

“My uncle is friends with a Qunari!” Arwen protested, never one to let go of a good idea … or one that she thought was good.

“That wouldn’t matter to the other Qunari,” Alistair informed her. “Remember what I told you about Sten and his people?”

“That … they believe the good of the many is more important than the good of the one?” Arwen’s face scrunched up in puzzlement. It was a reasonable enough philosophy … unless you happened to be the one that the many outweighed.

“And they believe it’s their duty to convert everyone to the Qun,” Peter added gravely. As the future King, that was the factor that concerned him the most. Maker willing, it would never be more than a subject of discussion in any of their lifetimes.

“And you have to be whatever they think you should be,” Elena put in, quite aware of what Alistair was trying to do and willing to assist. “What if they decided that you should be cleaning chamber pots?”

“Ewwww!” Arwen wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Sten wouldn’t do that, would he?” She looked to Alistair indignantly. Sten, like his other companions during the Blight, had acquired a near-mythical status among the children.

“If he thought that was what the Qun required you to do, he would,” Alistair confirmed. They didn’t know the part that Sten - now the Arishok - had played in his recent adventure, but the memory added the weight of certainty to his words. Sentiment hadn’t kept his old comrade from imprisoning them for weeks or persuaded him to aid their quest. Alistair had to defeat him in single combat for that (and he could still scarcely believe he had managed it). “Perhaps we could visit your ship, Captain?” he inquired of Celeste, deciding that a distraction was in order.

Celeste in turn looked to Nicolette. “Anything else you need in town?” She had the letter safely in pocket; she could deliver it to her contact later, but her minstrel was fond of browsing the dressmakers and bookstores ... and the pastry shops, of course.

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

Nicolette loved encouraging anybody’s imagination, but especially in children. They were not bound by the sense of duty or responsibilities that adults were, so their flights of fancy took them so much further. It also meant that she might be encouraging thoughts a bit beyond the reach of some of them, but she hoped she had inspired others beyond what they might have otherwise been. At the very least, she had kindled an instant urge in Arwen to go to the northernmost tip of Thedas.

Possibly not the best idea for any child, let alone one belonging to a royal household.

Celeste decided to be the voice of reason, which possibly got Nicolette out of a sticky situation. “That part of Rivain is a bit dangerous. Kon-Tarr is a Qunari settlement, and they don’t tend to welcome outsiders.”

Arwen protested; Alistair was friends with a Qunari. Nicolette chased the itch in her brain until it settled on the conclusion that this must be a reference to Sten. She had met many of the Warden’s companions in her times wandering around Thedas, but never Sten. From the sound of it, she was glad she had not. She doubted he would approve of her. Although they might have found a place for her talents in the Qun, it would probably be a great deal more restrictive than her life now. Alistair was explaining their philosophy, with additions from the various other children scattered around him.

Arwen seemed a little deflated by the idea that she might be assigned to scrubbing chamber pots under the Qun; fortunately, Alistair had a distraction in mind, somewhat closer to home. “Perhaps we could visit your ship, Captain?”

The girl immediately lit up again, as did Bran; both younger children turned pleading looks on Celeste as the captain turned to Nicolette. “Anything else you need in town?”

The younger children were, by this point, almost vibrating with excitement – Nicolette chuckled. “Nothing I need. I can attend to wants later.” One of the nice things about sharing a cabin with Celeste was that she could occasionally act on her urges to purchase bright, shiny things; she did not have to factor in carrying them around in her pack. But she still tried not to get carried away, and this seemed a worthwhile distraction.

Speaking of distractions, she had just noticed a man heading into the house that Celeste had previously been liberating some paperwork from, and it would be a good time to leave the vicinity anyway. She grinned and squeezed Celeste’s hand, before whistling for Thibault who came lolloping up to investigate their new friends. “This is Thibault, by the way,” she said for the benefit of the children, as they turned their steps towards the docks. “My longtime companion. He has fought bandits for me before now – and is a bit of a sausage thief, on occasion.”

 

[Alistair Theirin]

Celeste readily agreed to a visit to her ship, and Nicolette summoned her hound with a whistle. “This is Thibault, by the way,” she introduced him to the children as he loped over with tongue lolling out in a doggy grin. “My longtime companion. He has fought bandits for me before now – and is a bit of a sausage thief, on occasion.”

“Hey, fella,” Alistair greeted the dog, scratching his ears affectionately. Arwen threw her arms around Thibault in delight, and the boys reached out to pet him. Lena, still a cat person, kept back, but smiled her approval at his friendly demeanor.

“Bran and I have mabari,” Peter informed Nicolette as they began walking, the guards falling in around them. “So do Captain Donal and Sergeants Hudson and Hicks.”

“And I’m getting one for my birthday!” Arwen announced, the look that she shot Alistair proclaiming as loudly as words that, as far as she was concerned, it was several years overdue.

“Sounds like quite the pack,” Celeste agreed amiably. “I’d have to get a bigger ship … there she is.” She nodded toward a sleek looking two masted ship tied up to the docks, cupped her hands to her mouth and roared, “Company coming!”

Alistair blinked as a massive shape emerged on deck, and Arwen’s eyes went wide. “A Qunari!” she announced in awe. The boys looked similarly impressed, while Lena was visibly wary, but her eyes yearned toward the lines of the ship.

“Gideon’s a Tal-Vashoth,” Celeste corrected her with a lopsided smile, “and my first mate. Go up first?” she suggested to Nicolette as they reached the gangplank, her eyes conveying the unspoken request that the minstrel alert the crew to just who was coming aboard, then, “After you.” She dipped a bow, gesturing to the ship.

“Stay here,” Donal instructed the other four before following Nico up the ramp. Alistair motioned for the children to go next, then went up himself, with the ship’s captain bringing up the rear.

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

While Thibault was usually quieter than his mistress, they had an equal enjoyment of attention, and his tail went nineteen to the dozen as most of the children gathered around to fuss over him. Arwen was gifted with a lick on the cheek before Thibault sniffed happily at boys. He was starting to show a few white hairs in his muzzle, but his energy hadn’t diminished at all yet, and Nicolette watched over her dog fondly.

“Bran and I have mabari.” Peter fell into step beside her as they began walking. “So do Captain Donal and Sergeants Hudson and Hicks.”

“And I’m getting one for my birthday!”

“That is quite impressive. Mabari are the most intelligent dogs, are they not? And I hear they imprint on those who have earned their loyalty and love.” She remembered Aedan Cousland’s mabari, a stocky creature with an amiable face. He had clearly adored his master, and at the time she had been taken aback by how he had seemed to follow the thread of their conversation.

“Sounds like quite a pack. I’d have to get a bigger ship...there she is.”

As Celeste announced the arrival of their party, Nicolette gazed up at the Wicked Grace. Every now and again she remembered it as it was when she had first met Celeste, masts missing and splintered railings. Even then she had thought the ship was rather lovely, and it lifted her heart every time to see it as it was now. She also could not repress a grin as Gideon appeared, looming over the edge and drawing gasps of astonishment from the children.

“Gideon’s a Tal-Vashoth, and my first mate.” Celeste’s eyes met hers. “Go up first?”

Nicolette nodded and scuttled up the gangplank, motioning for Thibault to go up alongside the children. Gideon was looking out at their company with mild amusement. “Did you and Celeste decide to do some active recruiting?” His red eyes scanned the group; he was a smart man, and his brows went up a little at the sight of the armour-clad people surrounding the knot of children and Alistair. “Looks like an important one.”

“You could said that. I met him a few years ago and we ran into each other in the marketplace just now.” Nicolette was failing completely to repress a grin as she lowered her voice. “He’s the king. Pass it on.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No merde here, Gideon.”

He let out a roar of laughter. “Of course you’ve just happened to casually be an acquaintance with a royal. I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me one day you’d shared a cup of tea with the Divine.”

The rest of the crew were gathering around now and had got the gist of the conversation; Donal came up the gangplank and into a circle of intrigued eyes. “Everyone, this is Donal.” Nicolette proceeded to introduce everyone as they came up the gangplank, almost all the children saucer-eyed, although Peter was doing his best to keep his composure. Alistair came up, and Nicolette touched his arm. “And this is Alistair.”

“Welcome aboard the Wicked Grace, Alistair.” Nobody was going to start bowing and scraping on this vessel, or use titles unless it came up, but they were all capable of being courteous unless somebody was rude to them in the first place.

“You’re so tall,” Arwen said, gazing up at Gideon.

 

[Alistair Theirin]

A booming laugh sounded from the direction of the deck while they were ascending the gangplank, and when Alistair stepped off, he found the crew loosely scattered about, regarding him with open interest … and a noteworthy lack of deference. But nobody looked hostile, and after weeks at sea on the Siren’s Call, there was a certain familiarity to the setting and the sailors.

The horned giant was a different kind of familiar, but unlike Sten and the rest of his kindred in Seheron, this one wore an amiable smile as Nicolette introduced them - by name. Not a ‘King’ or ‘His Royal Majesty’ to be found.

“Welcome aboard the Wicked Grace, Alistair.” The breaches in protocol were piling up; the eyes of the children were huge, and Peter looked questioningly to Alistair for guidance. The boy had propriety nailed down, and Alistair was quite confident that Constance would keep those lessons well polished. The lessons that he would teach his son - his son! the realization still made his chest swell with joy - were of a different sort: lessons learned by a bastard raised in a stable who’d come by his crown over a rocky road. Lessons like grace, humility, and not taking offense when none was intended.

“A pleasure,” he responded, stepping forward with his hand out and an answering smile on his face that was not the least bit forced. In spite of the hardships of the voyage, one of the undeniable satisfactions had been once again being just Alistair, part of a fellowship working toward a common goal. He’d resigned himself to giving that up once again when he’d returned, and having been offered the unexpected opportunity to enjoy it again for just a bit longer, damned if he wasn’t going to take it. “And you are?”

“Gideon Augustus Nicodemus Santiago Darius Monroe.” The syllables rolled smoothly out in a deep baritone, accompanied by a flourishing bow that was directed at all of them.

“First of your line?” Alistair asked with a chuckle. The Royal Etiquette Brigade had been mightily disappointed when he had declined to tack a string of extra monikers onto his name for the sake of grandiosity.

“First and only,” Gideon assured him easily.

“You’re so tall,” Arwen marveled, craning her neck to look up at him. She was going to be more petite than her sister, but even had she not been, the Tal Vashoth would have still towered over her and was head and shoulders above Alistair and Donal. His response was to crouch immediately until he was eye level with her.

“Better?” he wanted to know, and she nodded and smiled at him. That smile was going to be the cause of a fair amount of indigestion for him in few years, Alistair was sure, but for now, it was just a child's grin, artless and sunny.

“Can I touch your horns?” she inquired with her typical boldness, but before Alistair could caution her, Gideon had dipped his head, bringing the black, curved horns within her reach. The boys immediately joined Arwen in reaching out to touch them wonderingly. They remembered at least some of their manners, though, and drew their hands back after a few moments.

“Do you fight with them?” Bran wanted to know.

Gideon shook his head, remaining in his crouch, seemingly quite comfortable talking with a group of children. “Not usually. I’d have to keep my head down, and I like seeing what’s coming at me in a fight.”

“Why did you leave the Qun?” Unsurprisingly, this came from Peter, and Alistair held his breath, aware that Donal had likewise tensed. He knew little about Tal Vashoth, but he did know that Qunari hated them with the closest thing to passion that they seemed capable of, and the loathing very much went both ways.

But Gideon just chuckled. “It was boring,” he announced. “Rules for everything, and they don’t even let you pick your name. You’re called by whatever you do, and they decide what it is you’re going to do. Wasn’t for me.” His words were light enough, but something tightly guarded in the crimson eyes suggested that it wasn’t quite so simple as that.

Peter considered that for a moment, then the blue eyes cut briefly back to Alistair in a way that he understood well, assuring the boy with a nod that they could discuss the subject back in the palace.

“You picked your own name?” Bran asked with interest, and Gideon nodded.

“It’s a big name,” Arwen observed. “Is that because you’re so tall?”

“Not really,” he replied with a shrug. “I just couldn’t decide which one I liked best, so I chose all of them.”

Alistair knew quite well where this was headed. “When you’re older,” he said as his niece turned to him, his standard reply to the flights of fancy that gripped her regularly. He took pleasure in granting the ones that he could, but body piercings, tattoos, changes of name and the like were pushed forward with the silent hope that they would be forgotten by the time that future moment finally arrived. Arwen pouted a bit but soon turned her attention back to Gideon as the boys started quizzing him on encounters with pirates.

Elena remained far more focused on the ship’s captain. “How did you become a sailor?” she wanted to know.

“I’ve always been one,” Celeste responded. “My father took me to sea the first time when I was a few days old, and I traveled with him by ship as a child until I met my husband, who was the captain of this ship.”

There was a lot to unpack in that statement, and Lena missed little. “What about your mother? Did your father like you being a sailor? And what happened to your husband?” The questions tumbled out on a wave of more enthusiasm and interest than Alistair had seen from his niece in some time before she visibly remembered her manners and flushed. “If I may ask, of course. I’m sorry.” Her apologetic gaze darted from the captain to Alistair. He gave her the faintest nod: acknowledging, encouraging. She’d messed up, she knew it, tried to make it right. For a man who had spent a significant part of his life with his foot in his mouth, it was all he would ask for.

“It’s all right.” Celeste seemed untroubled by the gaffe. “My mother died when I was born, so I never knew her. My father -” She shrugged, a smile quirking her lips. “He never quite knew what to do with me; I think he was relieved when I finally ran off, to be honest. And my husband was lost at sea in a storm a few years back.”

“I - I’m so sorry,” Lena said softly, looking even more chagrined, but Celeste shook her head.

“So am I, about my husband, at least,” she said simply. “The rest of it, well -” she shrugged again. “It’s just the way it was, and if it hadn’t been, I’d likely not be where I am now.” Green eyes shifted toward Nico, the affection in them making it clear that the minstrel was a significant part of that ‘now’. “And Daniel died at sea, which is about all that any sailor can ask for. It’s a dangerous life … but a good one, if you’ve the taste for it.”

That wasn’t what Alistair had wanted her to say; it was as plain as day from the hungry gleam in Elena’s eyes that the part about danger had slipped right in one ear and out the other. But trying to rein her in would just add the allure of the forbidden to her interest. She wanted nothing to do with court life or the nobles’ sons that vied for her attention at dinners and balls; all of her time was spent in her studies or in practicing the skills that Leliana taught her.

“We could show you around the ship,” Celeste suggested. Lena shot a hopeful glance his way, and he made himself nod, then glanced to Nicolette.

“Is there a place where we could speak privately, but still be in view?” he asked. He could feel Lena’s gaze burning holes in his back with that ‘don’t embarrass me’ look that he routinely got … and just as routinely earned. The joke was on her this time, though; this had nothing to do with her. Well … almost nothing.

“Well, there’s the crow’s nest,” Celeste suggested before Nico could respond, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, “but we can steer clear of the bow if you’d like to talk there. That’s the front of the ship,” she added helpfully.

“I’ve heard the term,” he replied dryly. She likely thought him a pampered monarch who would wilt at the prospect of climbing to the top of the mainmast, and two months ago, he might have. He’d spent his share of time on lookout duty aboard the Siren’s Call, however, and while he could not tell the children the whole of what he’d been doing the weeks he’d been gone, he could show them some of what he’d learned.

And maybe show off … just a bit.

“The crow’s nest sounds good,” he pronounced casually, craning his neck back to peer upward before looking to Nico with a mischievous grin, aware of Celeste’s eyebrows arching in surprise and Lena’s mouth hanging ajar. “Race you to the top?”

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

The children were not the only ones with their eyes popping out of their heads at the sight of Gideon. Quite a few of the surrounding adults were as well, and towards the back, a hand or two strayed warily towards sword hilts. This did not bring out the usual tension in Nicolette; she knew that Gideon would do nothing to threaten Alistair, and she trusted Alistair to call them off if they started getting edgy. Besides, she could hardly blame him; the first time she had seen Gideon, she had been startled twice. First, as even by qunari standards, he was large, and secondly at how charming and convivial he had been right from their first meeting. He showed that same charm now, greeting Alistair humourously and then crouching and allowing Arwen to touch his horns. The boys joined in seconds after, and the usual clamour of questions followed.

Nicolette drifted over to Celeste, one small finger brushing gently against her captain’s. With the fresher sea air in her lungs, the light dancing off the water, and surrounded by people she cared about - and loved - she could only have been happier if they started up the music again. She smiled fondly at Celeste as the other woman started entertaining Elena’s questions. The reference to Daniel did not shake her at all, although her smile turned sympathetic. Some parts of Celeste’s life had been very hard, even though her captain had been strengthened rather than weakened by those moments.

“It’s just the way it was, and if it hadn’t been, I’d likely not be where I am now.” Their eyes met for a moment, those few seconds holding a world of softness and comfort, before Celeste turned her gaze back towards Elena. “And Daniel died at sea, which is about all any sailor can ask for. It’s a dangerous life...but a good one, if you’ve the taste for it.”

Nicolette well and truly had the taste for it herself by now, but Alistair seemed uncertain. Or maybe it was because he had caught sight of the interested gleam in Elena’s eyes, and was getting worried. Celeste did not seem as though she was about to tamp down that intrigued fire; instead, she offered to show her around the ship. Alistair gave his permission - silently - then caught Nicolette by surprise. “Is there a place where we could speak privately, but still be in view?”

She could not think of what he might want to talk about in a covert manner to her - being only a minstrel, after all - but Celeste beat her to a suggestion, albeit one made as a joke. “Well, there’s the crow’s nest. But we can steer clear of the bow, if you like. That’s the front of the ship.”

“I’ve heard the term.” Fortunately, Alistair sounded more amused than annoyed at the assumption, and when he looked up, Nicolette caught a look on his face that was one she frequently spotted on Celeste’s just before they deliberately opened a can of worms together. “The crow’s nest sounds good.” He grinned down at Nicolette. Nicolette caught the look on Celeste’s face out of the corner of her eye, and started beaming as well. There were few things she liked more than surprising her captain. “Race you to the top?”

One of the bodyguards came forward, obviously ready to advise against; Nicolette interrupted, teasing. “Oh, definitely. I will try not to offend your dignity by beating you by too much.”

She did not always feel comfortable being cocksure, but she was surrounded by friends, and always enjoyed the opportunity to make Celeste’s jaw drop a bit. She pulled the back of her skirt through her legs and tucked the hem into her belt, immediately converting the fabric into a loose pair of trousers that would not snag around her ankles, and waited for Alistair to get into position before launching herself up onto the rigging.

He had the advantage of height and reach, but she had had practice - it evened them out during the frantic race up the ropes, with the cheers and whoops of their audience below spurring them on. But Nicolette had one more advantage that Alistair did not; she knew the Wicked Grace, specifically, and as they drew level with the yardarm nearest the top, she looked for it -

Her fingers closed around the rope that was more often used for a quick descent, gripped tightly, and then she launched herself off the side of the rigging, swinging around in a wide arc. Without having thrown the counterweight at the top, she did not go down - instead she spun around and then up, unable to prevent herself from hollering with joy, and then with her added weight on the swing she continued up, higher than she had been before, stretched out her leg as far as it could go - then snagged the edge of the crow’s nest with the crook of her knee, swiftly pulling herself upwards before her stomach muscles realised what she was doing, and landed in a slightly ungainly fashion in the basket.

Leaning over the edge, elbow on the rim and chin in her hand, she beamed down at Alistair, extending a hand to him. “So what did you want to talk about?”

 

[Alistair Theirin]

Alistair held no real illusions about actually winning the race to the crow’s nest. Nicolette had been traveling at sea for several years by his estimation, compared to his paltry few weeks on the Siren’s Call, but he was reasonably sure that he would at least make a good showing. The brilliant smile with which Nicolette received his challenge caused him to immediately downgrade his expectations to simply not making a fool of himself. Hudson started to speak up, his expression suggesting that he wasn’t going to be saying “Excellent idea, Your Majesty,” but Nico headed him off.

“Oh, definitely,” she said with a confidence that got an approving grin from the captain. “I will try not to offend your dignity by beating you by too much.”

“You’re assuming I have any dignity to offend,” he shot back, delighted at the teasing. It was another thing that he got far too little of as King Alistair; few besides Constance and Donal dared, despite the fact that he had yet to order a single beheading for being the butt of a joke. As he headed for the shrouds, Donal joined him.

“Be a real shame if you survived Crows,‘Vints and Qunari to break your neck now,” he cautioned, more as a formality than from any real expectation of getting the King to change his mind. He’d been with Alistair on that voyage and knew that he was quite capable of climbing rigging, but it was also a legitimate warning against being too reckless, and that Alistair did intend to heed.

Nicolette was poised at the opposite rail, waiting, and when Alistair scrambled onto the shrouds, the race was on. The Wicked Grace was a well-maintained ship, and the rigging was in good condition: the lines properly taut, not fraying, and not fouled with mildew. Alistair climbed swiftly, but with care, making certain that his existing hand and footholds were secure before reaching for the next. Below, whoops rose up as the onlookers cheered for their favored competitor, and he could hear bets being taken.

“A sovereign on Nicolette!”

“Nico! Show ‘im, Nico!”

“Go, go!”

“Be careful, ser!”

“My dad can do it!”

Forget climbing; hearing the fierce pride in Peter’s voice, Alistair was pretty sure that he could have flown the rest of the way up. A sudden roar exploded from the deck; Nicolette must have done something good. He risked a glance over his shoulder and gave a shout - startled at first when Nicolette swept by him on a rope, a triumphant whoop trailing in her wake - then admiring as he watched her deftly complete the arc and pull herself into the crow’s nest.

Oh, but he wanted to try that! He knew better, however; assuming he didn’t fall and break his neck, Donal would kick his ass when he came down. He concentrated on ascending the last few feet the old fashioned way instead, but he was definitely getting an idea for an addition to the playground in the children’s garden … perhaps with a net below?

He accepted the hand that Nicolette offered him and climbed into the crow’s nest. “That was impressive,” he congratulated her, looking about appreciatively at the view: the ships tied up along the docks or anchored in the harbor, the folk on the dock below (and their impromptu race had drawn more than a few spectators), the rooftops of the warehouses and taverns. He’d never gotten the chance to go over rooftops with Leliana and Zevran; he wondered if this was what it felt like.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Nico’s question brought him back to his reason for being up here. Reasons, actually.

“A couple of things,” he began, settling his weight on the rail of the wooden platform, keeping enough space between them that it was plain even from the ground that nothing improper could be going on. “A favor first.” He grew a bit more serious then. “If Elena shows up wanting to join the crew, don’t send her away.” The words were some of the hardest he’d had to utter, but he’d realized quickly down below that he needed to set a contingency in place. “I’m afraid she’ll just find another ship. Tell your captain that I’ll pay to take her as an apprentice and show her everything: the good and the bad. If this is the life that she wants, I want her to have it, but I want her to be ready for it.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face, sucking in a breath between his fingers. “I’ll be honest: I hope that she doesn’t do it, or that if she does, that she hates it, but I can’t keep her caged in the palace.” It terrified him. He knew the risks of a life at sea; he’d experienced quite a few of them firsthand. Given the choice, he’d keep her wrapped in wool until she was older - say fifty or so, but she’d end up hating him if he took that route. All that he could do was try to ensure that she was as protected as he could manage, and the idea of her walking onto the ship of some of the sailors that he’d encountered made his blood run cold. He trusted Nicolette, and it was plain that Nico trusted her captain and the rest of the crew; that would have to be enough.

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

The crow’s nest was high, but not so high that Nicolette could not shoot a grin below to Celeste, warm with a promise for later. Sometimes the daring that her captain invoked in her had dangerous returns, but at this moment there appeared to be nothing but praise for the swinging act she had performed, although there was a twinge in her muscles as she assisted Alistair over the rail.

The Warden-King wore a grin of his own, which softened into gentle smile as he looked out over the rooftops of Denerim. Nicolette regarded him fondly as she did so. She doubted Ferelden could have asked for a more caring leader, but thought it a shame he did not get to air the free spirit he had demonstrated in the guise of ‘James’ more often. He deserved more moments simply to enjoy himself.

However, at this moment with his bodyguards and family below, he was assuredly Alistair, and Nicolette gave him a touch more space than she otherwise might have done. He did not need to be fending off rumours of a dalliance. Something else lay on his mind at the moment, and the topic took Nicolette a little by surprise.

“If Elena shows up wanting to join the crew, don’t send her away.” The smile was gone now, fraught lines of worry momentarily giving him the appearance of an older man. The words clearly cost him something to say. “I’m afraid she’ll just find another ship. Tell your captain that I’ll pay to take her as an apprentice and show her everything: the good and the bad. If this is the life that she wants, I want her to have it, but I want her to be ready for it.” He rubbed his hands over his face in a manner familiar to Nicolette. She had seen it when she first announced her intention to keep travelling after Maman opted to settle down. If parental concern had a gesture, that was it. “I’ll be honest: I hope that she doesn’t do it, or that if she does, that she hates it, but I can’t keep her caged in the palace.”

Nicolette reached out to squeeze his shoulder gently. “This is Celeste’s ship, and the final decision is hers. But I doubt she would turn Elena away, once it was made clear that she came with your blessing.” Even for Celeste, knowingly smuggling away a member of the royal family might be considered a touch dicey.

She gazed below for a few moments, resting her hands gently on the rim of the basket. The sun warmed wood was smoothed by the elements, a few dips and ridges throughout paying testament to battle with weather and of the more literal type. She loved the Wicked Grace as a ship in its own right, but it was the people who had made it the home she had never thought she might know.

“You could not wish for a better company for her to start out in.” Not bragging; she did not speak on her own behalf. “When I was first taken on to provide entertainment during repairs, I was as green a hand at sailing as any. It was made clear that I would have some tasks to do in order to keep the ship running, and each member of the crew took some time to teach me, little by little. They were patient, and kind. But they did not cosset me, either.” The corner of Nicolette’s mouth lifted. “It may be worth mentioning to Elena that she’d be expected to scrub the decks or help Stubby gut fish if needed. If she still shows interest, she would be made welcome.”

Some sort of game had started below; Gideon and one of the bodyguards were on the deck, doing press-ups at an inadvisable pace, and the people around called bets. Nicolette chuckled, before returning her attention to Alistair. “And what else was on your mind?”

 

[Alistair Theirin]

A life at sea plainly agreed with Nicolette; tanned and fit, she had navigated the rigging to the crow’s nest with blithe ease, and the smile that she sent toward the captain below on deck suggested that her daring performance had not been entirely for his benefit. It was good to see her so happy, and it offered a possible solution to his concerns for Elena that, while not ideal, would be vastly preferable to her haring off in a direction that he knew nothing about.

Nicolette listened sympathetically to his request that Lena be taken aboard the Wicked Grace if she tried to run away. It was a precaution, nothing more; he didn’t really think she would run away … at least, he hoped that she wouldn’t, but teenaged girls were not an area that he’d had a great deal of experience in. He just wanted her to be happy. And safe. Safe was important. But she’d be eighteen in little more than a year, and had made it quite plain that she wanted no part of a life at court. Which he wouldn’t mind if not for her fascination with bards and the like. Bards were definitely not safe, but he knew what would happen if he put his foot down and issued an ultimatum. All that he could really do is ensure that she was as prepared as he could make her and pray that it was enough. And that knowledge frightened him in a deep down way that he’d never known before. Next to it, facing the Archdemon was nothing.

“This is Celeste’s ship, and the final decision is hers,” Nicolette cautioned him, one hand giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “But I doubt she would turn Elena away, once it was made clear that she came with your blessing.”

“Blessing is probably not the right word,” he replied with a rueful smile, “but better that she learn with someone I trust.”

“You could not wish for a better company for her to start out in.” Nicolette turned, her hands braced on the edge of the crow’s nest, looking over the ship with quiet pride. “When I was first taken on to provide entertainment during repairs, I was as green a hand at sailing as any. It was made clear that I would have some tasks to do in order to keep the ship running, and each member of the crew took some time to teach me, little by little. They were patient, and kind. But they did not cosset me, either.” A faint smile quirked her lips. “It may be worth mentioning to Elena that she’d be expected to scrub the decks or help Stubby gut fish if needed. If she still shows interest, she would be made welcome.”

He snorted softly. “She’s a washerwoman’s daughter. She’s never been afraid of work.” More than a touch of his own pride in his voice. That he had never been able to make things right with Goldanna would always be a regret held in a private corner of his heart, but he thought - he hoped - that she would have been proud of how her children were growing up. “She’s had weapons training; she’s quite good with daggers, and decent with a bow. But she’s never been tested in a real fight. I’d … prefer if she never was, but …” He trailed off, shrugged, knowing that he would have as little control over this as anything else once she left the proverbial nest.

Excited shouts and cheers rose from below, and he turned to join Nicolette in looking down on the deck, where Bronto and Gideon had evidently challenged each other to pushups, with the resultant wagers being placed among the spectators. The minstrel laughed softly before turning her attention back to him. “And what else was on your mind?”

His concerns over Elena had almost driven his other reason for wanting privacy from his mind. “I had another story to tell you,” he began uncertainly, leaning back against the rail once more. “The world should hear it someday, and I think that you will know when … but until then, I must ask that you not tell anyone: even your captain.” He regarded her somberly. “I know that’s a lot to ask, and if it’s not something that you feel comfortable doing, it’s all right.” If she made the promise, she would keep it, and someday, the tale of the fate of King Maric Theirin would be told, and by someone who could do the story far more justice than he’d ever be able to.

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

Alistair’s misgivings were plainly written across his face. It was only natural. Elena might not be his by birth, but his attitude towards her was fatherly, and no father of worth would not fret about his daughter going out to sea. What also spoke well of him was that he was not forbidding Elena to do it. Indeed, he was helping. Had Elena shown up at the ship of her own accord, she likely would have been turned away - nobody wanted to be accused of spiriting away a member of the royal family, even if it was of her will. Nicolette touched his arm, gently, before explaining what Elena should know before she made the decision to join them.

She actually sounded better placed than Nicolette had been when she joined. Her weapons training had been minimal, she only knew the parts of a ship that were relevant to stories, and what she knew about the maintenance could have been written on the back of her hand. Elena, with her prior interest, had probably done more research, and she was trained in weapons use. Although only trained. “But she’s never been tested in a real fight. I’d...prefer if she never was, but…”

Nicolette would spare him the story of her first scrap aboard the Wicked Grace. Brannigan had done a good job keeping her alive, and in all honest it would not have happened if she had obeyed Celeste’s orders. Although she did not regret it, given that Celeste had not been shot. The only reminder was the small scar lacing her ribs. “If she follows Celeste’s - or Gideon’s - orders, she will be safe.”

The distraction of the shouts below only distracted them for a few moments. Apparently their race had spurred others into competition, and normally Nicolette would have been happily encouraging Gideon along, but there was more Alistair had wanted to share, and she asked him to elaborate.

“I had another story to tell you.” No smile lifted his lips. “The world should hear it someday, and I think that you will know when...but until then, I must ask that you not tell anyone: even your captain.” Nicolette’s brows rose in surprise. There was little she kept from Celeste, although there were a few secrets she would carry with her probably to death, at the request of the people who had passed them to her. But it was rare. “I know that’s a lot to ask, and if it’s not something that you feel comfortable doing, it’s all right.”

Nicolette regarded him, expression now sombre. “I had a few tales that have been entrusted to me alone, before. The price of the telling was that I was never to tell anybody else.” The mages she had met on her travels. The broken, lyrium-addled templar. The former werewolf. The Warden who had been pressed into service. So many, who had only wanted to talk, just once, to relieve their souls of some burden. Nicolette had taken away a little of their pain with her, and hopefully in so doing had helped them - but doubtedly her silence helped them as well.

“Anything you tell me, I swear to keep to myself; unless it might harm the crew not to know,” she added, wanting to be totally honest. She had no idea what Alistair might be about to say, and the Wicked Grace was a second family to her now. She would not risk them for anything.

 

[Alistair Theirin]

The captain and crew of the Wicked Grace were far from polished, but then, few sailors were. But if Nicolette trusted them enough to travel with them, then while they might be a bit rough around the edges, they weren’t pirates or slavers. Alistair doubted that he’d find a better berth for Lena, but not being pirates and slavers didn’t mean that they would never encounter pirates or slavers. Life at sea was dangerous; he knew that firsthand, and if he thought too much about the dangers besides pirates and slavers - storms, rogue waves, sea monsters and Maker only knew what else - then his resolve to let her try her wings if she took flight was going to falter. He had prepared her as best he knew; her instructors in combat included Leliana and Zevran, after all, but all the training in the world couldn’t prepare you for the first time you had to take someone else’s life to save your own.

He wanted for Elena to never have to be faced with such an imperative; failing that, he wanted to be there for her in the aftermath, but the odds of either one were long.

Nicolette seemed to understand his worries. “If she follows Celeste’s - or Gideon’s - orders, she will be safe.”

He nodded gratefully. “If she doesn’t, I’d take it as a personal favor if you could bring her back here instead of putting her ashore at the next port,” he told the minstrel. “I’ll pay for her passage, plus whatever costs you lose by going out of your way.” Assuming she wanted to come back. Assuming she ever left on the Wicked Grace in the first place. Maybe it was time that he stopped worrying about things that hadn’t happened yet before he tied himself into a knot.

The need to tell someone besides Constance what he had been doing while he was gone had been eating at him with a steadily growing urgency. He wasn’t looking for praise or accolades (all right, maybe a little praise for beating Sten in a fight, because he could still scarcely believe he had managed it), but it felt wrong that no one else would ever know what had really happened to Maric Thierin. He had entrusted such a story to Nicolette once, asking that she tell it to others; he thought that she might find it odd to be told a tale that she could not re-tell (not yet, anyway), but evidently, he was not the first to make such a request.

“I had a few tales that have been entrusted to me alone, before,” she admitted, her expression indicating that she understood the gravity of his request. “The price of the telling was that I was never to tell anybody else.” Well, now he was curious, but he tucked it away. If she were willing to reveal those secrets, she wouldn’t be the one to hold his. “Anything you tell me, I swear to keep to myself,” she promised him, “unless it might harm the crew not to know.”

He shook his head. “Nothing like that,” he assured her, glancing toward the deck briefly as he tried to gather his turbulent and emotion-laden memories into something resembling a coherent narrative. The pushup competition had evolved: Vasquez had seated herself cross-legged on Bronto’s wide shoulders, while a blonde-haired elf was sitting on Gideon. Neither man seemed bothered in the least by the added weight.

“A few weeks back, my friend Zevran visited me,” he began, propping his hands against the rail of the crow’s nest and leaning back, trusting that Nico would recognize Zevran’s name from Leliana’s stories of the Blight. Maybe she’d even met him; he did get around. “He’d heard a rumor from a - a contact within the Antivan Crows.” Zevran had never named his source, and Alistair had not pressed; whoever it was had provided the information at risk of their lives.

He met Nicolette’s eyes, remembering the crazy rush of disbelief and hope that had churned in his chest when Zev had told him. “A rumor that King Maric was still alive and being held prisoner.”

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

Nicolette nodded at Alistair’s request for his daughter to be returned safely direct to Denerim should Elena decide against a life at sea. She had no doubt Celeste would comply with the request, especially since Alistair promised to cover the costs. And he would keep his word on that.

Of more curiosity was this tale that Alistair was swearing her to secrecy over. The last time he’d told her a story, he’d wanted her to share it with as many people as possible, and she’d complied. More than a few villages now named Riodan amongst the heroes of the day, thanks to her re-telling. But this was one that would have to join her vault of secrets. Some of them gnawed quietly at her, on nights when she was having trouble sleeping. But she would never share them. And she was quite prepared to extend the same courtesy to Alistair.

He leaned against the railing. “A few weeks back, my friend Zevran visited me.” Nicolette nodded; she knew the name, had even met an elf claiming to be him once. Whether he was the true Zevran or a charmingly-accented liar, she had no idea, but she’d enjoyed listening to him nonetheless. “He’d heard a rumor from a - a contact within the Antivan Crows.”

The assassin’s guild was notoriously tight-lipped. What the news imparted must have been vitally important, to potentially incur the wrath of the Crows if word got out. This thought was backed by the look in Alistair’s eyes - there were distant shadows of astonishment there, as though even now he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. “A rumour that King Maric was still alive and being held prisoner.”

Nicolette clamped her mouth shut over her reaction, even as her eyes widened in shock. It was well known that King Maric had been lost at sea years previously. There had been searches for him, of course, and it was presumed that if he had been captured by a hostile nation - Orlais in particular would have been quite keen to trumpet it, despite the years of peace - a ransom would have been sent within days. Or an execution announced. That he had been kept prisoner all this time defied imagination.

Except Nicolette dealt in imagination, and it was clear that this was no simple rumour or Alistair wouldn’t have thought it worth imparting. “You went looking for him, yes? Where was he rumoured to be kept?”

 

[Alistair Theirin]

Alistair knew that he was no minstrel or troubadour. His skill at telling stories would never approach Leliana’s, but five years of telling bedtime tales to the children meant that he was no slouch, and this particular story had an opening hook that was guaranteed to capture an audience’s attention. Curiosity glinted in Nicolette’s eyes at the mention of the famed Antivan Crows, then bloomed into stunned surprise when he revealed the news that Zev had brought.

“You went looking for him, yes?” she wanted to know. “Where was he rumoured to be kept?”

“I did,” he confirmed. “If it had come from anyone but Zevran, I wouldn’t have given it credence, but -” He shrugged. As annoying as the elf could be, he was one of the few who had earned Alistair’s unconditional trust. “He had a friend that he trusted who had a ship.” He decided not to mention Isabela or Varric by name; overly cautious, perhaps, but they had risked much to help him, and if the story ever did become widely known, their involvement might put them in more danger.

“We sailed to Antiva City and broke into the Archive of the Crows.” He snorted and offered Nico a lopsided grin. “Not very well, mind you; we got caught by Prince Claudio, one of the Talons: the leaders of the Crows … but he let us go without a fight.” It had been too easy; he’d known it at the time, but he’d taken the reprieve and kept Isabela’s warning about Claudio in mind.

“The documents that we found there led us to a place called Velabanchel.” He had no idea if the minstrel had heard of the place - he certainly hadn’t before embarking on his mission - so he added, “It’s the Crows’ secret prison. It was where Maric was supposedly being held. We broke in there, too. Got caught - again.” No, nothing like the tales of derring-do where the heroes waltzed through corridors lined with traps without tripping a single one. “We had to fight our way in. If they had really been trying, we’d have been dead, but I think Claudio told them to make us work for it, make it look real. He wanted us to find what we did.”

Rigged or not, it had been a brutal fight, and they had killed many of their attackers. Lives sacrificed to make the fight seem real. “Inside, I found a cell with an old man inside. He was filthy, wearing rags, little more than skin and bone.” The memory of the mixture of wild hope and horror that had boiled up in his chest was still clear, as was the sinking realization that had followed. “It wasn’t him, but he recognized me, knew I was Maric’s son. He was my father’s cellmate for four years, until he was taken away by a sorceress that lived in the Tellari Swamps.” He paused, then added wryly, “Apparently, Witches of the Wilds aren’t unique to Ferelden.” Not that he was interested in looking up the Orlesian or Nevarran counterparts, mind you. He’d leave that kind of research to Brother Genitivi.

 

[Nicolette O'Hara]

Of course Alistair had gone looking. Had Nicolette heard that her own father somehow still lived, she would have dropped everything to go and find him, and get answers. Well. Once upon a time she would have dropped everything. Now she would go to Celeste first to ask for her help. And more than just looking - he’d broken into a library owned by the Crows, and almost ended up as a prisoner himself.

“The documents that we found there led us to a place called Velabanchel.” Not a name Nicolette had heard before; she quirked a brow in question, but did not dare interrupt the flow of his tale. “It’s the Crows’ secret prison. It was where Maric was supposedly being held. We broke in there, too. Got caught - again. We had to fight our way in. If they had really been trying, we’d have been dead, but I think Claudio told them to make us work for it, make it look real. He wanted us to find what we did.”

So - a trap? Or using Alistair and his companions as pawns for this Claudio’s own ends?

“Inside, I found a cell with an old man inside. He was filthy, wearing rags, little more than skin and bone.” The look on Alistair’s face said clearly enough that his search hadn’t ended there. She squeezed his arm gently in sympathy. “It wasn’t him, but he recognized me, knew I was Maric’s son. He was my father’s cellmate for four years, until he was taken away by a sorceress that lived in the Tellari Swamps. Apparently, Witches of the Wilds aren’t unique to Ferelden.”

Nicolette had, over the years, met a number of the Warden’s companions, as well as Aedan Cousland himself. But she’d never encountered the mysterious Morrigan, and from the tales, it sounded that she was better off that way. Not that it did much to quench her curiosity about the woman. She had more pressing questions right now, though. “What would she have wanted with him? Did the Crows explain why they kept him prisoner for so long in the first place?”