Chapter Text
Denerim was a flurry of activity, colorful banners hung and vendors out in full force. A year had passed since the Battle of Denerim, Ferelden had a new king, and the city was rejuvenated—not fully healed from the archdemon's onslaught, but getting there. Festivities had been in full swing since the morning as the citizens celebrated the joining of peoples to overcome evil.
In the Chantry's grand cathedral, most of the Landsmeet had gathered to celebrate another precious miracle. Standing atop the dais alongside Grand Cleric Elemena was the new king in all his regalia, and at his side a raven-haired woman holding a squirming baby—Alistair and Elona. She rocked him on her hip as the Grand Cleric gave a speech, but the king's attention remained intent on the two beside him, tuning out the old woman's droning.
Even from afar it was easy to see the baby's blonde curls, and though he was still small he kept his big eyes trained on his father, particularly the fur-lined cloak he wore. A few times he reached for the hem of it with pudgy fingers, and every time it darted just out of reach, both delighting and frustrating the infant. When he'd had enough and his face began to scrunch with the threat of a whine, Alistair offered him a hand instead, and the child was all too happy to have fingers to clamp down on.
Elona tried to remain passive and serious during such an important ceremony, but the sight of Alistair eagerly letting their son slobber on his dress gloves made her smile. Eamon was likely beside himself at the lack of decorum, but when she peeked into the crowd they seemed as smitten with the new king as she was. He was unlike any king they'd had before, raised far from court and its machinations, but when Ferelden had needed him, he had stepped up.
"Your Majesty," the Grand Cleric prompted and Alistair offered Elona a little smile before he ushered her forward with a hand against the small of her back.
Together they held their child as ash was dabbed onto his forehead, a facsimile of the sacred ashes so recently recovered.
"In the name of the Maker and holy Andraste," Elemena said, "we dedicate this child, Prince Duncan Theirin, son of King Alistair Theirin, that he may serve Ferelden with their blessing."
After, Elona gave him a small nod and Alistair lifted his son into the air, presenting him to the nobles and other gathered onlookers. The cathedral was full to bursting, the doors thrown open with people gathered in the courtyard beyond. Applause filled the hall, echoing off the stone walls like thunder, and the bells tolled in celebration.
When the noise startled the baby and he began to fuss, Alistair cradled him against his chest and looked back at Elona, brows drawn in concern. She hurried to his side and motioned for him to turn away from the audience for a moment, and when he did she wove a silencing spell around him as she pressed her lips to his forehead.
"Me next," Alistair joked, swooping down to press his lips to hers before he turned back to those assembled.
Nobles lined up to greet the heir to the throne, and Elona moved out of the way. Without the noise to bother him, little Duncan played for a time with the clasps of Alistair's ceremonial armor before he dozed. Alistair held the babe with one arm while nobles clasped his wrist in congratulations, and Elona bit her lip and tried not to think of how many people were touching her son.
By midday the cathedral was emptied, the nobles moved to the palace for a formal lunch, and the king and his mistress moved to a carriage. Elona took their baby and did her best to wipe him down with her sleeve and a touch of magic, and then she held him up to the windows for the people clamoring at their coach to see. When they saw him they cheered and Alistair chuckled.
"Just a few months old and already so loved," he mused, his hand smoothing down the fine hair on Duncan's forehead that already refused to stay down.
"With an heir the people don't have to worry about another war for the crown," she said, echoing Eamon's words. "He embodies the hope that the next generation will live in a Ferelden that doesn't know strife."
"But first, he gets to be a child," Alistair insisted. "Scraped knees and stories of heroes, playing in the mud and going to bed with a full belly and the knowledge he's loved—that's all I want for him."
"Then that's what he'll get." She smiled and looked from Duncan to Alistair, and he lowered his head to rest against hers.
"When can we have another?" He teased, his voice dropping as he ran his nose along the edge of her ear.
She hummed in thought, laughter escaping her when his lips moved to her neck, just as Duncan began to fuss. "When he starts sleeping through the night."