Love’s Blush
containing
Guarded Love
&
Miracle
by Sabrina Zbasnik
Table of Contents
Guarded Love
CHAPTER ONE
Naming Day
CHAPTER TWO
The Pieces
CHAPTER THREE
Reiss
CHAPTER FOUR
The King & I
CHAPTER FIVE
Parentage a Trois
CHAPTER SIX
Roommates
CHAPTER SEVEN
First Day
CHAPTER EIGHT
New Normal
CHAPTER NINE
Memory
CHAPTER TEN
Cloaks & Daggers
CHAPTER ELEVEN
You Can't Go Home
CHAPTER TWELVE
Garden Party
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Want To Have A Go?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thunder
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Headache
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Nap
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Backroom
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Love's Treason
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Trial
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dumplings
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A Taste
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Scaling the Summit
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ghosts of Pain
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Another Taste
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Camping
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Damn
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Never-Sick
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Healing
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
And You Two...?
CHAPTER THIRTY
We'll Always Have The Kennels
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Afterglow
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
An Answer
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A Big Break
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Math of the Stars
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Mother Issues
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Fire
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Hatred
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Letter
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Happiness
CHAPTER FORTY
Prepare For Weird
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Maybe
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Test
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Wants & Needs
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Misery
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Loves Company
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
A Turn
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Snake In The Grass
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Alistair
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The Sun
CHAPTER FIFTY
Endgame
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Want
EPILOGUE
Miracle
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Uh-Oh
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
And Baby Makes...
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
If He Asks
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
A Little Rain
CHAPTER SIXTY
Made in Love
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The Queen's Deal
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Securing the Line
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
One Day
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The Beginning
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Baby Shower
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
It's Time
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Help
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
The Whole World
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Moving On Up
CHAPTER SEVENTY
O Holy Night
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Hello There
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Penance
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Legitimate
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Happy
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Guarded Heart
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
K.E.W.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Hate
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Fear
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Survive
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Dada
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Black Wings
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Witch Hunt
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Confrontation
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
Now What?
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
Weakness
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
Pride Goeth Before A Fall
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Old Blood
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
The Straw
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
Choice
CHAPTER NINETY
Bet On It
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Epilogue
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
Guarded Love
Alistair's life isn't all bad. He's King, he's got two kids he adores a wife he's vaguely aware exists. The only thing missing in that blissful domestic picture is someone to love. But all in all, things are weirdly working out for him.
That all changes when assassins dare to come after him and his children on the little prince's naming day. With a threat daring to be so brash to attack the King, he takes on a personal bodyguard. Picked seemingly at random from the City Watch, Reiss thought she was little more than an average elf trying to make it in thedas. Now it's all on her to keep the King alive against this enigmatic threat, and try to ignore the fact she keeps blushing whenever he smiles.
CHAPTER ONE
Naming Day
Half of Ferelden must have shown up for this damn thing, a fascinating array of body odors floating through the crowds shoving near his ramshackle dais. Someone took the time to nail up a flag to cover over the hole behind him, but in their haste barely notched it in. Alistair couldn't stop fiddling with the nail head sticking out towards him, when he wasn't waving to his citizens or switching the bundle of blankets from one arm to the other.
The chair beside him loomed in emptiness, every third or fourth person having to comment on the lack of the Queen. He'd smile as best he could, then offer up some cheery joke about how ol' Bea was off walking orphans or something. A few were kind enough to smile at their silly King, but more than most would linger over the silent seat. Maker, how much longer was this going to take?
Stubby fingers tugged on Alistair's scabbard, causing his sword to pitch backwards until it jammed against the chair. He glanced down at the moon faced girl with eyes of emeralds. She began the day with her black hair braided tight and wrapped around her head like a lady should. Within an hour she had half of it down with weeds she considered flowers jammed in. "I'm bored!" she pronounced, folding her arms across her chest. "I want to play."
Alistair had to bury a chuckle at his daughter's obstinance. He happened to agree with her, but this was tradition. "Spud," he warned in what passed for his father voice which couldn't even discipline a fly for falling into his soup. For his efforts he got the slow eye roll of a two and three quarters year old. She insisted upon the three q
uarters even if she was nearing a full four quarters with every day.
"Why don't you go curtsy to those men in shiny hats over there," he said pointing at a few of the city guards. Denerim was kind enough to loan out their crew for this little meet and greet. Their polished steel helmets poked through the crowd of coiffed men and women hoping to wave at the newest addition to the palace.
For her part, his daughter looked over at two of the guards standing in as much rapt attention people paid to do it could. He thought she'd take him up on it. Someone had been teaching the princess how to properly curtsy like a lady and Spud loved it, though her approach was to grab both sides of her dress, spin around in a circle, and then squat as far as her legs allowed. Sometimes she'd forget about the squatting part and spin and spin until nearly passing out. Being only two, this of course delighted the Arls and Banns who had to find everything the princess did absolutely adorable. This time, however, she pinched up her little nose and frowned.
"Don't want to," she said, kicking her fancy shoe into the chair that was supposed to house her mother.
Alistair bit back a groan then reached down for her. "Come up here," he said, tugging her up to the extra chair. Scrabbling with his help, Spud didn't sit down to watch the crowds still sliding in and out through the reception line. Instead, she stood up in it and reached for the banner behind.
"Your Highness," a voice whispered from behind him where a bevy of nurses, handmaidens, and other busybodies waited in case he screwed something up, "it isn't ladylike for a princess to stand on her chair."
Sighing, he whispered to Spud, "Pst, you're not being a lady."
"'S okay, I'm a dragon now," she insisted, before giving out her feral roar that might startle a kitten.
"Your Majesty," the voice insisted, all but jabbing him in the back of the head.
He shrugged, "Sorry, you can't tell dragons what to do." The woman groaned, used to dealing with Alistair's petulant ways, but another chuckled beside him. Glancing over, he spotted the smiling lips of a city guard. Dressed in the unitarian uniform that rendered all gender down to a faceless lump it was impossible for him to tell who was hiding inside that tin can, but by the giggle he'd guess a woman.
About to ask the guard if she was all right or if standing in so much metal all day baked her brains away, Alistair's focus was pulled to the lump in his arms transforming itself from a mass of blankets to a gaping maw demanding attention. It wasn't a cry at this point, more a wheeze, but the moment it broke all voices across the bustling square died. Everyone turned to look at the little prince giving his first speech to the masses. It was hard to make out the words, but the gist seemed to be "I want something now!" About on par with most royalty.
"Well, good morning to you too," Alistair cooed at his son, running a finger across those chubby cheeks. Slowly, he rocked the bundle back and forth in his arms trying to calm the cries. For a moment they stuttered, just as they had when Spud was that tiny. Maker that felt like it was just a few days ago.
At her brother's sounds, she dropped to her knees on the chair and peered her eyes over the arm. She blinked a few times, watching the baby swaddled in the royal christening gown apparently all Theirin's wore since Calenhad. It was so ancient, Alistair wasn't certain which would get him in bigger trouble if he broke it, the gown or the baby wearing it.
Spud sat up and clapped her hands, "I want to hold him."
"Ah..." He glanced over at his daughter and thought to the last time he let her hold an egg. She was very gentle with it for the first ten seconds before her toddler curiosity made her wonder if eggs could survive being dropped from a parapet. Turns out the answer is a resounding no. "Next time, Spuddy," he said, trying to rock the prince back to sleep. The baby was having none of it, already on to Alistair's limited tricks.
Spud folded her arms up and stuck out her bottom lip. Maker, just what he needed, two kids screaming at the top of their lungs. Slipping the prince into the crook of his arm, Alistair snaked an arm around Spud's shoulders. Hauling her close, he planted a kiss on her forehead and mumbled, "You don't want to hold him anyway. There's unholy demons coming out of the back end."
It was doubtful she understood half of what he said, but the wobbling bottom lip sucked back in and she smiled. The prince had only been in existence for a couple weeks and already he was proving to be a bigger handful than Spud ever was to both her parents. While Alistair and Spud bonded as he'd snatch her up every night to take her on a walking tour of the castle so she could drool over all his finery, the boy wanted nothing to do with either of them. And the toll he took on his mother was wearing everyone in the castle even thinner than expected.
Weighing the screams that were growing more urgent, he turned to the one woman behind him he recognized. "I'm thinking someone's hungry. Marn," Alistair spoke to the wet nurse who had her own one year old clinging to her skirts for the ceremony, "I hope the kitchen's open."
"Always is," she said lifting the boy out of Alistair's arms. While Marn fished out the anatomy Alistair was lacking to make his son happy, he turned back to the crowd only to have thirty pounds of princess land in his lap. "Dear Maker," he groaned, his thighs unprepared for such an attack, "warn me next time."
"Sorry, Daddy." For her part Spud only smiled at her father's pain, those emerald eyes sparkling with total sincerity. They never worked on her mother, but he melted to her whims at them.
"Come here," he said, turning her around to sit properly on his chair that probably bore an indent from his ass. Just what it needed to get even flatter. Lifting up Spud's hand in his, Alistair waved with ferocity at the people who really didn't give a shit about meeting their king. They were all here for the prince, who he still had to officially name. Granted, that was the point of the day, gathering everyone in the square to tell the world that there was another little set of lungs screaming through the palace.
"Did I have a name thing?" Spud asked, kicking her heels haphazardly against the chair.
"You know you did," he said. She'd asked the damn question a good thirty times since her nanny pulled out one of the fancier dresses and told her about today. Still, it wasn't like he had anything better to do. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair spotted the back of a contented baby's head suckling away. Pinning his daughter tight in a back hug, he chuckled, "You were a handful and a half that day. Whenever anyone tried to hold you, you'd howl and howl until I'd pluck you away then boom, instant smile."
"And Mummy was there!" Spud announced.
"Yes, your mother was there apologizing for your atrocious behavior. Quite unbecoming for a baby," he laughed into her hair. Beyond them stood the rest of the gentry, most crowded around the few snack tables someone set up. Isolde, the self appointed godmother, floated in and out through them while Eamon hung by her side. There were few Alistair cared about out there in the crowd, but they were all supposed to care about him.
Spud tipped her head back against his chest so those ornery eyes could beam up at him, "Did I really wear the same dress as him?"
Alistair reached over to run his fingers over the hemline of his son's dress, the ends drooping close to the ground as if the long dead sewer was daring him to mess it up. "Yes, you did. You were so tiny you fit along my arm." Spud yanked up his forearm, her pudgy fingers darting across as if she was measuring it.
"Nu-uh," she said, shaking her head and laughing at the absurdity of growth.
"It's true, I swear."
"Daddies shouldn't tell fibs," she said. Someone taught her that Princesses shouldn't do that and now Spud loved to run around insisting no one else should either. It was hard to tell her to knock it off when she was technically correct.
"I'm not," Alistair said, done in by a two year old. "Marn, you'll back me up on this."
His old adversary rolled an eye at him as she was currently busy fulfilling her hired role. Marn had little time for Alistair, and while she warmed up to letting the father near his children, it moved from the blood freezing breat
h of a frost dragon to the chill of being lost in the Frostbacks and thinking about eating your own toes. He hoped by the time his son was a year old he'd reach 'I might put you out if you're on fire, if I'm holding a bucket and it's not too much work.'
Speaking of, the demanding guest of honor detached himself of his own will and began to do that newborn baby wheeze at the indignity. Spud huffed in Alistair's lap at the cries, and he chuckled. She was going to have to get used to it, they all were again.
"Your Majesty," a voice oozed from before him and Alistair turned from Marn trying to appease the demanding royal suckered to her tit to a demanding Bann suckered to the royal coffers.
"Bann Cyrill," Alistair groaned, wishing he didn't have to know that name, or any of them come to think of it. He'd tried calling all the gentry Bob for a week once when Eamon was out of court. It made for a delightful game until there was talk of rebellion and bringing in chevaliers.
"May I give blessings onto the new son of Ferelden?"
"I dunno," Alistair shrugged, "may you?"
Cyrill's weaselly face with the sunken in eyes darted around the dais hoping to find someone to come to his rescue. When none of the women either employed by the King or sworn to protect him offered a hand, the Bann chuckled, "Yes, quite witty, your Highness."
He didn't seem to be in any mood to fade back in with the happy crowds, so Alistair turned to Marn and extended his hands. "Here, give him to me." The nursemaid shot her legendary dagger eyes through him, but Alistair only shrugged and jerked his chin at the anchored Bann. He wanted to give over his son for the damn fealty swear as much as Marn did but there wasn't much choice.
Scooping the prince up into the crook of his arm, a limp cry echoed from those tiny lungs. Spud twisted around in his lap, her unimpressed eyes boring into the baby. She reached a finger towards him to try and touch a cheek when Alistair lifted the boy away. He spotted a pout burgeoning with her bottom lip, but there wasn't anything he could do. It was tradition.
Cyrill placed his thumb to his lips and then against the boy's forehead. "I, and my lands, swear fealty to protect and honor this son of Ferelden," he said, his murky eyes glazing over. "Have you announced the name, yet?"
Alistair juggled from one arm to another the baby who was getting tired of people treating his head like a thumbprint cookie. "Trying to get some insider information to win a bet? You know how this works."