Quick A/N: Triggering content. Birth and stillbirth. Now that we're past that, enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Chapter 1

The mage loosened the cloak that draped her neck, the cool night breezes a welcome relief from the warmth of the day. A kind moon shone down as she trudged the weary path, the man who walked beside her as silent as the celestial orb. The shuffling of their footsteps overlapped the music of crickets, sultry and romantic in the heat of deep summer.

A now familiar pain blossomed in her abdomen, and the mage slowed, a deep breath catching in her throat. Her agile hands tangled in the fabric of her skirt, a groan breaking the stillness of the evening as she stumbled to a halt.

"Fiona," the man said in a low voice. His gloved hand touched upon the small of her back, offering gentle support. "You're not due for a few weeks yet."

"Tell that to this kid," she managed, stifling the whimper that begged release. The pains had begun early that morning, but she had no desire to birth her child in the woods - she would reach the palace, or die trying. Now the contractions were coming more frequently, and soon she would be unable to walk at all. "Come on, Baltan. I can make it, if you help me."

Without another word the man held out a willing arm, and Fiona clutched it with tense fingers. Her breathing relaxed as the tightness eased within her belly, lips pursing as she shut her eyes in concentration. There was no more talk, and within the hour, they crossed through Denerim's gates.

.oOo.

Maric shoved the stack of papers aside, his head aching in the candlelight. Tired fingers rose to rub circles over eyes gone bleary with strain. Arl Eamon had arrived for a three-week visit, and the niceties that went with hosting, coupled with Loghain's ever-increasing list of demands, had his head spinning.

He'd been trying. Really, he had. And things had improved - Ferelden rallied to what was being hailed by some as "the king's return". Since Rowan's death, he'd been distracted, unhappy, uninterested in his royal responsibilities. His only son was nothing if not a sad reminder of the wife and mother who'd been lost, though since he'd returned from the Deep Roads he'd appreciated the boy more than ever. Cailan was a living tribute to Rowan, with her golden hair and blue eyes. But at six years old, the boy had begun to develop enough of his own personality that Maric could see past the image of his late wife. Nothing pleased the child more than spending time with his father, and Maric loved him a bit more every day.

Though he'd gone into the Roads expecting to die, and perhaps even hoping for it... coming out again in one piece had ensured he appreciated what he had.

Maric pushed back from the desk, stretching as he rose from the carven chair. Making his way to the door, he laid an ear against it, listening for noises from the household. When he was up so late, he could usually count on not being disturbed, but it was always worth a bit of extra caution. All was still, so he threw the bolt and hurried to the closet at the far end of the room. A brass key hung beneath his shirt on a chain, and Maric thumbed it before unlocking the closet door. It had been nearly two weeks since he'd found time to work on his painting, and now he could no longer stand to wait.

Moments later, he had everything assembled, the nearly-completed canvas perched upon a wooden easel, pots of paint ready for mixing and brushes lined up neatly in preparation. His fine shirt had been tossed upon the settee, and a spattered smock was buttoned into place to guard against splotches. Not even the servants knew of his pastime - if they had, doubtless the entire kingdom would know.

Maric had always loved to draw, and painting had become a natural extension of that. Scenery, mostly, things he remembered from his youth, fanciful dreams. One particularly fine piece had gone for auction in Denerim, drawing a noble crowd to the Wonders of Thedas shop. Watching the gentry battle for the prestige of owning "a poor starving artist's masterpiece" had tickled his fancy for months afterward. If he had his way, Denerim's Revered Mother would never know that her painting of the Black City had been done by none other than Ferelden's monarch.

His newest work, though - this wasn't a landscape. Rich mahogany eyes, the shoulder-length hair that curved around her slender face, the dimples that deepened her cheeks... Maric stared, cursing his failing memory, hoping he was getting her right. While it had been less than a year since he'd seen Fiona, it felt more like forever.

To be sure, none had imprinted upon his soul in quite the way she had. Even Rowan had been more like his best friend, their marriage a political thing meant to unite the country. And while his feelings for Katriel had certainly been intense, her betrayal and his reaction to it sullied the memory of her. Fiona, though... "Stress," Loghain's scowling words echoed in his head. "After what you went through, it's no wonder you can't forget that elf. But forget her you should - she's no different than Katriel."

The man couldn't have been more wrong. Which was why he would never know about this painting.

Maric pursed his lips as he peered at the canvas, searching for what needed doing next... her eyes. That was where it lacked depth. Her hair was right, he was certain of it - and her ears, peeking through the rich strands. The curve of her cheek - well, perhaps... he dabbed, adjusting, shading, murmuring to himself, losing track of time as the candles burned down.

When he'd finally finished enough to satisfy the driving urge that took him, Maric wiped his hands upon a rag, surveying his progress. Not bad, but not finished. And her eyes stillweren't right. If only he could see her again... His memory played tricks on him, and though he'd been certain he would never forget her depthless gaze, it faded a bit more with each day that passed.

Moving the easel carefully so as not to disturb his work, he set the assembly within the closet once more, storing everything away until he could steal another few hours to himself. Usually he painted late at night, but even this was a risk with Eamon in the castle. How would the arl react, to see Maric painting a picture of a woman other than his sister? An elvenwoman, no less?

It didn't bear thinking about.

His supplies safely stowed, Maric drew his shirt back on, buttoning it before unlocking the door to his office. Though the hour was late, he wasn't sleepy yet... Making a snap decision, he hurried to his room and snatched up a cloak, tucking a dagger into his boot as he spiraled down the staircase to breeze past the guards standing watch at the entryway.

"Going for a walk, Ted," he called in passing.

A second pair of guards materialized from the shadows to intercept him, their bodies and weapons erecting an unmovable wall. Maric groaned. "Oh, come on," he complained. "Really? We're still doing this?"

"Teyrn Loghain's orders, sire," one of the guards replied in a steadfast voice. "The teyrn threatened us with disembowelment if you escape the castle."

"Well, we wouldn't want that now, would we," Maric drawled, then ground his teeth. This had been going on for months. Since he'd come back from the expedition with the Wardens, Loghain had locked him up tighter than a prized canary. No leaving the castle without an armed guard. No unsupervised walks, even in his own garden. No attending social functions without an escort. Privacy and trust were things of the past, it seemed.

Much as he'd have liked to throw his weight around or drag Loghain from his bed and have it out then and there, in the end it would do no good. Loghain was the Hero of River Dane; the commander of Ferelden's armies, the de facto leader of these men who gave their lives for crown and country. Maric was only the king - and a troublemaker, to boot. If it came to a pissing contest, there was no doubt who the victor would be - especially when it came to the soldiers.

Besides which, Maric could understand Loghain's edict... if he'd had to corral an irresponsible king with a history of wanderlust, he'd probably take to locking the doors, too.

"Damn. Oh well, I suppose I might as well just go to bed," Maric said with a sad sigh, lowering his chin in defeat. "It is late." The yawn was pushing things a bit, but Maric threw it in for good measure anyway before trudging back up the stairs, making a show of taking off his cloak and laying it over his arm.

"Sleep well, majesty," one guard called up after him.

Maric raised a lazy hand in response, not bothering to turn around.

Once he rounded the corner, Maric glanced around. Nothing here, no one there. Good.

It took mere seconds to duck into the proper hallway, and then he flew, keeping his steps as silent as possible in his well-worn boots. There was another exit; a bolt-hole only he knew of, constructed for emergencies so the royals could flee. Loghain would have had kittens if he'd suspected such a breach in security, which was part of what made it fun. Many were Castle Denerim's secrets... he'd have to be certain to teach Cailan all of them one day.

.oOo.

Being out of the palace calmed the restlessness in his soul. Maric felt easier once he was away from the castle, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he gained distance from the standing stones. Denerim's nightlife was quiet, most of the rowdier citizens having taken themselves indoors for private parties or libations among friends. The king eased his hood up and over his face anyway, just in case.

The scorch of the summer's day had given way to the warmth of late evening, a cool breeze tugging playfully at the fabric that billowed near his ankles. Perhaps he'd leave Denerim altogether, wander the mild wilderness that crept up to touch the stone walls of his city. The woods didn't encroach for a few miles; there would be nothing to threaten a capable traveler, not if he kept his eyes open and his wits about him. At worst, he would encounter a cutpurse - one who would only be disappointed, for Maric had no pouch.

Yes, it was a fine plan. Just walk awhile, work some of the energy from his twitchy muscles.

Of course, it would take quite a chunk of luck to make it past the gate, but one obstacle at a time. No use giving up without at least trying.

A long stone walkway curved inward from both sides, funneling those who would exit the city down a narrowing path. The road was otherwise deserted, and Maric might have made a clean exit were it not for the two who entered the gate and shuffled toward him.

Well, not toward him, more like near him. He might have passed them by completely if one of the robed figures hadn't given a short cry and bent at the waist, his companion catching him before he crumpled to the ground.

"Is everything alright?" Maric hastened toward the pair, intent on offering aid.

The unhurt figure scooped his companion up into cradling arms, and then Maric noticed his mistake - the one who'd grunted in pain wasn't male but female, and quite roundly pregnant.

"She's in labor," the man said shortly. "Can you take us to an inn?"

"Of course." Maric beckoned, but then a weakened voice halted him in his tracks.

"Maric... fancy meeting you here."

Chills spread over him as the voice seeped back into his awareness. Maker's breath... he hadn't heard that voice in - he whirled, mouth falling open in shock as the very pregnant female shoved her hood from her face. His surprise couldn't have been greater if Andraste herself had been the one to speak his name.

"Fiona," he breathed.

.oOo.

It was a harried flight back to the palace. The very tunnel Maric had come through moments earlier served as their route; a non-descript door in the middle of the market leading to a moldering storage room. The king palmed a secret panel in the wall, which shifted away to reveal a long, sloping tunnel. Maric cursed his lack of a torch, and the man who carried Fiona muttered beneath his breath in response. A wisp of light appeared before them, dancing ahead to guide them through the darkness. Maric didn't stop to marvel at this, too focused on Fiona's plight to concern himself with banalities like how a mage had made a light. He'd offered to carry Fiona himself but was put off, and settled for leading the way as quickly as possible.

This particular tunnel opened into a small guest room. Fiona's eyes squeezed shut as another teeth-gritting wave took her, and her companion wasted no time in settling her gently upon the modest bed. The room was small in comparison to most of the other guest suites, and now Maric recalled why; it was to keep this very tunnel safe. Tiny, out of the way, far from the center of castle activity - no self-respecting noble would want to be lodged in such a simplistic chamber, thus the tunnel was unlikely to be discovered.

"What can I do?" Maric asked, shrugging out of his cloak and tossing it over the dresser.

"Soft, clean fabric that you don't mind getting rid of after," Fiona's companion ordered in a brusque voice. "An old sheet, well-worn towels, that sort of thing."

"Yes," Maric nodded, a bit overwhelmed as he wondered where the maids might keep such things. He ended up raiding the laundry room, finding a cabinet filled with pieces of fabric in various sizes and shapes, softened by years of washing. A handy basket sat nearby, and Maric grabbed it to carry his find.

When he returned to the suite with the basket, Fiona had been stripped of the cloak and most of her clothing. Nothing but a light linen shift draped her body, loose and sleeveless. She knelt before the bed, head bowed as if in prayer, her body rocking as her fingers dug into the coverlet, white to the knuckles.

"Thank the Maker you've returned. How sound-proof is this room?" the nameless companion demanded as he snatched the basket from Maric's arms.

"As much as any other," Maric stammered, a bit taken aback. "It's somewhat isolated, but-"

The man gave a grand flourish, and a lavender flash of light melted over the walls. "Don't open that door. You'll disrupt the spell. We're clear, Fiona," he called to her.

An earthy, gut-wrenching cry rose from Fiona' throat in response, the agony in her voice tearing Maric's heart in two. Only once before had he heard that sound; when Rowan had birthed their son. But it had come from the other side of a door much like this one... this was rather more close and personal than he was comfortable with. A clutch of clucking females had tended his wife during her time, and Maric's job had been to pace the hallway and cringe whenever Rowan screamed.

Realization settled over him - for all intents and purposes, the room was sealed, with Maric himself its prisoner. A wave of panic washed over him... he was trapped.

The mage lifted a time-softened sheet from the basket and shook it out, then doubled it twice and spread it upon the floor. A few towels followed, then he crossed to Fiona and laid gentle hands upon her back. The whole process took a minute or less, and Fiona's voice had risen and fallen once more as the seconds ticked by. Now she panted in labored breaths, her head drooping.

Maric watched, somewhat suspicious at this whole process. He'd assumed the linens were for... maybe wrapping, or cleaning the new child. But this looked like a nest built upon the floor. Whatever for?

The man crooned to Fiona, smoothing her hair from her face. "Here, dear. You can do it. With me, now." Caring hands urged her to stand, and Fiona gripped his arms, her face contorted as she fought to keep silent. "Maric," the mage ordered as they shuffled over. "Kneel there." With his chin, he indicated the edge of the nest that had been created of old towels and blankets. "You'll have to hold her."

"Me? No," Maric shook his head as he backed up a pace. "I - I have no - I've never -"

"Shut up," Fiona rasped, her eyes opening to pin him with a murderous stare. "Do as - Baltan says-" Her eyes screwed shut again as another contraction threatened to sunder her in two.

Maric hastened to obey, the desperation in Fiona's expression quickening his movements. The mage - Baltan - guided Fiona into a squat, her back leaning against Maric and her hands latching onto his thighs for balance.

"Hold her," Baltan instructed again. "...here." Reaching for Maric's hands, he threaded them beneath Fiona's arms to nestle around her burgeoning belly. "Just support her," he finished as he rolled up his sleeves. "You keep her upright. We'll do the rest."

Maric nodded, his mouth gone dry with apprehension. "Why am I holding her again?" he croaked.

"This is the best position for birthing," Baltan replied in a brisk voice. "This stance allows her hips to open as needed. She's close. Gravity helps, and her body can take care of the rest."

"I swear to Andraste's fucking undergarments I will end you both if you don't shut up!"

Baltan's eyes shone with humor, but he said nothing more, and Maric took his cue from the mage.

Fiona's head lolled against his chest, sweat beading on her forehead. Intense concentration puckered her brow, and Maric felt her entire body clench in preparation for another contraction. Maric found himself tensing with her, anxiety tightening his jaw.

"Breathe through it, Fiona," Baltan urged. "Just as we discussed. Don't fear this. Move with it, pass through it. You're a strong woman, powerful; this is nothing you can't do..." the mage continued to speak low encouragement, his lilting voice soothing to Maric as well. Starkhaven, perhaps? There was a musical intonation to his words. The man knew his trade, that was certain, though Maric hadn't been aware there were male midwives.

"You're a healer?" Maric asked during a short lull.

"Aye," Baltan replied, his eyes on Fiona.

"Can't you... um, can you do anything for her?" Maric stroked one hand over Fiona's arm, his heart twisting at the way she quivered with exhaustion and discomfort.

Baltan shook his head, his calm expression unchanging, his voice quiet. "Something blocks my magic. She's doing this without magical aid, and anyway she needs it not." Fiona gave a weak chuckle at this last bit, and Baltan's hand found hers.

Minutes passed, Fiona's control wavering in and out as she approached the moment of birth. Maric felt every pain with her, her fingernails driving straight into his legs as she bore down. Without a doubt, he'd be bruised for a week... such strength from such a tiny female! It began the same way each time; Fiona would hunch in his arms, her muscles trembling with pressure for a long breath before she went limp in his embrace. Each contraction had its high and low, and Maric fell into the rhythm of it, bound up in the miracle unfolding before his eyes.

This woman... this fierce, wonderful woman. Oh, how he'd missed her. Their connection hadn't had much of a foundation or chance to grow, but she'd been branded upon his heart, always hovering at the back of his mind. Ferelden's winter had been in its infancy when they'd met, their brief affair taking place mere weeks later in the Deep Roads. Snows had melted, the flowers of spring leading to the fruit of summer. Nearing nine months since then, and if she was here - in this moment - it could only mean...

...this child was his.

Of course he'd known. The moment he saw her, he'd known. But now, adding the dates up in his head - there could be no other possibility. Why would she come here, unless he was the father?

Suddenly, there was nowhere else Maric wanted to be.

Fiona's head tipped back upon his shoulder, agony cramping her voice as she begged. "I can't... I can't, Baltan..."

"You are," he argued. "You're already doing it! Feel, Fiona... The babe is almost here. Don't give up now!"

Fiona whimpered, the sound wracked with desolation. "No... please, Baltan, please."

"You can do it," Maric whispered. His hand sought hers, and his lips grazed her temple. "I believe in you..."

Fiona seemed not to hear him, but her fingers wound with his as she steeled herself once more. Whether it was Maric's encouragement or simply good timing, he would never know, but seconds later Baltan reached for another towel as Fiona's infant squalled his first.

"Well done," Baltan laughed, dark eyes shining with joy. "Fiona, it's a boy!"

"A boy," Fiona replied in a limp voice, sagging against Maric, their fingers squeezing. The king's eyes rounded, watching in amazement as Baltan cleaned the new baby with capable hands. Fiona's head rested upon Maric's shoulder, her fingers tightening with his as his other hand rose to sweep the hair from her face. Warmth tingled against his palm, Fiona's fingers sparkling. "My magic..." she murmured, sounding amazed. "Baltan, it's back."

"Careful, then," Baltan cautioned. "The body has specific processes it must go through after birth... lessen your discomfort if you must, but disrupt nothing. You came through with a fair amount of ease."

Fiona nodded, closing her eyes. Flickers of light danced over her body and her tension drained away, her eyes opening a moment later with a relieved smile. "It's been months since I could do that," she uttered with a laugh.

Maric hardly noticed, so focused was he on the tiny life in Baltan's hands. He loosed a stuttering breath as the babe was passed into Fiona's arms, the two of them sinking fully to the floor as Fiona cradled her son. A few quiet moments passed while Baltan dissolved the muting spell blanketing the room and tucked a bit more padding around Fiona... apparently, there was blood involved in birth, though it seemed odd to him that it came after the baby. Concern wrinkled Maric's brow, but Fiona seemed so relaxed now... was this normal, then? Baltan must have sensed his worry, for a reassuring smile lifted the corners of the man's mouth, once again easing Maric's fears. The king relaxed as well, holding Fiona as gently and surely as she held her baby, his heart overflowing with wonder.

"He'll want to nurse," Baltan instructed, then undid the buttons on Fiona's shift to allow access to her chest. Maric supported them both as the healer guided her hesitant hands, assisting her with this unfamiliar task. The baby was alert, his eyes open and staring as he latched, his mouth working furiously to gain his first nourishment. Fiona seemed nervous, but her confidence grew as the minutes passed and the baby did nothing but eat.

"He's amazing," Maric murmured in awe. "Look at him..." He reached a tentative hand out to cup the crown of his son's head. Dark hair beckoned his fingers, soft as satin. The boy's cheek was too tender to be real - had Cailan been this fragile? Perhaps, he thought, remembering. I was barely allowed near him... "He's just... look at him! Fiona, look at this. Look atus." A breathless laugh tumbled from Maric's throat, his arms tightening around her in adoration and pride. He hardly knew what to do, so filled with joy that any moment he might start spilling over.

"Maric... I have something to tell you," Fiona murmured.

"Hmm?"

"You're going to be a father," she whispered.

Maric's eyes brimmed as he pressed his lips to her temple in response.

An hour later, Fiona and the tiny boy had been tucked into bed, both happy to sleep after the exhaustion that being born entailed. Baltan followed him out into the hallway, and Maric trembled with his own fatigue as he closed the door, preparing to head to his own bed.

"You'll come back in the morning?" Baltan asked.

"Of course," Maric said. "I... there's so much I want to say and ask. But now probably isn't the time."

"I can tell you some," Baltan said. "But you look as though you might drop at any moment. I don't imagine you'd planned on assisting with a birth today."

"It wasn't on my agenda, no," Maric agreed. One hand raked through his tawny hair. "Of course, it's nothing compared to what Fiona's feeling, I imagine."

"She's tough, she'll be terrorizing me in a few days," Baltan chuckled. "Sleep, Your Majesty. Time for questions and answers in the morning. Fiona and I aren't going anywhere."

With this promise, Maric dragged himself to bed, his heart full and his mind overwhelmed. Without a doubt, one of the more dizzying evenings of his life. Thoughts whirled through his head, spinning themselves in circles like a Mabari chasing its tail, and to just as much purpose. Exhaustion threatened to topple him over, but he merely sank to the mattress, sitting for a moment before he prepared for bed and snuffed the candle. Morning would come too soon, but bleary eyes were nothing to the knowledge that Fiona was in the castle, that his son - his son! - had been born this night. Nay... morning. He'd left the curtain open, and already the sky seemed less black, dawn creeping up by inches and centimeters. Perhaps two hours remained before sunrise. "Seventeenth Matrinalis," he whispered... the date would never be ordinary again.