A/N: The Third Part. The End.

Obscenely late and obscenely long.

Good lives are gold like the oldest story

Will mine be told while I'm still young and horny?

I know my role is to be all confusion

Set the clock back, we're not growing old

Promise that forever we will

Never get better at growing up

And learning to lie

Promise it

Eve 6, Good Lives

They looked at each other, very aware of their own nudity beneath the heavy blankets and fur. The bed creaked as they adjusted themselves, trying to avoid even having their legs touch. Foolish, what with what was to come, but they seemed to have little control over the tension. There were many things that could have been said, to either comfort themselves or make the situation worse. He could have asked about the child she was to have, and she could have tease him about never having a woman in his bed before.

Yet they said nothing, and looked around the room to avoid making eye contact. Truly trying to admire the statues of the dogs lining the walls, the tapestry on the walls, the pattern of stones the room was made of.

She found herself trying not to fake a sniff and only send him fleeing from the room, and he kept trying not to clear his throat.

One more night, and then tomorrow they might die. Every hour passing could be their last if the darkspawn decided to attack early, if a scout was wrong, if the soldiers tried to rebel. The air was heavy with these facts.

Another minute seemed to physically drain from the room.

Eventually, one of them said, "Well. Let's get this over with."

Alistair looked down at his child, his heir, his beautiful wonderful baby that already was strong and bold enough to grab for his finger with a tiny helpless hand and cling to him. The ex-Warden, ex-Templar held the recently born and swaddled infant up. Surprisingly, the newborn didn't begin screaming. Already, the baby trusted Alistair and looked to him for protection from the world. "We'll just call you...Duncan?"

"We are not calling our daughter that."

"Awww. Duncana?"

"No."

"Well, what do you suggest?"

"...Loghaina?"

"Now you're joking." He squinted at her in the morning light streaming through the opened curtains. The summery air smelled refreshing, especially in comparison to the stuffy room. "Right?"

"Caitlan? Moira?"

"Moira? Yeah. Yeah, how about that?" The King gazed down at his daughter. "Do you like that?"

"Are you truly expected a reply?" Despite her words, Anora's smile was sweet and indulgent.

"Well. Maybe?" Blue eyes gazed back at his own face, uncomprehending. He cradled her tiny round head, touching the thin flaxen hair wondered what exactly was going through that skull, if anything. 'Who was this weirdo picking her up and making faces? Who's this big hairy thing talking to me? Where's my mother? Where's my breakfast?'

Did she even realize she'd been born yet? She looked so strong and sure of herself, already. Her mother's daughter.

Moira grabbed at another of his fingers.

"Hey, there. Ready to pick up a sword, already?

"No? Oh, I get it; you're more of a fan of archery. Your mother's the same way.

"Look at her, she's falling asleep again." Alistair held the baby out to show Anora.

"I'm not surpised." The Queen yawned politely behind a graceful slim hand. "I think I'll join her for a nap."

"Should I put her in the cradle? Or is she safe in the bed?"

The new mother looked around the large wooden bed, and imagined the baby immediately falling off and cracking her soft skull on the rough stone floor. "Put her in the cradle."

"Mmm, goodnight, baby." Gently, hoping not to scratch her with his rough whiskers, Alistair kissed Moira's forehead and tucked her into the small, safe crib. She didn't seem to notice the change in location. He looked at her for a long moment, watery eyed and feeling a suffocating weight on his chest of undying, unwavering love and loyalty. Not unlike the sensation of following Duncan or Aedan into a dangerous battle, but with fewer flaming arrows aimed his way. But knowing that you would follow them into death and would do so without a second glance.

His daughter. Whom he would take a mace in the skull for even if she couldn't hold her head up or even really open her eyes much. This tiny thing who he would protect no matter what. I'm your Daddy. I'm a Father. And I can even cry in front of you with without shame.

"Alistair. Stop weeping when you're standing over her like that. You're going to get her wet."

Sniffling, the King looked at his wife.

In one of her rare signs of open affection, she held her arms out. Even with the dark circles under her eyes, hair frizzy and coming out of their braids, a waxen color to her cheeks, Anora was beautiful. Never had she looked more radiant, truly. Her smile was as gorgeous as the sun rising this morning, as the sound of the baby wailing for the first time and showing her powerful her lungs were already.

They'd all been so afraid...

"Come to bed. I missed you."

"Oh, did you." As usual, the right words refused to come. He could only shuffle wet-cheeked to her side, and cup a soft cheek with hands that were too rough, too unwieldy for such a gesture. "I missed you as well."

"Everything's fine now. Perfect." Her head was falling against the pillow, hand reaching up to hold Alistair's in place. Keeping him close.

"Absolutely perfect..."

Smoke rose in the air, and they glanced at the unused fireplace. Then their eyes followed the smoke to the source.

"Oh, Maker!" Alistair grabbed a flagon of water resting on the bedside table and ran towards the crib. When scooped up, his daughter only goggled and grabbed at a amulet dangling from her father's neck. Quickly, the King glanced over her to make sure she was unharmed, then passed Moira to her mother before emptying the flagon onto the blankets and pillows and stuffed animals. Odors of different types of singed fur filled the air.

Anora sat up, holding the baby to her chest. For once, she appeared so lost that she looked to her husband for answers. "...did she just set her bedding on fire?"

Aedan had been strolling past the burnt out shell of the building when he heard a noise that made him do a frantic, bug-eyed search. The noise itself wasn't necessarily meaningful in the slums; since when weren't their crying babies in this part of town? But coming from the ruined house...

He told himself to calm his beating heart. People lived in such squalor all the time. Entire families huddled beneath rotting wood nailed together in even worse conditions. Probably was a baby with its family.

Just like all the others.

But what if, this time, this time...?

Slowly, the Grey Warden swallowed and shifted his lanky limbs and large feet forward. His big hands, one of Zevran's reported favorite features about him, were held harmlessly out. No weapon, no spooked elves wondering if he was there to kill/rob them. He tried to turn his face from that wild, spooked-horse his lover complained of him suffering from recently into something normal. A nice, wide smile.

But he'd never been very good at those.

His mother constantly had to remind him to smile for portraits or meeting new guests, especially noble families with young daughters. 'Aedan. Stop making that horrified face. Look normal, won't you?' 'Please, Aedan, take a break from switching dance partners with every song and find a girl to talk to for the evening. I mean it. Just one.' 'Son, why did you ignore Delilah Howe's attempt at talking to you alone, and spend most of the evening talking to the elf servants?'

How Fergus would punch him in the shoulders and laugh and say that his little brother thought girls were gross. And as years passed, the punching stopped and he got raised eyebrows instead. 'Hey, Aedan, maybe you should stop swinging that sword around/put down that old history book and talk to some girls so Mom stops worrying about grand kids?' When his older brother married, it was a big sigh of relief to the entire family.

He wondered how his family, his parents anyway, would have reacted to meeting Zevran. Fergus had just nodded knowingly when learning who this elf was to his brother, looking almost smug despite his hollowed cheeks and circles under his eyes. He hadn't seemed to even pay attention to what Zev had been saying, babbling easily about how they'd met, how well he and Aedan got along, how they very much enjoyed each other's company...

All Fergus had to say was, "Ah. I see." Looking annoyingly superior even after his younger brother knocked his wine onto his tunic. Only changing his expression when Zevran clapped his hands with a big smile and inquired whether or not now would be a good time to ask for the chances of a threesome occurring.

The Warden shoved burned timber aside with a booted foot, bringing forth his parent's well loved and remembered faces. 'Ah. This is your...friend?'

'Is he from...Antiva?'

'You met...when he tried to kill you?'

Taking in everything from the honey-blonde hair in neat braids to the intricately patterned boots that Aedan had found for Zevran and presented as a way of making the assassin feel more wanted and trusted-giving it to him as a way of showing friendship and not knowing until later that the elf saw it as some gesture of wooing that the Warden wasn't aware of, and that this unknowingness only made him look more irresistible to the man who'd tried to kill him less than a fortnight ago. Their eyes growing larger and larger, and more desperate as they looked to their youngest, their sweetest, the pup of the family even as he grew six inches in roughly a year and no longer fit into his old clothes and wasn't even allowed anymore to sit on his mother's lap out of fear he'd seriously wound her. An inconsolable fact to a overly needy, apron-string tied twelve-year-old who didn't understand why he now had to wear his older brother's clothes and had to shave three times a week, but wasn't allowed to play House with the smaller children of Highever or sleep in the same bed as his parents.

The dear baby of the family, even as he continued to grow, even after defeating the Archdemon (which you would think that in order to beat the Blight, you'd finally be done with such things) and eventually towering a few inches over his own big older brother, who would look up at him dumbfounded and irrationally angry over the fact. Which, Zevran told him once, was also another turn on. "You in that fancy leather and scale armor, with all those men and woman looking up at you...And when you shove me onto that big fancy desk of yours, and tower over me..."

But he was older now, no longer the tall boy who'd wept when having his toys and stuffed animals ripped away, clutching his raspy cheeks while crying. He was a grown man, who no longer had to pretend to play House with a doll as a child.

Now his face was split in a manic, bulging-eyed grin.

Most knew him around here as someone to come to with problems. But new refugees and immigrants crawled into the slums every day. Best to be safe.

Go in there and check to see if they need any help. A wardrobe that needs to be moved. A cat on a high branch to be scared out. Food. Water. Medicine. Money for a new house.

Maybe someone to take an extra mouth off their hands?

Oh, please, please? And they were probably elves, as well. Zevran might like that more than a human baby. It might soften him up a little more. Tiny, pointed ears..

How could he say no?

If anyone had seen him, they probably would have thought he was a pervert peaking through the shell of a window. Or a robber. Or a murderer looking for a place to stash a body. Either way, no one said a word.

So no one stopped him when he slipped through the ruined front door, past the fallen beams and torn wood, and found a pair of elves died of fever days ago, and a starving little knife-eared baby screaming weakly for help.

Zevran huddled beneath his foot-deep pile of furs, blankets, and bedding, and tried not to shiver or have his teeth chatter too loudly. Once, the sound of his knees knocking together had awoken his bedmate, who complained bitterly upon being woken up so early and with his back still sore. Did Zevran understand that he was tired after a long day of training recruits?

Besides him, dressed in simple roughspun trousers, the Warden luckily slept easily.

But then, he'd grown up in such conditions. From the stories Aedan had told him, he'd been raised to make snow angels, had been swaddled in fur as a baby, and had his beloved Dog (who slept at the foot of the bed, and had to be asked politely to leave when they wanted to be alone) besides him as a boy to keep him warm. Together, the children of Highever would have snowball wars and laugh at some unfortunate soul new to the area who'd been tricked into licking a lamppost.

The elf couldn't help but think he'd become that foolish soul, if not physically, then metaphorically.

His own boyhood had been spent in the sun, frolicking in the sandy shade, watching air shimmer above exploding garbage left in the gutters, dodging spiders falling from the rotting greed ponds dressed in light silk or cotton with the other children. They'd mock the sunburnt foreigner who collapsed in the heat to sizzle on the paved pathways.

Most of them had and never would see snow, even as they grew up. If they had grown up.

And yet, here he was, a proud Antivan, born and raised, in this freezing, unforgiving north of crude Fereldon, sharing a bed with a high-born lordling hero whom had saved an entire nation and whom Zevran had no plans to murder and/or blackmail. No one could have seen such a thing coming. Especially not Zevran.

What's more, this was far from the strangest aspect of his life.

-Was that frost growing up there, on the ceiling? How was that even possible? Shouldn't the dying fire in the grate prevent that much?

As always, the dogs' head carvings on the wall snarled at him.

When he pressed his cheek against Aedan's shoulder, the skin there was as icy as a dead man. He had to check for a pulse, just to be certain no one had slipped him poison. You couldn't be too careful.

Zevran pulled the heavy, thick arm of his lover around his shoulders. I was sent here to kill this man. That was...what, four years ago now? Five? Eh. How time flies.

And, what's more, I have no intention of leaving him. How odd. Zevran studied Aedan's calloused fingers. The room's temperature seemed to be dropping with every second of consciousness.

I thought I'd be dead by now. But you, oh no, you had to be merciful. The fingers were icicles against his lips. And of course, in return, you dragged me around the countryside to kill darkspawn and dragons until I was won over by your charming smile and I won you over with...well, one day you'll tell me. I suspect it was the dazzling way I look in a skirt. And the braids.

We killed everyone in our way. And everything was fine and wonderful in the world!

But then. But then you wanted to start a family.

On cue, the door opened.

A pair of dark eyes stared him down, pleading. In his thick furs, he looked more like Aedan. With or without the tell-tale pointy-ears that all elves possessed. His usually neat, black hair was ruffled from sleep.

My first born.

"Good morning, Bryce."

"Daa-aaaddyyy!"

Somehow, the noise didn't wake up the Hero of Fereldon. If anything, the snoring increased.

"Did you have another bad dream?"

His son's little head shook, and he tiptoed closer to the bed. Dog turned his head to sniff at the boy, but otherwise made no other movement.

"Is Daddy awake?"

"Aedan? Your other father?"

"Uh-huh." The boy's slipper were shaped like mabari.

"Did the cold wake you? No?"

Rebecca did not do this, this waking up and creeping into their bedroom to wake his parents up. Only tiny Bryce, their first child, had problem sleeping. He was a needy little thing, as though he could remember losing his first parents and feared losing the second pair.

But everyone, Wynne, Leliana, Nathaniel, Anders, all agreed that he couldn't recall anything at that age.

Bringing this boy home had caused the biggest argument they'd ever had aside from the day that Zevran had finally come back to Amarathine and his Warden. Aedan had been all tensed, uncomfortable smiles while introducing his old friend to the new Wardens. Nodding seriously to all the remarks while his lover practically hung from his arm. 'Yes. This is the elf. The one Oghren talks about. Yep.'

The tanned elf had been all aglow, pleased to have his beloved partner and better half at his side. He'd practically been bouncing around, in joy and love, sneaking in to kiss his Warden's recently shaved smooth cheek. How he'd missed that!

"As I said, nothing will tear us away!"

The odd smile on his almost delicate, handsome face. "Not even sharp razor blades."

"Extra, extra sharp ones!"

After a surprisingly delicious dinner, leading him away, twittering like a fool about his adventures, about Antiva, about the gifts he'd brought for his favorite Warden. The aforementioned Grey Warden mostly silent except for telling the Antivan where his room was.

Now, he could only wince when recalling how he'd dug through his bags to show off the bottles of brandy, the statues, the oils and ointments and poison, shiny armor and new leather boots and how he'd gotten the old gloves relined.

"New leather boots? As in, you replaced the old ones?"

"Well, yes. I, uh, had a nasty fall off a roof and into the bay. The boots were ruined. Ah. Aedan?"

"I see." All stony sounding. Face expressionless.

Zevran had jumped into the Warden's lap. "What, as though you didn't change your armor? It suits you, you know. Brings out the color of your eyes.

He'd stroked along one cheek. "Mm, your pretty eyes...I missed you, so much. What's wrong, don't I get a homecoming kiss?"

The room, chilly, turned even colder. "You expect everything to be the same? After what you did?!"

"I did?"

"You...do you have any idea what I went through without you? I nearly died, a dozen times. More.

"You—you just left for Antiva. Like you were going on holiday, while I had to go north to Amarathine to do my duty."

"Warden, now, you agreed that it was a good idea to take care of the Crows. And I did so."

The hand that cupped his face was not gentle. Making Zevran look at him. His eyes were also lacking distinctly in warmth. The voice all dull. "You also said you'd be back before now.

"What, did you find someone new to spend your nights with? Forgot about me? I know how much you enjoy your Antivan women."

Stupidly, Zevran had still been sitting on the Warden's lap. He pulled the taller man's hand away. "You are accusing me of...cheating on you? How dare you?" He'd still been trying to smile, to cheer his Warden up.

"Aedan. I would never hurt you that way."

"I'm sure. Sharp razor blades."

And it felt as though he was pricking Zevran all over with them.

"Aedan..."

"What?"

"Don't pout. Look at me. Look at me."

"Stop it."

"You think I'm going to let you slander my good name?"

"Stop it. Don't joke about this."

Aedan's refusal to even look him in the eye only made Zevran grow angrier. "As though you didn't have any dalliances when I saw gone? I never touched anyone, except with my dagger."

"But...I did?"

"You think I didn't see the way you looked at him!"

"Who?"

"The blonde one! The one with the stupid beard who talked to his cat. The mage."

"Anders?" Aedan had blinked, dumbfounded. "You think he and I are..."

"Why not?"

"Because I stayed loyal!"

"Implying I did not!? I never touched anyone after you brought me into your tent. It's just been you. Only you. How." he'd laughed uneasily, tired. "How could anyone even compare to you?

"But you have plenty of others following you about. All those other Wardens look up to you; I bet any of them would kill to share your bed. Have none of them offered? Yes, I thought so.

"Mm, my poor Warden. You thought I was in Antiva, frolicking with a pretty whore or two. Instead of hiding in a cave, fighting Crows?"

"You were hiding in a cave, you?"

"My time with you has taught me to rough it outdoors."

"You seem to have survived it."

They leaned towards each other, slowly blinking.

"Look. Perhaps I was a little quick..."

"Never thought you'd admit to that in the bedroom."

"-But you just left. For a long time. All I got was a letter. A short one. That entire time."

"As though you sent me pounds and pounds of letters."

"I had no way of contacting you. But you knew where I was."

"I was on the run. There wasn't many time to write letters."

"You picked up plenty of gifts though."

"These, these were given to me."

"By admirers?"

"Fans. Nothing more. Followers. Just like your little Warden friends. Like that mage. The one who likes talking to his cat. How did you manage to find even odder companions than last time?"

"You'd be surprised how easy it was."

"I'm sure. My own little group of travelers were the usual greedy, unhappy sort that enjoyed killing. The ones you usually find in the Crows. Have you been working out?" Zevran squeezed a shoulder. "You look bigger."

The Warden still had that cringing, little boy look to him. "You look the same. No. Your hair is brighter. And a little longer."

"I've been spending time out in the sun. And I haven't had much time for a haircut. Unlike you."

"I did miss you. That annoying, nonstop mouth."

"I missed you as well. You look handsomer than you used to. Really growing into your face. Or perhaps absence makes the hurt grow fonder? Want a sip of my brandy?

"Let's loosen that fancy armor up a little, shall we? See. All you needed was a drink? Can I finally give you that massage now?

"...Did you get taller?"

"You just never shut up, do you?"

There was eye fluttering, touching, undressing, all playing in Zevran's mind now, years later. Touching and relearning each other's bodies. Embracing. Admiring new scars. Holding hands randomly and stroking each other's fingers. By tomorrow, waking up in a warmish bed wrapped in blankets and the other's arms, everything would be forgiven. Cuddling and sleeping in, telling and showing how much they love each other until the other Grey Wardens knocked on the door to know whether or not their commander was alive or not. "Maker, Commander, were you moving furniture up there, all night?"

Yet all that had been nothing compared to the fights and arguments about having children.

He stroked his son's fine hair away from his small forehead, pulling the boy into the bed. At the least, he would be warm. This tiny child, who'd changed his entire life before he could even manage a word.

Aedan had always wanted a family. Though he had an obvious, almost crippling disinterest in women, kids had always been a big hope for his future. He would look at the children and babies, making stupid faces that he'd otherwise never be caught dead wearing. Then he'd give this gooey look to Zevran, who would immediately grow cold inside. Even more so when he was confronted with a poor orphan child.

"Zevran, please, please?"

"Put the baby down, Warden, and walk away."

"But it needs parents!"

"Hand the infant over to the elf elder, and walk away."

"But, Zeeevvvyyy-"

And then Zevran would have to take the child away and hand him over before Aedan could grow even more attached. The stares they got as they made their way from the falling down slums, a blonde, tan exotic elf leading a tall, well-built human who kept pleading for a baby, just one. Just one baby.

The tan elf held his son to his chest and laughed bitterly. Just one baby.

When Morrigan, damn her, had arrived with her twin Miniature Alistair's in toll, the bridge holding his relatively stable attempts at being fatherless snapped and sent him tumbling towards his family.

The day after the dark-haired woman settled in, Aedan had carefully, trying for casualness, asked what Zevran might think of having kids. The blonde man had sat on the edge of their bed, tugging on boots, froze. His eyes grew large and unseeing.

"Children?"

"Yeah. You know. A few. We could adopt. Plenty of orphans running around." That disturbing, wishful, jubilant expression was on the Warden's face. Something deep inside snapped in the assassin's head.

"We. Are. Not. Having. Children!" Zevran nearly threw the boot at his lover's head.

"What, what's wrong? Why not? I like kids. You like kids. Morrigan's having kids. Alistair's married. I bet even Sten's back home, taking care of little Stens."

"I do not want any little Aedan's and Zevran's running around, underfoot. Getting into my poisons. Wrecking everything. Being held hostages or used for blackmail."

"What are you talking about?"

"That's what children are for, Aedan! That's all they do! That's all I know what to do with kids!"

"...what?"

"I don't know how to be a father! Yes, you feed them and pat them on the back when they manage not to stab themselves that day, I know that much. But what if they get sick? Or...don't like me?"

"Any kids would love you! I love you."

"Don't you give me that." Zevran glared at the taller man. "I did not sign on for any kids, Warden."

"I like kids though. I want to have children. Now."

"It's too dangerous. You are a Grey Warden with the biggest list of enemies I've ever heard of, and I'm a highly trained assassin. Are you saying the two of us would make good parents?"

"Are you saying we wouldn't? Zevran, I love you, and I trust you. I trust you with any kids we might have."

"I don't."

"Trust me, or-"

"Trust myself. Aedan. What are you thinking? I have on my belt five knives. One of which has poison on it. Do you see me with a small infant? Should I give it the poison-covered knife to teeth on?"

"Well. No."

"That's all I can offer it. It's all I can offer anyone. Including you." He thought it over. "No. Wait. I can give you mind-numbingly exquisite sex."

The Warden's startling laughter almost made Zevran begin glaring all over again. "You're scared of having a few kids-"

"A few? A few?"

"To take care of. Zevran, you nearly wiped out the Crows. You're incredible. You've killed nearly as many darkspawn as I have. There's no one I'd rather have at my side in an emergency."

The elf was still having trouble breathing regularly. "'A few kids'. Is that what you said. A few?"

Aedan looked him over, tenderly. "You're going to make a great dad."

"How many children are you planning to bring into your life, Aedan? How many?"

"This is going to be great. We're going to make awesome parents."

Zevran snapped, grabbing for the Warden's throat, hissing out, "Answer me!"

"Morrigan can babysit for us. We can raise the kids together."

Not even the shorter man's desperate shaking could wipe Aedan's smile off.

"How many kids!?"

"As many as you want, babe."

"Oh, now you decide to you use a nickname on me? You will tell me how large this 'family' you're planning on having will be."

"I dunno. Honestly. I don't know." Honest gray eyes looked down at him from a peaceful, graceful face. "How many do you want?"

"None! Zero!"

"I think at least two. Two, right?"

"No! You're not listening to me!"

"Sure I am. But I'm listening to you." Gently, Aedan pushed a scarred, dangerous hand against his chest. "I'm listening to you. In here. Beneath the fear and panic."

"Me?" Zevran looked down blankly at the large-knuckled hand.

The Warden's voice was all sweetness. "Yes. The calm you, the one that wants to be a father to my children. That you."

"That me. That...me." For a second, the Crow was serene. For a second, the Warden had him convinced.

That's how good and overall amazing the Hero of Fereldon really way.

"That me that does not exist!"

Aedan jumped a little. "Of course he does."

"Warden. You are not listening! I do not want to have children. Not with anyone. Even you. Whom I do, truly, love. Deep down."

His beautiful, sculpted face was one that only the turncoat murderer Howe, the Warden's father after taking away his favorite doll before telling his youngest that he couldn't share a bed with his parents anymore, and the Archdemon before getting a sword in the throat had seen before. A hideous look of determination that foretold the being before him that they were about to be defeat, in a horrible, horrible way. It spoke of upcoming utter failure on the other person's part, and that they were soon rue the day they had crossed the Grey Warden Aedan Cousland.

Zevran slowly removed his hands from the Warden's neck.

"I do love you. Not so deep down. Remember when you said you wanted me to say that more? Well. I love you. Lots and lots.

"Bundles of love.

"Aedan?"

"Zevran."

They stared at each other, one obviously more frightened than the other.

"You didn't sign on for any children? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yes." Now he couldn't remove from his thoughts of the stories Fergus had told the assassin of the youngest Cousland. 'He made this awful face, just awful. So bad that even Father backed away. But he took Aedan's old doll with him, and well...'

"Zevran. We're going to have a child together. Not, you know, literally. But we'll raise one. Together."

"No," Zevran responded, slowly. 'He shouldn't have done that. That's all I'll say.'

"Look. Zev. We're going to have a child."

"I don't want a child."

'In retrospect, it shouldn't have been so surprised that he was able to defeat the Archdemon.'

"Well. Too bad. We're going to have one."

'Luckily, the servants stopped him before he could set fire to our parent's room.

"No. I'm putting my foot down. I don't want a child. You owe me that much, Warden."

'...But not before he could get to the trebucket. Took three years to repair the damages.'

"Owe you. Is...did I hear you correctly?"

'Eventually, they wrestled the sword from him and untied Ser Gilmore. And those elves weren't hurt; Aedan was just bluffing.'

"Yes. I don't want to raise a child with you. That's final."

"You owe me this! After all I've done for you! Do you think I forgot how you tried to kill me!"

"Well. You fought back and nearly killed me. I had a concussion."

"You swore to promise to be my man, Zevran."

"But not the father of your children! I think I would have recalled that, concussion or not."

"After all we've been through, the people we're murdered, the dragons slaughtered, the darkspawn beaten, now you're say you've had enough?"

"Yes! Find some other blonde elf to procreate with! Find someone else who wants to raise your child!"

'Dad refused to negotiate with him though. Wouldn't give into his own son, said it would set a bad precedent. So he just set fire to the doll while Aedan watched. Hah. I wonder if Howe was actually the one to kill Father. No. No, that would be insane.' The last words had been said into Fergus' ale cup.

"I want kids, Zevran! This is not a joke!"

"Who is joking? I am most certainly not."

"I went to Antiva to save you. Dealt with that horrible weather-"

"How dare you!"

"Ate all those pounds of fish. Searched the most filthy alleyways, the most debauched whorehouses, dirty theatres, tiny cramped caverns, slithered through literal holes in the ground, scoured the lowest, dirtiest bars-"

"Aedan. I was staying at a perfectly nice little inn in the middle of the city."

"Yeah! How was I supposed to know that! You were too working on your tan, and busy eating your extra-spicy food to send me a letter telling me where you were!"

"The letters. Always with the postage."

"You mean, lack thereof!"

"I did not send you enough postcards. I know. I know."

"I go throughout the city and countryside seeking you, only to find you in the middle of the tourist-y part, sunning yourself and talking to some travelers about how nice the weather was that day."

"It was very pleasant weather!"

"I got a snake bite going through the forests!"

Zevran held his arms out, clearly lost over the unreasonableness. "I offered to suck the poison out."

"And the sunburns. Maker! The sunburns!"

"I rubbed lotion on those, now, Warden."

"To get into my pants. That's all you ever cared about."

"Your pants?"

"Don't play cute."

"You never want to play! It's always seriousness with you. And...you're very unaffectionate. I'm the one coming up with things to do, reaching out for you, the one to start the cuddling. It's very stressful, at time. You just go along with things. It puts," The blonde man struggled to find the right words. "It puts stress on me."

"Hah. Ha. You want to talk about stress."

"Yes. Here comes the martyr act. Let me go get the nails. Please. Go on about how no one understands you and everyone depends on you. Please. Continue." There was large gesturing hand movements to make his point.

"Are you saying that people don't depend on me? That I'm not the Commander of the Grey Wardens? One of the only few left? That I have to rebuild the order, and find and train recruits? The people constantly come to me for help?"

"Where's the hammer?"

"Knock it off."

"As though you don't love the attention. Like you didn't wander the countryside, offering to help every damn orphan with a skinned knees."

"None of you even talk to me about my own issues. Everything just relates back to you."

"Okay. Just stretch out both arms, long and wide now. Put your back against the wall. No. We can do it right here, using the bed frame."

"Shut up! No one even asks about my mother, for Maker's sake. No, wait, one person did. Morrigan. And when I told her how she'd died and that I loved her, she felt bad. Do you understand? Are you listening? Morrigan is whom I go to to talk with about my issues. And she talks to the damn goat."

"As though you ever open up with us."

"What, am I supposed to just blurt out that I feel awful and need someone to talk to? Run to you and act all upset? No. I'm not like the rest of you. I'm better than that."

"You're just cut off, emotionally." Zevran hated, hated, using that word. But that's how the Warden often was, just blinking and staring, looking nonplussed constantly. At worse, distantly sad. He most definitely hadn't talked much about his parents, except during a long night when he'd gotten drunk and wept over wanting his mother back. And Zevran, wisely, hadn't brought it up the following morning.

"Emotionally? What does that mean?"

"Your face. It's dead. It's just dead, so very often. And you sometimes have such little emotion in your voice. You just nod and say nice things to everyone, and swallow all those emotions up."

"Well, I won't do that anymore."

"Good. Maker. Even now. Move your mouth more. And your eyebrows. And make some movement with your hands. You're not a block of stone!"

"Stop it! Don't touch me!"

"Oh, sorry. Is your Mommy the only one allowed to pinch your cheek? Do you want her here to tell you all about how special you are, and unique? Do you wish she was here to tuck you and give you back your favorite doll."

There was a horrified, haunted, haunting look on Aedan's face that said, basically: yes, yes I do wish that.

No wonder he wanted kids to play Mother to.

Later, Zevran would find it adorable, sweet, nurturing. But for now he found himself wishing the his lover wasn't so attached to his mother or at least not so obviously so. Maker, this was why he didn't talk about the woman with Aedan. Ahhh, his lower lip was trembling.

"Oh Maker. I'm sooo sorry I don't hold your hand enough! Or move my face. What does that even mean? We're not all flamboyant, gesturing about with every conversation that always revolves around you."

"Fine. Let's talk about how all your new little friends and followers obviously had feelings for you and are like little desperate puppies around you?"

"Let's talk about how you flirt with everything that has a pulse? Like Oghren-"

"I never flirted with Oghren!"

"And Sten. And Morrigan. And Alistair. And Anora. And Leliana! You slept with her, didn't you? At camp? When you two had to share a tent?"

"That's because you refused to buy another tent!"

"That's why?! So you just had to sleep with her then?"

"I will admit...there were some dalliances after a cup or two of wine. Nothing serious."

"Serious with you is...I don't even think you consider what you and I have as serious. And please. Like you had to get drunk."

"It was before you invited me to your own tent. I was desperate, since you were so cold and unresponsive enough to my offers."

"And even now, you flirt with everyone. I don't think there's a single Warden here you haven't made a overture towards."

"...Oghren. There." As though he had done anything more serious than some harmless flirting. Everyone did it. Well, except the Warden, which made him the odd one!

"I'm shocked that you don't have any facial muscle spasms after spending all day winking at everyone you see."

"At least I can move my face!"

"You don't appreciate me!"

"You. Don't. Appreciate. Me! Weirdo."

"Go find Wynne to comfort you and make you hot chocolate! Since it's the only thing to drink in this horrible kingdom."

"Why don't you bury your head in someone's bosom? Until you suffocate!"

Bizarrely, the Aedan spat out, "-And did you think I forgot about your supposed skill at picking locks!?" Like he'd just been holding that nonsequiter in for years. Then storming off, kicking furniture out of his way, and sleeping downstairs in the dorms with the other Grey Wardens.

Laying there, in their empty cold beds, they would reflect on the stupidness, and downright insanity of what they'd said to each other. But in the middle of a fight, one didn't stop to apologize with 'I'm sorry, that was obviously insane, let's go back to arguing over having children/the unwashed dishes/leaving dirty socks on the floor. No, you had to stick with whatever craziness that you'd let slip out, and defend it to the death.

That's why so many murders happened in the heat of violence: because people just couldn't let things go and admit mistakes. Better, overall, to just stab them in the face.

But he laid down, closed his eyes, and remembered fighting with Aedan for the first time, helping stop a darkspawn from smashing a maul into his skull. Watching his kindness and even temper that he held in check at all times. Then, later, watching the Warden throw himself at an ogre with splatters of blood flying about as Zevran stood there watching, mouth hanging open. Realizing, while positively oogling the tall lanky fighter during his talkingand laughing with the others, admiring the way the light from the campfire made Aedan's hair look redder than it normally did, that he would not at all mind bringing the dangerous, powerful man into his tent.

This man, whom he eventually grew to care for and call a friend, who never quite said yes or outright rejected Zevran's advances, which only spurred on the blonde man's fascination. Who came to him almost the night before they faced the archedemon, and asked Zevran if he wanted to share a bedroll. From overhearing him talking to Alistair, perhaps he just wanted not to die a virgin? Either way, Zevran had fallen asleep that night, grinning, while Aedan lay there looking up at the tent's ceiling, wondering if he was going to die soon.

The sex had been sticky and awkward and utterly worth the wait. Aedan had been sweet and shy, keeping himself tightly wound until Zevran had dug his nails into the other man's back, demanding, hissing, telling him to continue and for Maker's sake go harder. The bite marks he'd suffered when the Warden finally, finally revealed the passionate unshackled side that he'd hidden away from Zevran had needed an ointment to stop their burning, but Zevran had gladly dealt with the pain. Even the tears, that Aedan had shed in relief and fear, and perhaps shame (Fereldon was so barbaric), had only made him look more heroic and made brought forth a fresh wave of protectiveness.

"I won't let any Archdemon hurt you, Warden." He'd petted his friend's hair, smoothing it back from his high forehead.

"It's not up to you."

"I swear it. No one will hurt you in battle. I will not allow it. Any darkspawn that even look at you funny I will brutally, bloodily slaughter it."

That full mouth with the bruised, swollen lips had opened and closed. "Zevran...I, uh. You know."

"Yeah. I know."

"A lot."

"Yes. Yes. You're not going to die tomorrow. So shut up and go to sleep."

"Thanks. For everything. Like...not succeeding in killing me."

"I'm glad I didn't kill you too."

"And I'm glad we're sharing a tent."

"No one is happier of that fact than I am."

"It was really, really nice. Thanks uh, for not making fun of me. For when, um."

"I wouldn't mock you for being over enthused when you finally succumbed to my charms. But now we need sleep. Shhhh. Shhh. Sleep."

"...I love you."

"I love you too. Now shut up and go to sleep."

It hadn't been such a bad way to spend your last night.

...though, of course, he hadn't been so sanguine when watching his Aedan throw himself at the Archdemon and slide a sword through the dragon's throat. Nor had the outpouring of light helped the rising horror that threatened to choke him. Or the shuddering, dry sobs and terror he'd felt when the Warden had collapsed, unmoving.

But then, just as Zevran had pulled him up and into his arms and close to his chest, unable to say a word, Aedan had begun coughing. Weak, but alive. Gloriously alive.

The shorter man had practically carried him down the tower himself, to the healers. Feeling only relief, and not his aching back.

No matter what crap Morrigan pulled, how long she stayed, what she poured into Aedan's ear to convince him Zevran would never quite get angry enough to throw her out or make good on the threats he would toss at her. She had saved Aedan's life, and Zevran wouldn't forget that. No matter how much she encouraged the adoption of more children, she had kept the Warden alive, and they were both grateful for that.

For every second together.

The Warden had mixed feelings, however. He found Aedan on his knees, crying, praying before a statue of Andraste to forgive him for what he'd made Alistair do to Morrigan. The child had been created by Morrigan and Alistair's and Aedan, as well. The witch and lean Warden had orchestrated the baby's entire creation, and he took the blunt of the blame for whatever happened. He'd look up, utterly lost, at the elf.

"Did I do the right thing?" Swallowing so his Adam's apple jumped up and down in the long pale throat Zevran had kissed fervently, reverently, the night before.

"Of course you did."

He touched the Warden's head, savoring the warmth beneath his hand. "You always do the right thing. It's part of why I love you so."

That was part of the reason why he loved Aedan. Being pinned down on a pew before the light of hundred of candles with Andraste looking down was another. That, and the way the Warden pressed himself against him, letting loose uncharacteristic curses in-between kissing the back of the blonde elf's neck and telling him again and again how much he loved him.

"We probably really upset the Maker with this, though."

"Oh, I'm sure the Maker will forgive you. Now, where are my pants?"

His unbearably nice, caring Warden that he'd driven from his arms and into possibly another's cot. Who had saved an entire kingdom, dealt with Zevran's rampant flirting, had the most amazing smile the Crow had ever seen, his well-bred accent only helping prove that he had the sexiest voice that had even slipped through these pointed ears, who could do many pull-ups shirtless, and listened to everyone's chattering and helped them with their miscellaneous issues. His enthusiastic puppy so eager to give him pretty gifts and always willing to try out something new Zevran suggested in the bedroom.

"Okay." He told Aedan later that night after vigorously making up. "Maybe if you say, accidentally found a poor orphan one day, I might attempt a stab at raising it."

The Warden had a nasty habit of taking in strays and not properly introducing them to others slowly. Such as when he'd brought Zevran himself back to camp, giving a paltry explanation while chomping down on a haunch of some unidentified meat resting on a plate balanced on his knobbly knees. "Yeah. This is Zevran. Antivan Crow. Tried to kill me. Didn't do a very good job. But he says he'd good at picking locks. Plus he'd be killed otherwise. So I had to take him along. Pass the gravy, please."

"What?" The other Grey Warden nearly choked on his own burnt steak. "That sounds like an awful plan."

"Hey." Aedan had shrugged. "He said they would kill him if I let him wander away. I couldn't do that. He might turn out to be handy."

"Or kill us all." The bigger man mumbled darkly. "Here's the gravy."

Dinner had been a more horrifying sight that watching the Warden and his companions take down Zevran and his own followers. All the chomping the two burly Wardens had done, the ripping apart of cheese and bread. The state of the hard bread and the things floating in the strew had given Zevran nightmares until he finally volunteered, under watch, to prepare the food from now on.

Lying in bed, thinking back on his attempts at 'wooing' the Warden through way of the stomach, was the act of a much younger man. They'd been through so much. Why wasn't Aedan sleeping besides him now? He should be able to turn to his dear love and ask him if he remembered giving him a taste of the sauce he'd just finished making, and how Alistair had screamed and jumped forward to try and stop him. The sleepy gray eyes and soft mouth should be turned up now, in a smile.

Literally, the following day, Aedan had come back with a sick little starved elf, (as though purposely going out and finding the most pathetic child on the continent) and Zevran physically hadn't been able to say no.

He gave in, and forgave and was forgiven in turn by the Warden, who kissed his forehead and annoyingly ruffled his hair before turning to coo at the baby. It was simply easier to go along with it, learn to live with this decision, that fight anymore. True, Zevran didn't want to raise a child, but he also didn't want to lose his Aedan. Just let things lie and grow as a mature person. And to definitely not tell Aedan about any other 'dalliances' he'd had before the Warden had proposed they adjourn in his tent.

Zevran had accepted and grown to love Bryce. The sick little boy had needed strong parents, and it was impossible not to feel protective of the child after looking at his too-thin face for five seconds. Rebecca as well, he'd taken in with gritted teeth, reminding himself of Aedan's handsome, sweet, deeply beloved face that could turn so deadly, who had grown up with an older brother as well.

And Bryce was no where as annoying as Feeeerrrguuuuss.

Eleanor had given him an ulcer, one that she herself had seemingly healed by bringing her father flowers and being inseparable from Zevran for years. She would cling to his knife-covered belt, asking him question after question about his past life and cheering his victories and sympathizing with his losses. And her knife-throwing ability was second to known.

Gilmore he himself had found, snatching at his purse, and there was nothing more pathetic than a five-year-old pickpocket. One look at his red-hair and freckled face, and you knew that he wasn't long for this world as a thief. He'd taken the boy for a bowl of stew and mug of hot chocolate, discovered that his parents were recently dead, and offered to take the boy in as a probationary Grey Warden. Aedan had almost immediately begun calling him 'son.'

Then, then the twins had come along. And they had broken something, though. Had crushed a part of him, deep inside.

First off, Aedan had appearently lost a bet with his brother and been forced by sake of an oath to name one of the boys Fergus. That right there did not bode well. The other boy Zevran had named for the oner person he treasured and trusted above all else: Aedan. Only his lover didn't care much for that. Hell, he had an easier time with finding out a staggering amount of women had named their sons after him as a sign of good luck. But no, the possibility of an Aedan Junior only creeped the Warden out.

"But, but, he'll have enough pressure and stress just being one of my sons. Everyone's going to expect so much. Especially from the one named after me."

"A little stress never killed anyone. Even from a rock on someone's head."

"Everyone's going to expect so much from him. He won't be able to grow up and drink all day, with Oghren."

"Well...no. Are you saying you want a little Oghren?"

"I want our son to have the chance to get falling down drunk all day, without too much extra-shame. He won't even be allowed to lose his pants daily without everyone being so disappointed with him."

"...so, what you're saying is, you're okay with one of our children being a drunk?"

"Yes. All I want is for them to be healthy."

"...you consider Oghren a healthy person?"

"Look. Let's name him Zevran Junior, and be done with it."

"No. It's Aedan Junior, and that's final."

To be fair, he did push the children more than Aedan did. Insisting that they study as well as train. And did that for all the children in the keep. Unlike Morrigan or Aedan, who didn't care much if their children ran around in ruined diapers, eating cheese and drinking milk straight from the pail. Straight from the cow's udders.

Straight from a goat's udders.

If he was going to call these children his own, they better know how to fight and read and unflinch away from stabbing a man, if necessary. His love did not hinge on these things, but overall, why shouldn't they know how to do these things? They hopefully would never need these skills. But in case...well, why not?

Which had resulted in him becoming the teacher for the children in the keep. In addition to helping the guards, Aedan with training, Morrigan with crafting new, unique poisons, keeping a pointy-ear close to the ground for conspiracies, and fixing/running the library. Keeping him locked up tied with bonds of responsibility to Amarathine, and the children whom he raised.

Such as the twins he had such mixed feelings towards.

Any love he'd felt for the other children, an almost-immediate sense of bonding and protection, did not come with the twins. Even when the other babies had wept and secreted a new disgusted odor, Zevran had accepted that they would do that, and he would still love them. It was a sacred deal, a serious oath, and one he'd stuck by.

Even the other children, the older ones who hadn't been quite adopted by them, Zevran was fond of and cared for. But the twins had ruined him in some integral way.

He would look at them, and feel nothing.

No bond, no affection, no love.

Just a disgust as they ruined another diaper.

Perhaps it was because they were new...?

Because he was not...

How could he feel so little towards the twins that Aedan seemed to love smiling at, and holding? They were cute, drippling and all. But they moved nothing in his heart besides pain.

And he had just been getting used to being a father when the Warden had come home with a dirty pair of babies, grinning. Just one look at that face, the face of a boy trying to light a cat's tail on fire, or torturing an elf servant, or holding down a young boy and spitting into his eyes. Delight that only meant pain for those around him.

"Oh?" Morrigan had raised a fine eyebrow. Her own twins were fussing besides her, and taking turns pouring gravy on the other's plates. "Are those yours?"

Zevran had needed to excuse himself and go out for a breathe of fresh air. He walked the span of Vigil's Keep, past the rows of cots full of Wardens sleeping off ale and huge meals, ignoring Anders and Nathaniel own argument and their attempts at blaming the passing elf who had gotten them together in the first place, past Morrigan yelled at her sons for trying to ride the goats around the yard, disregarding Valenna who wanted to argue with him more about elves place in human society, and then began climbing upwards, not sparing a second glance towards Sigrun who was sitting on a rooftop with a spyglass.

Air. He needed air.

"I'm not ready to be a father. Not again!" He'd screamed up from the tallest towers in the keep. But the blue sky above offered nothing besides the threat of incoming snow.

Her boys stood on tottering legs before the campfire, smiling at her. The glow of it was like an orange tongue, licking their small faces. In the fire, their eyes were turned to a yellowish amber, rather than the usual familiar shade of hazel.

"Bye, Mama!" Together, synchronized, they waved farewell. Then leapt forward into the fire.

"Nooo!"

She came awake with a scream building in her throat, with cold sweat on her skin and clammy sheets in her hands.

This had happened before. It will probably happen again. Just a dream. Meaningless. The boys are not crazy enough to jump in a fire. Not anymore.

"Morrigan, are you alright?" For a second, the witch forgot the name of the Warden sleeping next to her completely. She looked at his peaceful brown eyes, the blondish hair and unshaven face, uncomprehending his existence. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. But what are you still doing here?"

"Well, er, I could go if you wanted..."

"Yes. Goodbye."

She rolled over, and nearly forgot about his presence. Even listening with one ear as he got dressed, she was imagining her boys sleeping in the other room, their feet hanging out of the blankets and cold. Could see their light, short hair against the pillow, damp from their drool, cheeks halfhearted shaved.

They were fine, safe. They could handle any danger. They would spar with the Grey Wardens, all of whom were used to taking lumps from these identical eager teenage boys.

Perfectly safe in the Grey Warden's base where they'd grown up. Nothing could hurt them; she wouldn't allow anything to.

If Moira's birth had been difficult enough, it could not compare to raising her. Alistair tried to look at the bright side, "say, at least we don't have to worry about her having a phobia of heights! Or fire. Or...dungeons and criminals...or wielding swords. At least she's strong. And healthy."

Anora just looked at him, trying to believe. But she'd always been a skeptic and could only shake her head and pull their daughter down from the curtains.

Her father's fingers, so strong and scarred, had their nails bitten down to the quick by the first week. He would look over her, watching her sleep, while rocking back and forth in his admitted rocking chair, not sleeping. Unable to sleep. Until dark circles grew under his eyes and his hair seemed to grow another disordered inch and stubble grow raspingly on his cheeks and jaw. At his feet, Duncan snored.

The Queen would go to him, hold his hands, touch his hair that was thankfully little like his brother's. As she used to, when they'd first been married, the blonde woman couldn't help comparing him to Cailan and tried to imagine the ever-flashing-of-the-perfect-white-teeth man standing guard over his daughter. The image just wouldn't come, and that more than perhaps anything drove her to comfort Alistair.

He was, as the Grey Warden had told her while smiling in his distant way, a good man.

"You don't understand." He would kiss the fingers touching his unshaven face. "If I leave her, she might set something on fire."

"We'll have someone to look over here. Someone we can trust. I'll look after her; we'll take turns."

His voice was cracking. "But what if she sets her pillow on fire, or her hair?"

"Go lay down." Anora practically yanked him from the chair and shoved him towards the bed. "I'll watch her."

"But, but...okay. Okay. The water's right there. If she so much as makes a funny face, wake me up, okay?"

"Fine, Alistair."

And still dressed in his ruffled, well-made clothes, the King had collapsed onto the bed and began immediately snoring. She had to smile a little, looking down at her daughter who stared right back at her with undaunted blue eyes. "You're already wearing your father down. Shouldn't that wait until you're walking?"

Moira just blinked up her her. Anora held one of her tiny hands in her larger one, tracing the tiny fingers that were already becoming so dangerous, and began thinking. No one could know about her magic-use, obviously. She would be sent to the Circle to be watched by the templars for signs of disobediance, turned over to the Chantry, and live her life in tower with the other mages.

The irony of Alistair having been trained as a boy to become a templar didn't escape Anora one bit.

She tried to imagine this tiny little girl growing older, in bright blonde braids and hurt blue eyes, looking at her mother as she was being led away by silver-faced templars. Her innocent, sweet, strong daughter that had come out wailing hard enough to make Anora weep herself in relief and joy. Being handed the tiny squalling thing covered so quickly with a blanket that Anora hadn't even been able to see her face.

"Your Grace." The healer sounded just as overjoyed and relieved as everyone else. "You have a daughter."

"How about," she told the baby, knowing of course that she couldn't understand a word. "We just say that spell was a mistake. A one-time mistake. What do you say? It never leaves this room."

"Can we shake on that? Here in Fereldon, a woman, or man, is judged on his word and loyalty."

The baby just stared at her, and nothing. A slightly singed plush toy shaped like a mabari lay besides her. It seemed to be the pinnacle of all the goodness in the world. Anora rested her head against the top of the crib, and closed her eyes. Resting with the sight of her daughter still before her eyes and this sweet warmth in her chest seemed to be the perfect moment in her life. She let go of her daughter's tiny hand.

Immediately, there was giggling that made her eyes snap open with worriment. Mother's intuition apparently began working very quickly.

Her daughter hadn't set fire to anything, and that was a great relief. However, the block of ice encasing the stuffed mabari's head was anything but. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, but there seemed to be a hidden message written in the icy white trails in the block. Something along the lines of 'You're Going to Make a Terrible Mother' or perhaps, simply, 'This is Your Fault.' Anora didn't allow herself to read them, however; she simply threw the half-frozen doll out the window and looked very intently down at her daughter.

Very intently. Studying her, watching her, keeping guard.

When Alistair awoke twelve hours later, he had to pick up his cramped and exhausted wife and carry her to the bed. As she hadn't allowed him to do on their awkward wedding night. Holding her, looking down at her like a kind god come to rescue her, as the Maker hadn't done for Andraste.

For the first time in years, Anora remembered a childhood wish of marrying a golden prince.

"Oh." A large hand gently brushing the hair that had fallen into her eyes away. "Anora."

The old stories the older women had told her as advice were coming true: children did bring a couple together. In a way, their daughter was the thing to erase any remaining iciness that remained from their years of marriage. As her own father had tried and failed to teach her as well, nothing brought two competing sides together like a threat to unite against.

She'd never felt more tender to her husband than rubbing an ointment onto his burns. Never had she felt more affection than having him help hide their daughter from any Chantry members or untrustworthy servants or helpers. Immediately after watching him stop a fire, turn around to catch their daughter as she fell from the curtains, then deposit her in the safeguarded, enchanted special cribs they'd had made in secret by one of Alistair's old mage friend and safe in her fireproofed, sterile room, she had to jump him and pull his clothes off right there on the half-burnt, half-frozen rug an ambassador from Orlais had sent.

"Someone might see us!"

"Let them. It's the least of our secrets."

The rug burns had been well worth it.

Bizarrely, their sex life had never been so good. Somehow, the act of hiding and coming to bed sore and aching as though from battle only increased the thrill. The new bruises and scars made them look like heroes returned from the battlefield. It was something she'd never felt aimed at herself, rather than from herself. No one had ever looked up at her, so admiring of her martial abilities. "It was so amazing the way you pulled her off that ladder." It made her shiver, and then laugh at herself.

A whole new facet had been found, just like after their honeymoon when she found him going through book after book in the library, trying his hardest to learn and be a good king. Blushing and stammering, stained with ink, and asking for her help on dwarf trade agreements that drove her up the wall and caused her to nearly throw him bodily onto the table.

"Tell me again about the shipping agreements, with the nugs? Please?"

"Again?"

Only the librarian, who'd come to discover what that thumbing noise was and if a pipe had broken again, had stood in her way. "-Y-Your Grace! Maker!"

Or him in dark clothes, sneaking up the castle's wall while she lounged by the window in her most clinging dressing gown. "Anora. I've come to...steal you away?"

"It's 'steal the throne' away. Can't you remember a simple line?"

"I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm just kinda nervous. I lost the scroll with the script on my way up. Also, I think one of the guards saw me."

"Well, you better find that scroll before someone else gets it. No, do it later.

"And, you're being paranoid about the guards...my husband's bastard brother. And if you want the throne, you'll have to take it from me."

"I'll prove to you I'm the right man for the job."

"And if I say no, still?" Fluttering her eyelashes, smiling at him teasingly in a way that made Alistair turn all goofy and have to fight off his own grin.

"Well, Your Majesty, who said you had a choice? I might just grab you and turn you over my knee until you admit I'm the proper heir."

"...that was not one of the lines. At all. Are you aware of that?"

"Yes." He looked so proud of himself. And Anora nearly smiled and felt actually quite proud of him as well. Their mutual smug smiles were rather ruining the threatening atmosphere she'd worked so hard for, and gathered so many candles to create.

And that was when the guards broke down the door, swords drawn screaming her name and asking if she was alright, an intruder was on the premises, was she safe? When one of the guards tackled Alistair, she knew that the night had mood had officially died. They ended up spending most of the night lurking in the garden, searching for the scroll before someone found it and realized that the Queen had written it.

In addition, despite their daughter trying to jump off the roof or reach for a torch, they would attempt quiet moments looking at the stars together. Alistair would creating constellations that would make her laugh, and reach out at just the right moment to keep Moira from climbing up an arrow slit. Only he seemed to be charming enough to pull that move off and not ruin the mood.

"Hey, now, where do you think you're going?" Poking the infant's tiny noise harmlessly. "You can't just take off. We're kinda growing fond of you, over here."

Alistair. You have the patience of a saint. More than a saint. More than the Maker. But her throat would lock up over the words, and allow her only to reach out and pull him closer for a kiss, him jumping as always over her affection. The baby was pulled down to his chest for protection.

Stretched out together on a blanket, looking deep into each other eyes. Just being together. As a couple. As a family.

Any thought, conscious or otherwise, of having another (normal) child was never expressed.

Alistair would get on his knees, daily, to pray before a statue of Andraste that still bore bite marks from their teething daughter. "Do you think this is somehow the Maker punishing us?"

She'd put down an equally gnawed upon brush and stared at him from the mirror on the wall before her desk. "Punishing us? For what?"

"Surviving the Archdemon?"

"Now, shouldn't your Grey Warden Commander be punished as well for that?"

"Maybe he is." Her husband stared at her lost as a child.

Anora turned around, trying to forget the extra-strong locks they'd had installed on this desk to prevent the baby from eating any important documents she might be working on. Or drinking the ink. "We have a difficult daughter. She's going through a stage. She's not a monster."

"It's just a stage?" The ex-templar face was like a child being told a special story where it turned out the bad guys were defeated after all, despite being told earlier than the good guys fell off a cliff. This man was the King, the ruler of Fereldon

Anora looked at herself in the mirror, trying to convince both of them. "And she'll grow out of it. Now, please, come Your Majesty, come here help me fix my braids?"

And Alistair would do it, kissing the back of her neck and smiling at her reflection. Until she would smile back.

While in the next room, Moira seemed to plot out her latest escape. Gnaw at the bars of her crib and occasionally get her head stuck between them. Grab at her feet and think of ways to hurt her parents in new places. 'Hmm. I don't think I've burned the right side of my father's head. And my mother still has the temerity to grow her hair long. That must stop.'

'And what are they doing now? Cuddling? Oh, no, this will not do.'

Then the baby would put her small hands together and laugh manically and begin weeping and screaming, despite not being hungry or needing a diaper or possessing an ear infection or wanting either of her parent's attempts at comfort.

She simply wasn't like the other children. Moira was already up and chattering before the other infants, which might have made any other parents proud, but only caused Anora and Alistair to become suspicious. They would stare at her bubbling, nonsensical one-word sentences and chirps, wondering with a grimness what she was saying. A spell incantation? Had someone slipped such a word to her?

...or, dear Maker, had she already learned to read, climbed up a bookshelf, and started teaching herself magic?

"Stop." The baby had driven her father to tears, as she learned to walk. He held up his large hands, on his knees, asking for mercy. "Please. Just stop. Be good. Please. Please?"

She watched them, the pigtailed little blonde girl gazing down at her much large, much taller father.

"Please?"

For the first time in years, Anora allowed herself to think of the dark witch and her twin, identical boys who bore their father's look so perfectly. The light blonde-reddish hair and the handsome even faces with round hazel eyes, both looking cute, even as they bashed each other in the head. How Flemeth's supposed daughter had gazed down at them from her seat, over her teacup, with obvious satisfaction.

Were they at all like this, or was Moira's defects solely her mother's fault?

Morrigan barely had time to move the teapot before Ali (or Alexandros) was tossed onto the small kitchen table.

"Yay! I win!" The well-built teen threw his arms up in celebration.

"No. I win!"

His brother barely had time to dodge the kick aimed for his groin.

There appeared to be toast crumbs on their faces, even in their eyelashes.

In the next room, the dining hall, you could still here people shuffling their chairs and getting thirds/fourths/fifths. The reason, basically, she stuck to the small kitchen for meals.

Meals here were more dangerous than any war. You were more likely to lose a finger here than in the training yard. Everyone's usually shaggy heads would be down, some still sweaty and muddy from their recent sparring session if they were too hungry to bathe before coming for food. Fight would break out, and generally well-mannered men and woman would stab each other over the serving platters with silverwear for a cherry tomato. All done wordlessly, as they were too hungry and savage for talk.

It was another bad habit that her sons had picked up, despite Morrigan's best efforts. But at least when they would fight someone for potatoes, they'd usually win.

"Boys!" Zevran's voice was like a whip, honed from years of taking care of disobedient children. His hands, dexterous as always, didn't pause in tying Fergus' boot. The small child looked to his father, and then at the muscular warriors in obvious fascination. All the children loved the twins.

If they weren't helping sneak cakes out of the kitchens, they were rolling around with the little ones like eager puppies. Or helping them with their studies. Or simply lifting them up and showing them how awesome being tall was. Or showing off weapons, and how to do a counterattack that might save their lives one day. Or having another mud fight, and stepping forward to take the blame when the parents complained about the state of their offspring's clothes.

Morrigan still was not sure how they'd grown to be so kind-hearted.

She looked at them, as always noting how they were different from their father only in the exact size of their limbs; somehow they'd gotten a bit of their mother's skinniness. Otherwise, they could have been Alistair's little twin brothers.

Not even a hint of Morrigan's facial features of magical abilities.

She remembered another dream, one of breaking down and weeping when they came to her, excitedly waving lightly seared palms in her face and told her about how fire had come out of their hands, it was so awesome, they hadn't even tried to do it but it had come anyway, and could she now heal their hands because they were really starting to hurt. Magic. Finally. From both of them.

They were both the Old God. It explained why they fought so well together, how they could seemingly read each other's minds, their synchronicity in battle, when eating, when playing.

Everything made perfect sense, and she would smile in her sleep. In knowing.

But she would awake to the sound of swords clashing in the yard outside, and find her boys bashing each other in the head with sharp pieces of steel. Rather than hitting each other with heavy wooden staffs.

They would have been so good at magic, too. And Maker knew how much they enjoyed watching her do incantations and even mixing potions and poisons. Zevran and Morrigan had taught them all they knew on those crafts, as had Lelianna when she decided to stop by and entertain the boys with new songs and tales. But it wasn't magic.

"Mom?"

"Mom?"

"Want more tea?"

One filled her cup and the other added cream. They looked at their mother with such fondness that she was sure she herself had never looked at Flemeth. Didn't most boys outgrow their mothers, especially at their age? Shouldn't they roll their eyes over her, rather than still come to her after having nightmares, a line of skin visible from beneath too-small tunics they were already outgrowing, and not caring whether or not she was with a 'guest'?

And she would throw the latest Warden out of her bed, and reluctantly hold a son that now outweighed her by several stones and towered over her by a foot. Awkwardly holding his bristly head to her chest as she stroked his smooth forehead and told him to tell her all about his dream while behind them a muscular stranger hopped about putting on his pants.

She'd never been like Aedan, showering kiss and hugs on his children constantly. Her boys had been raised to be independent, as unneedy as possible. Yet, still, they clung to her skirts.

"Mom?"

She sipped her tea. Maybe it was Alistair's influence?

"Mommy?"

"Do you want honey?"

"Mom?"

"...could we go to Denerim with Zevran and Aedan?"

"No. What? No!"

"But everyone else is going!"

"Who is everyone?"

"Rebecca! Eleanor! Even Vincent is going!

"And he's way younger than us!"

Morrigan looked at the boys, wondering what went on in those identical heads. What they thought, what they felt when they looked at her, what they saw when they would look at each other. "You're not going to Denerim."

The thought of them wandering into the capital, into a place where people would be aware of what the King looked like...she had told Alistair, and Anora, that she had no intention of Ali and Alex making a move for the throne. Having them in the same place as Alistair might make everyone feel a little uncomfortable. The boys had no idea who their father was, besides that he wasn't in the picture anymore.

They were perfectly fine without him and had asked very few questions about the man. If they wanted a father figure of some sort, they had Zevran, Aedan, and several Grey Wardens who were happy to fill that role.

By them walking around in the capital of Fereldon was just asking for trouble. All it would take is one person glancing at them and going, 'Wow. You look a lot like King Alistair!" The boys might already have their suspicions about the man, from meeting him as young boys. Short or long-haired, covered in face paint and wearing hats, the resemblance was clear.

Alistair himself probably knew, after playing with them for an afternoon. How he must feel about having a pair of boys who didn't know that they were his sons.

It was as though they had been negatively effected by that. The boys were two overly healthy, rambunctious teens who were mean only at the dinner table and in the practice yard with swords and shields in their lean muscled arms that were quite capable of knocking down some of the best Wardens.

But now they were older, and both shared a huge fondness for stories about griffons and witches and a love for cheese and a strange fascination for blonde elves that Morrigan had no idea whom to blame for. Was it Zevran's fault for helping raise them, had Aedan said something about his own disgusting interests, or was it something in the blood; hadn't Maric supposedly possessed a fondness for flaxen-haired elves?

And mages, in particularly, always stole their attention. If they ever ran into a blonde-haired elfish mage...God help them all.

Luckily, Amaranthine was lacking in that deparment. Especially since Morrigan forbid them from going down to the bay and talking to strangers. She'd done her damn hardest to rub that much into their heads, that even now they would avoid boats and unfamiliar adults.

Morrigan had a hellish daydream of the boys going with Zevran and Aedan and the other Wardens and children, sitting down at a decadent dining hall complete with silver plates and napkins they would tuck in their shirts like children, and reaching out for a turkey. While their father, the gold armored king reach out in the exact way for the same turkey leg. Their eyes, the same shade of brownish hazel, meet over a drumstick. And they gape at each other in sudden understanding.

And mutual hatred for her.

They would bond over their mistrust and dislike slowly churning into hatred and bitterness. Hugs exchanged. Anora pissed. Of course the solution would be for them to become Grey Wardens and take themselves out of the line of succession. All they needed was to survive the process of drinking dark spawn blood.

She did not like the odds on that.

"You're killing me. You know that. You're doing what all those darkspawn, crazed orgy-hungry assassins, crazy priests, bandits, thieves, mercenaries could not.

"You're killing your father. Your king.

"...I helped create you! I won't be stricken down by you.

"If I brought you into this world, I can take you back out."

But his daughter just giggled, knowing his threats were empty.

Why did no one ever take him seriously?

Anora sometimes did, sure. But only after he would badger her and past some inner test she'd had set up that he would need to pass.

Maybe it was something as simple as seeing his miserable attempts at dancing, formal or otherwise. Her horrified expression had been seared into his head, going back to haunt him as he lifted her veil for their first kiss, their first night together with her on-top of him looking down and just as confused as he was and then again on their first night together when they'd slipped from the apparently too-small bed and fallen to the floor, and for two weeks until she'd found him in the library and he discovered a crack beneath the veneer of properness.

But then, well, to be fair, he couldn't deny his own strange interests. Like, say, having her find a Chantry sister robe, which would probably get them a bad place in the Maker's book.

And the crumbs in the their bed. So say nothing about the fondue stains on the sheets that had gotten Anora weird looks from the servants as they came to clean up the room. And the pillow fights he'd started with her, the day after their wedding night to attempt to calm her down, and had only instead nearly given her a concussion as well as showering the room in geese feather.

All the servants seemed to shake their heads over him, for the first few years. The lack of children hadn't helped either, and even he had heard the rumors about Anora's possible infertility. He'd grown uncomfortable with the subject, and would find himself wringing his hands if another nobleman and his family had another child. His old friend Aedan's letters about talking Zevran into adopting children had turned out to only cause more anxiety.

He had been carefully, thinking of broaching that subject with his own...lover? Is that what Anora was?

After years of marriage, he still had a hard time understanding that she was his wife. No matter how long it had been since they'd had separate bedrooms and that he was used to waking up in the mornings with a faceful of longish blonde hair. She seemed more like a partner, occasionally in crime the time they'd ended up accidentally reading intimate letters from the Orlasian ambassador and having to reseal the scrolls and then sit in front of the guy at meeting and pretend they didn't know know about his wife's nicknames for him and the more disturbing ones from this man's girlfriend(s), than his wife. Weren't wives supposed to be an...extension of someone? Shouldn't you know what they were thinking, feeling, wanting?

With Anora, every day was a surprise.

They'd pass in the hallways, and she might sneak out to grab his hand and ask how his day had been so far. Or ignore him, sneering at her husband with her nose held high. Or give him this hungry look that would make him do a one-eighty and follow her wherever she'd been going.

Maybe it had been one of those moments, in a closet, or their bedroom, in an unused guest room, when their daughter had been created.

Everyone had been so relieved, like the entire kingdom reached up and wiped sweat from their brow with a sigh. Presents and well-meaning wishes had rolled in, and an entire room had been filled with toys and stuffed animals. Before the baby had even been born. And it had been a big room.

Anora had walked around the entire nine months with a beautiful smile and a flush to her cheeks. The meetings with the healers who announced that the child seemed perfectly healthy only made her happier. Her usual aura of seriousness peeled away and the heavy stone walls would ring with her laughter over one of his witticisms.

And it hadn't been one of those pitying laughs either. Or the ones that meant that they were laughing at him, than with.

She would smile back at him, while he gazed at her over the table or desk, all sappily. His partner and wife and mother of his child.

"Tell me the story about that drunk dwarf, Oghren, setting his beard on fire again, honey."

Honey.

Alistair had little knowledge of having kids. Together, he and Anora read through books in the library, him reaching out to touch her stomach, and her reaching out to swat his hand away. But he still felt unprepared. Just the sight of his wife's stomach growing heavier by the day made him agog. A little person was growing in there, one who'd call him 'Daddy' and one day rule the kingdom.

The servants seemed to even be more respectful, and brought him cheese and crackers with more frequency. Since, obviously, the King of Fereldon, the One Who'd Brought An Heir, Finally, deserved only the finest cheese and crackers.

Their trip to Amarathing hadn't been advised by the healers, but Anora insisted on going up north with him.

"How would you feel if the baby came, and you weren't here?"

"Sure. But how would you feel if you had to give birth on the side of the road."

"I still have plenty of time to go. We'll ride in a carriage. And bring plenty of trained mages and midwives to assist, in case something does go wrong."

Through the trips, Anora had managed to keep from complaining about all morning sickness and preferred him not to even hold her hair back. She was kinda like...another of his companions, who had hated showing weakness. The blue-eyed woman also strange habit of telling him about every shift the baby would do, and yet refuse his touch. Sometimes flinching from his kiss and snuggle, complaining that someone might see them and that he needed to shave before he did that, at the least.

"I'm the King! I can do whatever I want. And the King wants to kiss his amazing, pregnant wife."

"Oh, fine. But watch the hair. We're almost at the Vigil's Keep."

Their trip had been peaceful. Hardly any bandits at all. And no darkspawn since apparently Aedan had managed to beat most of them back underground. Seeing his still youthful friend had awoke all sorts of memories that kept him up at night until Anora practically had to suffocate him with a pillow to get him to stop telling stories about the time he'd been nearly torn apart by a Drake, who was later skinned and then worn as armor.

The other new companions Aedan had made were a strange lot, each more bizarre than the last. But good fighters, all of them. Oghren was the same, except for the shockingly sane wife by his side daughter running around under foot who loved tugging her father's beard. Zevran was different though, more serious even with the winks and nudges over Alistair's pregnant wife, and could hardly be found anywhere but helping someone or by his lover's side.

And. Well. He'd seen Morrigan. Morrigan, with children. Children she didn't plan, presumably, to eat. Kids, a pair of twin boys with a mop of fair hair and big brownish eyes who were awesome at hide-and-go-seek and loved griffons more than even Aedan. They were already growing strong for their young age, and very good at tackling and clinging. When the pair started complaining about the hair covering their eyes, Alistair had casually recommended they just go get it cut. Then he'd wrestled them to the ground.

He was just as stupid as the dead-hearted witch always said. It wasn't until they came back with trimmed hair that he fully was ready to accept that these two were his sons. They eerily like him at that age, and the sight of them with swords and shields hitting each other froze his heart. He'd gone fleeing to his wife, who knew all about the ritual he'd done, for advice.

-Since Aedan didn't seem to care about those two having Morrigan for a mother.

He remembered very clearly sitting down besides the pretty satiny bed, looking deep into his wife's ocean blue-grey eyes and laying down everything. Airing out the dirty laundry. It seemed like something his fellow Grey Warden would have done, and the tall man tended to be right about so much.

"So."

"Yes, Alistair." She looked back at him, a little confused. No doubt waiting for him to make a dumb remark.

"I slept with a woman the night before last. Well, I wouldn't really call her a woman. Demon, more like. Hideous demon. Anyway. I needed to in order to save me and Aedan. She used a spell to create a child that would have the soul of the Old God. Which would somehow make it safe for the Grey Wardens."

"...so this woman is carrying your child?"

"I'm not even sure if it's a child, really. It might have horns and wings and all that. But yeah, that's the gist. She said she wouldn't use the kid to make a grab at the throne, though."

"...I see."

"And. Oh. I have a sister. Half-sister. From my mother's side."

"...Oh. Alright."

"We're not close or anything. She has a lot of kids too, though. Maybe if I help her, she'll like me more?"

"...perhaps."

"And um. Grey Wardens don't have the easiest time having kids, normally. So that might be a problem."

"Yes."

"Aaaaaand, let's see. I was trained to be a templar, so I don't have a lot of experience with woman. Just...that hideous demon woman.

"No licking lamposts for me. Hahaha.

"But I don't have any diseases. Except for that thing growing on my feet. But that's mostly going away.

"Also. I like cheese. A lot."

Anora looked at him, alarmed, confused. Wondering if the throne was worth this, probably. She looked like she wanted to do something with her hands, to distract herself. Maybe rub her forehead? "Well. I guess it's good you told me about this."

"Being upfront and honest seems like the best policy."

"Yes. Thank you."

"Your welcome."

"I suppose we should move on. Since this is our wedding night."

"Right. That can wait a little. Until we're more comfortable with each other. No pressure!"

"Alistair. Would you prefer to wait briefly before consummating our marriage?"

"...yes, please."

"Fine. And I did know about your taste in cheese. I had servants search around and bring up a few things I thought you might enjoy."

"Is that what's under that platter there?"

She nodded. "I also took the liberty of purchasing a few mementos, to make you feel more at home."

"The Grey Warden shield on the wall over there? Cause I do like that."

"Yes. And in the drawer over there-"

"Oh, Maker. A miniature golem doll! Two of them! And a tiny elf. Oooh, it comes with a bow. And it moves. Awesome. And a bunch of little Grey Wardens too! Hey. This one looks like me."

"I thought it would be best to learn a bit about you, before our marriage."

"So awesome. And this cheese is amazing. Look at the details on the armor."

"I also bought a mabari hound to be imprinted with you. To help better protect you."

"You...you got me a puppy!"

"I suppose you can call it that, but it weighs as much as-"

For the first time in days he felt comfortable with Anora, their marriage, and also for the first time he found himself leaning forward to kiss a girl.

"Does this mean you're feeling more comfortable-?"

"Yes. I think so."

"Ow."

"Sorry, let me move that elf figurine."

At time, especially that first year, he wouldn't know how she felt about their marriage and about him. There were moments like when helping him pick out a puppy from the litter that she apparently honestly charmed by him, only to throw his favorite Grey Warden figure out the window when he refused to seriously regard rumors of Dalish elves rising up.

"It could start a war!"

"That's no reason to hurt—it."

"...Did you name it Alistair?"

"No!"

"I'm going to my room. To be alone."

"Well, that's just fine! It'll just be me and Duncan here."

"Yes. Enjoy him. Oh, and yes, he is not housebroken yet."

"...Aw, Duncan."

But as soon as he took some interest in helping run the castle and kingdom, in trying to run the castle and kingdom, she seemed to lighten up. Increasingly, he would have to shove and beg Duncan to move to the foot of the bed, as opposed to sleeping besides him, before Anora could start getting second thoughts on where she would spend the night.

She was opposed, spiritually, politically, emotionally, to any cuddling afterwords. With him, or with Duncan. Although, on especially long, tiring days, he'd wake up to her head on his chest, bright spun-gold hair nearly choking him. Anora would be uncomfortable with all for most of the morning, unable to accept herself as a person who would be caught in that position. They might be found by a curious librarian on a table, but snuggling with Alistair? Never.

Speaking of libraries, Alistair would go to them to look for clues on dealing with women. Or skulk to the back where they kept the trashy romance novels, and browse through books the Chantry frowned on for tips. The Maker would forgive him; he was looking for stuff to impress his wife, after all.

Very little of it, besides a few compliments, was he willing to use. He imagined himself bringing out ropes and lotions and all that stuff (stuff Zevran probably didn't go anywhere without), and Anora's reaction. Of the disappointment in Duncan's eyes from his place on the foot of the bed.

It was best to sticking with little things, like impressing her with his knowledge on elf treatise (that always would be disregarded to screw the elves over even more) and bringing her tea on long cold nights.

She was utterly unlike Morrigan, in looks and demeanor. Sure, she might get upset over things. And had started off even colder than the Wild's witch. But she had a steely belief in duty that the dark-haired woman had lacked. Less of a sense of humor, perhaps, but she rarely mocked Alistair or called him stupid outright. Not once did Anora ever compare his intelligence to the dog, and found Duncan the superior of the two. Or, if she did, she never actually said that thought aloud.

When Alistair had come to her for advice on the two boys who were almost certainly his, she nodded and understood perfect. She had known who their father was with once glance.

"So long as they never make a move for the throne, there shouldn't be any trouble.

"Perhaps they'll even become Grey Wardens?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Man, imagine having Morrigan as a mother, though"

"The children seem to be alright."

"Probably because of Aedan helping raise them."

"Either way, they are not your responsibility. They aren't, Alistair."

"I know. I know."

Still, he'd played with them the following day. Looked down on their faces so like his own, and shoved them further into the mud. They were strong for their age, getting tall, and had their 'Uncle Zevran' ability to creep up on someone soundlessly. Good kids. Especially considering their mother. No sign of magical ability, or uncontrollable wildness

None of which offered any help later when dealing with their own daughter, however. If the kids were running a little crazed around the yard, blowing things up, Alistair could have wiped his forehead in relief. But even Zevran and Aedan's kids were well-behaved. No swinging from laundry lines or throwing fireballs at their mother's head or lying in wait beneath the stairs to freeze one of their father's legs and send him tumbling down headfirst.

In desperation, he looked to others for an example of good parenting when dealing with unruly children.

Arl Eamon and his son, Connor, was a mage...although, they had sent the boy to the Circle.

...but Moira hadn't done anything like what that boy had done. Sure, as a young girl, she'd been known for her fire spells and uncontrollable rages. But now, she was older, wiser, and no longer a little baby. She might still hurt her parents, but they weren't random episodes of chaotic violence; now she planned before she struck attacks.

Moira make a great Grey Warden.

And maybe, she would make a great mage one day. She might grow up to be like Wynne and grow to be a good teacher and an important member of the Circle. Connor might well end up being one of her teachers. Small kids might look up to her. She could end up saving lives one day.

Of course, that would mean absconding the throne, leaving him and Anora heirless. Eamon would probably push for Alistair to set Anora aside and marry again, perhaps an Orlesian...

And if he didn't, who would take the throne after them? Eamon himself? He had no children either, and Teagan was his heir, who himself had no sons or daughters still. Who was left, close to the Crown? Fergus? The guy wasn't a bad ruler, but had no wife or children either.

But really, none of that was necessary, really. Really. Moira was getting better about that stuff. She was learning to control her magic relatively well. Becoming an adult. A mature, stable adult who would one day sit on the throne and rule the entire kingdom. His daughter, who wept during the funny songs he would sing to her in her crib, who was a magic-user, and already pushed her parents around.

"Alistair! Stop daydreaming and help me!

"-She's climbing up another ladder!"

"Daddy! Catch me!"

She was awoken from a dream where she was back in the swampy wilds, howling at the moon, but the stillness in the air. The lack of swords clanging about, the absence of screams, without the presence of silverwear smashing against porcelain plates, drove her up and out of bed. Morrigan clawed at her hair and smiled back at her reflection in the mirror.

Her dream from last night still clung to her. Running through the wilds with a heavy coat for warmth, with her boys as pups besides her. Flemeth gone and the only life besides animals her and Ali and Alex. Safe and happy.

Even their old goat was still alive, springy rather than withered with age and arthritis. She would run with them as well, telling Morrigan how happy she was for the great conversation and that she didn't hold the tail pulling against the boys at all. The kicking incident, the goat would explain, had just been an accident and she truly hoped that the witch had healed and was well enough to sit again.

Morrigan sighed, her breath a gray-white cloud before her.

The day ahead loomed. There would be no one else here to fight over breakfast. No Zevran and Aedan to make faces across the table at each other. No having to patch up Warden who'd gotten hurt training/eating. Or any blushing Wardens underfoot, trying to 'help' until she finally either threw them out, or took the braver, muscle-bound, usually-blonde into her bed for a time.

All gone.

Nathaniel Howe had been left behind to hold command of the the keep, but he was good at holding his tongue and respected her.

That fool Anders was here, but he knew better by now than to bother her.

And Valenna was still here, but one couldn't have everything.

She practically skipped downstairs. The only people that would matter in this keep would be herself, and her boys. They wouldn't train so much during this time, or follow Aedan or Zevran around to fix up the library, the roof, saving kitten stuck up trees, helping skinned-knee orphans in the nearby towns.

For the next few weeks, they would follow her. Cling to her every word and help stir the caldron the perverted elf had given her as a lark but had turned out to be quite useful. Fetch her books and drinks. Just like when they had been small children and had needed to look up at her rather than down by a lengthy span.

There would be no talk of Grey Wardens. By the time Aedan and the others came home, the twins would have forgotten their dreams of joining those ranks.

Within a week, they would hate cheese, Alistair, Denerim, and Grey Wardens and burn their old toys that brought up disturbing memories of a certain King. And destroy their letters and books from Wynne. And the instruments Leliana had sent. And teach them to hate griffons.

Especially the griffons.

Morrigan bestowed her smuggest smile onto Aedan and Zevran's oldest son.

"Um. Hi, Lady Morrigan."

"Hello, Bryce."

At least the small lad was capable of being quiet and took after his good father than the bad one.

"Eeh. Lady Morrgian?"

"What is it? What could be the matter on this joyous day? Hmm? Was Valenna eaten by a pack of wolves? Was Zevran thrown into a river? Again?"

"...your boys left with the others. Thought you should know...sorry?"

"What? What?"

"They left. Said they wanted to see Denerim. Something. Something about seeing the Circle? Elf mages?"

"They snuck out?

"Is that what you are telling me?"

Her voice kept rising and there didn't seem to be anything she could do about it.

Bryce looked up at her, clearly horrified.

"I suppose. I suppose nothing may happen to them. Surrounded by Grey Wardens. The Blight is, after all, over.

"And Aedan is with them. The man killed a dragon. Several dragons. And Flemeth.

"Zevran will look after them and make sure they don't get eaten by something."

"I'm sure they'll be fine."

"And even Valenna is with them."

"...what?"

"Yeah. And she said she would personally keep an eye on the boys for you. As a 'personal favor for how kind you are to her.' And she said that she would definitely let the boys remember who their parents are. Something, something about keeping memories alive?"

She gathered her robes, trying to recall where she kept her good fur cape Aedan had given her in a manic, present-giving flurry, and her staff. "Then I'll just have to go get them."

Despite supposedly having about ten or so years ahead of him before the taint destroyed him from the inside out, Alistair nearly died when a pair of boys jumped out of the back of the cart. Despite the heavy armor, they moved with grace to pet the mules that had dragged them all the way here to Denerim. One of them said something to the other, hair the color 'of autumn grass and the dawn breaking over the horizon' as Anora had once, uncharacteristic, described after having too many glasses of wine one evening.

'And that stupid, pretty face. Stupidly pretty. Yeah. That face right there,' well, that face was on both the twin boys. All square and fair-skinned. They even had their foreheads wrinkle the exact way his did when he was confused. They were him at age twenty, still all young and full of dreams and able to eat spicy food without terrible heartburn at night.

But they were clean shaven without even a hint of peach fuzz, scarless, innocently joking. They had his laugh as well. "Hahaha." The one that Morrigan had always hated.

He had tried his best not to think of them. To imagine the twin boys he'd fathered on a woman who wasn't his wife, a woman he downright despised and hated, was torture. Hell, for all he knew Morrigan had been torturing the boys. She certainly wasn't the type to coddle a baby, let alone two, let alone two kids that looked like him.

But they seemed healthy and tortureless. Tall, strong, looking like his little twin brothers. They didn't have a freckle of difference between them. Neither did they notice him.

Besides him, his little daughter, apple of his eye, heir to his kingdom, pulled at his hand and pleaded to know when this would end. Her blue eyes were as exasperated as her mother, who took the girl's other hand to settle her down.

Her fancy silk and lace dress was darling, but offered only so much protection against the cold. And Moira insisted on wearing her heavy fur cloak like cape rather than sensibly around her shoulders. Alistair and his story's doing, Anora insisted, almost glaring at him. Before wincing as another blow hit her stomach-

"I want to go inside. It's getting cold."

"Hold your tongue. We will greet the Grey Wardens, and then we'll go back into the castle."

"Fine," Moira huffed. "Fine."

"Your Grace?"

Aedan had gray in his hair, a sight that made Alistair touch his temple where his own hair had begun to turn the color of ash. And his fellow Grey Warden even had wrinkles, furrows in his brow. And he had gotten even taller.

Zevran, besides him, wore his usual amused expression at seeing Alistair The King, The First of His Name, etc, etc. Like he still couldn't believe the crown on his head wasn't a jester's. That anyone would bend the knee and call him king. "Yes. Hello, old friend. The King of Fereldon."

"Hello, Anora—who's this?" Aedan was immediately bending down to look Moira in the eye.

Their daughter looked back bravely, this girl who'd kicked and yanked on beards belonging to diplomats who were advised beforehand to ignore her the best they could. And since she might be Queen one day, as well as just plain being Anora's daughter, they did so. "Hello. Uncle Aedan."

The blue eyes that missed nothing were moving past the Grey Warden, as though already bored. Then she saw something that made her do a double take.

"Who's this?" She smiled up at the twin boys.

Immediately, Alistair and Anora were pulling her away. The twins were staring back at her, waving.

"But, Daddy, they look like—"

"Yes. We know." Anora's mouth was a narrow white line. Already, you could see wheels and cogs turning in their daughter's blonde head. She would find some way to turn this to her advantage, getting either a new magic book or trip into the marketplace. Two illegitimate half brothers? That clearly deserved a brand new miniature but sharpened sword for her troubles. Anora no longer tried to reason with her except in materialistic terms, trying to keep the blackmail to minimum and reduce the collateral damage.

Still, at least these three were getting along better than he and Cailan had.

So, basically, meals were very uncomfortable. He'd warned the cooks to prepare huge servings for the Wardens, which kept the stabbing to a minimum. But between the chilly looks from his wife, the way his daughter kept staring intensely at the twins, Alistair would have been fine with a brisk attempted murder. Something where no one was actually harmed and they could all just laugh about it later. Yes, laughter. That would really clear up some of the tension and stop the collar of his scratchy shirt from trying to strangle him.

His daughter kept ordering the servers to bring more food down to the two boys. Determined not to let anyone forget they were there, all under the guise of looking to care about their stomachs. As though someone frenzies enough to end up with lettuce in the eyebrows needed help finding food. Alistair remembered briefly helping the boys steals still-warm pies from one of the ovens in the Grey Warden's kitchen that was probably the most impressive room in the entire base.

Time passed like the molasses Aedan was spreading onto a loaf of bread and had Zevran winking and whispering something to the Grey Warden that made him flush. Anora kept almost-glaring at him. But there was a plan swirling behind the eyes he'd passed on only to Morrigan's two boys. He knew exactly what to do, which was to simply ignore their presence and keep his daughter from their company. Say something to Aedan later about having brought them along, ask what was going through the man's mind, and tell Zevran to distract the two teenagers with something shiny.

Of course, right after dinner as his wife took Moira to her room to attempt , everything fell apart when Alistair found one of the twins almost waiting for him on the stairs. He was attempting to shove his head in-between the bars on the stairs, and impossible to ignore.

"Ali?...Alex? What are you doing there?"

"Ali. I don't know Uncle. I feel...I feel safe here. On the stairs."

"...okay then. But why are you sitting here."

"Tis nothing."

Alistair went pale. "...well…I'm going to leave now."

But then there were footsteps behind him that made him freeze in place. If someone saw them together, already no one could not gossip in this castle, and-The second boy plopped down besides his brother, wordlessly, joining him.

"Hi, Uncle Alistair."

"Hi. Alex."

"Ali."

"Are you sure?" He eyed them. "Are you just messing with me?"

"Uncle, did you like being a Grey Warden?"

"Loved it. Why?"

"We were thinking about joining the order-"

"But Mom doesn't want us to-"

It was so hard not to shudder at having that title, 'mother,' bestowed upon Morrigan. Even now, conjuring up the image of the she-demon, Alistair thought of her smirking face, how she was all for slaughter and letting people suffer, her in bed beneath him, laughing and laughing at his attempts at making her feel good while they tried to bring forth the Old God baby.

'like this?'

'oh, gods, no!'

Which, he didn't think they'd even done. Neither of these two looked evil or horned. They probably couldn't even use magic. Not like…Moira...

But no, no that was insane. She was just a demanding little girl. For all the jokes, she wasn't a demon. Just…rambunctious and cared little for the rules. Maybe, maybe evil compared to these two kids who glowed with good will and cheer when they weren't moping on the stairs, but who wouldn't look bad compared to these two?

They were good kids, and Moira wasn't the Old God, and now, now it was time. Alistair took a deep breath, steeling his courage. It had been so long since he'd last fought he barely recognized the rush of adrenaline that came before throwing himself offensively into a fight. He was used to playing defense, with his daughter. His daughter, who knew the truth as these two should.

"So, speaking of her...has Morrigan ever said much about your…father?"

"Oh. We know."

"Yeah. We knew a long time ago."

"Forever ago."

"I can't remember a time when I didn't know."

"…oh. So, you know I'm…you know."

"Yeah." They looked at him with confused hazelish eyes. "Oh, Uncle. Did you not know?"

"No, I knew. That I'm not your uncle."

The two of them looked at each other, pityingly. "He didn't know he had two kids out there."

"I did so! I didn't act like it, I mean, I didn't want to intrude, or overstep my bounds. Morrigan said I wouldn't ever see you two again."

"Oh. Sure."

"Definitely."

"Don't patronize me. I'm your King." He had to reach out and gently punch both their shoulders, remembering his time with Aedan and their easy camaraderie.

"Right."

"You were good at hide-and-go-seek," one of them said, as though that meant far more than a kingdom did.

"Anyway, Morrigan seems to have done a good job."

They nodded. "We have the best Mom in the world. Besides, maybe Zevran. Because he's a better cook. But his stories aren't as good."

"He always cuts out the bloody parts."

"Not like Mom. Or Sten."

"Yeah. Sten has the best stories."

"And he's the best cook. Have you had some of his cookies, Uncle?"

When had Sten stopped shunning cooking duties, leaving it up to the assassin to make their meals at camp, or to his fellow Warden that had attemptted fish stews to make Zevran feel more at home and end up nearly killing them all? "No."

"They're the most awesome thing in the world. You have to come by, and have some."

"Maybe I will. Does that mean, though, that Sten is the best mother?"

"Maybe?"

"Hey, Uncle, you wanna come with us to the kitchen? For more desert?"

"That sounds good. And you two can tell me some more about your Mom. Embarrassing stuff to, if you want. And I could tell you some stories about being a Grey Warden?"

"Sure, Uncle Alistair."

There were times when she missed the goat. At this point, she even missed Valenna.

After so many years surrounded by Grey Wardens, she was used to chattering in every room. There was never a huge amount of privacy, in-between all the gossiping that Anders did (that he would always try to pin on Nate) and just simply having close living quarters. She'd grown accustomed to that, and now there was no one to talk to on the roads. No one could hear her shrieking curses as she nearly lost a shoe while passing swampy lands that made her recall her old home.

Right now would be a perfect time for her own mother to step out and try to kill/possess her.

Morrigan kept waiting for that to happen, that and for Aedan's old group of followers and friends and even enemies to step out and to attack her. Or attempt to befriend her. Right now, just as she slipped and fell down a steep hill, the red-haired bard would step out behind a tree, giggling at the sight of the witch. Or the nosy old woman would shake her head at the sight of her trying to make camp and forgetting how to properly assemble a water-proof tent. Or the talking rock would try to crush her head. Even a couple of Antivan crows would be nice around now.

She remembered carrying her boys along roads like this, and was horrified to find herself tearing up.

Without any annoying Wardens to run around her as her own children later would, collecting similar scabs and playing with their toys in-between annoying her to heal their various wounds. Ignoring her advice over who to pay attention towards, and who to make friends with, that no, stop letting that bard put foolish stories into their heads, to stop letting the old mage (grand) mother them with her own tales of griffons, that the blonde elf had to be watched but not that carefully, stop it, and to show her proper respect. She traded her taller older children for two shorter kids that were actually related to her by blood.

Now all four of them were gone. How long had she worn the mantle of 'friend,' 'companion,' 'loose protector,' and then later, 'mother?' Shackled for so long Morrigan no longer noticed such chains. But how could she have forgotten the silence of the woods, and how to keep her clothes from catching on any loose branches?

Her ears listened for crashes and wails from the boys' instruments and the similar sound of them training outside with the others. She caught her skirt on another bush. Her eyes wanted to glance on the tall grey towers of Vigil's Keep. The last bear she'd seen had been painted on a shield. No actually person or persons attempted to ambush and murder her. She continued towards Denerim.

Again, she was Morrigan of the Wilds.

For everything else he'd accomplished, Aedan was probably most proud of making Zevran laugh. And their children. Of course. But still, seeing the blonde elf clutching his gut, rolling around on the expensive bed, that gave him a tingle of pride. Even killing dark spawn, helping save orphans, helping Leliana in Orlais with the Empress, all the bandits and bad guys defeated, helping make Morrigan a non-evil witch and kill her scary dragon mother, rebuilding the Grey Warden order, helping Sten back in him strange homeland, going back home to help Fergus clean up Highever, none of that compared to making Zevran happy.

Dog went to join him with a hug, and nearly toppled both of them onto the ground.

"It really isn't funny, Zevran. This could plunge the entire country into civil war."

"Did you see the look on Alistair's face? He really did look the same way he did when you pushed him into marrying Anora. And her face. Like Morrigan, when finding out she had to sleep with Alistair. You were right about that."

"Stop giggling. You can't do that at the breakfast table."

"Oh, but we can-?"

He rubbed beneath an eye. "No, not that either. Bad enough we do that at home. One day, someone's going to see us."

"I can't wait to return to Amarathine then."

"I'm glad we made this time," Aedan said blandly. "It might be good for the twins, to see their father. Even if none of them know he's their father."

"I'm not sure Morrigan will agree."

"Still, family is important. Adopted or not, it's good to know where you came from. Like when we were in Antiva, and met that man that might be your father?"

Just a simple reminder of that incident, of that awkwardness, made Zevran go still. "I'm still not convinced."

"He looked exactly like you. And he was just as big a pervert. Remember, him offering his room for me to share? Even I caught that one. He smirked the same way too."

"He had good taste. And hair," Zevran admitted. "But I'm not entirely convinced."

"I wouldn't be the man I am today, if not for my parents." Aedan was lost in his own memories of throwing snowballs and hitting things with a wooden sword. While Zevran could only recall the awkward meeting of that blonde stranger, the knowledge in those bright eyes as he looked upon the elf, and wonder if he had any half-siblings. In his mind, they all had identical perfect hair and wicked smiles, three, four, twenty, fifty elves or humans just like him. Family. He nearly shuddered.

Who knew what they might be like? Perhaps like that moody elf marked with white tattoos that had arrived with that bearded Champion in Kirkwell. Or the dark-haired female one he'd met there, all bubbly and twitchy.

"Zev? Zevran?"

Fingers snapped before his eyes.

"Yes, family is wonderful. Perhaps we might delay that trip to Antiva with the children?"

"Hm? Why?"

"Oh, no reason."

It was such a cozy domestic scene, on this nice bed with its silk sheets he lay on, his lover sitting there shirtless and delicious. What he needed was to just to ignore the past, and enjoy the present. The children were safe and in their own rooms, there was nothing to distract Aedan from a vigorous reunion they hadn't been able to experience on the road down here. Christen the room.

They hadn't been together in a new place in some time. Before there was silver in Zevran's otherwise gold hair that had been caused by such worriment about Aedan's own age. When he'd thought that trip into Deep Roads was further off.

"We did a good job with those kids." His voice was distant as he pulled on a new tunic. A rare gift from Morrigan, 'well, you did weigh us all down when we were traveling with such things.' After Zevran had inspected it for poison, half-jesting, he had to admit the material was fine, and that it went nicely with Aedan's eyes. It would have looked better coming off, however.

He moved closer, only to be thwarted by Aedan's, "You know. I think dinner's soon."

"Is that all? Is that your final declaration on this entire mess of a situation involving Morrigan and Alistair?"

Those eyes fluttering open, as a smile came over his face. "…And I love you?"

When they stepped out, Alistair was rolling around the royal rugs with his boys, both of them struggling for the upper hand. But the boys were their mother's children, and had no problem going for the eyes and groin.

She and the little girl stared at each other, over the flaming doll as curls of smoke rose reach the tops of the trees.

Tiny blond eyebrows contracted. "Where did you come from?"

"That wasn't a bad fire spell," Morrigan allowed. An 'apostate' here? In broad daylight, at the Arl of Denerim's estate? The dog at the girl's side showed its teeth.

The child nodded gravely. "You weren't supposed to see that. I like your staff."

"Thank you."

They inspected each other some more.

"How come your jewelry has bite marks on it? Is it supposed to? That's awesome."

"Thank you."

"I have to attend to some matters soon." The child paused, rubbing at a small chin. "Why don't you come play with us?"

Her smile came unbidden, though now she was suddenly aware of who and what she was. Her boys hadn't considered themselves 'at play' for many years. "Aren't you a little old to play such games?"

The little blonde girl huffed. "My Father commanded me to play with the children. I have to watch out for them. Them, and my cousins. At least my aunt and her children aren't here anymore.

"Besides, these two Grey Warden squires follow me around and do whatever I ask. It's fun."

Her mother's child, obviously. Though, that magic was rather troubling.

"Tell me. How do you feel about cheese?"

"Eeecch. My Daddy loves the stuff though. But my Father still plays with toys, so..." She shrugged. Her braids were perfect. "But he's gotten better with that since Mother threw out his favorite wooden griffon."

"You don't like griffons."

"Glad they're dead."

"Understandable."

"Who the hell needs some half-assed horse/eagle thing? Could you even fly on those? I have my doubts. But you're the first person I met who didn't freak out over that."

"I bet I'm the first person who didn't 'freak out' when seeing you use mage, also."

"I wasn't supposed to do that." But her pale face looked unabashed, eyes that same shade of cold blue-gray. "I'm supposed to not do that. And be nice too. Since Mother is about to have another child, and all. But."

A shrug of her shoulders. "Why don't you come in?"

"Do you know magic?"

"Of course."

"Then you definitely have to come inside."