The Teyrn is Back In Town [Closed]

[Fergus Cousland]

(( Drakonis 2, 9:44, Before noon, The Palace Alistair Theirin ))

The journey had not been without its bumps and bruises. It had been years since he had brought the whole family to Denerim, though he had been a few times on business on his own. The dangers of the rifts had made him a bit more paranoid than he had been in the Blight. Thankfully, someone had stepped up and stopped the chaos once again. And he said a silent thanks that it wasn't his brother this time.

Tristan had never been outside of Highever, a bright and inquisitive boy of five, he wanted to stop every few minutes to gawk at something he had no seen before. It annoyed his older sister to no end, but there were even a few times where her eyes would widen at a spectacle or new town. She hadn't been away from Highever in so long, much of it was new to her as well.

She insisted that she get to ride her horse at least some of the time, so for a few hours a day Riane was allowed to ride beside Knight-Captain Ferren. The girl adored him, and also quite loved to give him hell about his hatred of horse riding. It was a good arrangement all around.

Thankfully, despite a few mishaps with wagon wheels and having to stopover a few days due to an injured horse they arrived in Denerim hale and whole. After shaking the dust out, he left Breanna and the children to get settled in at their estate and went to the Palace to announce himself and follow up on the short missive he had sent before hand about introducing Tristan to court.

For now, he waited to be announced and to see if the King was available to see him.

 

[Alistair Theirin]

It was almost enough to make him nostalgic for Corypheus.

All right, not really, but in the days between the explosion at the Conclave and the final defeat of the ancient-Tevinter-magister-slash-premier-darkspawn (Alistair still hadn’t fully wrapped his head around that one), there had been unity, albeit the shitting-your-breeches, we’re-all-gonna-die unity inspired by what looked very much like the end of the world. The nobility of Ferelden had been desperately grateful for the presence of the Inquisition and the one individual who could close the rifts that were spewing demons across the landscape. Support and supplies had flowed freely, and nobles had welcomed the presence of Inquisition strongholds on their lands.

Now … not so much, and while Alistair could sympathize to an extent, it wasn’t so simple as saying, “Thanks for saving our asses. Now get out.” He liked and respected Sati Adaar, and knew that she held no ambitions of conquest, but the fact of the matter was that the Inquisition’s raison d'etre (yes, he’d been practicing his Orlesian; what of it?) was largely gone. The Breach was closed, the smaller rifts gone, Corypheus dead and a new Divine had been chosen who promised to carry forward changes to many of the practices that had led to the mage-templar war. Yes, the odd demon could still be found wandering here and there, and a few mages and templars refused to recognize the truce that had been reached, but those were issues that could be handled by the local guards, and certainly didn’t require what had grown to be one of the most formidable military forces in Thedas.

Which was currently encamped on his back doorstep. Change needed to come, but Alistair was determined not to burn down an alliance that he had worked hard to build. He’d spent the last few days in his study, poring over maps that showed the various keeps and strongholds on Ferelden soil, developing a proposed schedule to return those sites to the control of the nobles who held the lands. Skyhold belonged to the Inquisition, period; he’d had several banns and a couple of arls express a desire for the mountain redoubt, but as far as he was concerned, they had found it, they had repaired it, so it was theirs. Wasn’t going to make him too popular in some circles, but that didn’t bother him nearly as much as it once had.

The other locations -

A light rap at the door brought his head up, more than ready for a reprieve, however minor. “Come.”

The door opened and Donal stuck his head in. “Teyrn Cousland has arrived, Your Majesty,” Donal announced, adding with a smirk, “Just the Teyrn.”

Alistair huffed a dramatic sigh then grinned. “Show him in, anyway.” Seeing Breanna was always welcome, as she was the closest thing he had to a cousin, but it was Riane and Tristan that he’d been hoping to see, particularly Fergus’ youngest. Children still delighted him, and his own brood, while still the joy of his life, were growing up. Fortunately, his closest advisers among the nobility had been starting families of their own, allowing him to play doting uncle to his heart’s content (and pass them back to their parents after getting them hopped up on too much sugar and too many pretend sword fights and stories). The dangers unleashed by the mage-templar war and the Breach had kept Fergus’ clan safe at Highever, but Alistair had made a point of stopping in on his travels.

Abandoning his desk, he circled around past the well-cushioned leather armchairs to the cart beneath the window, selecting an excellent Nevarran oak-aged whiskey from the many bottles and pouring generous shots into two crystal tumblers.

 

[Fergus Cousland]

He was lead in by Donal, a good man who he been in the King's service for years now. He wondered if the men had the same rapport he had with Ferren. Though probably not the more intimate adventures he'd had with his own Knight Captain. He cleared his throat, trying to banish such a thought, and gave a proper bow once he saw the King. "Your Majesty, thank you for seeing me."

He walked into the room more over to where Alistair stood, seeing the whiskey and grinning broadly. "You do know how to welcome a guest."

He took the tumbler when offered, take a brief sip, before offering, "Apologies that Breanna and the children aren't here. They are getting settled into the estate, and Tristan sorely needed a nap. You're welcome to join us for dinner tonight, if you have time. The entire family, of course."

That might make his staff panic, but he knew they were up to the task. The cook in Denerim was no where near the magnificence that was Gerry back home, but they still made wonderful food. Besides he had wanted to discuss business with Alistair, the business of the Bannorn and getting things resettled to where they should be. As long as another disaster didn't rear it's ugly head, things could likely go back to normal.

"How are things here? The city looks quite lively, as if nothing even happened." Buildings destroyed during the Blight had been rebuilt. Panicked refugees from the rifts weren't in every available corner. Life seemed to be going back to normal.

 

[Alistair Theirin]

Happiness suited Fergus; it was a state that Alistair had seen him in far too rarely. When he’d first met the man, he’d been a haggard shadow of the brother that Aedan had described to him, devastated by the loss of his parents, wife, and son, and the destruction wrought on his family home by Rendon Howe. It had taken him a long time to come back from that dark place, and the happiness he’d found with Lene had been all too brief, though at least he had their daughter to console him.

Highever itself had been only lightly touched by the Blight, but the damage wreaked by Rendon Howe had been very nearly as ruinous, and the Teyrn’s efforts to restore his own lands had been in addition to the attention he gave to the losses of the arls and banns that were sworn to Highever. Nor had his efforts to improve the lot of the elves living in the lands that he oversaw been well received by all the human inhabitants. And just when things had started to level out, after Fergus had married Breanna Guerrin and they’d had a son, the sodding sky had been split open, courtesy of the great-grandfather of all darkspawn, followed by an attempted coup by the Qunari.

So, yeah … last few years had sucked, and all of Ferelden was due a break by Alistair’s reckoning.

"Your Majesty, thank you for seeing me." The Teyrn got the formalities out of the way with a flawless bow before breaking into a smile at the sight of the tumblers. "You do know how to welcome a guest."

“Can’t drink it all on my own,” Alistair reasoned, giving one to his guest and taking up the second. His fondness for cheese was well known, and dignitaries both domestic and foreign kept him well supplied, occasionally surprising him with a new variety that he hadn’t sampled. But booze remained a close second in terms of royal gifts, and while he had never been one to overindulge frequently in hard liquor, he had developed a taste for sipping good Nevarran whiskey or Antivan brandy.

"Apologies that Breanna and the children aren't here,” Fergus offered, sampling his drink. “They are getting settled into the estate, and Tristan sorely needed a nap. You're welcome to join us for dinner tonight, if you have time. The entire family, of course."

“Sounds good, though I’m not sure how many I’ll be able to round up on short notice,” Alistair replied. As first one, than the other of the children slipped into, then out of, their teen years before his eyes, he’d had to learn how to let go and allow them to live lives without him at the center. During the tumult caused by the Breach, he’d been able to keep them close, but as the entire kingdom let out the collective breath they’d been holding and began to return to a semblance of normal life, Bran and Elena were frequently in the company of friends, and even Peter and Arwen had social engagements, though generally more closely supervised. “You may just have me and Constance.” Or even just him, as the Queen also had a social schedule that didn’t always include him. And he was quite fine with that, as a good many of their interests didn't intersect.

"How are things here? The city looks quite lively, as if nothing even happened,” Fergus observed as they settled into the padded armchairs.

“Shhh,” Alistair cautioned him, holding a finger to his lips and looking over his shoulder to the window. “Not quite so loud. I’m hoping the next disaster will hold off for a bit.” He chuckled softly and shook his head, looking a bit sheepish. “Not that I’m superstitious or anything. “It’s going well, though. Unlike the darkspawn, the demons and rifts didn’t do anything to the land, so people are starting to return to their holdings.” Denerim had been spared any repetition of the damage that the final battle of the Blight had inflicted, so once all the extra bodies had thinned out, life had begun to return to its normal rhythms, albeit with the hyperaware edge that came from fifteen years of one catastrophe following another at intervals that were irregular enough to defy prediction.

“I was considering having a festival of some kind, maybe on Summerday,” he mused. “Something like Remembrance Day. What do you think?”