Fic: the Things You Couldn't Change
Title: The Things You Couldn't Change
Characters: Alistair, Anora
Rating: M for non-explicit sex and general adult themes.
Summary: Five times Alistair fell in love. Thanks to Sian for the beta.
He finds her in the kitchens of the Arl's estate hours after the landsmeet is over.
"I wanted to thank you."
She frowns, glancing up from the plate piled high with bread and meat as he sits down opposite her and steals some food. "What for?"
"For not making me king."
She shrugs. "Why would I have put you on the throne? You didn't want it."
She doesn't understand. His whole life, no one ever really listened to him. They pretended to listen, but then they made his decisions for him anyway, and what he wanted never seemed to enter in to it. He's used to it by now, he even likes it.
He'd talked to her about Duncan and Goldanna and a thousand other things, but she listened to everyone's troubles, how could she care about them all? He was just fooling himself to think he was anything special. She'd conspired with Eamon to gathered the support of half the nobles in Denerim, and he watched as they planned the rest of his life for him. And then she came to him and gave him a choice, and she has no idea what a wonderful gift that is.
"I don't know, you might have listened to Eamon's advice. Or maybe you thought I wouldn't be a very good king?"
"I think you'd make a fine king, Alistair." He feels a surge of happiness that she thinks so, even though he's sure he'd be an awful king. "I escaped from a tower. I wasn't going to trap you in one. When all this is over, you're free to do whatever you want."
"I was thinking you might need some help rebuilding the Wardens. If you'd like my help, that is."
She reaches over to clasp his hand in hers.
"I wouldn't choose anything else."
---
"See those men out there?"
He cradles her head as he points her towards the window. He doesn't think she can see anything past the tip of her nose yet, but he'll show her the view just in case.
"Grey Wardens, they are," he says proudly. "Your mother commands them. I like to think I help, although mostly I eat all the cheese. I think she just keeps me around because I'm pretty."
He can't stop staring at the miracle in his arms. He could hold her in the palm of one hand, not that he would because she's less than a day old and already he is scared to death to think of her ever being hurt. She screws up her face, looking pink and uncomfortable. What was it he was supposed to do? Oh yes. He lifts her up to his shoulder, and gives her a tentative pat on the back.
"A little harder, love. She won't break." His wife is smiling weakly at him. He was hoping she would sleep a little longer; he hadn't seen her looking so utterly exhausted since they slew the archdemon. He perches on the bed next to her, and pats Moira's back more firmly. She gurgles and spits up down his shirt. He's never seen anyone vomit so adorably, and he grins stupidly back at her.
"She's got you wrapped around her little finger already, I see."
"Not at all." He sticks his little finger out, and marvels for the hundredth time as Moira grips it with her own tiny fingers. "See? She's got a grip like an ogre trying to bite my face off. She'll make a fine warrior."
"Or a rogue," she teases, remembering their old rivalry.
"Somehow I can't see any child of mine being famed for their stealth." He frees his finger and hands the wriggling bundle to his love. "She can be anything she likes, can't she?" He puts an arm around her waist to pull his family in close, remembering a child sent to the chantry and an amulet shattered on the floor, and makes a silent promise not to repeat the past.
---
He can't understand it. He does his best to make her smile, and the day he almost coaxed a laugh from her is his fondest memory. He knows he isn't the suavest of men, but his charms seem to work on every other woman in the palace, and he's sure the crown helps but that can't be the only reason. But she is polite and distant and utterly indifferent to his feelings.
He never intended to fall in love with her. Duran had seen the best choice for all Ferelden was for the two royal rivals to marry, and whether either of them was in love never entered into it. And now Duran is a paragon and a hero and Alistair wishes desperately he were still around, to drink pints of terrible dwarven ale with him and listen to how he's ended up in this mess, head over heels for a woman who treats him like he's an inconvenient obstacle to running the kingdom as she would like.
She comes to his bedchamber that night, as she always does. She drew the line at sharing a bedroom, but she climbs into his bed and lies stiffly under him, eyes closed and mind somewhere else entirely. She's probably planning the dinner for the ambassador from Orlais, or just wishing he'd get it over with a little quicker. He's suddenly angry, she doesn't have to love him, but they are married and that's never going away. He moves faster, reaching down to touch her, determined to get a rise out of her, and he hears her gasp and open her eyes to look at him, and he can't stop, burying himself in her and hating it when he sees the hurt in her eyes.
She is fastening her nightgown, preparing to leave, and he pulls her back. "Is it really that awful that you can't spend the night? I want this to work, Anora. Please."
She turns and holds his face in her hands, and it's strangely intimate despite the anguish in her expression.
"I'm sorry. It's not your fault. But you look so much like Cailan I can't."
---
He doesn't remember when he fell in love with her. He thinks it was after Redcliffe, maybe - he knows he was angry, she fixed everyone else's problems, why couldn't she fix this? Surely she could see that blood magic was never the right way? But he looked at her and he couldn't be angry - how had he never noticed how beautiful she was? He is lost, and Isolde's sacrifice is forgotten.
It's cold up in the Frostback Mountains, and when he gives her the rose a sheen of frost forms on it and a smile plays on her lips. She asks him to lie with her, and he wants to wait until it's right but he can't tear himself away as she kisses him, her skin hot against him, and he shudders and moans, desperate and needy.
She makes him king, and Anora will be his queen. When she takes him to bed that night he begs her to stay, crying into her hair, and she just smiles and tells him not to worry, that she will always be there to take care of everything, and he falls into a dreamless sleep next to her.
She says she'll make the final blow, and he goes willingly to Morrigan's bed, because she is his world and he can't live without her.
He doesn't remember when he fell in love with her.
---
She is crying, again, and the bloodstained cloths scattered on the floor tell him all he needs to know.
Once he would have rushed to her side, to comfort her, to dry her tears and promise her they'll try again, they'll make this work. He doesn't lie to her any more. He can barely stand to be in the same room.
The nobles are restless. They want stability, time to rebuild without Orlais and Tevinter at their backs, and they haven't moved openly against him but it's only a matter of time. He wonders if Eamon will lead them.
He wonders if he was ever really in love with her, or if it was the foolishness of youth. Whatever they once had is long gone, buried under years of bitterness and resentment. He goes to her each night out of duty, and he doesn't meet her eyes. He trusted her to lead him, to make the choices he never could, and she put him on the throne and herself by his side, and in twenty years they will go to the deep roads together. He wonders if he'll forgive her then.
Characters: Alistair, Anora
Rating: M for non-explicit sex and general adult themes.
Summary: Five times Alistair fell in love. Thanks to Sian for the beta.
He finds her in the kitchens of the Arl's estate hours after the landsmeet is over.
"I wanted to thank you."
She frowns, glancing up from the plate piled high with bread and meat as he sits down opposite her and steals some food. "What for?"
"For not making me king."
She shrugs. "Why would I have put you on the throne? You didn't want it."
She doesn't understand. His whole life, no one ever really listened to him. They pretended to listen, but then they made his decisions for him anyway, and what he wanted never seemed to enter in to it. He's used to it by now, he even likes it.
He'd talked to her about Duncan and Goldanna and a thousand other things, but she listened to everyone's troubles, how could she care about them all? He was just fooling himself to think he was anything special. She'd conspired with Eamon to gathered the support of half the nobles in Denerim, and he watched as they planned the rest of his life for him. And then she came to him and gave him a choice, and she has no idea what a wonderful gift that is.
"I don't know, you might have listened to Eamon's advice. Or maybe you thought I wouldn't be a very good king?"
"I think you'd make a fine king, Alistair." He feels a surge of happiness that she thinks so, even though he's sure he'd be an awful king. "I escaped from a tower. I wasn't going to trap you in one. When all this is over, you're free to do whatever you want."
"I was thinking you might need some help rebuilding the Wardens. If you'd like my help, that is."
She reaches over to clasp his hand in hers.
"I wouldn't choose anything else."
---
"See those men out there?"
He cradles her head as he points her towards the window. He doesn't think she can see anything past the tip of her nose yet, but he'll show her the view just in case.
"Grey Wardens, they are," he says proudly. "Your mother commands them. I like to think I help, although mostly I eat all the cheese. I think she just keeps me around because I'm pretty."
He can't stop staring at the miracle in his arms. He could hold her in the palm of one hand, not that he would because she's less than a day old and already he is scared to death to think of her ever being hurt. She screws up her face, looking pink and uncomfortable. What was it he was supposed to do? Oh yes. He lifts her up to his shoulder, and gives her a tentative pat on the back.
"A little harder, love. She won't break." His wife is smiling weakly at him. He was hoping she would sleep a little longer; he hadn't seen her looking so utterly exhausted since they slew the archdemon. He perches on the bed next to her, and pats Moira's back more firmly. She gurgles and spits up down his shirt. He's never seen anyone vomit so adorably, and he grins stupidly back at her.
"She's got you wrapped around her little finger already, I see."
"Not at all." He sticks his little finger out, and marvels for the hundredth time as Moira grips it with her own tiny fingers. "See? She's got a grip like an ogre trying to bite my face off. She'll make a fine warrior."
"Or a rogue," she teases, remembering their old rivalry.
"Somehow I can't see any child of mine being famed for their stealth." He frees his finger and hands the wriggling bundle to his love. "She can be anything she likes, can't she?" He puts an arm around her waist to pull his family in close, remembering a child sent to the chantry and an amulet shattered on the floor, and makes a silent promise not to repeat the past.
---
He can't understand it. He does his best to make her smile, and the day he almost coaxed a laugh from her is his fondest memory. He knows he isn't the suavest of men, but his charms seem to work on every other woman in the palace, and he's sure the crown helps but that can't be the only reason. But she is polite and distant and utterly indifferent to his feelings.
He never intended to fall in love with her. Duran had seen the best choice for all Ferelden was for the two royal rivals to marry, and whether either of them was in love never entered into it. And now Duran is a paragon and a hero and Alistair wishes desperately he were still around, to drink pints of terrible dwarven ale with him and listen to how he's ended up in this mess, head over heels for a woman who treats him like he's an inconvenient obstacle to running the kingdom as she would like.
She comes to his bedchamber that night, as she always does. She drew the line at sharing a bedroom, but she climbs into his bed and lies stiffly under him, eyes closed and mind somewhere else entirely. She's probably planning the dinner for the ambassador from Orlais, or just wishing he'd get it over with a little quicker. He's suddenly angry, she doesn't have to love him, but they are married and that's never going away. He moves faster, reaching down to touch her, determined to get a rise out of her, and he hears her gasp and open her eyes to look at him, and he can't stop, burying himself in her and hating it when he sees the hurt in her eyes.
She is fastening her nightgown, preparing to leave, and he pulls her back. "Is it really that awful that you can't spend the night? I want this to work, Anora. Please."
She turns and holds his face in her hands, and it's strangely intimate despite the anguish in her expression.
"I'm sorry. It's not your fault. But you look so much like Cailan I can't."
---
He doesn't remember when he fell in love with her. He thinks it was after Redcliffe, maybe - he knows he was angry, she fixed everyone else's problems, why couldn't she fix this? Surely she could see that blood magic was never the right way? But he looked at her and he couldn't be angry - how had he never noticed how beautiful she was? He is lost, and Isolde's sacrifice is forgotten.
It's cold up in the Frostback Mountains, and when he gives her the rose a sheen of frost forms on it and a smile plays on her lips. She asks him to lie with her, and he wants to wait until it's right but he can't tear himself away as she kisses him, her skin hot against him, and he shudders and moans, desperate and needy.
She makes him king, and Anora will be his queen. When she takes him to bed that night he begs her to stay, crying into her hair, and she just smiles and tells him not to worry, that she will always be there to take care of everything, and he falls into a dreamless sleep next to her.
She says she'll make the final blow, and he goes willingly to Morrigan's bed, because she is his world and he can't live without her.
He doesn't remember when he fell in love with her.
---
She is crying, again, and the bloodstained cloths scattered on the floor tell him all he needs to know.
Once he would have rushed to her side, to comfort her, to dry her tears and promise her they'll try again, they'll make this work. He doesn't lie to her any more. He can barely stand to be in the same room.
The nobles are restless. They want stability, time to rebuild without Orlais and Tevinter at their backs, and they haven't moved openly against him but it's only a matter of time. He wonders if Eamon will lead them.
He wonders if he was ever really in love with her, or if it was the foolishness of youth. Whatever they once had is long gone, buried under years of bitterness and resentment. He goes to her each night out of duty, and he doesn't meet her eyes. He trusted her to lead him, to make the choices he never could, and she put him on the throne and herself by his side, and in twenty years they will go to the deep roads together. He wonders if he'll forgive her then.