#so you can just get Anora's amulet on Anora (and your cat)

[shannaraisles]

A Rose By Any Name - Chapter 17

In which Fabs experiences hopes, doubts, and an old adversary. Banner created by the superb @kagetsukai.

[Read on AO3] OR [Read from the beginning]

"You look fabulous tonight, Fabs."

Felicita laughed as she passed under Alistair's arm to the rhythm of the dance, linking hands with him to resume the stately promenade. He smiled back at her, seemingly delighted with her response to his compliment.

"You approve of my Fereldan attire this evening, then?" she asked teasingly, fighting to hold in another chuckle as his gaze dropped to take in the gown she had worn under sufferance in the first place.

It was in the Ferelden style, less full of skirt than she was used to, the bodice and sleeves fitted, but with one important difference - the neckline was significantly lower than most noble ladies of his land wore it. She had insisted on that, fed up with having to watch him try his best not to talk directly to Delphine and Callista's cleavage. Admittedly, now he had the same problem with her, but there was something uniquely flattering about the way his gaze swept down her form and returned to meet her eyes with a grin that spoke to her of affectionate desire. He wanted her, that much was clear. It was as good a place to start as any, in her view.

Alistair cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look down again. "It suits you very well," he managed eventually. "Is it comfortable for you? I know it's ... different to what you normally wear."

"There are some changes I would make, certainly," she agreed easily enough. "But not so very many."

"I look forward to seeing them," he said, and abruptly blushed, stammering out an apology. "That is, when ... I mean, if ... Of course I mean if, I haven't made any decisions ... Well, I have, I just ..." He trailed off helplessly.

Felicita laughed gently as she twirled under his arm once again. "I am very glad to have made the short list, as it were," she assured him, her smile perfectly presented to those watching. Only the softness of her gaze gave credence to the tender warmth she shared with him through that smile.

Alistair's own smile softened in response as his arm wrapped about her back, promenading once again to the beat of the music. "I wanted to thank you for my birthday gifts," he said suddenly. "How did you get the shirt the right size?"

She smiled again, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. "Your friend Demelza was very helpful," she told him in an easy tone. "She smuggled one of your more favored shirts out of your rooms so I could take measurements."

Alistair snorted with laughter. "Yes, that sounds like Dem," he commented, meeting her flirtatious smile with a comfortable smile of his own. "She likes you, you know."

"I am honored to know that," she answered, feeling a small thrill in the pit of her stomach that she had somehow managed to gain the approval of the king's best friend. "She takes a little getting used to, but I like her, too. We have something very profound in common."

Confusion touched his expression. "What would that be?"

Felicita's own expression lit up like a sunrise. "You, Alistair," she told him softly. "We are both rather fond of you."

His jaw hung loose for a moment as he attempted to assimilate this information. "You, uh ... you like me?" he asked, his tone not so much disbelieving as searching for confirmation.

Well, you did want to make yourself a contender. This is no time for beating around the bush. She swallowed down the tight nervousness in her throat before answering him.

"I like you very much, Alistair," she assured him.

He let out a low huff of breath, almost as though he had been holding it in anticipation of her reply, and a broad grin lightened his features. "Well, that's just lovely, isn't it?" he declared. "I like you, you like me, Dem likes both of us. We all like Maria. Everyone's very ... likeable."

Felicita couldn't help the teasing edge to her smile in the face of his nervous agreement with her. He does like me. All right, so he was right on the edge of babbling, but that was a good sign, wasn't it? Perhaps Ceri was right, after all. As they turned with the rest of the dancers to perambulate in the other direction, she caught sight of Arl Eamon, scowling directly at her in a decidedly unfriendly fashion. The expression on his face sent a chill through her, guiding her eyes to certain other faces in the noble crowd - all members of the Landsmeet who were present in the city. There was a fair amount of disapproval on several of those faces. It was a harsh reminder that Alistair liking her was not enough to win a place by his side for a lifetime.

"What was it that Arl Eamon gave to you?" she asked, suddenly recalling the surprisingly tense moment that had followed the arl's presentation of the king's birthday gift from himself.

Alistair's brow knotted unhappily. "A replica of my mother's amulet," he said shortly. "No doubt he can feel his grip on me slipping and thought to remind me he was my guardian for a while in my youth."

She snorted derisively. "He allowed his wife to make you sleep in the kennels," she pointed out - Anora had filled her in on a few details of the king's childhood that had horrified her. "I should not imagine those are memories you wish to recall."

"Actually, I rather liked the kennels," he admitted, his frown smoothing as he spoke. "It was always warm, even on cold nights."

Felicita felt a soft laugh escape her throat. "Every time I think I understand you, you surprise me again," she told him, pleased when his frown disappeared entirely into a wide smile.

"You know, I feel much the same way about you sometimes," he commented. "You don't much seem to like dogs, but I saw you cooing over that cat and her kittens under the dais this morning."

"Cats have more grace than dogs, your majesty," she answered with teasing smartness.

Alistair's grin widened. "Did you have cats growing up?"

"I did, as a matter of fact," she admitted in amusement. "A kitten for my seventh birthday. She provided me with several dozen kittens herself over the years, but sadly, she is gone now."

"Do you miss her?"

Felicita's smile was just a little sad as she remembered her first pet. "I do, sometimes," she admitted. "But she left me several daughters to love in her place, and of course, now I have her granddaughters to enjoy. I started with one, and I believe I have something in the region of thirty or so cats now."

"Thirty?" Alistair looked stunned. "How do you manage them all?"

She laughed at his consternation. "How do you manage all your hounds?" she countered. "Cats are far more independent than dogs, Alistair. They catch their own meals, and keep their own hours. All they really need me for is love, and I have a lot to give them."

He still looked slightly bemused. "Can you tell them all apart?"

"Most of the time," she assured him. "Though only a very few of them spend much time with me. The rest have become palace cats in their way - they refuse to be collared."

"I see," he said, rather weakly. "Are you really that averse to dogs, then?"

She smiled gently back at him. "I have not had much occasion to become friendly with dogs," she pointed out. "Your mabari are amazing creatures, and the puppies are very sweet. I think, with time, I could become as fond of them as I am of cats."

"I hope so," was Alistair's reply, his smile offering what she hoped was a reason to be glad as the music came to an end.

He bowed low over her hand as she curtsied, his breath tickling her knuckles for a long moment before they rose. To her surprise, he then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow to escort her back to Anora, with whom she had been passing the time when he had asked her to dance in the first place. He hadn't exactly singled her out in asking her - as the king, he'd had to dance with all his prospective brides, including Maria before she'd grown weary and needed to go to bed. Indeed, he still had Ciara to go, who was clearly his objective as he bowed once again, turning to cross the hall as the musicians played the call for the next dance.

Anora smiled at Felicita as the princess sat down beside her, finally able to relax a little. The young man on the ternya's other side leaped up and scurried away to the banqueting table, returning with a fresh goblet of wine for the princess, which he offered to her with a nervous bow.

"Thank you, my lord." Felicita inclined her head to the young man as she took the cup from his hand, her lips twitching in amusement as he sank a little shakily back to his seat beside Anora.

"Have you met Alron, your highness?" Anora asked, not giving him a chance to recover from his brush with royalty with a hint of rather impish amusement of her own.

"I have not," Felicita told her, twisting to take a closer look at the young nobleman. "You are Bann Ceorlic's grandson, are you not?"

"I am, your highness," Alron confirmed, glancing uncertainly at Anora as though expecting her to give permission for him to speak to another woman. "The younger, I am afraid. I have no expectations on my grandfather's position."

"And no temperament for the Church?" the princess asked, her political intuition growing the longer she spent in Anora's company.

The young man managed a faint laugh. "I am more of poet than a priest, your highness," he admitted ruefully. "My grandfather had arranged a marriage for me, but I understand it has been postponed indefinitely."

Ah. So this is the one Alistair prevented from being married to Ciara. Felicita managed a warm smile, though her eyes turned toward the main floor, where Alistair was dancing with his only Fereldan lady. There was a lot of laughter there, she noted - smiles that were warm and comfortable, and made her heart ache.

"They look very well together, don't they?" Anora murmured to her, those insightful blue eyes seeing perhaps a little too much in the princess' carefully composed expression.

"They do," Felicita agreed quietly. "And why should they not? She is the flower of Ferelden nobility, and he, the king."

"I think they match a little too much," Anora commented. "The queen should compliment the king, not slavishly resemble him. They are a beautiful set to look at, certainly, but she has no confidence to express herself with. Of course, there are certain lords who would delight in having an easily intimidated queen to use for their own gains."

"And the Landsmeet has a great deal of influence over this particular decision."

Felicita sipped her wine thoughtfully. Now she was seated and still, she could feel the gnawing twist of aching in her lower back and abdomen, quietly wishing for some elfroot to dull the bleeding pains she endured every month. Now was not a good time for them to make themselves known.

"With respect, your highness, the Landsmeet may only express their opinion to the king," Alron offered, glancing between the two women. "The decision is entirely his own, as are all his decisions. He may take advice, but he does not have to adhere to it."

"That is very true," Anora agreed with him. "And if they are made aware of a few of the more unsavory aspects of some of the candidates that have withdrawn, they may yet change their more vocal opinions. An opinion bought is never secure."

"Some men, once bought, will remain true to their benefactor," Felicita pointed out, though she was more interested in the adoring gaze Alron was aiming at Anora whenever the blonde lady looked away from him. I do not think Ciara need worry about that young man pressing his suit. A sharp, roiling twinge in her belly made her stiffen, attempting not to show her discomfort. She had only to endure a few hours of dancing and socializing, but her cramps seemed determined to make those hours remaining interminable.

"You are correct, of course," Anora conceded with a smile. Her smile faded as she looked at the princess. "Are you quite well, Felicita? You seem a little wan."

Called out, Felicita scrabbled through her mind for an acceptable answer to give where a man was listening.

"A faint nausea, Anora," she said with a slightly pained smile. "An old friend, you might say."

Understanding gleamed in Anora's eyes. The teryna reached across to squeeze her hand gently, her young male companion apparently completely unaware of the moment of feminine bonding that was passing him by. Anora leaned a little closer and lowered her voice.

"You have gone rather gray around the gills," she told the princess gently. "No one will hold it against you if you excuse yourself on grounds of discomfort. Indeed, your absence will encourage the less palatable members of the courting ladies to expose themselves before the court."

Felicita snorted with laughter, but she did find herself considering this course of action. Not so much to show up a certain pair of ladies, but to dose herself with elfroot potion and lie down. She had spent all day ignoring the waves of pain that came and went, through the joust and melee, the meal, and now the dance. Perhaps it was a good time to bow out for the evening, though she had no wish to disappoint the king.

"Of course, one of the ladies has already managed to turn several minds against herself with her little performance over dinner," Anora went on, her tone resuming its gentle volume once more. "She didn't really believe that none of the rest of you thought to give the king birthday gifts, did she?"

"No, I am quite certain she knew we intended to have our own gifts delivered to him in private," Felicita assured her friend thoughtfully, glad of the distraction from the twisting ache in her belly for now. "She is not so subtly skilled a politician as she believes herself to be."

Anora's snort of derision was hastily turned into a polite cough. "Not skilled at all in feminine politics," she corrected. "Honestly, what possessed her to give him a gift with the clear expectation that he will have to give it back to her in ten days' time?"

Amandine's gift-giving had caused quite a stir, that was for sure. She had waited until the king had received his gifts from his court before offering her own - a luckenbooth brooch of shining silver. It was traditionally a wedding gift in Tantervale, two hearts entwined beneath a crown, and had clearly been given in the unsubtle hope that he might give it back to her by announcing that she was his choice. The self-serving gift - and its very public giving - had created many mutters around the feasting hall, and many of them were not complimentary.

"She is, perhaps, a little desperate," Felicita suggested, hiding the movement of her lips behind her cup. "With Leona's gentle announcement that she is bowing out of the race to the crown over breakfast this morning, Amandine must realize that her mistakes at the beginning have left her at a severe disadvantage."

"Starkhaven has bowed out?" Anora asked, eyes bright with interest. She scanned the room, finding the lady in question seated demurely beside Bann Teagan, deep in conversation with his wife. "How very interesting. Then the king's list to choose from is down from ten to a mere five."

"Four, in actual fact," Felicita murmured, careful to keep her voice so low only Anora could possibly hear her. "Callista is not so interested as she first appears. She is, however, enjoying pulling Delphine's nose at every opportunity."

Anora laughed aloud at this, glancing across the room to where Delphine was definitely in something of a temper. And, of course, now Felicita had pointed it out, the presence of Callista at the Orlesian girl's side, dominating the conversation in that small circle, was very likely the cause of that poisonous look on the pretty face.

"I am very glad to hear that," the blonde teryna admitted quietly, scratching her nose to disguise the words from any erstwhile lip-readers in the room. "An Orlesian queen would not help matters. Alistair is a popular king, but his popularity would plummet with Delphine on the throne beside him."

"With any foreign queen, I imagine," Felicita answered, her eyes following Alistair as Ciara swept under his arm in a fit of giggles.

She was very fond of Ciara, but she could not now deny the jealousy that rose whenever she saw her young friend and the king interacting together. They were so comfortable together; they suited one another. And Ciara was Fereldan - the people would be so happy to have a Fereldan queen.

Anora's gaze was kind as the princess glanced at her. "You should have a little more faith in the populace," she suggested gently. "Above all, they want their king to be happy. They know his history well enough. They want a good wife for him, not just a good queen for themselves."

"Everyone seems so intent upon encouraging me these days," Felicita drawled, disguising her discomfort in amusement for the moment. But that gnawing, twisting ache was refusing to let up. "I am sorry, Anora ... I think I will have to excuse myself. I am very uncomfortable."

"Of course, your highness." Anora rose with her to curtsy as Felicita took her leave, gesturing for the king's valet to come to her side. "I will make your excuses to the king."

"Thank you, ladyship."

With a grateful smile, Felicita took her leave, gracefully avoiding any further conversation with hopeful nobles to slip out of the hall. She pressed one hand over her womb as she walked away from the noise and the music, mounting the stairs to the guest quarters. Hoping some of that warmth would alleviate the pain for now,  she planned to call for Andra and ask for a warmed wheat-bag to be sent to her room. She felt pale; she could well imagine that she looked it, too, given Anora's description of her being gray around the gills. Thank Andraste that this will be over in just a day or two, she thought to herself. Her menses never lasted more than four days, though the irritability beforehand and the pains during made it seem far longer every month.

She heard the music and voice below grow louder for a moment, footsteps hurrying over the rush-covered flagstones.

"Fabs?"

At the top of the stairs, she halted in surprise, turning to find Alistair climbing them in her wake, his handsome face creased in concern for her. He paused with his foot on the top step where she stood, frowning with worry.

"Are you ill?" he asked urgently. "Anora said you weren't feeling well. Shall I call a physician for you?"

Felicita smiled wearily, shaking her head. "I am quite well, Alistair," she assured him. "And I will be myself again in a day or two. It is ... awkward ... to explain. But I can promise you that I will be perfectly well again in time for the trip beyond the city."

"How can you be so sure?" he pressed her, clearly too worried to use a little logic in the face of her confidence. "I really must insist on calling a physician. Even a mage healer. I don't like the idea of you suffering with something."

"Alistair ..." She reached out to lay her hand over his on the stone balustrade. "I am sure because this is something I contend with every month. Every woman knows this part of herself." Her smile gentled as comprehension began to dawn on his face, along with a nervous blush. "I do not need a physician. I need elfroot, a warm something to hold to my stomach, and a quiet place to rest. That is all."

"It hurts every month?" he asked, apparently horrified by this news.

"Not for every woman," Felicita assured him, amused and touched by his concern. "I am one of the unfortunate ones, I am afraid. You should return to your guests. I am quite well."

"What do you need again?" Alistair asked, turning his hand beneath her to gather her fingers into his palm and stroke his thumb over her knuckles. "Elfroot, something warm, and quiet?"

She nodded, biting her lip as something inside seemed to tremble at the gentle passage of his touch over her fingers. "I am capable of finding them for myself," she began, but he shook his head.

"I will make sure Andra brings you what you need," he said, smiling a little at her clear surprise that he knew which of the maids had been assigned to her. "Go and get as comfortable as you can. And please look after yourself, Fabs. I know a little about living with pain; I would not wish it on anyone."

Felicita's expression grew troubled as he spoke, her other hand reaching to envelop his palm between both her own. "You live with pain?"

Alistair's smile was resigned. "I live with the Blight, Fabs," he reminded her. "It is not a fate I would wish on anyone."

"Does it pain you so very much?" she asked, stepping down one stair to be a little closer, unable to hide her own concern for him. She had never even considered that to be a Grey Warden was to endure pain for a lifetime.

With sad eyes, he raised her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles gently. "Only when I am alone," he promised her. "I have lived with it so long that any distraction is enough to set it aside."

If she had been just a little more secure in her place, in his affections, she would have offered a kiss to his cheek, moved by the quiet strength she had never before realized was such a core part of him. She could only hope that the wife he chose would be good enough to know such things and act upon them, to look after him as he needed to be looked after in private moments. Alistair's smile returned as she looked up at him, his hand squeezing hers.

"Go and rest, Fabs," he told her gently. "I'll send Andra to you."

"And you should enjoy the rest of your birthday," she countered, glad to see him laugh in answer to that.

"If I do, will you promise to look after yourself this evening?" he bargained in amusement.

"I promise," she assured him, her own smile rising in answer as he kissed her knuckles again. "Good night, Alistair. And happy birthday."

"Good night, Fabs."

With a last smile, he released her hand and turned back down the stairs, calling to the nearest servant with instructions to find Andra and tell her what her Antivan mistress needed. Felicita watched him for a moment, her smile fading as the cramps in her belly intensified in the wake of his leaving. One hand pressed to her midriff, she hurried out of sight, eager to lie down and will the pain away. Only another day or so, she reminded herself. She would be herself again soon enough. But knowing that he cared enough to abandon his guests just to make sure she was well was warming to her heart. No matter how hard she tried, she could not help caring for Alistair Theirin. Perhaps there was still hope that politics would not rule the day when it came for his decision to be made.

Perhaps.