Chapter Text
Alistair is in a daze after the Landsmeet. Unmoored. Angry. Resigned. Relieved, too, to have it done- but the relief is a drop of water in a maelstrom. He pulls himself together, barely, and then Riordan takes the Wardens aside and he is out to sea again. The only thing keeping him sane is a chant of Riordan said he’ll do it, so it won’t be Aedan. Riordan will do it. It won’t be Aedan. Not Aedan. NOT AEDAN.
Time passes strangely after that.
Blink
He’s planning the march to Redcliffe with the others. Everyone struggles to hide their fear lest it overwhelm them all.
Blink
He’s walking down the hallway and sees Aedan leave Morrigan’s room, expression resolute. Hears her say, “Please, let me help you.” Hears Aedan reply, “I said no.”
Blink
He’s lying in bed next to Aedan, fighting sleep, trying to look at him as long as possible. It won’t be him. It won’t. IT WON’T.
Blink
He’s standing in Redcliffe castle, learning they made a terrible mistake. As they race back to Denerim, he prays this hasn’t cost everyone in the capital their lives.
Blink
He’s re-taking the gates next to the others, and when the battle is won, they split into two groups. He chokes through what he hopes are not final goodbyes.
Blink
He’s stepping over rubble and bodies in the market. He breathes through his mouth to avoid the stench of copper as they drive the horde further back.
Blink
He’s running through the Alienage as it burns, smoke making his eyes water while Aedan orders the elves to retreat. They push on.
Blink
He’s watching Riordan plummet to the ground, body breaking on the flagstones. He feels himself go cold.
Blink
He’s fighting for his life on the palace roof, surrounded by darkspawn, allies and companions scattered about him. They fight, and fight, and still more come.
Blink
He’s clinging to glimpses of Aedan, fierce and deadly, mabari at his heels, afraid it will be the last time he sees him. Stay alive. Stay alive. STAY ALIVE.
Blink
He’s bracing himself as the archdemon summons another wave of darkspawn with an ear-shattering cry. He forces down his fear and raises sword and shield to meet them.
Blink
He’s flying through the air, knocked backwards by a gust from the dragon’s wings. He struggles to rise as his ears ring and his vision blurs.
Blink
He’s flinching as the Archdemon cries out in pain, a crippled leg collapsing beneath it. Its tail lashes out to keep combatants away.
Blink
He’s swallowing down bile as he realizes this may be their only chance, and he’s too far away. But Aedan isn’t. NONONONONONONONONONONO.
Blink
He’s locking eyes with Aedan across the battlefield, heart in his throat. Aedan looks gutted as he mouths ‘I love you.’
Blink
He’s trying to scream as Aedan runs forward, dual blades shining in the sun. Please, Maker, Andraste, ANYONE- NO.
Blink
He’s forcing his way through the chaos, desperate to stop him. A voice bellows “For Fereldan!” over the din, but he ignores it. What good is Fereldan without Aedan?
Blink
He’s shaking with adrenaline and denial, convinced he can make it even though Aedan has already reached the dragon. He watches in shock as Aedan falls, knocked aside by a shield bearing the crest of Gwaren.
Blink
A blade is flashing through the air and into the archdemon’s neck, and everything slows as the world holds its breath. The man and the dragon glide through the air as if suspended in honey, and Alistair wonders if there is some spell at work. The moment stretches impossibly long- then the world comes crashing back.
Loghain Mac Tir crumples to the ground and does not move again.
~
The horde breaks and the allied forces chase it down, killing as many of the retreating darkspawn as they can. Aedan, Alistair, and the commanding officers organize searches for survivors- both their own that need rescuing and the enemy’s that need executing. The hours run together until Alistair finds himself shoved onto a cot by a healer and ordered to rest. He tries to protest, to ask for Aedan, but sleep takes him as soon as his head hits cloth.
He wakes at some point, a sickening certainty that their victory was a dream, that this is the night before the battle, seizing him until he struggles for breath. Then a cold, wet nose is pressed against his hand, and he hears a plaintive, worried whine. Alistair looks down to find Aedan’s mabari, Beowulf, staring back. And, behind the hound in the dark, he can just make out Aedan curled on an identical cot. His injuries from the battle healed or wrapped with care.
Not a dream, then. And suddenly he can breathe again.
“Thanks, boy.” The hound’s tail wags happily, and he licks Alistair’s hand before settling back between their cots. Alistair slips into a dreamless sleep. When next he wakes, Aedan is watching him with a worried frown that immediately smooths when their eyes meet.
“There you are. Good morning, sweetheart.”
Alistair knows he’s smiling like a fool when he responds with “the best morning.”
He finds out during a brisk check-up from a healer that he’s been sleeping on and off for days, waking only long enough to choke down potions and water. Apparently, he struck his head when he fell on the roof, but didn’t notice. There’s a joke about hard-headedness in there somewhere, but the mage doesn’t take advantage of it. She simply continues to explain that adrenaline carried him through the rest of the chaotic day, but as soon as he slowed down his body gave out from the strain.
Alistair feels a twinge of guilt over his uselessness, until he remembers the fallout is not his to manage, but Anora’s. Yet another reason to love Aedan, he thinks dreamily.
The mage must realize he’s stopped paying attention because she clears her throat loudly and tells him he is lucky to be alive in a tone that somehow manages to be concerned and judgmental all at once. It’s uncannily similar to some of the Chantry sisters he had the misfortune of running into during the early days of Templar training. He considers suggesting the healer make a career change, but thinks better of it.
Contrary to popular belief, he’s not a complete idiot.
“You’ve had all sorts trying to muscle their way in here to wake you. It’s made my work all the more difficult, having to constantly run off nobles and the like,” the healer sounds exasperated now, and Alistair wonders how any of that is his fault. “Credit where credit’s due, though, it became much easier once he started threatening to gut anyone that even suggested waking you.”
The healer tilts her head in Aedan’s direction.
The man is leaning casually against a wall across the room, recently shooed away by the healer for too much “lovesick hovering.” She has less luck convincing Beowulf to move. An impressive display of puppy eyes and flopping to the floor as deadweight means the mabari remains by Alistair’s side. He suspects his lover planned it that way.
The satisfied grin that flashes across Aedan’s face when the healer eventually gives up confirms Alistair’s suspicions, and he laughs loud enough to startle the thoroughly exasperated woman.
“Isn’t he just the best mabari in the whole entire world? Aren’t you Beowoof? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.” Alistair’s praise has the hound wagging its tail hard enough to move its entire body.
The eye twitch from the mage suggests she doesn’t find the comment, or the ridiculous pun, as amusing as he does. Over her shoulder, Aedan is shaking with suppressed laughter and Alistair bites his lip to hold in his own snickering. Best not to push her too far. He would prefer to keep all his limbs.
Thankfully, the poking and prodding is done soon after and he is cleared to go. The healer does leave him with a final threat that if she sees him back in her clinic for anything within the next week, she will let him suffer. Alistair is not willing to find out if she’s serious or not and nods emphatically as he backs away toward a chuckling Aedan. They fall in step together and Aedan immediately takes his hand and kisses his knuckles, winking playfully when Alistair feels a flush creep up his face. He ducks his head and squeezes Aedan’s hand, heart full to bursting.
“Where are we going?” He asks belatedly as they wind through the makeshift field hospital.
“To show everyone else you’re alright. The healers are overwhelmed and haven’t been allowing visitors. I’m pretty sure Beowulf’s charms are the only reason they let me stay,” Aedan answers cheerfully.
The comment makes Alistair snort.
“It clearly had nothing to do with you helping to save the entire country.”
“Of course not, if nothing else, this whole debacle has taught us that solving problems just means people hand you more problems to solve.” Aedan’s comment is lighthearted, and Alistair is glad it’s something they can joke about now. It certainly didn’t feel joke-worthy while slogging across all of Fereldan. Hunted, harried, and mistrusted- but still begged to take care of anything and everything all the same.
“I guess you’re right. But what could the reason be then?” Alistair hums as if deep in thought, then smiles. “You know, a very angry little bird told me there were threats of disembowelment. Those might have helped. Just a bit. I’ve heard some people find that intimidating.”
It’s Aedan’s turn to blush.
“Well, I wasn’t going to let people bother you while you were recovering. And I couldn’t just leave you there alone, either,” Aedan says sheepishly. He stops suddenly by a pile of boxes, affording them a bit of privacy. “Listen, I would never leave you. Not willingly. You know that, right?”
Alistair notices with rising concern that Aedan’s hands are shaking.
“At the palace when I tried to-” Aedan trails off, seemingly unable to finish the sentence.
“I know, Aedan. And, though I never thought I’d say it, thank the Maker for Loghain.” That makes Aedan smile weakly, at least.
“Careful, saying things like that will get you struck by lightning,” he teases.
“I’ll take my chances. The sisters haven’t been right about lightning strike worthy offences so far.” Alistair wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis and feels deeply pleased when Aedan laughs.
“Fair point. Although, there are plenty of things we haven’t done yet. We’ll have to try them all before we can be sure.”
Alistair is reasonably certain the tone Aedan uses when he says the last few words is a sin. If it isn’t, the way Aedan brushes his thumb over his pulse point definitely is.
“We really do need to get going though, or there will be hell to pay from the others.”
Just like that, Aedan’s voice is back to normal, and he tugs on Alistair’s hands to get them moving again. As if Alistair’s head isn’t now swimming with incredibly inappropriate thoughts.
He can’t quite contain his whimper.
“Later, sweetheart,” Aedan promises and leans over to kiss his forehead before they continue. Alistair sighs, but shoves the thoughts into the neat little box he created shortly after meeting Aedan. It is helpfully labeled- DO NOT THINK ABOUT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, UNTIL IN PRIVATE.
~
Alistair is not prepared for the enthusiastic greeting he receives when they find their companions.
Oghren’s slap to his back nearly sends him sprawling before Wynne and Leliana catch him and pull him into a hug. Zevran gives him a very loud kiss on the cheek and an exaggerated wink that makes Aedan laugh and Alistair go scarlet. Sten’s greeting is much more reserved, but no less sincere.
Morrigan even gives him a look that’s less withering than usual. He’s also still human, so she’s being downright friendly. Which is slightly terrifying, if he’s being honest.
They talk animatedly for a while, and it feels like the quieter nights they spent around the campfire- the precious few times there was no imminent danger hanging over their heads. Eventually, Wynne says she needs to get back to her patients now that she’s certain he’s been well taken care of. She assures them she’ll see them at the celebration later that evening.
“Celebration? Wait- are we having a party? Will there be cheese? Tell me there will be cheese!” Alistair blurts. Oghren laughs boisterously at his excitement.
“I knew I always liked you for a reason, kid. Sleep through the boring mess, wake up just in time to get plastered on someone else’s coin, then play dumb about it. Don’t worry, old Oghren won’t rat you out.”
Alistair thinks Oghren’s trying to wink, but he keeps closing both eyelids. He has a strong suspicion the dwarf has already been drinking. The smell wafting from the flask he flips open confirms it.
“Anora already held services to honor the fallen. Now she wants to focus on our victories and the plans to rebuild to raise morale,” Aedan says, watching him carefully.
Alistair nods in understanding. He feels strangely conflicted about missing it, especially after what happened with Loghain. But perhaps it’s for the best.
“Do you feel up to going? If not, we can skip it,” Aedan assures softly.
Zevran lets out a scandalized gasp. “You would miss your own party my friends? All of Fereldan will be throwing themselves at your feet. Hanging on your every word, begging for your attention.”
Alistair wrinkles his nose at the image and Aedan rolls his eyes.
“You know neither of us enjoy people groveling,” Aedan says good naturedly. The words make Leliana giggle for some reason, and she just smiles knowingly at Alistair when he gives her a questioning look. Must be a bard thing.
“Ah, such a pity,” Zevran laments. “Truly, power is wasted on the both of you. Why, if I had such an opportunity-”
Alistair lets the banter wash over him, the interjections and laughter comforting background noise. He doesn’t try to resist the smile tugging at his lips and lets his mind drift.
He only begins to pay attention again when Leliana bumps his arm and asks what he’s going to wear. That wipes the smile from his face.
“Oh, Maker. We’re going to have to wear something fancy and uncomfortable, aren’t we?” The rest of the conversation stutters to a halt at his comment and then everyone laughs. He grumbles and looks to Aedan for help. “I don’t want to be itchy and miserable for hours. Parties are supposed to be fun!”
“Why not just wear a sack, then? It’s not as if there’s any cloth in the world that can make you look presentable.” Morrigan suggests drily from her corner, mouth quirked up at the corner in challenge.
Before Alistair can object, Aedan sighs theatrically.
“While I am well aware that he looks best without clothing, Morrigan, being the heroes of Fereldan will not excuse us if he shows up to a royal function naked. Besides, I don’t want everyone else chasing after him all night. He’s spoken for.” The last line is delivered with a feral smile that makes Alistair gape at him.
All of their companions are well aware of their relationship- it would have been impossible to keep it a secret in camp. But with the Blight looming, and duty resting heavy on their shoulders, they kept their relationship to their tent, except for chaste touches and affectionate words. He’s not ashamed by any means, but hearing Aedan speak of his desire for him in broad daylight is dizzying.
The neat little box is getting dangerously full.
The others take Aedan’s words in stride, Zevran and Oghren both making raucous and obscene commentary while Leliana makes quiet, but devastating, observations.
Sten, well, Sten could be meditating for all the reaction he shows.
Morrigan doesn’t seem upset, but does take a surprising amount of time to recover before providing glib asides of her own. She was clearly counting on Aedan being more discreet and Alistair being more irritated by her remarks. But it’s difficult for Alistair to be annoyed when his lover just declared to everyone present that he wants him naked.
He just has to wait until later. He can do that. Patience is something he’s known for. Sure.
~
The outfit Alistair has to wear for the celebration is just as uncomfortable as he feared. Eamon digs it out of a dusty storage chest in his estate, insisting he needs to be presentable. Alistair tries to argue that since he didn’t actually end up king, thank the Maker, he shouldn’t have to wear anything fancy. The look Eamon gives him makes Alistair feel like a child again, caught tracking mud through Redcliffe castle just after the halls were scrubbed clean.
“Alistair, king or not, you are still representing the Wardens. Since you and Aedan are the only ones left in Fereldan, a poor showing will harm Aedan’s reputation just as much as your own,” Eamon chastises.
The reminder kills the petulant complaints on the tip of Alistair’s tongue. Eamon sighs, and his expression softens.
“I know you have never enjoyed this pantomime, Alistair, but it is an unfortunate necessity. If you and Aedan were just Wardens, it would not matter, and I would tell you to do as you like, but that is no longer the case. The two of you saved Fereldan, the world, from another Blight. And, knowing what I do of your…feelings regarding leadership-”
“I’m allergic to it,” Alistair responds reflexively. Eamon heaves a long-suffering sigh.
“Knowing what I do of your allergy, I presume Aedan will step in as Warden-Commander of Fereldan. Provided there are no objections from Weisshaupt. Though I cannot imagine there will be, all things considered.” That brings Alistair up short.
It makes sense. Of course, it does. Fereldan needs Wardens, and Anora has already announced her support. Who better to lead them than the man that rallied them all together, despite the kicking and screaming from all sides? Except, well, Alistair hasn’t really thought about it. What, with fighting for his life, worrying Aedan was going to die, being unconscious, and getting thrown headfirst into stuffy party clothes against his will.
He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come. He closes his mouth, then tries again with no more luck. He realizes he probably looks like a fish, though Eamon is kind enough not to comment on it, simply waiting while he flounders.
“You’re right,” he finally manages. “He’s the best choice for it. And…and I don’t want to make this any harder for him than it already is.” Eamon claps him on the shoulder, clearly proud.
“Chin up, Alistair. Once the details are worked out with Anora on where the Wardens will be based, you won’t need to deal with any of this” --Eamon gestures to encompass the estate and all its trappings-- “anymore. Except on unusual occasions. After all, you will be taking care of warden business, which is not nearly so formal. Or so I have been led to believe.”
“Oh, I don’t know. The wild dogs that train the new recruits are very prim and proper. And easily offended. You have to make sure they get the best pieces of bacon, or they’ll write a strongly worded letter of complaint,” Alistair says, struggling to keep a straight face.
As soon as Eamon raises an eyebrow, Alistair breaks and laughs, Eamon joining him shortly after. It feels good to laugh with him again, after all the years of bitterness. The way Eamon smiles fondly at him makes Alistair think he feels the same.
“I think we have kept your man waiting long enough. Let us join him before he comes hunting for you, hm?” Alistair nods and starts toward the door after Eamon, then freezes.
“Wait. WAIT. My man?! How do you-?” Alistair sputters, face reddening.
“Please, Alistair. I am old, not blind,” Eamon answers without breaking stride, hands resting comfortably behind his back.
“How long?” The words sound embarrassingly like a squeak, his voice betraying him. As if he needs to look even more like an idiot as he hurries after Eamon.
“How long have I known?” Eamon clarifies, glancing over his shoulder. Alistair just nods, hesitant to trust his mutinous voice. “I could tell as soon as I saw the way you looked at him at Redcliffe.”
“Before the battle, you mean?” There is, blessedly, no squeaking this time, but the question makes Eamon snort. The sound startles Alistair- it’s not one he’s accustomed to hearing from the man.
“No, Alistair. After I woke from my coma.”
The answer makes Alistair gawk. He definitely looks like a fish this time.
“But…but we weren’t even together then!” He protests, head spinning.
“No, but you clearly wanted to be, both of you. Even if you had not realized it yet. And it is just as clear that you are together now.” Eamon stops in the hallway and turns to face a still reeling Alistair. “I am thrilled for you, beyond words. This is not the future I saw for you, true, but I think this suits you far better than anything I could have imagined. No matter what I may have said, how I pushed you to claim your title, know that I just want you to be happy. Does he? Make you happy?”
“Yes,” Alistair says softly, overwhelmed. Eamon gives a solemn nod, then pulls him into a hug. Alistair is suddenly fighting tears, and knows he’s squeezing Eamon too hard, but the man makes no comment. On his sniffling, or rib crushing. They stand there for a while, until Alistair finally pulls back. He busies himself with straightening his tunic until he feels composed enough to meet Eamon’s gaze. Eamon didn’t cry, but he is misty-eyed when he smiles at Alistair.
“Now that is settled, pick up the pace or we will be late,” Eamon’s voice wavers a bit, his tone warm.
“We can’t have that!” Alistair exclaims. “We have to make sure we get there before all the good food is gone.”
Their laughter fills the hallways as they leave.
~
To Alistair’s great relief, there is plenty of food visible in the great hall when he enters flanked by Eamon and Aedan. The relief turns into resignation when Alistair sees the mob of nobles between them and the tables. Eamon pats him on the back and whispers, “breathe,” before stepping away to mingle.
Alistair inhales very slowly, then exhales and plasters what he hopes is a convincing smile on his face as Anora steps forward to announce them to the hall. As if anyone there doesn’t know who they are.
Nobles are so strange.
Anora greets them first, of course, expressing how pleased she is that Alistair is well enough to attend. She sounds perfectly sincere, but Alistair imagines she is relieved he was not able to come to the memorial services. Well, one in particular. He can’t blame her really. Anora’s a smart woman, and his reaction at the Landsmeet when Loghain was conscripted spoke volumes. She knows Alistair would have lopped off Loghain’s head without preamble if Aedan hadn’t talked him down. At least she no longer sees him as a threat now that he has forsworn his right to the throne. At least, he doesn’t think she does. A question for later, he supposes.
Anora exchanges pleasantries with Aedan, then tells them to enjoy the party, so Alistair prepares to tug Aedan toward the food. Unfortunately, Anora stepping away seems to have been a signal to the other nobles- opening the floodgates for them to rush forward.
They come at them in waves, in some pattern that everyone but Alistair seems to be familiar with. Alistair feels cornered and overwhelmed- too many fancy words, overpowering perfumes, and sly smiles. He’s doing his best to respond appropriately, but feels like he’s making a fool of himself. He gets the impression that some of the nobles are laying little verbal traps for him. He dismisses it as paranoia until he hears one of the ladies giggle after he says something and sees Aedan’s cheek twitch out of the corner of his eye.
The woman seems to think it means Aedan is amused by whatever joke she’s made of Alistair, so she stops trying to hide her smile, and giggles again.
It’s a mistake.
Aedan only does that when he’s irritated and trying to hold it in. Alistair watches him warily, uncertain how Aedan’s going to react in this setting. After a moment, Aedan smiles and Alistair almost chokes.
It’s the smile Aedan usually wears right before he guts a darkspawn.
Alistair is genuinely concerned about what’s going to come out of his lover’s mouth. He’s shocked when it’s some perfectly professional platitude, Aedan’s tone even and pleasant. But clearly, Alistair has missed something, because the woman’s face goes deathly pale. She sputters excuses and nearly trips over her own feet as she hurries away.
Alistair blinks in confusion, then feels Aedan’s hand wrap around his elbow, a warm, grounding grip. Alistair’s eyes flick to meet Aedan’s and his lover gives him a reassuring smile. “Let me handle this part, okay sweetheart?” He whispers softly. Alistair nods, dumbfounded.
From then on, Aedan expertly diverts any of the sneaky questions away from Alistair, without making it obvious he’s doing so. He leaves openings for Alistair to step in when subjects he’s comfortable with actually do come up. He even manages to cut conversations short without seeming rude if Alistair starts stiffening up from discomfort.
Perhaps it’s foolish, but Alistair hasn’t dwelt much over Aedan being nobility. The subject is too wrapped up in the trauma of what happened to his family to bring up casually, and Aedan never seems to enjoy their dealings with other nobles. Seeing him like this, navigating the thorns without thought, is surreal.
He would have made a good king. The thought surprises him, even if it’s true. But it doesn’t matter. Aedan chose the Wardens. Aedan chose him. The thought makes him feel a bit floaty, and the rest of the formal nonsense easier to bear.
Alistair can’t help bouncing a bit when Aedan finishes speaking with the latest noble and the man’s bow reveals there’s no one waiting behind him. He hears Aedan chuckle softly.
“Don’t get too excited. Now that the formal greetings are over, anyone can approach at their leisure to speak with us, regardless of their rank.”
Alistair groans. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Unfortunately not,” Aedan says wryly. Alistair pouts.
“This is the worst party in the history of parties. Make sure whichever lay brother is recording all of this for posterity, or whatever, writes that down.”
“I’ll do you one better,” Aedan assures him in a conspiratorial whisper. “One of the many skills I learned growing up is how to pass through a crowd while avoiding everyone in it.”
Alistair gives him a doubtful look.
“That doesn’t make any sense. How are we supposed to ignore them all while we walk right past them?”
“The trick is to move with purpose and don’t make eye contact with anyone. If you do make eye contact, just give them a very brief nod and immediately look away. Everyone will assume we’re on our way to speak with someone specific and won’t be sure if they should stop us or not. They’ll hesitate just long enough for us to get by them.”
Alistair must still look skeptical because Aedan offers his arm and gives him a reassuring smile. “Trust me, sweetheart. Just follow my lead.”
And Alistair does trust him, so he links their arms together, which gets a few gasps and whispers from the on-lookers closest to them. Alistair tries to ignore them so his face doesn’t burst into flames in public. Now that would be something for the lay brother to jot down.
Following Aedan’s lead is second nature at this point, easy as breathing, so it takes no effort at all to move in sync with him as they make their way across the floor. He keeps waiting for the inevitable- some lord or lady calling out to them, or placing a hand on one of their shoulders, anything that might demand their attention and halt their progress. It never comes.
They don’t stop until they’ve made it all the way to the food tables, where Aedan bows dramatically and says, “Ta-da!” with a smug grin.
Alistair wants very badly to kiss it.
He resists, but only just. His resolve is not helped by the fact that Aedan recognizes the struggle on his face for what it is, and his eyes go dark and hungry before he whispers, “later”.
Alistair is developing an unhealthy hatred of the word later. Still, at least he has food to comfort him now.
Aedan helps him navigate the impressive array of food, some of which Alistair has never even heard of. Aedan insists Alistair try everything his lover picks out and give an opinion, so Alistair finds himself nibbling on each offered morsel without thought, giving a pleased hum or wrinkling his nose depending on the taste.
He should probably be embarrassed that his lover is handfeeding him in public, but he is too busy enjoying the food to care. He’s sure that will catch up with him later, but that’s a problem for future Alistair.
He’s not sure what the purpose of the little ritual is, aside from making a point to the hovering nobles that they’re taking a break, until he’s tried all the options and Aedan begins piling a plate precariously high with what Alistair realizes are all the foods he approved of, and a second plate with all the ones he liked the best. Alistair wonders if it would be considered inappropriate to propose at an event like this. Then decides he doesn’t care. But, before he can get down on one knee, Leliana appears at his elbow looking amused.
“You two are going to be the talk of the evening, making a show like that,” she says in mock affront, but clearly pleased. “Honestly, Aedan. Hanging a sign around his neck that said ‘off limits’ would have been much simpler.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aedan replies primly. “Besides, if your hypothetical situation were true, the sign wouldn’t be anywhere near as fun.”
Leliana breaks down in delighted laughter, eyes sparkling. “Touché, my friend. Come, before the scandal outweighs goodwill, make the rounds with me.”
Alistair is a little lost, but nods his assent when Aedan looks at him questioningly.
“That’s the spirit!” Leliana says brightly. “There is safety in numbers, after all.” Alistair suspects neither she nor his lover are the ones that require buffers here. Still, he is not above taking their help and clinging to it with desperate fingernails.
Despite his misgivings born from the beginning of the party, he finds the more casual mingling isn’t so bad. The plate of food makes an effective shield between him and anyone with a poor sense of personal space, and he feels less exposed with Aedan and Leliana to either side of him. They also whisper tidbits of information about the nobles nearby and let him choose who they speak with next. Even having that little bit of control lets him relax and he finds most, if not all, of the ensuing conversations much more interesting than before. He thinks he might actually be having fun. Miracle of miracles.
Between the mingling, Aedan makes sure they swing back by the food tables so Alistair can refill his plates as needed, and they find time to catch up with their companions. Some of whom are more difficult to reach than others.
Zevran has amassed a small crowd of both men and women who appear to be swooning over him, which- no. Just no. Zevran shrugs at Alistair’s baffled expression and goes back to charming the pants…skirts…dresses…everything off his admirers. Probably literally. Which Alistair does not want to think about, thank you very much.
Oghren is also surrounded by people, well, spectators is probably more accurate. The dwarf chugs an entire ale and grins at his unfortunate competitor when he finishes and wipes his mouth. The man facing him is worrisomely green as he picks up his next flagon, wobbling a bit as he starts to drink. The three of them decide to avoid the area, not wanting to get vomited on when it inevitably goes south.
Alistair would like to know how he ended up with a lecture from Eamon on making a good impression while Oghren is able to guzzle alcohol and belch to his heart’s content at the same party. It’s unfair. He mumbles as much to Aedan who squeezes his arm in commiseration.
Sten is much easier to reach, standing in a quiet corner and observing the goings on with his typical stern expression. At first, Alistair thinks the qunari’s alone, then as they get closer, he realizes there is a nobleman standing on Sten’s other side, his features more Antivan than Fereldan. Sten’s expression changes minutely in what Alistair knows is interest, which is outright confusing until Alistair catches sight of the man’s hands. There are small splatters of paint on them that must have been missed when washing up for the party.
He mentions his observation to Leliana who immediately lights up.
“Oh, well spotted Alistair! That’s Laurien Montilyet. I didn’t realize anyone from their family would be attending until last night. He must have already been here for a salon or exhibit when the Blight struck. His parents must have been worried sick, the poor dears.” She pauses for a moment as she plucks a piece of food from Alistair’s plate.
“At least little Yvette is not with him. I hear she adores painting nearly as much as her big brother does…” she trails off and her tone becomes contemplative. “Sten seems quite taken with him, does he not? How sweet. Though, I believe he may have made some enemies in the process.”
She motions toward a small knot of young women eyeing Sten with a mixture of nerves and envy, apparently trying to work up the courage to go speak with him, or more likely, with the young man whose attention he has captured. Alistair can’t blame them for hesitating. He’s used to Sten’s expressions, and size, and…everything and he’s still intimidating.
“Let’s leave them be,” Leliana decides, leading them instead toward Wynne. “We can catch up with him later, and Laurien is usually so shy. This will be good for him.”
“He’s normally shy and he’s speaking to Sten?” Alistair blurts, turning confused eyes to Aedan.
Aedan hums thoughtfully before replying, “well, if he doesn’t enjoy crowds, that’s one of the few spots he can get some space. Besides, Sten’s not going to start a conversation with anyone without purpose, which was probably a relief in itself. And Sten doesn’t care about titles, only ability.”
“I guess it does make sense, when you put it like that,” Alistair concedes. He’s uncomfortably familiar with people getting stuck on your title. He’s not sure if Sten’s capable of having fun, but he hopes the qunari enjoys the companionship, at least.
Chatting with Wynne is pleasant and frustrating in equal measure, the mage alternating between acting like a doting grandmother, and teasing them like a sibling the next. Well, teasing him anyway. For some reason, she makes as big a deal out of him trying foods as Leliana did. Alistair doesn’t understand why they’re both so hung up on it, but Aedan seems incredibly pleased each time it’s brought up.
As far as Alistair is concerned, Aedan deserves to be proud. It was thoughtful, and sweet, and exactly what he needed. Aedan always seems to know what he needs. Which is why Alistair’s getting more and more antsy as the hours pass.
Surely, Aedan will notice that it’s later. That Alistair needs to get out of here, to be alone with him. Any minute now, he’ll take the hint. Hopefully before Alistair shakes out of his own skin in frustration and anticipation. As Aedan continues speaking with Wynne, Alistair tries to convince himself that he can wait a little longer. Just a little bit.
But Aedan keeps talking and Alistair is going insane.
Then, he hears “Well, it’s getting late, and since Morrigan declined her invitation, there’s no one else to speak to. Ready to turn in, sweetheart?”
Alistair stares at Aedan in shock for a moment. He was almost certain that later would never get here, and wonders if he’s hallucinating, until Leliana giggles and Wynne coughs to cover her own laughter.
“Yes!” Alistair knows he says the word too loudly, and with too much enthusiasm, but the way Aedan’s lips twitch with amusement is worth it.
“Then we’re off. Good night, ladies. We’ll see you both tomorrow.” Aedan turns away, then hesitates, and looks back over his shoulder. “Maybe.”
This sets off another round of laughter from both women, but Alistair is no longer paying them any attention. He simply drifts along, held to the ground by Aedan’s grip on his arm, as they pass off their now empty plates to servants, and make for the exit.