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This was nice. Peaceful, actually. The Antivan penchant for escaping the heat of their city by taking to the water was a custom it seemed he could absolutely endorse.
Of course, it would be nice if the boat were rather more private and he hadn’t had to sneak away from two princes, three crows and Eamon to achieve this moment of peace, but he’d take what he could get.
He’d learned to do that in the early years of his reign.
Take the moments where he could; find the enjoyment in his duty.
The water lapped quietly at the bow of the boat as it leisurely drifted through the water and he lost himself for a moment in the pattern of the waves.
So far, his first foray as king outside of Ferelden had been a roaring success. Some of that was due to Eamon’s management of the whole thing, of course, but he liked to think his ability to not entirely cock it up had also played a part.
They’d taken steps towards an alliance, made some deals, almost negotiated a fair price for the ships they needed, and soon it would be time to go home.
He just had to get through all the social engagements first.
That was what he should have been doing now. Socialising. But the foredeck had been too crowded, too loud, and after being stuck inside all day, he’d just wanted to feel the wind on his face and be alone with his thoughts for a moment.
Sadly, a moment was all he would get.
“Alistair!” Eamon hissed, dragging him away from the peaceful solitude. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Well, you’ve found me!” he said with false cheeriness, internally lamenting the loss of the peace. “What do you need?”
It was a sentence he uttered often. Everyone always wanted something when you were ostensibly in charge. He sometimes wondered if this was how Elissa had felt during the blight.
“I need you to apply a little of your charm on one of the merchant princes,” Eamon said without hesitation. “We may be able to-”
But he didn’t get the chance to find out what they would be able to do. He didn’t even get the chance to agree, because, at that moment, an indistinct shape hurtled past them from the deck above.
There was a splash.
Someone yelled, “The princess!”
He threw his gilded jacket at Eamon, conscious that Ren would have his hide for submerging the expensive fabric in water, and then, before he’d even had a conscious thought about it, he gripped the balustrade and flung himself over.
It was, he reflected as he hit the surprisingly warm water, a really bloody stupid thing to do.
Firstly, because the princess was Antivan. She could probably swim. She likely didn’t need or want his help.
That was probably why no one else had dived in.
Not even a guard, just to make sure.
Still, he’d done the deed now. He could either float back up to the surface and sheepishly climb back onto the boat, or he could do what his instincts had told him to do before he’d been able to apply conscious thought to the endeavour.
He dove deeper into the water, pulling himself in the direction of the splash. Turning his head every which way.
He almost missed her.
He’d expected to find her halfway towards the bank, saving herself easily and leaving him to stumble through some kind of bumbling excuse as to why he’d thrown himself in after her.
She was not.
Instead, she was sinking and sinking fast. The weight of her gown and jewels dragging her down as she tried to climb her way through the water. He dived towards her, witnessing the moment her lungs gave out and her mouth opened.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, hefting her against his chest pausing briefly to thank the Maker that she wasn’t panicked enough to twist and strike out at him as he did.
Then he struck out for the surface.
He felt the moment she passed out in his arms.
When his head broke through the water he could hear the commotion on the ship. People were yelling and fussing, but none of them were actually helping. He glanced towards the bank, working hard to keep them both afloat. It wouldn’t be a long swim but it would be difficult with the weight of the girl in his arms.
Thankfully, he saw Teagan fight his way to the front of the crowd, rope in hand.
A moment later, they were both hauling the girl onto the deck.
“Everyone, stand back!” he heard Eamon cry. “Give them some air.”
The air in his lungs was burning, both from the swim and from the effort of hauling the soaking wet girl, skirts and all, onto the deck.
She still wasn’t breathing.
Again, without too much conscious thought, he lunged for the dagger he knew Teagan kept in his boot, flipped it in his fingers and used it to slice the lacings of the girl’s gown. There was a tittering of gasps and murmurs from the crowd that he didn’t understand and didn’t care to because, thankfully, freed from her tight lacings, the girl gasped and then began coughing up water onto the deck.
“There you go,” he said absently patting her on the back. “Get it all out.”
When she finished convulsing, she turned back to him. The oddest expression on her face.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly when she didn’t seem inclined to say anything.
“I… yes. I’m fine,” she gasped breathlessly.
He studied her intently, gaze flicking between her eyes. She seemed a little dazed. Or confused, perhaps? She hadn’t been out of it for long, but water in the lungs could do funny things to the brain.
He should know, he’d seen enough people nearly drown in Lake Calenhad.
“We should get you to a healer,” he said. “Can you stand?”
She nodded, but he offered her a hand up anyway. Good thing too, because she had barely regained her feet before she all but collapsed into him. He caught her instinctively.
“Which way to the healer?” he asked of the crowd generally.
“This way,” Teagan said, cutting the beginning of a path through the crowd.
He hefted the girl in his arms and followed him. Thankfully, the somewhat stunned crowd parted in his wake.
It seemed that even aboard Antivan pleasure boats there was a small cabin set aside in the stern for a healer and healing supplies. Casting a glance over the various potions and poultices on the shelves, he noted that it was far more equipped for curing hangovers than a near-drowning, but still, it was better than nothing.
Besides, the woman who appeared from the back the moment they entered was of an age and projected that comforting mix of experience and command.
She reminded him fleetingly of Wynne.
“What happened?” she demanded as he hesitated in the doorway.
“She, uh, she went overboard,” he said, crossing to the examination table and laying the girl upon it. “Passed out for a moment, swallowed some water. I think she might be a little dazed.”
The woman turned to him, sweeping a searching gaze up and down his form. The kind of gaze that made you feel about six years old and had you hoping you’d be judged worthy.
“How long was she passed out?” the woman said, proving that he’d been judged worthy enough.
“A few minutes?” he hazarded. “Five at the most.”
The woman nodded and leaned over to peer at the girl, strong fingers prising her eyelids open.
“Hmmm,” she muttered. “Follow my finger?”
She drew her finger from left to right and back again. The girl obediently moved her gaze to follow.
The healer took her pulse and listened to her chest before removing herself to the workbench to prepare what looked like some kind of tonic. He watched her work, increasingly aware that he was dripping all over her floor, and just how cold it was when one was wearing wet clothes.
He glanced back at the girl. Surely she was feeling the same?
She’d pulled herself into a sitting position on the examination table, gazing at him from under lowered lashes, her hands clasped in her lap, shoulders shaking. He glanced around, twisting to take in every nook and cranny.
“Here,” he said, spotting a fur blanket in the corner of the room and draping it around her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, clutching the corners of the blanket around her.
He offered her what he hoped was a soothing smile.
“You should get out of those wet things,” the healer said, turning from her workbench, two glass flasks in her hand. “There are linens in the back.”
“Thanks,” he said, taking the opportunity to wrench off his wet shirt as he made his way towards the back of the room.
When he returned, scrubbing a scrap of linen over his wet hair, having hastily patted down his damp skin, it was to find a man he didn’t know hovering near the girl.
“Prince Leoncio,” the man said, crossing the room and offering his hand. “I believe I have you to thank for rescuing my daughter.”
“Ah,” he said, casually flipping the linen over his shoulder so he could take the offered hand. “Don’t mention it, really.”
The prince didn’t say anything in reply, at least not immediately. Instead, his eyes dipped, taking in his form. For some odd reason, it left him feeling rather… exposed, and very conscious of the fact that he was half-dressed.
“You know,” the prince said, releasing his hand. “They said you were strong as well as handsome. I just didn’t realise how strong.”
Behind him, the girl groaned, pink colouring her cheeks.
“Father!” she cried, scandalised.
He was grateful to her. Her outburst had saved him from having to respond to whatever that was.
“Well,” he said, smiling at the girl in gratitude. “I should leave you to it now that you’re in safe hands.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought both of them might have protested at that statement. Thankfully, he was already out the door before they could say anything.
“I thought you might appreciate a dry shirt,” Teagan said, leaning casually beside the door, a shirt dangling from his fingers.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly, virtually snatching it and pulling it over his head as quickly as possible.
“Come on,” Teagan said, pushing himself off the wall. “Eamon’s in the bow. He wants to speak.”
Just barely, Alistair resisted throwing his head back and groaning.
“Of course he does,” he muttered. In retrospect, he should have suspected it. Eamon had spent weeks impressing upon him the idea that his every action, every word, now represented all of Ferelden.
He had no idea how saving a princess would affect his country’s reputation, but he was almost certain that it would, and probably adversely. Somehow.
When he arrived at the little seated area towards the bow, it was to find Eamon surrounded by a gaggle of women, as well as a few men. As he approached, Eamon dismissed them and he tried not to notice how many of them shot him oddly appreciative glances as they passed.
Bracing himself for the inevitable storm, he perched on a nearby table and set to doing what he could to salvage the wreckage that was his hair.
“Well done, Alistair,” Eamon said, as soon as the last of the Antivans were out of earshot.
He sounded, of all things, genuinely delighted. But that couldn’t possibly be true, could it? He glanced up at the old man, under the guise of scrubbing the linen over his soaked hair… again.
Nope. Despite all logic, the delight seemed genuine.
“I’ve had three wealthy families ask whether you’re married already.”
Eamon beamed, Alistair felt as if he’d swallowed a cube of ice.
He knew – he just knew – there’d be a downside to acting without thinking. He wasn’t sure of the connection between foolishly throwing himself into the water to save a drowning princess and the subject he dreaded above all others rearing its ugly head, but if he had known that that would be the result, he probably wouldn’t have bothered with the saving.
Or, void, maybe he would have anyway.
But at least he’d have been more prepared for the conversation that Eamon would now, no doubt, insist on having.
“Apparently, your heroism has all the ladies of Antiva in a swoon,” Eamon continued. “If we can discern the most suitable match, we may be able to buy our ships with nothing more than your hand.”
It was such a small thing to Eamon. That was what annoyed him. He knew now that he was no more than a means to an end as far as Eamon was concerned. Not a person in his own right. But coming from a man who had once defied his brother-in-law, friend and King to marry an Orlesian Lady, it seemed somewhat hypocritical for Eamon to presume he could arrange Alistair’s marriage out of nothing more than political need and expediency.
To say nothing of the real reason why Alistair would allow no such thing.
“No,” he said, which should be all he needed to say.
“Come now bo- Alistair, it’s the best way of-“
“I said no.” He levered himself off the table he’d been perched on, and drew himself to his full height. Eamon might never treat him as the King he now was, but he might – might – one day see him as a man, not a boy. “I will charm the Princes, I will find us the best price I can, but I will not sell myself for a handful of ships.”
“I think what Eamon is trying to say…” Teagan began, ever the peacemaker, but he wasn’t interested in hearing Teagan attempt to twist his brother’s proposal into something more palatable.
He was the King and though it seemed there was always more to learn about being one, one thing he had learned was the power in that position. And that sometimes that power had to be wielded as surely as he wielded his sword.
“I understand perfectly well what he is trying to say,” he said calmly. “Just as I understand the technical and political advantages in considering such a path. But I’m telling you – telling you both, as your king – that it is off the table.”
“Well then, why did you bother even saving the girl?” Eamon said, throwing his hands in the air. “If not to leverage political advantage?”
Alistair just stared at him. He’d once considered Eamon a good man. Perhaps he still did. But he was coming to realise that there was a difference between good and nice.
“Because she was in trouble,” he said simply, “and I could help.”
To his credit, Eamon seemed to deflate a little.
“Of course,” he said, patting his shoulder absently. “Of course, we should all be grateful that the princess is safe. You’re a good man, Alistair.”
Yes. He rather thought he was.
Perhaps even a better man than Eamon.
Now all he had to do was figure out how to extract himself from Antiva without a betrothal hanging around his neck.
Maker have mercy on his soul.