-oo-

Epilogue

"And this…goes up…"

Aerydd ran her bare fingers through the infant's scant crop of almost-hair, making it stand on end like a cock's comb. She knew it annoyed her sister in law, though she knew Meaghan would never actually say so; Fergus' second wife having nothing of the fire of his first, Antivan spouse. However, as wife number two hadn't been chosen for her fire and spirit, but for her lineage, who was she to argue?

"I'm so glad he has Fergus' nose," Aerydd commented, tweaking the subject of her praise affectionately. "No offence to my brother's wife, but I find her nose rather deplorable. It's too…too cute."

"Isn't that a good thing in a small child?" her companion raised his eyebrows. He continued to eye her closely a few more seconds. "Looking at you and your nephew, one would think you were a natural at this sort of thing…as opposed to an un-maternal, cold-blooded warrior Grey Warden."

Aerydd made a face at him, handing her nephew to the wet nurse; the two of them retiring to the far corner of the nursery, where the elf's own infant lay quietly sleeping. Aerydd sighed, her attention drawn to the elf child's bright head of orange hair and delicate, pale skin. Elven children were always incredibly beautiful, causing little Kendric Bryce Cousland to look like an over-boiled, skinned nug with a too-large nose in comparison. As it was best to escape before her brother's wife turned up expecting more compliments for such a fine Cousland heir, Aerydd beat a hasty retreat towards the door, not caring in particular whether her fellow Grey Warden chose to follow.

"This has nothing to do with being maternal or not," Aerydd tossed over her shoulder, hearing her companion's shuffling footsteps follow. "My nephew is a Cousland and we're a clannish lot. Familial affection is inherited."

"What," Warden Jowan began. "You've never, ever been lured by the pitter patter of tiny feet?"

Aerydd shrugged. "I already have a mabari," she told him. "I think all I need do is commission a…let me see, a long sword would be appropriate I think," she added quite seriously. "In honour of my brother's little addition to the Cousland line."

A small choking noise emerged from the other Warden. "You have more swords, bows and shields than a Broodmother has…"

"Hah! I dare you to say that in front of my sister in law!"

"I was about to say 'tentacles'," Jowan defended himself wryly, with a roll of his eyes. "You've spent far too much time in Sigrun's company."

Aerydd responded by tossing the Mage Warden a sly look. "Jealous, are you?"

"Shut up."

The two stepped out into the courtyard, Aerydd closing her eyes to breathe in the scent of freedom and the open air, untainted by the smell of unemptied gazunders and sour milk. She wouldn't have even made the trip to Highever if Fergus hadn't sent the sternly-worded letter reminding her of the importance of family…considering the last time he had looked, she still signed her name with 'Cousland'.

"Think it's going to rain?" Jowan stood beside her under the wide archway, wrinkling his nose at the clouds looming overhead. Aerydd had been in the process of putting together a sarcastic comment in reply when a small commotion at the entrance to the stable courtyard announced the arrival of her brother…and a visitor.

"Andraste's fuzzy mittens!" she heard Jowan exclaim before moving forward eagerly. The two new arrivals paused; one to cast her an enquiring look, the other a lopsided old grin that she hadn't seen in five years. "Now you're a face I didn't expect to see again!" Jowan continued, extending his hand. Arms were clasped, greetings exchanged. Her brother's visitor turned next to her. He looked older, Aerydd thought. He'd put on a bit of weight, grown a bit of a beard, looking now far less like his half-brother than he had during the Blight.

Warden Mabari…

"Alis…" Aerydd began, when her gaze was abruptly arrested by the double-Griffon emblazoned on his chest piece.

"You're the new Commander of the Grey?" Jowan blurted, voicing Aerydd's bemused thoughts. "Duncan's replacement?" Turning back to his fellow Ferelden Grey Warden, he commented; "When they mentioned someone was coming from Jader, I assumed it would be Riordan."

"As did we all," Alistair – Warden Commander Alistair – grimaced.

"Not staying for supper, Pup?" Fergus took control of the conversation before it degenerated into a Grey Warden reunion. "Meaghan will be disappointed." Aerydd tossed her brother a look. She doubted that very much, seeing as her brother's sister treated her Grey Warden sister-in-law like the second coming of Andraste; with awe and fear.

Her Cousland chin jutted stubbornly though Aerydd knew there was little point in citing 'duty', because her canny brother would undoubtedly turn the word around to make her feel she was neglecting her only duty by returning to the Grey Wardens in Amaranthine. Trying to explain why she couldn't give up life as a Grey Warden during The Thaw had been enough of a battle. If the grumbling noblemen and women of the Landsmeet knew exactly how much Fergus Cousland resented the Order for 'stealing' his sister, perhaps there wouldn't be so much gossip about Wardens interfering in Ferelden politics. Which made – she realised with no little amount of interest – the half-brother of the King of Ferelden appointed the new Warden Commander of the Grey an unenviable position.

"And…" Fergus added, with a raised eyebrow that promised fascinating conversation on this very subject, "It's been a while since we've talked sister. I've been looking forward to catching up with you."

Sister, not 'Pup' again. Oh yes. A very fascinating conversation indeed!

Aerydd knew full well what Fergus was hinting at. Given that a successor to the Theirin line had as yet to be produced (after nearly fifteen years of marriage and counting), the Landsmeet were showing signs yet again of unrest. Add in some hints of Cailan having developed the same wasting disease that had plagued Queen Rowan and a few nasty run-ins between Queen Anora and a few of the more vocal members of the Landsmeet and Alistair's appearance in Ferelden appeared far too fortuitous. Cailan trying to shore up his position, Aerydd wondered? Or his way of putting his wife on notice? For all she knew, Cailan might even be using his half-brother as a distraction from the growing number of mutterings suggesting Fergus Cousland might make a suitable successor…

"Of course," Fergus added with the grace of the well-practised host, "Your fellow Grey Wardens are most welcome to stay."

"Thank you, Your Excellency." It was Alistair who spoke before Jowan or she could accept or decline the invitation. "It's most generous of you, but as I mentioned earlier, I am keen to meet my fellow Wardens." The look the new Warden Commander bestowed on Jowan was pointed. "Jowan, would you do me the honour of accompanying me? That is…if you can tear yourself away from the Teyrn's offer of hospitality?"

"I uh…" Jowan was no fool. A quick look between the Teyrn, Warden Commander and Aerydd and he began to back away. "Sure," he nodded. "It'll be a wrench, but I'm sure I can manage." Digging an elbow into Aerydd's side, he added, "Shall I let Master Wade know you'll be haunting his workshop soon?"

Aerydd sighed more audibly this time. She shrugged in defeat. For now. "Thank you, Jowan. I would appreciate it." A quick bow from both Wardens and the two had left for the stables, leaving Aerydd and her brother avoiding looking at each other directly.

"Just quietly…" Fergus began with a quick look over his shoulder, "Cailan is set to publicly endorse Alistair's appointment as Commander of the Grey."

Aerydd snorted. So much for Grey Wardens staying out of Ferelden politics…

"Nothing is ever simple, is it?" her brother added with a sigh of his own. Turning her back on the stables and courtyard, Aerydd looped an arm around one of her brother's own.

"When is it ever?" she asked. "And yes Fergus," she informed him firmly. "I will stay for supper."

-oo-

Dust swirled about their feet, rising higher as the lines of armoured soldiers passed through the cloud. The lead soldier raised his hand to call a halt; the sound of tramping boots dying to a soft shuffle, soon replaced by the screeching of metal as the door bolts were worked free and pushed back. Captain Gaveth's men strode forward, pushing the great metal doors open with barely a creak.

Alistair inhaled hard, his arm reaching out before the person ahead of him stepped through the doors to the Deep Roads.

"Ser…"

The Grey Warden ahead turned. Despite the obvious weariness and signs of age, there was still strength beneath the plate armour he so favoured, hair worn in that youthful style; long with thin braids keeping most of it off his face, though the once obsidian-black hair was now mostly salt and pepper.

"No goodbyes, Alistair," he reminded the other man. "I have waited far too long for this day. For the end."

"I know…I know…" Alistair ducked his head. He knew this day was inevitable. He'd seen the signs long before his heart would let him recognise them for what they were. The Maker knew he'd seen them enough times in Duncan during the Blight. It just felt…he had hoped that things would be different somehow; now that the Archdemon had been defeated along with its hordes of Darkspawn to bring this day closer.

No, his inner voice told him. There would always be hordes of Darkspawn, waiting…searching for the next old god to lead them again.

"I have faith in you Alistair," Loghain gripped the younger Warden's shoulder. "All you need is faith in yourself."

"It's not that, Loghain…" Alistair frowned. "It's just…" Dammit! I am not going to go all emotional in front of a pack of Legion of the Dead soldiers…! He raised his eyes. "Thank you," he told his mentor in a rush. "For everything you've done. For the Order; for me…"

"Yes, yes, yes…We've been through this already boy," Loghain sighed, reverting to the old nickname. Theirin had not disappointed him by rising to the challenge of command relatively quickly. The foundations had been laid; there was little that Loghain could do now. Alistair had been leading the Order on his own for the last two years anyway, with only passing assistance from himself. It was time to let go.

"And now I would appreciate it if you refrained from embarrassing yourself – and me - in front of Gaveth's men…" Loghain added in a bored voice that had Alistair's grin return...if somewhat reluctantly.

"Not even a bit of chest beating and throwing myself at you?" Alistair queried. Loghain rolled his eyes. "And here I brought my best sackcloth and everything."

Loghain sighed again. "Never let it be said…" he'd begun when a noise at the end of the tunnel had them reaching for their weaponry…except that is, the two Grey Wardens, who merely waited for the two slender figures to catch up to them. When he too realised who they were, Captain Gaveth tossed his axe onto his shoulder, turning his back on the Wardens with a roll of an eye. He then ordered his men into the Deep Roads. No doubt the Grey Warden would follow.

"Oh, I don't think I could have forgiven myself if I missed you!" One of new arrivals announced breathlessly, throwing herself at Loghain. Feet dangling, she hugged the grizzled old Grey Warden with great determination then dropped to the floor.

A single grey eyebrow rose on Loghain's forehead as he regarded the younger Wardens, his gaze ending at the youngest; one of the new recruits from the Denerim Alienage; a very flamboyant yet competent archer who he suspected had far more talents under her rather busy belt than with mere bow and arrow.

"Hmph," he snorted dryly. "One would think I was planning to depart on a long holiday instead of to my Calling…" He surveyed them all as a forbearing uncle would, resigning himself to the expected pranks of his young relatives. "Forgive me if no postcards are forthcoming."

"Aw…Loghain…!" Ella's mouth turned downwards. "It's just…We wanted to say…"

"Take care, make sure my stomach-warmer is secure and 'don't drink the local water'?" Loghain suggested in the ensuing silence. He patted the top of the Mage's head, his grave expression returning. "I know, Majella…"

One last, cool nod at the now Warden Commander of the Order of the Grey and Loghain turned, passing swiftly under the heavy stone beams to join Captain Gaveth and the Legion of the Dead. The doors closed all too quickly after he had gone, the resounding boom echoing from wall to wall until it too was swallowed by the silence. After a while the only noise in the long tunnel was the soft sound of their breathing, the odd scratching of a deepstalker behind a crumbled wall and the nervous tapping of the junior Grey Warden's foot. Then, even she slowly backed away, leaving the two senior Wardens on their own.

Alistair tossed a look over her shoulder, eyebrows crooking. What odd coloured hair that girl has…

"You alright?"

Alistair found Ella's hand slipping into his, with a reassuring squeeze.

"I thought you were in the Free Marches?" he asked, not that he wasn't happy about the fact that she wasn't. Or…not unhappy because she was…? Let's just say I'm really, really happy that she's here…

"I couldn't let you be on your own," she told him simply. "Not when I heard."

Folding her into an embrace, he rested his cheek on the top of her head, breathing in that particularly Magey scent that he loved so much. Elfroot and cinnabar mixed with Deep Roads dust and sea water. She sighed into his chest, warm breath fogging the surface of his armour before dissipating into the cool, dry air.

"How long have you known?" she asked, wriggling in closer. "About Loghain?"

Alistair grimaced, his gaze travelling to the great iron doors. "Months," he murmured. "He hid it pretty well, but a man of his age I suppose…"

Majella chuckled, causing the metal of his chest plate to vibrate slightly. "He never did forgive Duncan for dying before he did. I think if he could have gone to the Deep Roads sooner, he would have." She tipped her face upwards, working an arm out from behind him so she could caress the line of his jaw with a finger. "Especially after Anora…"

Both Wardens looked back at the entrance to the Deep Road now. No…Alistair conceded again. He couldn't begrudge Loghain this death. The Warden's death. Loghain had been fighting for most of his life adult life it seemed. It must have been…wearying to always be a soldier, watching all of one's fellow warriors die to be left behind. And Loghain had few of his contemporaries alive today, if any. The Blight had made sure of that.

And I hope when it's my turn…

"You know…" Alistair said suddenly, causing Ella to startle a little. "Tapsters isn't far…Maybe we should…"

Ella said nothing for a while, scanning his face intently before simply deciding to rise to the challenge he'd just laid down. "Sounds like a good idea," she nodded in agreement, adding; "Trust the dwarves to locate an inn near the Deep Roads entry."

"Well," dragging out the 'e' in his usual way, the two strode uphill towards the Commons. "It's quite clever, when you think about it. After a few battles with Darkspawn, dwarven ale starts to smell – and taste – good."

"You're saying there's no such thing as 'good' dwarven ale?" Ella peeked up at him with a soft laugh. "In a place where you can be overheard by hundreds of dwarves?"

Sputtering, he attempted to defend himself. In this way conversation continued to flow; meaningless, meandering and random. Anything to distract themselves from the last image of their old mentor and friend setting off into the Deep Roads; to keep them from thinking about the fact that they were not likely to see him again. Or that the further away they travelled from each other their connection through the Taint lessened. Alistair wasn't too sure which he preferred; to know the point at which the Old Man met his Maker…or to just assume that he had. He only knew that he was glad that Loghain would not be on his own, though he did wish he could have been accompanied by another Grey Warden…

He glanced down at Ella. Best not tell her he'd volunteered for the job…She'd kill me for a start…And then the pain would really begin.

The familiar fizz of the Taint told them there were more Grey Wardens in the tavern. While Ella pushed open the door and went inside, Alistair lingered at the entrance; mustering his thoughts for more Warden Commander-y ones. He could pick his Wardens out from the rest of the crowd; their rag-tag collection of humans, dwarves and elves. Even if there weren't the obvious differences with the usual sort that patronised Orzammar's rowdiest establishment outside the Assembly, he'd still recognise them. All of them.

He wasn't too sure how long he stood at the top of the steps, looking down into the pit of drunken rowdiness, stale cooking smoke, sweat and sour ale, the thought of being social unappealing. Perhaps if he continued on to their apartments, quietly…to wait out the inevitable, he wouldn't be missed? He'd begun to turn when a cheer went up…His attention lured back to the occupants of the tavern, he discovered the increase in noise was due to his fellow Senior Warden.

Ella had vaulted onto a table in the centre of the group to the approval of all. Alistair frowned, puzzled at her impromptu performance. She had unhitched her Mage staff, twirling it above her head. Striking a dramatic pose she shot a bolt of electricity into the beams, making the thick air thunder. Thinking he should perhaps intervene, he started forward when she bellowed: "Grey Wardens! Have I told you all how handsome you are?"

Alistair stopped mid-step, blinking. Meanwhile another round of cheers erupted around Ella's feet, other customers now drawn to the spectacle.

"And beautiful!" Ella added for the benefit of the female contingent; amid roars of enthusiastic agreement. As if by magic, a tankard of frothy ale appeared in her hand. She angled it in Alistair's direction with a wink and a smile. Understanding perfectly what she was trying to do, he worked his way quietly through the crowd, settling into a shadowy, quiet corner by an ale barrel.

"Yeaaaaaahhh...!" he heard Ella to more cheers and applause. Alistair found himself embracing the moment; allowing it to warm him all the way to his chilled insides. His Grey Wardens…Loghain and Duncan's Grey Wardens…Ferelden's best from all corners of the country continued to lap up Ella's praise.

"Order of the Grey!" Ella bellowed. "You're all a bunch of bloody gorgeous specimens!"

Laughter emerged…Alistair realised it was his laughter he heard; an unexpected sound. But he couldn't not agree with her statement. Yes they were. Beautiful, dedicated, wonderful…just like his Warden Mage.

-oo-

Calea kicked open the door, her tired legs carrying her faithfully as far as the bed before dropping her face first into it. Spreadeagled with her feet dangling off the edge, she remained motionless, pondering the day's events. Ancestors, my face hurts…If she never had to smile at anyone again she would be a happy woman. Why was politics so much more tiring than battling a thousand Darkspawn? By the Stone, some of those nobles had looked like Darkspawn. Especially that Bann Esmerelle fellow…woman. She'd seen rotting Hurlock corpses with less sour expressions.

She heard the door open and close softly, then the familiar sound of her husband's footsteps. A metallic clatter followed as he leaned his walking stick against the bedside table; the special one he used when he needed to fill the role of both monarch and Grey Warden. It had a griffon's head at one end and a very pointy bit at the other…A few moments later, the bed dipped, making her roll slightly to the right. Ah…now I can actually breathe…

After a while, he cleared his throat. "Tough day at the office, dear?" he asked.

Silence.

"That bad, huh?" The bed wobbled again. "Still…I think you did well, all things considered."

Again, silence.

"Though to be honest," he continued, "I'm not sure threatening Bann Coerlic with the potato scallops was something I would have done."

The wall of silence remained intact. Alistair went on unperturbed.

"…and then offering to dangle him out of the window by his ankles over a pit of angry, ravenous, wild mabari…"

Nothing.

"When everyone knows there's no such thing as a 'wild' mabari…I mean, where would you find one? Unless you can convince one in the royal kennels to put a lampshade on its head, go on a drunken rage and pee on the shrubberies…or the Grand Cleric's ceremonial vestments."

King Alistair paused for a reaction. He could wait all day; all week if he had to. Waiting was what he did best. After all, he had waited an entire year before his fellow Warden, best friend and Blight companion realised how much she needed to marry him. "Huh," he added thoughtfully. "In fact, I think I'd pay to see that."

His strategy began to show signs it was working. A single eye peeked out above an arm; balefully.

Calea shifted, now showing both eyes. He smiled. Ah…there's the rest of her! Ooh, still not happy…"Only don't tell Teagan I said so," he said. "You know how he likes to go on about how many hairs he has left and how we're the cause of his inability to retain what little he has left. Personally, I think he makes quite an attractive looking bald man. It's that peak on the top of his head. It makes him look like a shark gliding through the waters when he's moving through a crowd in the Landsmeet Chambers. I wouldn't be able to pick him out if he didn't…It's that window of opportunity for escape that I treasure so much…"

A sigh emerged. At mention of the long-suffering Chancellor Teagan Guerrin, Calea redirected her gaze to the coverlet, picking at a loose thread in the pattern. "And…with that many children, I think I'd have lost most of my hair by now too," Alistair commented…to another sigh from his Princess Consort. "They're like a litter of little mabari…I can't tell them apart they all look the same. Any more and he'll need to have his own country to house them all…"

Clearing his throat, Alistair directed his gaze to the opposite wall. "Speaking of mabari…" he began slowly. "Just asking…you wouldn't have trained our little pride and joy to hump Arl Wulffe's leg every time he mentions the word 'Amaranthine' did you?"

Calea snorted; the closest she'd come to actual conversation since he'd entered the room.

"I understand Baloo's dedication to the Grey Wardens," Alistair waved a hand in the air. "And I know he gets a tad…sensitive when he thinks the Order's being insulted but…think I should have a word with him?"

Her head turned sharply in his direction, eyebrows drawn downwards in a clear expression of her opinion of that idea. Well…true, the King of Ferelden having a bit of a heart to heart with the Royal Mabari about diplomacy would be amusing. Heck, why not bring it up as a discussion for the next Landsmeet? It would make a nice change from talk about his continuing inability to provide a royal heir. Not that he didn't already have some kind of…plan in mind. He hadn't spent years in Calea's canny political company without learning a few tricks of his own.

Thumping the bed with the flat of her palm, Calea propped herself up. "It'll be fine Alistair," she told him; her voice sounding as tired as she looked. His worry increased. "I'll be taking him with me when I return to Vigil's Keep tomorrow, so Arl Wulffe – and his leg – can rest at ease."

"Bu…" Alistair's face had fallen at this piece of news. Had he gotten his dates wrong? Overslept somewhere and missed the passing of a few days? "That was…You're leaving tomorrow?" he asked, feeling the too familiar, hollow feeling of loneliness begin to creep up on him. "I was hoping you'd be here for a bit longer…"

Calea didn't meet his eyes as she continued to rise, tucking her feet under her and scraping at an invisible bit of fluff on the bedclothes with a finger nail.

"Well…" Alistair murmured, silence descending in a thick curtain between them.

Calea grimaced, too tired to explain how exhausted she was, dividing her time between Amaranthine with the Grey Wardens…Orzammar; with the Assembly and constantly knocking heads with her bronto's arse of a brother…and Denerim, urgh…Not to mention the most aggressive sewing circle she'd ever had the displeasure to be a part of…and anyway, why didn't humans just hire someone to do all of that for them? Honestly, humans had no concept of the proper division of labour. Fereldans were so backward when it came to the lower classes, but could she convince them they'd gotten it wrong? No, well and it was different in the Landsmeet too, wasn't it? Threaten some poo-faced noble with disembowelment or facial rearrangement and you might as well recall the Archdemon for another go at eating the entire country.

And…invariably it was Alistair who ended up bearing the brunt of her dwarven style of diplomacy. The bunch of deepstalker spawn…Removing herself always seemed easier on him…Mostly…

"Alistair, I'm sor…"

"I guess wearing more than the one hat stretches you a little thin," he interrupted, scratching the side of his nose. "I'm sorry Calea…" He captured one of her hands in his. Settling it in his lap he began kneading her sword calluses with his fingers. Calea gave her head a brisk shake. Like Hullaballoo when scratched in the right spot behind his ear, her eyelids had begun to droop, her mind to wander. She needed to stay focussed. Resolute. Yes, she was abandoning Alistair. Alright, she admitted she was running away to join the Grey Warden circus…but if she didn't kill something – or someone – soon, she'd have to resort to murder.

Or cake.

And that was never a good idea.

"I know it's difficult…and unfair that you have to bear the load of Commander of the Grey all by yourself…" he continued. Calea attempted to cast him a sharp look, but he'd spun her around, working his way up her arms to her shoulders, barely giving her a chance to check his expression. "You hardly have any time to yourself, much less…you know, couple time..."

Couple time…? Where was he going with this? If he wanted a bit of a tumble before she left, she would be the last person to object, but…something else was up here. No pun intended…

"I wish I could help. Somehow…" Alistair sighed. "Share the load…"

She was finding it increasingly difficult to think straight. His breath tickling the hairs behind her left ear was rendering her determination to leave – and soon - into a pathetic pool of warm mush. A bit like her brain at this moment. What was he trying to…? Oh, guhhh…! Calea slapped her thighs with her hands sharply. The moment interrupted, she scooted to the other end of the bed to relative safety and in full view of his unrepentant, cheeky grin.

Narrowing her eyes, she pointed an accusing finger at him, unable to think of anything else to say except a hoarse, "You…"

"Me…" he mimicked her tone of voice.

Calea crossed her arms. She pouted. I have taught you too well, you spiky-haired, one-legged…"You, you, you manipulative…manipulator!" she managed eventually. "Fine! I will stay another day." And that's my final offer.

"Two weeks," he countered cheerfully.

Didn't I say that was my final offer? "One!"

"One and a half!" Alistair wiggled his eyebrows. "And I'll even throw in cake."

"Bastard," she accused him. "You…cake-wielding bastard."

"Plum cake," he added, his all-too-victorious grin making her want to thump him…Or kill a human noble. "With custard…"

Custard…! "You are evil," Calea stated, "If only the Landsmeet knew the power you wielded…And remind me again why I was never able to convince you to marry Leliana…?"

"Because she was crazy and I didn't want the next King or Queen of Ferelden after me to be a drooling lunatic," he replied easily. "Besides...I know you secretly adored me. I mean look at me: how could anyone resist this?" He made a sweeping motion at himself; metal leg, scars, bad haircut and all. Calea rolled her eyes. There was little to do except concede defeat.

"Who indeed?" she sighed. "Especially when you come with cake."

"Plum cake, don't forget!"

Urrhhh…! Another week and a half of face ache by forcing it to smile at people she'd rather defenestrate…and I must find a way to remove those nails out of the Landsmeet windows sometime…Chancellor Teagan really overreacted on that one…with work building up fit to explode in Orzammar and Amaranthine and…Ancestors numb nuts. Can I do all of that? I can't do all of that. I don't have enough heads…and arms and…everything else…

"You're changing your mind, aren't you," Alistair stated softly, his smile slipping a little.

"Of course not!" she denied hastily. "I would never…Not in a…You don't believe a single word I'm saying right now do you?" He shook his head. Calea pouted. "Damn. When did you get so smart?"

"When I married you."

She waggled a finger at him. "Ooh…ooh! You're good…" And I should have seen that coming…

"Anyway," he added, even more seriously. "You know it won't be for much longer."

A chill ran through her. What did he mean…? "Much longer?" she repeated. "What the nug droppings do you mean 'won't be for much longer'?" The…the Calling…? No. She hadn't noticed an increase in nightmares, he'd been looking relatively well…There were days when he'd need to spend more time than usual in the training yard, but not recently…Not…

"You might have heard some rumours," Alistair broke into her panicked thoughts. "I suppose I might as well come clean. I've been talking to Fergus and Alfstanna about the succession. Quietly of course."

Oh…"I see." It was difficult to keep the relief out of her voice. Alistair threw her an enquiring look. "I thought it might be…" She made a face at him. "Never mind."

"Calea…"

"Alistair."

He extended his arm. Sliding across, she tucked herself into his side. "I am truly sorry that I can't share more of your duties," he told her sincerely, with a small frown.

"Yeah," Calea shrugged. "But as Orzammar is unlikely to switch me out for a human Paragon, not much you can do there…And…I don't know whether you've noticed," she added in a whispered aside, "but you're a bit busy running a country right now." And…ah, darn it. "Look," she told him reasonably. "I'm not completely indispensable at Vigil's Keep. Nate is there and so is that chicken-feather-wearing Mage the Templars keep inviting to their sword and stake nights. Failing that, there's also Dead Guy…"

"Dead Guy?"

"Justice…or affectionately, 'Just Pieces'...Oh, hey you haven't met re-animated Orlesian Grey Warden have you? I must introduce you next time you're there. Just don't stand downwind of him. Or offer to take his hand…" she grimaced. "He might take you literally. Anyway, Nathaniel's capable and so is…" She rubbed the back of her neck. "Look, we can…we can discuss more details over the next couple of weeks or so…" I suppose…And he had better not renege on his promises of cake either…!

He looked down at her in growing happy surprise. "A couple of weeks? Not one and a half?"

"Yeah…" she poked him hard in his good leg. "So don't get cocky Ser King. I'm exercising my right to change my mind. If you don't watch yourself, I'll make it a month."

"Oh, I'll be careful, yes ma'am!" he assured her, already thinking – she was sure – of ways to misbehave enough to keep her here longer than a month. It would certainly be a nice change from serious, kingly Alistair…She'd been missing him.

"Good," she said with an acknowledging nod of her head. After a minute she held out a hand towards him, palm upwards. "Now," she said with an expectant twinkle in her eye. "Where's my cake?"

-oo-

Dropping his pack to the ground, Alistair backed into the cot, falling backwards with a tired grunt. It was good to be home again, with a bed, a bath and the promise of a hot, Warden-sized meal later. Being on the run with Zevran had felt too much like it did during the Blight; escaping from one place to head into danger the next. But a promise was a promise. He might have spared Zevran's life once, but the ex-Crow had saved his life more than once, including making sure he and the surviving Grey Wardens escaped Ferelden – and Queen Anora's assassins – in one piece.

Helping Zevran take care of his own little 'problem' had been a small price to pay.

Not to mention…as some of those Antivan Crows had had a contract to dispose of 'Maric's bastard', eliminating them first was actually doing him a favour. And Maker, Alistair hoped that was the last of them. Killing Darkspawn had been easy. Something that just came at you with a bit of sharpened metal didn't require a great deal of thinking. Antivan Crows on the other hand, were sneaky. They'd turn up when you thought you were safe. Even a simple meal at a friendly tavern became a potentially life-threatening situation. Alistair had gotten lots of practice being unpopular and disliked during the Blight, but the Crows were nothing if not persistent. If the entire situation hadn't become slightly comical, he might have taken it personally…Well. He knew it was. Queen Anora saw him as a threat to her rule, never mind the fact that he couldn't care less about who was on the throne…

Which wasn't exactly true. He did care who was in charge. He didn't know Anora that well. They'd never been formally introduced so his knowledge of Cailan's widow had been gained through other sources. What he had learned however was that she was not a great improvement over her father post-Blight. He'd heard of riots, food shortages, the Royal Army being turned into nothing more than city guards just to keep a lid on day to day banditry. Fereldans abandoned the country in their hundreds, unhappy with the slow progress in reclaiming the land and the rise of unscrupulous persons in charge of food distribution. Worse, Alistair had heard very ugly rumours of slave trades operating out of the Alienages, as if the plight of city elves weren't bad enough already.

Anora might have been an efficient administrator during a time of peace and prosperity, but in the face of adversity and suffering, her iron will to control did not work particularly well. Nor did her staunch refusal to establish her own line.

Despite his own thoughts Alistair was glad to be out of it. Grey Wardens had no business interfering in politics. It had been bad enough sweeping the cobwebs out of Antiva. Fun though, Alistair thought, tugging at the buckles in his gauntlets before throwing them and his gloves onto the bed. His mind made up to make an effort meant the rest of his armour soon followed. Tomorrow he'd wear his Warden set again.

Did I mention it was good to be home?

He was in the process of struggling out of his mail shirt when a knock sounded on the door. Dropping it back down, he went to answer…to be greeted by the sunniest smile he'd seen since the last Antiva sunrise.

"Helloo!" She was tall for an elf, with flowing orange hair – shaved right down to her scalp at the sides – tied into a ponytail at her neck. What arrested his attention the most however were her eyes. They were…purple. No, not purple…amethyst, sparkling with humour and…Alistair realised she was waving a hand in front of his face.

"Helloo!" she called again. "Anyone home? Anyone at all?"

She was a Grey Warden? Wow…she's a Grey Warden…Wait. What did she mean by 'anyone home?'

"Did you want something?" Alistair asked, feeling slightly outmanoeuvred.

"Me?" she grinned at him. "Oh no." Oh, perfect. "The Senior Warden's looking for you though. And I'm here to deliver the message." She cocked her head to the side, looking like a little bird. It reminded him strangely of someone else…Someone he hadn't really thought of in the last few years. She'd been an elf too. Dalish. And her hair had been silver as had her eyes.

She'd also been a great deal less…happy than this woman here.

"Did you really defeat the Archdemon in Ferelden?" the elf asked, the abrupt question throwing Alistair off balance a little.

"I…It was my fellow Grey Warden, not…"

"Brilliant…" she breathed, her eyes wide. "Bloody brilliant…Anyway." As though waking up from perky sleep, she snapped to attention, moving aside from the door. "You'd better head down. Oh, were you getting undressed? I beg your pardon. Best go put on something pretty. Blue would be your colour. Go well with your grey eyes."

"My eyes are brown."

"Are they? Oh! So they are! Will you look at that? Okay! Gotta go now! Just realised I might have left my socks too close to the fire. See you around…or a-square or…if you want; a-triangle! Get it? A-round, a-square, a-trian…You're not very good at laughing are you?" As quickly as she had appeared, she had gone, skipping down the brightly lit stone corridor, her orange pony-tail swinging from side to side.

In her wake Alistair blinked, trying to catch his breath. He'd barely spoken to her or even moved but the encounter had left him more exhausted than clearing out several warehouses of assassins. He gave his head a shake, completed the removal of the last of his sweaty armour…a quick wash and change into slightly cleaner clothes and he felt ready to face the Senior Warden.

Standing before her door, he still took the time to smooth down his tunic, the roughened skin on his hands catching on the embroidered rearing Griffon on the front. Too much, he wondered briefly? Was he trying too hard? Here I am, a Grey Warden again woopty-hoop-diddly-do!

Oh yeah. Definitely trying too hard…

He opened the door, stepped inside, realising the Senior Warden wasn't alone…"Oh there you are," the Senior Warden had her back turned to him, busy at her writing desk. "I was wondering how long you were going to stand outside primping."

"I wasn't…" Alistair caught himself in time. Clearing his throat, he turned to the other Grey Warden in the room, a genuine smile on his face. "Riordan! I thought you were back in Jader."

The old Grey Warden had gone even greyer since the two had parted ways in the Free Marches. He'd become more lined and there were deep, dark circles around the man's once clear blue eyes.

"Alistair…" Riordan gripped the younger Warden's shoulder affectionately. "I hear you have been keeping busy…in between continuing to vanquish Darkspawn."

Alistair grinned. "I try to keep out of mischief."

"Oh? Keeping out," Riordan asked wryly. "Or attracting mischief?"

"With that charming assassin in tow?" The Senior Warden joined their conversation bearing goblets of steaming mulled wine for the two of them. "No doubt your trail of destruction was littered with broken hearts and swooning damsels. The man has stamina, I'll give him that. Pity he wouldn't agree to be made a Grey Warden."

"Where is Zevran?" Riordan inquired.

"Enjoying his new role as Guild Master," Alistair informed them both. "I invited him back to Weisshaupt, but he said he preferred to remain in Antiva. Too cold here apparently."

"Pity…" the Senior Warden commented in a mysterious tone that had both Alistair and Riordan raising their eyebrows at her. "Well," she told them with an enigmatic smile. "I did say he was charming…" She returned to her desk. Alistair turned back to Riordan but did not get a chance to speak, the Senior Warden having thrust a small cloth sack at him.

"This arrived from Ferelden while you were gone, Alistair, "she told him. "Along with a letter inviting the Grey Wardens to return."

"What?" Alistair and Riordan exclaimed together.

Riordan however was the only one who seemed pleased by this development. "Well, that is good news." He turned to Alistair. "Surely?"

"Why?" Alistair snorted. "Has Queen Anora finished building her gilt and jewel-encrusted gibbet to hang me from?" he drawled sarcastically. "Now that she's run out of assassins to send after me?"

"It appears," Riordan cleared his throat, "that you are behind times."

"When have I ever been in front?" Alistair quipped.

"In that case, allow me to inform you…" Riordan turned back to the Senior Warden. "Unless you would rather…?" The Senior Warden waved her hand for him to proceed, perching herself on the edge of her desk, her swinging legs making her look like a little girl and not an experienced Grey Warden with more than twice as many years under her belt as Alistair. Meanwhile, Riordan pulled up a chair, sinking into it with a sigh.

"Anora," he told Alistair. "Is no longer Queen of Ferelden."

"Slipped on a pool of her own bile and broke her neck did she?" Alistair commented bitterly, earning him a round of disapproving tongue clucking from the Senior Warden.

"Worse perhaps," Riordan continued. "Like her father she incited civil war," he said. "Unfortunately for her, unlike her father she did not win. The former Teyrn of Highever I believe is now the King of Ferelden and it is he and the new…" He stretched an arm behind the Senior Warden, seeking a particular roll of parchment. From this he read out a list of names and titles that were vaguely familiar to Alistair. There was only one that he could claim some knowledge of: Teagan Guerrin, now Teyrn of Gwaren and one of the signatories of the letter in Riordan's hand.

When he had finished reading, Riordan looked up. Alistair was now standing by the fireplace, staring into the flames with a thoughtful expression.

"You think this might be a trap?" Riordan asked. "I have…some knowledge of the Couslands. They have stewarded their own lands with a fair hand and were popular for it."

Alistair nodded. "And I trust Teagan," he murmured. "Taught me how to swim."

"And the parcel they sent?" the Senior Warden prompted. "Not a gift of poisonous humbugs, I suppose?"

Placing his goblet of untouched wine on the mantel, Alistair pulled the strings of the small sack and emptied its contents into the palm of his hand…It was a single arrowhead and a locket of some kind.

"Dalish, I believe?" Riordan commented, moving in for a closer look at the arrowhead. "I am no expert, but I remember admiring – what was her name again? – her skill in archery. The arrow heads she used were of a particular shape and weight. Like the one in your hand. Do you think this could have belonged to her?"

Alistair shrugged, half listening. His attention was fully occupied by the locket in his hand. Had Teagan found this and sent it to him? Would Teagan have even known it belonged to him? Did anyone besides himself and the late Arl Eamon know how important it was? It couldn't have been Moppet. There would have been no reason for her to keep something like this, even if anything on her survived the blast of magical fire that swept across the top of Fort Drakon when the Archdemon died. Yet, here it was. He was sure of it. His mother's locket. The only thing he had had of his parent; carefully pieced back together.

"It's possible," the Senior Warden too, jumped down from her perch to have a look at Alistair's little 'treasures'. "The Dalish don't give up their craft to just anyone, and how many of the Elvenhan Wanderers were on the top of Fort Drakon?"

"Just the one," Riordan replied, looking towards Alistair again.

"Mahariel," Alistair told him. "Her name was Moppet Mahariel."

"Well…" the Senior Warden raised herself up on tip toes for a better look. "And no one's been able to locate her clan to let them know her contribution to this world; to the Grey Wardens and" she continued. "I hear King Fergus is a little more tolerant of us knife-ears. Perhaps the clan will return to Ferelden now that he's in charge." She looked towards Alistair. "You will go, won't you Warden Alistair?"

"Uh?" Alistair's fingers closed around the locket and arrow head to find both older Wardens casting him an expectant look. "I…Is that an order?"

The Senior Warden shrugged. "As the new Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, it might well be."

"What?"

"You heard what I said." The Senior Warden sang, inclining her goblet towards him. "Nothing wrong with your hearing, last time I yelled at you. King Fergus specifically stated we were to send you, if you were still alive. Seeing as you are still alive – no thanks to your little exploits in Antiva and abroad – the First Warden has agreed to send you." She smirked at him over the edge of her goblet. "Huh. It's about time you concentrated on being a Grey Warden, rather than just some Hero for Hire."

"Well I…" Alistair looked to Riordan, a plea in his eyes. "Wouldn't an older Warden be more appropriate?" he asked.

Riordan extended his hand. He placed it on Alistair's shoulder. "No, my friend. It is too late for me I am afraid. I would have liked to come with you, to see my homeland once more in kinder hands, but I leave for the Deep Roads. Soon."

"I…see."

"Take that new Warden with you," the Senior Warden suggested. "That crazy elf with the strange hair."

"Aren't you all?" Riordan commented dryly.

"Make a list of any others you want with you," the Senior Warden continued, ignoring Riordan's jibe. "I'll review it in the morning. The sooner the Grey Wardens regain a foothold in Ferelden, the better."

Riordan raised his goblet, followed by the Senior Warden. "To the Grey Wardens of Ferelden," he proposed. "May they be blessed with many years of Darkspawn slaying."

"Oh…wonderful," Alistair sighed, picking up his goblet in acknowledgement anyway because after all this time, perhaps it might well be.

-oo-

"This is…nice…"

"Mm."

"Look at this." She pushed up her sleeve to show him. It was another tattoo; a beautifully rendered picture of a mabari…chewing on what looked like an Ogre's head. "Had it done last week."

"Nice. Here…" He unbuckled his gauntlet and pulled down his glove to reveal the initials 'G' and 'W' against a rearing griffon.

"Ooh…that's your third one isn't it? I like it!"

"Thought you might."

"I do."

"Mm."

"Mm-hm…"

She extended her toe – their boots had been thrown off carelessly behind them – to poke at a bit of floating detritus in the river. It was a sunny day and so cloaks, heavy armour and leather jerkins had been discarded too for their cooler cloth under-tunics. Captain Kylon had given him – the both of them – a disapproving look when they had begun to strip down, but had remained silent…and vigilant as ever. Who was to argue with the King of Ferelden and the Commander of the Grey after all? Especially when weaponry remained attached to both of these personages in full and clear view of passersby.

"Do you think…"

Alistair looked over at his companion. She chewed nervously on her lower lip, making her piercings dance; the metal clicking on her teeth audibly. He rather liked that Deepstalker claw hanging there. She'd painted it pink, the silverite at the end glinting blindingly in the Ferelden summer sun. He noticed she had dressed down today. A few pierce holes in her slender ears had been left empty and her 'official' armour; the one with the double-griffons embossed across the front had been swapped for plain black leather, worked with more silverite. The black had made her already-pale skin appear even more ghostly, so he was glad when she cast it off. In the cream tunic she glowed bright as the sun, her spiky orange hair like flames.

Alistair extended an arm, dropping it around her shoulders. "They'll be fine," he assured her. "It's not the first time they've spoken. And…Zevran promised to be at his most charming."

"Charming…"

"Charming, yes. Why?" Alistair bent his hand to ruffle her hair. "Does that worry you?"

"Oh no. No, no, no, no…It's…They're taking an awfully long time," she told him. "Don't you think they're taking an awfully long time? Is that unusual do you think? It is, isn't it?"

"I don't know…" Alistair told her as honestly as he could. "I didn't have to spend this long asking my father in law for my wife's hand."

"Well," Talion wrinkled her nose. "Give him credit. He was dead at the time."

"Oh yeah. Well spotted."

"Cheeky."

"Always."

"But mine isn't," Talion pointed out helpfully.

"Cheeky?"

"No. Dead."

"No," Alistair nodded. "That he is not." A little detail that I am very, very glad of, Alistair added to himself.

"I'm so glad he isn't," Talion agreed with her companion's inner monologue, though she had no idea she was doing so. Rotating both feet at the ankles, she added, "His leg won't be the same he reckons. Gives him trouble on rainy nights…but says now he knows when it's going to rain before it does, so I suppose that's a good thing. In the end."

Alistair thought finding out if it was going to rain by just looking outside might be less inconvenient, but he didn't want to spoil the mood. "Lucky," he nodded.

"Mm."

"Uh huh."

"Um…"

"Yes?" Alistair asked.

"Mrs King Alistair doesn't mind you being here, does she?" Talion asked, in between chewing on that bottom lip again. "I mean out here, instead of back at the castle doing Kingly stuff? Will you get into trouble for coming home with a dirty bottom or anything? You aren't playing hooky again? Zev told me she got a bit cross that last time we went on the cheese run."

"Only because we didn't bring her back any," Alistair confided. "Who knew Anora was such a cheese hound?"

"She really didn't mind?"

"Only when I hid the Roquefort," he assured her. "Then she got all cheese nasty and demanded I hand over all triple cream camembert."

Talion gave him a keen look of concern. "Do…do you care for her?" she asked him. "Anora?"

Alistair leant back, staring up into the never ending blue of the sky. The same colour as his wife's eyes. "Ah…she's not so bad," he smiled, "when you get to know her. Splendid taste in cheese…great hair…and not a big fan of fancy shoes. What's not to like really?"

"But…" He knew it wasn't the answer she had been looking for.

"And…she's ticklish."

Talion's eyes widened in shock. "No…!"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Wow."

"I know, right? Zevran's feather trick works really…ahem. Best not talk too much about that one. Anyway…"

"Anyway?"

"Waiting."

"Hm."

"Ooh, I think I see movement!" Alistair had been right; which saved him a great deal of trouble answering any potentially awkward and embarrassing questions about what may or may not have been about his love life. The door to the narrow house across the bridge had opened. Two men stepped out into the sunshine; one with hair of silver, the other golden-haired. Talion however, remained seated on the edge of the riverbank, continuing to chew her lip even more furiously than before. Alistair nudged her with his elbow.

"You aren't going over there?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I think they might be doing man stuff. I don't want to interrupt…" At the moment she finished her sentence, the younger of the two men turned in their direction. The thumbs-up he offered was accompanied by a wide, smirking grin. Surreptitiously, Alistair returned the gesture, knowing full-well it had been for his benefit, not Talion's. Things – predictably – had gone as well as they had hoped. There had been some concern over Zevran's connection to the Antivan Crows but his 'official' position on the King's staff must surely override that little detail. Alistair was grateful to Anora for suggesting that appointment.

Alistair grinned to himself. She would never admit it, but his Queen was a bit of a romantic softie. It was quite…adorable actually, which in no way meant he would ever let his guard down around her. Anora was still a tough bit of leather when she wanted to be and she could still freeze a room full of nobles with a single look. It was a gaze employed frequently when they had first married…owing to the fact that he not only had proclaimed himself King, stripped her title down to a puny 'queen consort' but had – um – executed her father. But, Alistair had come with a secret weapon. A weapon passed from Grey Warden to Grey Warden.

Tabris Hug.

No ice queen could withstand it, especially when employed as persistently and consistently as he had. Well, that and telling her in no uncertain terms that if he woke to find a dagger plunged into his heart, he would come back to haunt her cheese larder and send rats to eat everything in it before she did.

Oddly, that last threat had been rather effective.

The older of the two men across the bridge was now making a beckoning gesture towards them. Talion went rigid, clutching the wood of the river wall so tightly her knuckles turned bone-white.

"I should…go?" she asked Alistair in a hoarse whisper.

"You should go," he agreed.

"I should go."

"Go on then."

"Okay." As she remained seated, Alistair decided he should help. He stood. Grasping her by the shoulders, he lifted her to her feet then gave her a gentle push towards the bridge. She began walking mechanically, like one of those wind-up golems the dwarves sold in the Denerim market, arms straight by her sides, her knees stiff and unbending. It was only after she'd joined the two elven men and her father had embraced her did she relax, turning back to Alistair with a surprised, but sunny smile on her face that had him laughing out loud. He sent them a salute; he'd join them later for more formal congratulations. For now it would be just the three of them. He turned back to face his Guard Captain to find Kylon had instructed his men to retrieve the King's – and Commander of the Grey's - things. Kylon himself approached him, ducking when a dark object swooped unexpectedly low over them.

Hands still over his head, Kylon frowned at the creature; who'd taken up residence on the bridge, berating them both in a mocking caw.

"You sure about those things your Majesty?" Kylon asked, glaring at the crow.

Alistair cocked his head at the bird. Crows had become something of a…lucky symbol for him. There were the Antivan kind for a start and a little before that, the Apostate, shape-shifting kind…He knew She was around, making sure her investment was being taken care of. Alistair had made sure to extract that particular promise the night before the last three Grey Wardens in Ferelden were set to face the Archdemon…in return for what she wanted.

"They're protected, no argument," Alistair reiterated firmly. "No crow within Denerim City is to be harmed, punishable at the King's – my – pleasure."

Kylon gave the black bird one last, distrustful stare before handing Alistair the first of his discarded armour pieces. "Well…Your Majesty…folk do say strange things about them. Like how they're…better behaved than outside the city. Intelligent even."

"Oh?" Alistair asked casually.

"Personally, I think it's a load of bollocks," Kylon admitted. "A bird's a bird. And the General's statue in the town square still needs cleaning every month because they are. Though…" Kylon frowned again. "Why the General's statue in particular gets covered in bird droppings and not Andraste's likeness on the other side…"

"Divine intervention perhaps?" Alistair offered kindly, trying not to laugh.

The Captain sniffed. "S'not my job to scrape it all off, so I don't care." Kylon paused, giving his king's armour a quick assessment to make sure everything had been fastened correctly. "Are we heading back to the palace direct Your Majesty? Or are you expected to stay longer in the Alienage?"

"Slight detour to Bodahn's Cheese and Antique Emporium then home, Kylon," Alistair informed him. "For now."

Captain Kylon nodded. "Understood, Your Majesty. I'll let the men know."

Alistair waited until Kylon was out of earshot then turned to the crow still perched on the pitted stone wall of the bridge. He waggled his finger at it. "Behave now," he warned it. The crow eyed him beadily a moment then, tossing its beak into the air, took flight. It was gone in seconds, dwindling to barely a speck in the clear summer sky. He watched it go until even the black dot was no longer visible. He took a step forward then…splat! A glob of gooey white grossness spattered the toe of his boot.

He sighed, flicking his foot.

She always did manage to have the last word, he thought, continuing on.

- END -

And that is the end of our five stories. Ahem. As it says above. Thank you to all of you who have followed this odd piece of work; those of you who have reviewed, faved, watched, lurked or just passed through. Your patience as these chapters dribbled through in odd fits and starts has been most appreciated, as have your wonderful and encouraging comments. When I first drew the girls out of my head onto paper, I certainly never expected them to have taken quite the hold on me as they have. Letting go of them has been almost as difficult as writing them at times (!)

I'll also leave it to you to interpret the ending in any way that you like.

Thank you for joining me.

Champion the Wonder Snail.