Seven Heavenly Virtues: Diligence
Squeaking in under the deadline for we replacement-ficcers. (I ... kind of rewrote the whole thing. *blush*)
Title: Duty Bound
Pairing: F!Surana/Alistair (assuming dark ritual)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Post-Origins; Awakening spoilers
Summary: His Majesty King Alistair deals with yet another duty that cannot be forsworn, and remembers that he's not the only one having to do so.
"Alistair."
The young man looked up at his uncle (half-uncle? Alistair was never sure how these things worked, but 'his father's wife's brother' was just too complicated) with a raised eyebrow. Eamon had not got any better at calling Alistair 'your majesty' at anything but state functions, and even then he could hear the mild tones of disbelief in the Arl of Redcliffe's voice. It annoyed him, a little (You were the one who first wanted me on this throne, he often thought in those moments) but he chose not to say anything about it. The raised eyebrow and slightly disbelieving stare he levelled on the Arl - an expression he had developed from the looks Morrigan and Sten had shot him over the previous months, had he but known it - spoke volumes, however, and he held it a moment before he said, "Yes?"
Eamon blinked at the look and had the good grace to flush behind his beard. "Apologies ... your majesty. I had some reports from the seneschal--"
Alistair rolled his eyes. "Can't the seneschal handle anything without my looking it over? I know that man has a copy of the royal seal; can't he just get on with it and let me try to find my feet?"
"One learns by doing, Alistair," Eamon replied, calling the young king by his first name deliberately this time. It was the tone of voice he always used when Alistair was a boy learning his letters. "Prolonged study of governance are all very well, but applying what you've learned is the only way to improve."
With a wince, Alistair recalled the nights spent in camp. Three mages, all of them honing their skills, had taught him a great deal about theory versus practice. Some nights, when they were in relatively safe campsites, the air came alive with lights and sounds and explosions as Wynne, Morrigan and Neria practiced the spells they had read in whatever books they could haul with them on the road. Their diligence had served them well; in the end, it was the mages who had truly won the final battle. The best he could do was follow her example, but he had to admit it chafed. His discipline was far better suited to the battlefield than the study.
He sighed and reached for the paper, looking it over in brief bewilderment. "Trade orders from Amaranthine? My last letter from Vigil's Keep had Seneschal Varel complaining of bandits on the Pilgrim's Path and smugglers in Amaranthine. Won't we lose half their trade goods on the way if we send things now?"
Behind his beard, Eamon grinned. "With respect, your majesty ... I imagine that the Warden Commander heard that too. There's a personal letter from the Keep, by the--"
Quicker than an eyeblink, Alistair rose and snatched the other missive - this one greatly travel-stained and sealed with a blob of wax bearing the seal of the Circle of Magi - that old ring she'd never given up - from Eamon's hand before the Arl could finish his sentence. Eamon chuckled and politely hung back, allowing Alistair to read the missive from his lady-love in some semblance of privacy.
Alistair,
I know I should start this 'Your Majesty' or something, but you already know I think you're majestic and magnificent and all that so let's skip all the flowery stuff for now and save room for the steamy stuff later. But I suppose I should start with business.
Mistress Woolsey, formerly of Weisshaupt, will probably be sending a request for a petition in the Denerim marketplace - some attempt to get merchants to set up trade here. We've got a few - don't even get me started on the qunari that Sten wouldn't think was one. Actually, I don't even think this particular individual thinks he's one either. And he was trading with darkspawn. Talking darkspawn who take prisoners is one thing, but darkspawn trading with humans? It boggles the mind. Though I suppose it might explain why we kept finding coins on all the bodies...
Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that, while tracking down the mystery of the far-too-clever darkspawn, we also managed to make the Wending Wood safe for travel again. We cleared out bandits and darkspawn and sorted out the ... other little problem by recruiting it. Yes, like Zevran and Nathaniel. Have my instincts ever really steered us wrong? (Well, I'm not dead yet, am I?) So I'd be obliged if you give Woolsey's petition the go-ahead because we could use the trade flow. Just make sure we get the hardiest ones, even if takes some time to sort the wheat from the chaff. That'll give us time to sort out the rest of this darkspawn problem before they get here, with luck.
So you don't hear rumours later and get all worried, we had to put down a peasant revolt right after we got back from the Wending Wood. There was hardly any time to try to talk them down before they tried to storm the Keep to make for the granaries. Honestly, I'd have tried to make sure they were all provided for if anyone had listened for more than ten seconds but they went on the attack straight away and ... well, you've seen me against an archdemon; what chance did peasants have? I felt as bad about that as I did those Lothering refugees. I don't want to be a tyrant but I don't want to go down in history as being the only Grey Warden killed by a pitchfork-wielding mob, either. A few of the Keep soldiers were in on it as well; they didn't take it well when one of their fellows went down for desertion. If there'd been more mitigating circumstances or she'd been remotely apologetic about it, I'd have let her go with a warning or something but as it was ... well, no use crying over spilled milk. I just hope the rest will hold. I also hope that Varel doesn't drag me directly into High Justice after a major Deep Roads expedition ever again.
I'm not sure I'm cut out for rulership, Alistair, but I persevere. You trusted me with this Arling and I'm not going to let you down. I'm not going to let Duncan down either, which means that while I will be as thorough as I can in my duties to the Arling, the darkspawn come first. After all, everything I do here politically will mean less than nothing if they all get eaten by darkspawn next week. Is this revenge for my making you king? (I'm joking, of course.) I wish you were here, though. Making the right decision was always easier with you around.
Of course, I also wish you were here for other reasons. Some nights I dream of those nights on the road, when I would lovingly and slowly take off your armour a piece at a time, kissing each inch of skin as it was bared and--
Alistair, blushing furiously, folded the letter and stuffed it into a pocket. He swallowed, and his voice was a little shaky when he said, "Well. Um. Yes. She ... uh, she did hear that."
The attempt nearly killed him, but even so, Eamon could not contain his grin entirely. "And I imagine that she has handled the situation?"
With an internal reprimand along the lines of You are not going to think about that glimpse of letter that went into great detail on what else she might be handling, thinking of my-- argh!, Alistair nodded. "She ... ah ... yes. Yes, she has. Explain the situation to the seneschal and have him pick out the ones who would be willing and above all able to fight to defend their new home," he added, sounding less flustered as he went. "Try Gorim the weaponsmith; the Orlesian lady and ... that Antivan, Cesar."
That got a raised eyebrow. "You seem ... quite knowledgeable about the goings-on at the marketplace, your majesty." Alistair shrugged that off. Eamon didn't need to know how often they had passed through Denerim or the contacts they had made there. When he realised that he would get no further comment from Alistair on the matter, Eamon stifled a sigh and asked, "Will there be anything else, your majesty?"
Alistair looked over his books on governance - the histories, the dry and dusty economics texts, the books on royal etiquette - and then at the various urgent requests for royal aid and opinion that had come from the Bannorn this week. It would have been a fine thing to simply hand off all of that to Eamon and let him deal with the justice end of things while he got his feet under him. Then he thought of his love - the Warden Commander, the elven Circle Mage who still got short shrift for her race and talents - coming out of the Deep Roads covered in darkspawn blood and almost directly into the seat of High Justice. He thought of her doing the work of the army, the city guard, the seneschal and a Warden Commander at the same time. As tired as he was from his days talking to high-bred lords and ladies and his nights with his head in a book, he could barely imagine how she must feel at the end of her average day. After that moment of reflection, Alistair shook his head. "I'll send for you if I need anything. Thank you, Eamon."
Eamon, advisor to the throne of Ferelden, nodded once and stepped out of Alistair's study. Once alone, the king of Ferelden looked at a map of his kingdom, pinned to a convenient wall. His eyes lingered on Amaranthine for a long, wistful moment. He wished that he could be there, at her side, the way it was meant to be - he her sword and shield, her honour guard; she his words and wit, his spokeswoman. However, the early days of their courtship had been marked by the exchange of gifts and trinkets, and those trinkets had grown so large while they weren't looking; from roses and statuettes to Arlings and kingdoms. She had not shirked the responsibilities that went along with the gift of Amaranthine; she carried out her political duties along with that duty that cannot be forsworn. He could do her no less honour than to be the good king she believed him to be.
He wasn't, yet. He still had a great deal to learn, and he knew it. So thinking, he bent back to his books. When one's love is a shining example of diligence under pressure, one can do little more than follow that example as best one can.
Title: Duty Bound
Pairing: F!Surana/Alistair (assuming dark ritual)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Post-Origins; Awakening spoilers
Summary: His Majesty King Alistair deals with yet another duty that cannot be forsworn, and remembers that he's not the only one having to do so.
"Alistair."
The young man looked up at his uncle (half-uncle? Alistair was never sure how these things worked, but 'his father's wife's brother' was just too complicated) with a raised eyebrow. Eamon had not got any better at calling Alistair 'your majesty' at anything but state functions, and even then he could hear the mild tones of disbelief in the Arl of Redcliffe's voice. It annoyed him, a little (You were the one who first wanted me on this throne, he often thought in those moments) but he chose not to say anything about it. The raised eyebrow and slightly disbelieving stare he levelled on the Arl - an expression he had developed from the looks Morrigan and Sten had shot him over the previous months, had he but known it - spoke volumes, however, and he held it a moment before he said, "Yes?"
Eamon blinked at the look and had the good grace to flush behind his beard. "Apologies ... your majesty. I had some reports from the seneschal--"
Alistair rolled his eyes. "Can't the seneschal handle anything without my looking it over? I know that man has a copy of the royal seal; can't he just get on with it and let me try to find my feet?"
"One learns by doing, Alistair," Eamon replied, calling the young king by his first name deliberately this time. It was the tone of voice he always used when Alistair was a boy learning his letters. "Prolonged study of governance are all very well, but applying what you've learned is the only way to improve."
With a wince, Alistair recalled the nights spent in camp. Three mages, all of them honing their skills, had taught him a great deal about theory versus practice. Some nights, when they were in relatively safe campsites, the air came alive with lights and sounds and explosions as Wynne, Morrigan and Neria practiced the spells they had read in whatever books they could haul with them on the road. Their diligence had served them well; in the end, it was the mages who had truly won the final battle. The best he could do was follow her example, but he had to admit it chafed. His discipline was far better suited to the battlefield than the study.
He sighed and reached for the paper, looking it over in brief bewilderment. "Trade orders from Amaranthine? My last letter from Vigil's Keep had Seneschal Varel complaining of bandits on the Pilgrim's Path and smugglers in Amaranthine. Won't we lose half their trade goods on the way if we send things now?"
Behind his beard, Eamon grinned. "With respect, your majesty ... I imagine that the Warden Commander heard that too. There's a personal letter from the Keep, by the--"
Quicker than an eyeblink, Alistair rose and snatched the other missive - this one greatly travel-stained and sealed with a blob of wax bearing the seal of the Circle of Magi - that old ring she'd never given up - from Eamon's hand before the Arl could finish his sentence. Eamon chuckled and politely hung back, allowing Alistair to read the missive from his lady-love in some semblance of privacy.
Alistair,
I know I should start this 'Your Majesty' or something, but you already know I think you're majestic and magnificent and all that so let's skip all the flowery stuff for now and save room for the steamy stuff later. But I suppose I should start with business.
Mistress Woolsey, formerly of Weisshaupt, will probably be sending a request for a petition in the Denerim marketplace - some attempt to get merchants to set up trade here. We've got a few - don't even get me started on the qunari that Sten wouldn't think was one. Actually, I don't even think this particular individual thinks he's one either. And he was trading with darkspawn. Talking darkspawn who take prisoners is one thing, but darkspawn trading with humans? It boggles the mind. Though I suppose it might explain why we kept finding coins on all the bodies...
Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that, while tracking down the mystery of the far-too-clever darkspawn, we also managed to make the Wending Wood safe for travel again. We cleared out bandits and darkspawn and sorted out the ... other little problem by recruiting it. Yes, like Zevran and Nathaniel. Have my instincts ever really steered us wrong? (Well, I'm not dead yet, am I?) So I'd be obliged if you give Woolsey's petition the go-ahead because we could use the trade flow. Just make sure we get the hardiest ones, even if takes some time to sort the wheat from the chaff. That'll give us time to sort out the rest of this darkspawn problem before they get here, with luck.
So you don't hear rumours later and get all worried, we had to put down a peasant revolt right after we got back from the Wending Wood. There was hardly any time to try to talk them down before they tried to storm the Keep to make for the granaries. Honestly, I'd have tried to make sure they were all provided for if anyone had listened for more than ten seconds but they went on the attack straight away and ... well, you've seen me against an archdemon; what chance did peasants have? I felt as bad about that as I did those Lothering refugees. I don't want to be a tyrant but I don't want to go down in history as being the only Grey Warden killed by a pitchfork-wielding mob, either. A few of the Keep soldiers were in on it as well; they didn't take it well when one of their fellows went down for desertion. If there'd been more mitigating circumstances or she'd been remotely apologetic about it, I'd have let her go with a warning or something but as it was ... well, no use crying over spilled milk. I just hope the rest will hold. I also hope that Varel doesn't drag me directly into High Justice after a major Deep Roads expedition ever again.
I'm not sure I'm cut out for rulership, Alistair, but I persevere. You trusted me with this Arling and I'm not going to let you down. I'm not going to let Duncan down either, which means that while I will be as thorough as I can in my duties to the Arling, the darkspawn come first. After all, everything I do here politically will mean less than nothing if they all get eaten by darkspawn next week. Is this revenge for my making you king? (I'm joking, of course.) I wish you were here, though. Making the right decision was always easier with you around.
Of course, I also wish you were here for other reasons. Some nights I dream of those nights on the road, when I would lovingly and slowly take off your armour a piece at a time, kissing each inch of skin as it was bared and--
Alistair, blushing furiously, folded the letter and stuffed it into a pocket. He swallowed, and his voice was a little shaky when he said, "Well. Um. Yes. She ... uh, she did hear that."
The attempt nearly killed him, but even so, Eamon could not contain his grin entirely. "And I imagine that she has handled the situation?"
With an internal reprimand along the lines of You are not going to think about that glimpse of letter that went into great detail on what else she might be handling, thinking of my-- argh!, Alistair nodded. "She ... ah ... yes. Yes, she has. Explain the situation to the seneschal and have him pick out the ones who would be willing and above all able to fight to defend their new home," he added, sounding less flustered as he went. "Try Gorim the weaponsmith; the Orlesian lady and ... that Antivan, Cesar."
That got a raised eyebrow. "You seem ... quite knowledgeable about the goings-on at the marketplace, your majesty." Alistair shrugged that off. Eamon didn't need to know how often they had passed through Denerim or the contacts they had made there. When he realised that he would get no further comment from Alistair on the matter, Eamon stifled a sigh and asked, "Will there be anything else, your majesty?"
Alistair looked over his books on governance - the histories, the dry and dusty economics texts, the books on royal etiquette - and then at the various urgent requests for royal aid and opinion that had come from the Bannorn this week. It would have been a fine thing to simply hand off all of that to Eamon and let him deal with the justice end of things while he got his feet under him. Then he thought of his love - the Warden Commander, the elven Circle Mage who still got short shrift for her race and talents - coming out of the Deep Roads covered in darkspawn blood and almost directly into the seat of High Justice. He thought of her doing the work of the army, the city guard, the seneschal and a Warden Commander at the same time. As tired as he was from his days talking to high-bred lords and ladies and his nights with his head in a book, he could barely imagine how she must feel at the end of her average day. After that moment of reflection, Alistair shook his head. "I'll send for you if I need anything. Thank you, Eamon."
Eamon, advisor to the throne of Ferelden, nodded once and stepped out of Alistair's study. Once alone, the king of Ferelden looked at a map of his kingdom, pinned to a convenient wall. His eyes lingered on Amaranthine for a long, wistful moment. He wished that he could be there, at her side, the way it was meant to be - he her sword and shield, her honour guard; she his words and wit, his spokeswoman. However, the early days of their courtship had been marked by the exchange of gifts and trinkets, and those trinkets had grown so large while they weren't looking; from roses and statuettes to Arlings and kingdoms. She had not shirked the responsibilities that went along with the gift of Amaranthine; she carried out her political duties along with that duty that cannot be forsworn. He could do her no less honour than to be the good king she believed him to be.
He wasn't, yet. He still had a great deal to learn, and he knew it. So thinking, he bent back to his books. When one's love is a shining example of diligence under pressure, one can do little more than follow that example as best one can.