With no lords or ladies present and in need of fairly-distributed Majesty at the table, Alistair sits along the long side instead of at one head, just around the corner from Anora, close enough to steal butter off her plate or allow her to kick him under the table when he needs it. That's a fairly recent development. His first few years were spent in obvious discomfort. His more recent ones, he managed to spend more days away from Denerim than not. But the last two or so, he's inched closer, to where he is now: at her elbow, leaning in closer to speak quietly.
Unfortunately, it's not poetry.
"—wrote to Vigil's Keep to see if they had any information, but the messenger came back saying no one was there," he's saying. "I can try Weisshaupt, but—"
But they don't care for him, and likely would have nothing to offer if they did, except perhaps a firmer deadline. You have two months. You have a year.
And but someone else is coming. Alistair's straightened up and gone silent before the owner of the footsteps crosses through the door. It's a winded messenger with a particularly thick stack of sealed letters. He hands the stack to Alistair—innocent sexism, to the extent that isn't an oxymoron—and Alistair immediately holds it toward Anora.
"I can't read," he explains, straight-faced everywhere except his eyes.
But the messenger doesn't crack a smile or even have the decency to look bewildered by the joke. He stays red-faced and breathless and gasps out, "Divine Justinia's Conclave, Your Majesties. They said everyone is dead," and Alistair's hand freezes around the messages, just for a moment, before he overcomes the impulse to keep them after all and loosens his hold enough for Anora to take them.
Anora's fingers were on the letters, and they rest gently against the paper as the messenger blurts out the headline. Her face does not change, but she stills utterly for a brief moment. Then she takes the letters, completely impassive, and unseals the top one.
Little jokes, like the one Alistair had made a moment ago, have become something Anora finds increasingly personal. She sees them coming now, and can even tell what they're going to be about three-quarters of the time. But they've been forced of late, since her husband began to hear the Calling. And now those odd, intimate moments of coy humor are likely to become fewer. The paper unfolds in her hands, and she spares a lightning-quick glance at Alistair's face.
"Thank you, William," she intones kindly to the messenger.
The boy steps away, looking anxious. But he knows what that means. He walks briskly from the room, probably to start telling everyone else he sees the news of what has happened. Anora bends her head and reads the letter aloud. There are certain details only the king and queen will receive--what stirs abroad and in the Chantry--but the messenger gave them the basics, except for two extremely important facts.
There was one survivor. At the time of this message, the survivor was unconscious, having stepped out of a Fade rift and collapsed. And a great hole, a breach, has been opened in the sky above Haven, a gaping gateway into the Fade.
The remaining letters are from people of importance, requesting assurances, aid, alliances. One is from Grand Enchanter Fiona, though it is dated before the Conclave. There are a host of requests and concerns from Chantry mothers across Ferelden, and they will be given to a steward to file and address later.
Now Anora gives the most important of the letters to Alistair for his perusal, before turning back to her plate and cutting daintily into her meat with knife and fork. She does not look at him. She must go through these motions, move past the moment of doubt and fear. When she is in motion, she knows what to do. Standing still is a luxury she cannot afford.
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I. Denerim
Unfortunately, it's not poetry.
"—wrote to Vigil's Keep to see if they had any information, but the messenger came back saying no one was there," he's saying. "I can try Weisshaupt, but—"
But they don't care for him, and likely would have nothing to offer if they did, except perhaps a firmer deadline. You have two months. You have a year.
And but someone else is coming. Alistair's straightened up and gone silent before the owner of the footsteps crosses through the door. It's a winded messenger with a particularly thick stack of sealed letters. He hands the stack to Alistair—innocent sexism, to the extent that isn't an oxymoron—and Alistair immediately holds it toward Anora.
"I can't read," he explains, straight-faced everywhere except his eyes.
But the messenger doesn't crack a smile or even have the decency to look bewildered by the joke. He stays red-faced and breathless and gasps out, "Divine Justinia's Conclave, Your Majesties. They said everyone is dead," and Alistair's hand freezes around the messages, just for a moment, before he overcomes the impulse to keep them after all and loosens his hold enough for Anora to take them.
no subject
Little jokes, like the one Alistair had made a moment ago, have become something Anora finds increasingly personal. She sees them coming now, and can even tell what they're going to be about three-quarters of the time. But they've been forced of late, since her husband began to hear the Calling. And now those odd, intimate moments of coy humor are likely to become fewer. The paper unfolds in her hands, and she spares a lightning-quick glance at Alistair's face.
"Thank you, William," she intones kindly to the messenger.
The boy steps away, looking anxious. But he knows what that means. He walks briskly from the room, probably to start telling everyone else he sees the news of what has happened. Anora bends her head and reads the letter aloud. There are certain details only the king and queen will receive--what stirs abroad and in the Chantry--but the messenger gave them the basics, except for two extremely important facts.
There was one survivor. At the time of this message, the survivor was unconscious, having stepped out of a Fade rift and collapsed. And a great hole, a breach, has been opened in the sky above Haven, a gaping gateway into the Fade.
The remaining letters are from people of importance, requesting assurances, aid, alliances. One is from Grand Enchanter Fiona, though it is dated before the Conclave. There are a host of requests and concerns from Chantry mothers across Ferelden, and they will be given to a steward to file and address later.
Now Anora gives the most important of the letters to Alistair for his perusal, before turning back to her plate and cutting daintily into her meat with knife and fork. She does not look at him. She must go through these motions, move past the moment of doubt and fear. When she is in motion, she knows what to do. Standing still is a luxury she cannot afford.