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Bond of the Grey CH 17 Home
Caoilainn and Alistair return to Denerim. (Some mildly NSFW at the end) Ferelden forces woke to another foggy morning summoning the armies to march. Dreary weather persisted and wet grass promised muddy boots on their way back to Highever and Denerim. Cold wind blew from the northeast carrying salty notes from the Waking Sea. They followed the Wardens’ path from the day prior.
Days dragged, rocky terrain gave way to the thicker forest around Orzammar. As ordered, the troops moved aside, allowing room for any passing dwarven caravans. The Imperial Highway made for a welcomed sight to the Ferelden soldiers and the King and Queen.
Uneventful days stretched on, identical camps made in the Ferelden countryside night after night as they traveled through the brisk Coastlands to Denerim offered little change. At a halfway point on the North Road, the Highever fleet split from the royal army and continued further north to Castle Cousland. Caoilainn gave a letter for her brother to their general, thanking Fergus and his men for their time.
The King and Queen rode separate horses side by side; pleasant conversation interrupted by short-lived tiffs, caused by shorter-lived tempers, resulting from the stressors of travel. The couple spent chilly Ferelden nights together in the King’s tent.
A few nights from Denerim, the King and Queen slept on a sizable cot in the royal tent. It had been a quiet day of travel with clear weather and no signs of bandits. A blanket of stars covered the Coastlands, distant clouds hinting at morning rainfall.
Caoilainn sat up, gasping; she reached for her throat, clutching for air.
The large heap of blanket and body next to her stirred and mumbled. “Nightmare?” Alistair’s question voiced from habit, unsurprised with his wife’s restless state. But a moment passed, she didn’t respond, and he sat up with her. “It’s wasn’t the Calling,” he stated, his tone lingering with uncertainty, “was it?”
Shaking her head, Caoilainn laid back down. Alistair on his side extended an arm over her torso. “No.” She rolled on her side to face him and his hand slid to the curve of her hip. Though she couldn’t see his face through the shadows, she observed subtle movements of his features in the dark. Caoilainn’s arms curled into her chest and she scooted closer to the warmth of his large frame. “I dreamt we had a baby.”
“Oh,” he made a quick reply from surprise, and his body tightened. He paused before saying more. “Was it a good dream?”
She moved even closer, pressing her cheek against his chest. Caoilainn hummed confirmation and sighed. “It was. But my cycle hasn’t returned, I don’t know when a baby will even be possible. If it’s even possible.”
As occurred for all Grey Warden women after surviving their Joining, Caoilainn’s menstrual cycle became sporadic and eventually ceased. Morrigan had reported even with the cure, their organs may not heal enough from the damage caused by the taint to conceive.
Alistair gave an exhausted yawn; his fingers traced a long line from her hip to her cheek. “We have plenty of time to find out… and positions to try.”
“Alistair! You’re incorrigible.” Caoilainn scolded, chuckling as she pushed him away, but he pulled her in with success. She tilted her head back, glancing up to kiss him but his rough chin brushed her cheek. “And you still need to shave this mess of stubble.”
“The beard stays, my Queen,” he replied; she heard the smile in his voice. “And I will do filthy things to you with it when we get back to the palace.”
Cloudreach 9:42
Days later, they reached Denerim in the early evening. City gates opened to the royal convoy and military forces rode around to a separate entrance to the capital, putting their horses in stables and shedding armor from the ride. Merchants yet to pack for the day and clusters of shoppers stopped to watch the King and Queen trot through the cobbled courtyard. Townspeople eyed one another, surprised looks passed between them, startled to see the no-longer-missing Queen beside Alistair.
When they reached the palace, the couple descended from their horses; the creatures taken by attendants to lead them to the stables. Caoilainn stared up at the entrance to the palace. Giant doors glared down, imposing reminders of her failure and abandonment of the kingdom, her king. Lost in unpleasant memories, she forgot Alistair stood beside her until his hand grazed hers. Fingers weaved, he squeezed her hand.
“Are you all right?” He glanced to the side, scanning Caoilainn’s wide eyes held at the doorway.
She made a small hum in reply without breaking her gaze straight ahead. Chin up, tits out. With a deep breath, her posture straightened, and she stepped forward with Alistair. The doors creaked open, revealing the interior of the palace. A long hallway covered in color, beams supporting the ceiling draped with Theirin banners and the walls lined with sigils of the country's bannorns and arlings. Large wooden doors staggered down both sides of the hall, some leading to the outside and others further inside the castle.
With a shared glance, slow strides carried Alistair and Caoilainn through the empty great hall. It looked the same as Caoilainn last remembered it as if nothing had changed in the five years she had been absent. She took a step from him and old feelings returned. Unsettled, stir crazy at the sight of stone walls and wood beams, house colors insinuating admonitions of her treachery. She paced down the hallway, stopping at the stairs to the altar at the other end; the place of their wedding and coronation. Her eyes fell on the Andrastian shrine.
Alistair watched as she walked away, curious of the thoughts running through his enigmatic wife’s head. But the thoughts ended. In a swift turn, she blurted, “I need work.”
He heard the plea behind her declaration. Desperation for something to keep her occupied cast into her relentless work ethic. There’s a surprise, his sarcastic thought melted to an endearing grin.
“You’ve been back all of five minutes and you already want to start work?” His tone lingered on the last word and he walked to her. “Scratch that. Silly question. Of course you do, my tenacious Queen. And that was part of our agreement.”
Alistair’s hands found her hips; Caoilainn’s brows made a delicate bunch, begging him to understand her need. “Have you considered my offer to lead your army?”
“Oh,” he chuckled, “an offer, was it? It sounded more like a demand. And I have thought about it, but I’ve yet to set up a meeting with all of my advisors. Since, as I'm sure you're aware, we just got back.” Alistair sighed, his hand finding his forehead. He glanced away before looking back to Caoilainn. “I don’t think they will approve. The army is only sword and shield and there are only a handful of women.” His response vaguely explained his hesitation.
“And?” The furrow in her brows intensified and her lip raised. “I’ve led all combat styles… and men. You know I'm more than qualified. And perhaps it’s time to consider adding some variety to your militia. Maybe even more women. That is, if you're willing to drop the status quo.” Sarcasm lined her tone, but she shook it off, focusing on her request at hand. “I can handle the pushback, Alistair.”
Alistair’s lips pursed before he gave a close-lipped smile; his hand came back down to her hip, drawing a line on her waist through the fabric of her tunic. “It won’t be easy. You will step on the toes of men who’ve served Ferelden since before we were born.” He referred to lieutenants and generals in his army who had been serving for decades and would not be receptive to a new leader.
Dusky light filled the room, lit braziers crackled low light through the hall. Red and gold carpet lined the expansive and empty hallway- the same hall she walked on her wedding day- stretched from one side of the royal couple, and the altar where they married stood at the other. A breath of space between them, Caoilainn dropped to one knee. From a knelt bow at the King’s feet, the Queen’s fist crossed her chest. Alistair's brows furrowed in confusion, and he opened his mouth to speak but no words came.
She stared at his boots; her voice, poised and confident, rang through the hall. “I, Caoilainn Theirin, Queen of Ferelden and servant to her country, will uphold the oaths of fealty I have given you, the kingdom, and our marriage.” She paused, breathing as she chose her words. “Should you, Alistair, son of Maric, use me as Commander of your army, I swear to strengthen your forces and protect your throne.” She looked up. Brows creased, her intense silvery-blue stare found his hazel. “Please. Let me serve you, my King.”
Taken aback by her propriety, baffled by her willingness to bow outside the bedroom, Alistair's widened eyes adjusted, realizing it was his turn to speak. He grinned; bashful cheeks reddened, hidden by the dim light until he regained his composure. His grin remained. “How could I possibly say no to that?”
She stayed at his feet, brow lifting as her lips pulled into a smile, but she remained silent.
“All right, all right,” he chuckled, shrugging his shoulders as he looked down at her with adoration. “Unless the advisors give me a valid reason to rethink this decision, I will make it happen, my Queen.” He suspected there would be resistance; appointing Caoilainn to Commander would arise allegations of nepotism, but her irrefutable success as Warden Commander spoke for itself. Any who disputed her competence would only do so out of a fear of change rather than favoritism. As far as his advisors knew, her reason for leaving the palace resulted from the Wardens needing her.
Alistair’s head tipped up, ushering Caoilainn to stand. “As much as I am enjoying your courtliness, I’d like you to rule beside me, not beneath me.”
Caoilainn rose to face him and the pair turned to the altar. A quiet recommitment to theirs vows to one another, they breathed together in solitude before returning to royal life.
Alistair wandered to the kitchen to discover what would be offered for dinner that evening so he could demand samples by right of the King. Caoilainn ventured into the palace, familiarizing herself with the stone halls, rooms occupied by serving staff on the lower floors and on the upper, unoccupied rooms for visiting guests. When she finally reached their bedroom, she noticed his belongings from the trip delivered outside the door before she opened it.
Her heart sank. Void of all remnants of Caoilainn, her books, vanity, and desk missing from the room. His scent permeated, like sweet grass and burning wood, reminding her of the campfires they spent so many nights beside. The same since she met him, unaltered by his years alone as King. He had the drapery changed; dark red cloth adorned the windows in place of the floral-patterned, ivory-colored fabric she had picked. He had even replaced the bed they once shared. The room was simple: a large coffer opposite a bed with a chair in the corner. Cautious steps took her to the wardrobe to find all her clothes removed. I hope he didn’t throw all my things away.
She turned to the bed. It was massive; wood stained a deep mahogany framed the mattress, and four posts rose from the corners encasing the place she would now sleep nightly. A guilty pleasure: black silk sheets covered the cushion, nothing like the neutral tone of Highever weave Caoilainn selected so long ago. The eerie sensation, feeling unwelcome in her own room passed when she looked closer at the headboard. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw roses etched into the wood.
She continued her journey, wandering through the wing of the palace with the King and Queen’s private rooms. A few doors down from their bedroom, she spotted her chest of belongings outside another doorway. The room had formerly been for storage, but when she opened the door, she saw it had been cleared. The stone walls adorned with blue and green tapestries marked with laurels, the Cousland sigil. A daybed sat near a window next to her filled bookshelf. Their old chest of drawers sat at one end of the room, undoubtedly filled with all her missing vestments. Her perfume and hairbrush rested on the surface of her vanity at the opposite end. And in the middle, her desk. Letters lay neatly stacked on one corner of the empty desktop. A blanket of dust covered everything; Alistair had not been in this room for many years.
Fleeting thoughts of Alistair’s banishment of all things that had retained her essence dissolved entirely; she sighed in appreciation of this room as her own amidst what they shared. Lingering heartache of leaving the Wardens fueled anxiety surrounding new responsibilities as Commander and Queen, but for this brief moment, she absorbed the thoughtful attention Alistair had put into this room. Her eyes stung from guilty tears; she blinked them away, determined to appreciate this gift.
Expecting to find something unopened from Weisshaupt at the top of the stack, she browsed through letters at her desk. All of them had been opened, the most recent letter dated from two years ago. Any resentment for having her mail read without her permission fled; Caoilainn’s understanding of Alistair’s compounded frustration made his decision to read through her letters unsurprising, if not expected. She found nothing of importance as she browsed through. Well wishes, name day celebrations, and invitations to noble gatherings around the realm. The absent Weisshaupt letter created worry; she would check with their messenger the following day.
But the hour grew late; certain Alistair had either started dinner without her or sat impatiently waiting provided motivation. She opened the wardrobe, hoping her clothes had not been eaten by moths. Optimism not in vain, her clothes held through her years away. Dresses varying in colors and fabrics lined the drawers of the coffer as well as clean tunics and smallclothes.
She cleaned in the washroom down the hall and donned clean clothes before heading down to dinner in a dress of red and gold, different from the Warden regalia she had worn with pride for so long. With a glimpse in the mirror of her vanity, she startled to see the woman staring back. A Queen, not a Grey Warden. Armor absent, replaced by a flowing gown. Mixed emotions swirled within. The look suited her well, and she knew Alistair would approve.
Sitting in a foyer near the stairway, Alistair rose when he heard soft steps. All the fleeting memories of jealousy and distrust subsided as he watched her looking the opposite direction toward the dining hall in expectation. Graceful contours defined by the red dress clinging to her. Alistair’s eyes followed Caoilainn with gratitude. Her poised frame, well-trained and toned from combat practice wore the dress with class. And he knew she preferred armor to gowns. The gift of witnessing her in this attire did not go unnoticed. His lovely, strong-willed wife, out of her element and in pursuit of him for once; he considered remaining quiet so he could observe her longer.
“Maker’s breath.” His voice broke the silence. She made a small gasp and turned to him. “I am a lucky man.”
She exhaled in relief, and her lips tugged to a grin. Blue eyes sparkled in the braziers’ light; alluring shadows cast over the smooth curves of her face. She took his arm when he offered, and the couple walked to the dining hall together. Plans for the following day discussed over their meal, underlined by flirtation about their plans for after dinner; Caoilainn’s worry about Weisshaupt and the Wardens pacified by Alistair’s pleasant company.
Art by xla-hainex
Mutual attraction survived the cleansing of the taint; libido no longer propelled by constant, aching hunger only heightened arousal and anticipation.
“My Queen,” he addressed her with a smile, closing the door to their bedroom behind him. His tempting timber resonated love and desire with two simple words.
Long, elegant strides took Caoilainn further into the bedroom, his room. It represented him in his confident masculinity, sentimental hints available for those who understood. Earlier fears of being exiled from his life felt foreign in the wake of Alistair’s warm welcome into his space, his heart.
Her brow arched, Caoilainn glanced over her shoulder to meet his searching gaze. A man stared back: tall, handsome, kind, and yearning. The message she received from his eyes prompted her turn. She curtsied with purpose, engaging in the practiced dynamic built between them in private, and echoed, “my King.”
Caoilainn’s deliberate submission taunted him; tactful and coy application of her nobility took his mind to bawdy places. Images flitted of the lewd things he'd like to do with her, to her. But the thoughts were preemptive; Alistair reigned in his lust, determined to find patience and show his wife veneration before acting on sordid desires.
A glimmer in her stare as she waited for him suggested she had similar fantasies of her own. Their unspoken agreement to savor this evening compelled composure.
Disciplined strides took him to her, his gaze locked with hers without losing peripheral appreciation of her shape. Fabric cascaded from her graceful curves but her stature, dutiful but open, vulnerable, and willing made his love burn stronger. The long-standing urge for this particular woman sustained. His hand found her her cheek, softer edges of the back of his digits uncurled as they traveled to her hair. She shivered and closed her eyes, relishing in his touch.
Alistair leaned his head by hers; a smooth, warm tenor floated to her ear, “I adore you.”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Unprepared for the poignant selection of words and their impact, Caoilainn blushed in a flustered daze. Inhaling to slow the beating of her heart, absorbing the affection he gave so freely. She tried to tame her modesty. Collecting herself, demure reactions melted with her poise and reciprocated his love. Her palm touched his elbow, keeping him close. She whispered, “I'm grateful for you. I'm yours, Alistair.”
Rough digits threaded further through her tresses, encouraging the weight of her head to rest in his palm. His other hand curved around the small of her back, supporting her as she leaned. He leaned with her, soft lips surrounded by patchy stubble pressed her mouth. Breathing her in, the faint perfumed scent of jasmine and honeysuckle complemented the lavender of the soap she used.
A closed-mouth moan into his lips, Caoilainn succumbed. Appreciating all aspects of him, even his facial hair tickling her skin. Easing back, waiting for his direction, the blissful kiss stretched until the slightest pressure separated her lips. Tongue caressed tongue, a gentle motion firm in its execution. She met his kiss with equal intensity. Well-established trust ignited wanting heat, tingling energy coursed through her body.
He stopped with reluctance. His willingness to remain a gentleman waned; breeches growing tight and uncomfortable -he wanted her. To take her in all her willing passion in a rushed interchange. But they had done that many times in their journey back to Skyhold; recent intimacy on their way back to Denerim withheld intercourse as they recovered from their cure. Hurried contact would not serve the King and Queen; abandoning the significance of the first night back in the palace, and the new terms to their relationship, rules formed to assure its success. Both wished to maintain the meaningful symbolism, another layer of the consummation of their new life together. Their evening of courting contributed to their amour, pure and uninfluenced by the tainted connection.
“This dress looks lovely on you,” he said, creating space between them.
“I’d look better without it, my King.” She smiled, her words unimposing. An offered image for his mind rather than a demand or request.
“I can’t argue,” his grin widened causing creasing lines to form around his eyes, gaze darkened by lustful motives. “Let’s do something about that then, shall we?”
She gave a small nod and turned around, revealing muscled shoulder blades peeking out of the lines of her dress. A lengthy ribbon wrapped up the center through small slits from the curve of her back to the dress’s neckline, tied at the top. How did she get this on herself? He wondered for a second before he loosened the laces. Patient hands completed their task and helped her from her dress, draping it over the coffer.
She wore lacy lingerie given as a gift, more for himself than for her. Stunning, enticing, the sight of the delicate fabric on her fair frame made his blood flow. His breeches grew tighter, but he bridled his drive and gave her an order.
“Lay down,” his loving direction joined the tilt of his head to the bed behind her.
Her lashes fluttered, pupils dilating; the pink glow to her cheeks returned. She murmured, “yes, my King,” and did as he said. A few steps backward carried her to the bed, excited to learn of his plans for the evening, the filthy things he alluded to a few days prior. She slid on the smooth sheets, her arms helping her maneuver to the headboard. Palms pressed against the mattress, she leaned against the headboard. The slight curvature of her spine defined her flowing form.
As it always did when he made her wait, guessing his next action, her heart raced. He turned around to the chest of drawers and removed his outer layer of armor, placing his fur lined leathers next to her dress. His rounded back reached over, gathering something from another compartment of his coffer. The tunic he wore teased her; revealing shadows of his superb musculature. Yearning heat between her legs provoked satisfying discomfort, subtle wriggles attempted to abide her arousal. Deliberate to keep whatever he did out of her sight, she delighted in the torture he delivered with his disciplined control.
After picking something off the floor, he took a casual turn and stepped to the bed. Reserved enthusiasm, he blinked slowly, locking eyes with her again as he sat down, setting a coil of rope and a blindfold beside him.
Her eyes widened and her brows creased, but her expression relaxed with a breath. Waiting continued, she returned her stare to his.
“Is this what you want?” An even tone inquired, confirming her willingness to engage in this form of their lovemaking despite knowing the answer.
The eager leap of her stomach settled, but her excitement remained. Brimming with curiosity to learn his intent for her, she studied him, his features. The strong, square jaw, sloping nose, and reddish brows of her partner indulged her delay without burden. His calm and unconditional love soothed her impatience.
“It is, my King.”
