Author`s Note: As much as I love my Amell, I forgot how much I love my Cousland with her Alistair. I actually had this chapter written out for something completely different, but thought it would go well here. A continuation of the royal couple in the next chapter.

THE KING

It was raining in Denerim. A cold and wet rain that seized the capital overnight, leaving the sky gray and grumbling. Alistair was in his office watching the gloomy weather, forehead pressed against the cool glass of his window. He had a grand view of the courtyard and the city beyond that, but nothing he saw would cheer up the King. There were guards marching through the mud and servants returning from the market with his favorite cheeses, but alas, he longed for only a single person to come walking through the gate. He sighed loudly, one after another, receiving an equally sad whine from Dog. The mabari was perched loyalty at his side, nose pressed too against the window. Alistair reached to pet him for comfort.

A hard knock came from the door and the former warden turned to accept his guest, and happily so. The Teryn of Highever stood at the doorway, shoulders wet from the rain and carrying a large ornate chest. "Alistair," he greeted with a broad grin. Fergus Cousland was one of the few to address the King so casually. Alistair quite enjoyed it and often encouraged it, in spite of his uncle's advice against it. After the blight, the Teryn reclaimed Highever from what remained of Arl Howe's influence over the land. It was a quick effort, thanks to Alistair's support, and Highever Castle soon began rebuilding.

It had been sometime since he had received a visit from Fergus, who was slightly gimp in the leg from the war and greying just a bit in the hairline. He walked up to Alistair's antique desk, his limp heavier from the frigid weather, and hefted the chest he held onto an empty chair. Upon a closer look, the King noticed the box was charred at the corners and some of the metal was rusted. Fergus jetted a hand at him, and he returned a hearty handshake. "Always a pleasure," Alistair smiled and curiously looked at the unlocked strongbox.

Fergus gestured with his hand for his King to investigate. "Amazing really," he exclaimed as the lid was lifted and the chest's contents revealed. "The entire castle was nearly burnt or rubble, but my sister's chest is amongst the few things to survive."

Alistair was expecting some finery or jewels from his wife's younger days, some armor more likely, but was instead amazed by the number of leather bound journals. They were carefully organized, years scratched into their spines. "My sister's collection of journals," Fergus answered the quizzical look on his in-law's face. "I figured she might like a piece of home, something to remind her of the better days," he spoke with less fervor as he spoke the latter. "I don't suppose my dear sister is around?"

"No," Alistair sighed loudly, shoulder's hanging as he turned back to the window. "She had business that would keep her away for a while," his voice went quiet. He had not heard from her in some time and it worried him.

The Teryn placed his hand on Alistair's shoulder, "Don't you worry about her my brother." It was comforting to have Fergus as a part of his family, even if the approval from his wife's brother took a while to earn. "If she can slay an archdemon, I reckon whatever quest she's at won't keep her away for much longer," he continued, giving the King a friendly pat. "Besides," he smirked through a full beard, "It's the time apart that makes for a wonderful night in bed."

A blush as scarlet as the reddest drakestone came to Alistair's face, catching the poor man by surprise. Fergus chuckled loudly at his in-law's reaction, throwing his head back. The King was hiding his face, feeling the heat in his cheeks, embarrassed by the crude humor—it didn't matter that Fergus was right. When his love did return after some time had passed, they usually never left the bedchamber except to sneak food from the larder to refuel. Thinking about it made him red all over again. The Teryn continued his throaty laugh, only stopping when a gentle knock came to the door.

"Yes—Ah, come in," Alistair muttered.

A young woman stepped into the room and bowed to the King, only able to bend the slightest. She had a hand on her stomach, swollen from gravidity. "Your Majesty," she spoke softly, "Is my dear husband up to his antics again?" Fiona Cousland floated to her husband with grace and swept into his arm. It had taken years before Fergus had found love again. After the siege on his home had taken the lives of his wife and child, the elder Cousland had never intended to look at a woman again. The pain had been unbearable. However, a visit to Starkhaven had changed that entirely. One dance with the beauty and Fergus was forever smitten. The couple had married last spring and were now expecting their first child.

"No less than usual," the King replied, smiling at the happy couple. Fergus rubbed his wife's stomach, feeling for a sign of life from his future heir. Alistair nervously averted his gaze. "Are you due soon Lady Cousland?" he inquired curiously.

"I do hope so," she spoke cheerfully in her foreign lit, touching Fergus's hand, "I am eager to have him—or her—soon."

Fergus's face suddenly lit up, "Did you feel that?" Fiona's head bobbed up and down. The Teryn kissed his wife on the cheek, "I will be glad to be a father again. It is no greater gift than to bring a life into the world."

Alistair tried to keep the smile on his face, but it was hard. He could have anything he wanted: the finest clothing, as much gold he desired, the fanciest and smelliest cheeses, but fatherhood was out of reach. Fatherhood he desired very much. And a great father he promised to be, not absent or loveless. True, he never had a chance to really know Maric, but the abandonment still left its scars. Alistair felt a warm hand on his face and looked up, Fiona smiling gently up at her King. "Do not fret, you and the Queen will one day be blessed too," she said comfortingly.

"Of course," Fergus agreed, "When my dear sister does return, lock the door and answer to no one—you are the King." Alistair went red again, and Fergus was laughing too.

Fiona was the only voice of reason in the room. "We best be on our way dear husband if we hope to return to Highever tonight," she said, saving Alistair from further jesting. Lady Cousland patted her husband on the arm and bowed to the King, quietly making her way back into the hallway.

Fergus turned to bow to Alistair, a moment of formality, "A shame my little sister was not home, but perhaps we'll make a longer trip soon." The Teryn of Highever began to follow his wife out the doorway, turning to wave a final farewell to his friend before closing the door behind him.

Alistair listened as their matched footsteps carried into the distance, until finally, they could no longer be heard. The return to solitude reminded the King why he had been staring out the window earlier, but with some things to ponder now, he sat at his desk. Dog got up from the window and laid at his master's feet, head resting on his foot. There was a scatter of letters on his desk, from one bannorn to another, but his attention returned more than once to the scathed chest opposite of him.

Alistair had every intention to leave the chest be and summon someone to whisk it away to his love's private library, but as he went to continue reading through his letters, a particularly different journal caught his eye. Bound in a sapphire blue cloth and embellished in jewels, the journal was obviously a well thought out gift of some sort and hadn't been bought at a common market like the rest. It was then that the King realized he really didn't know that much about his wife's childhood, or the young woman she was before the Blight. Of course he had never asked, but not because he wasn't curious. After all she had endured, with the massacre of her entire castle, it felt rude to remind her of her former happy life as a Teryn's daughter.

It was that very journal that Alistair plucked from the chest first, very aware just how private the contents may be, but the curious King briefly considered the consequences and decided to take the risk. He immediately recognized the familiar penmanship that belonged to his Queen, slightly slanted and always elegant. He felt a pang of guilt as he prepared himself to read the first page, but the King quickly swallowed down his guiltiness and followed her writing across the page. Just as soon as he got a few words in, the door opened after a short knock.

"Alistair," his uncle, Eamon, came into his office. He had only a moment to stash the journal away in a drawer before the Arl was upon him. "I'm afraid there is some business you must attend to," the graying man announced, not phased by his nephews suspicious behavior.

"Uh—right," Alistair stood and followed his uncle out.

He spent the next couple of hours at his throne, listening to the complaints and requests of his people. Alistair was a fair and just King, beloved by them. He had studied the art of governance when he assumed the throne, but the King would not have gone too far without the aid of his uncle and the never ending support of his wife. The couple were idolized by the country, especially during their outings and tours of Ferelden. If she was only here now. They enjoyed listening to the people together, often whispering sweet nothings to one another between the voices that had come to be heard. Thinking about it had left a silly smile on the King's face for the rest of the task.

By the time the last request was heard, Alistair had missed supper and was eager to get back to the blue journal. He snuck away before his uncle could swoop in with other business, and returned to his office. The King reached into his drawer and retrieved what he had come in for, oblivious to the ox bone Dog had suddenly required. Alistair decided to read in bed, perhaps the only chamber his uncle would not come to bother him in. He strutted down the hallway, nodding at the servants he passed, and nearly running into the very man he was avoiding.

Alistair was humming when he entered the royal bedchamber, feeling rebellious for daring to read his wife's journal. A proud grin was plastered across his handsome features, only to be replaced with a perplexed frown as he closed the door. He was standing in a puddle at his doorway. The King instinctively switched into warden mode. He dropped the journal at a small table and pulled a shield mounted on his wall down, carefully turning the corner. Alistair was no stranger to assassination attempts, and only once was an assassin willing to become his friend.

Cautiously he advanced into the chamber, following the trail of water towards the hearth, alive and warm from a newly started fire—of which he did not start. Alistair saw movement from the corner of his eye and twisted his body away from the intruder, expecting arrows or a blade. Instead it was his wife.

Vesper Cousland's dark umber hair clung to her strong jaw and the length of her neck. Her cloak had failed entirely to keep her dry and she was now drenched entirely from head to toe. The warden had not even attempted to strip herself of her cold and wet clothing, but was instead preoccupied in gazing into the fire. She didn't notice her husband standing there until he nervously cleared his throat and threw down his shield. "Oh, Ali—" immediately the King's lips were on his Queen's, consuming every gasp and moan that left her mouth. He only parted to catch his breath and gaze into his love's dark eyes.

"Welcome home my love," Alistair pressed his forehead against hers.

Vesper panted, "I missed you too."