Royal bedchamber inside the palace in Denerim, capital of the Kingdom of Ferelden, 9:31 Dragon
- I can't believe it, Alistair! - Queen Anora exclaimed.
Dressed in a delicate silk nightgown, she stood in the royal bedchamber while King Alistair Theirin held her carefully by the wrists, trying to calm her after the outburst. He, for his part, wore little more than silk trousers; he had been about to go to bed when it happened, and now he stood there, torn between soothing his wife and containing the chaos strewn across the floor of the room.
He glanced sideways at the shards of crystal scattered beside him. The remains of an ancient vase lay smashed to pieces after falling during the tirade. It was a true loss, he thought. That vase had belonged to Antivan royalty centuries ago and, as he believed, had been a gift to his father along with the mahogany vanity that still dominated one of the walls of the royal chambers, where it had rested as mere decoration for generations.
Yes, perhaps Alistair was nothing more than a nostalgic man… but he had a tendency to keep the few memories he still had of his father and of the people he had considered family… as well as those he had loved—and perhaps it was for that very reason that tonight he planned to leave the palace at dawn…
- Is it true that Redcliffe has been taken by Tevinter slavers?! - he heard the queen's trembling voice, heavy with bitterness and despair.
Alistair felt shaken by Anora's state… and also by the fact that he was about to leave her.
Perhaps because of that, in the privacy of his mind, he reviewed the reasons behind her frantic state… There were several.
The first was, as so often happened far too frequently, the past.
Anora was the daughter of the Hero of the River Dane… and of the traitor of King Cailan (and of Ferelden).
It was ironic how the same person, worn down by time, could become the corrupted reflection of their own essence.
Loghain Mac Tir had been his father's best friend and a crucial figure in reclaiming the throne of Ferelden, usurped years earlier by Meghren, a mad Orlesian who had invaded these lands. And perhaps it was precisely that extreme loyalty to Ferelden that, during the Fifth Blight, drove him to betray the son of his best friend and husband of his daughter, King Cailan Theirin. He abandoned him in the middle of the battle against the darkspawn at Ostagar, leaving him to die… convinced that in doing so he was protecting his homeland.
Remembering that infamy, Alistair unconsciously tightened his grip on his wife's wrists. For him, that betrayal had been far more personal than Loghain could have imagined: Duncan died there. And he never forgave it.
It no longer mattered. He had already taken his vengeance…
The second reason Anora was sobbing that night was… Tevinter slavery.
During the Fifth Blight, in a state of absolute paranoia, Loghain believed the best course was to expel the Grey Wardens, refuse Orlesian aid, and isolate the kingdom from the rest of the world. To finance the civil war he himself had provoked, he had not hesitated to trade the lives of the elves of Denerim's alienage to Tevinter slavers.
For Anora, slavery was the most bitter memory of her father's final acts.
And that brought him to the third reason…
Loghain's executioner had been him. And she had never truly forgiven him for it… Alistair knew that.
During the Landsmeet, in the heart of the Fifth Blight, it had been he who had severed Loghain's throat with his own sword for treason against the kingdom of Ferelden… or at least, that was what everyone present believed.
The truth was much simpler. He had done it for vengeance… for Duncan's death. Though only he and Praianna knew that secret.
- Anora, please… - Alistair gently pulled at her wrists and moved her away from the scattered shards. - Can we talk on the bed? We could cut ourselves…
The king had always known the relationship with the queen would be difficult, and he could not blame her. All the ingredients for disaster had simmered between them from the start. It was almost a miracle how well they had managed to govern the monarchy of Ferelden.
Because there was another reason (perhaps the most cutting one) that had made that marriage so arduous…
…Alistair had been in love with his fellow Warden, and had been her lover for nearly three years after being crowned King of Ferelden.
Anora had been humiliated by the bastard brother of her late husband… and not in just any way. She had been displaced by an elf, a mage, someone who embodied everything humans still regarded with mistrust. His love had been a political, social, and personal affront all at once.
The queen never forgave it. Not him, and not her. And she made sure Praianna paid a similar price: public humiliation. She let it be known that the king was a womanizer, that he had a weakness for elven women… and the damage spread quickly. What began as a whisper became an impossible scandal to contain, and the shards fell upon the Fereldan Warden-Commander, ridiculed before an entire kingdom.
Praianna ended up leaving these lands.
In the end, she had had some reason.
There were moments when Alistair believed that was precisely what he had finally become… a wandering man of brief affections, incapable of sustaining anything true… after the loss of the love of his life.
It was ironic, wasn't it?, how the same person, worn down by time, could become the corrupted reflection of their own essence…
The queen stared at the shards scattered across the floor in silence; she seemed not to have noticed the destruction. Alistair offered a faint smile, loosened the pressure on her wrists, and waited for her reaction. Anora did not resist. Then he drew her to him and pulled her tight against his body.
- Do you want to tell me why you're like this? - he asked softly. - Is it because of what Teagan told us?
The queen pressed her face to the king's chest and wrapped her arms around his waist as well.
- How is it possible Ferelden is sunk into such chaos, Alistair? - she sobbed, hiding against him.
Anora was a woman of stone; she hated showing vulnerability. And yet time, and the adversities they had faced together as monarchs, had forced her to learn something difficult… to lean on him when she could no longer hold herself up alone.
Because ruling was not easy. And it was even less easy to do it in the chaotic kingdom of Ferelden.
Alistair kissed his wife's blonde hair and began to rock her gently in his arms. - Let's go to bed, shall we? - he murmured.
He took her wrist carefully and pulled her down until she fell beside him on the marriage bed. Anora let out a smile, but it was forced. She was sad… more than she could admit to him. And even though she trusted him, he knew they could never truly love each other. Not with so much dark past between them.
- Let our servants clean up this mess tomorrow… - he joked as he settled beside her. - Now we're going to rest, all right?
Anora nodded. She slid to the side and snuffed her candle. Then she leaned over him to extinguish the one on the other side of the bed as well, and lay down beside him.
The bedchamber fell into silence.
Alistair closed his eyes, ready to pretend he was asleep… but he knew his wife too well. He knew she was still awake, her gaze lost on the ceiling.
He turned toward her and wrapped his arms around her. He felt Anora hold her breath as he drew so near. He opened his eyes and found hers… those blue eyes, so much like Loghain's…
And yet Anora had her own beauty. And while many of her mannerisms reminded him of that "hero traitor," there were others that were only hers. Like this… the way she looked at him with so much doubt each time he came close, as if they weren't married, as if she didn't have the right to ask him to love her. Sometimes Alistair wondered if he attracted her… or if his closeness was only another responsibility she had to carry to keep the throne beside him… the same thing she had done with his brother, hadn't she?
- Do you want to tell me something else? - he whispered, carefully smoothing a few blonde strands that had fallen messily against Anora's cheeks.
The queen looked at him expectantly. Sometimes Alistair had the sense she wanted to tell him many things… but in the end she never said anything. And he always ended up convinced it was only in his head.
This time he felt it again. And because he already knew how this story ended, Alistair merely kissed her forehead and wrapped his arms around her, trying to lull her to sleep. To his surprise, Anora shifted into him, curled against his chest, and hid her face in the hollow of his neck… and did not speak a single word.
Alistair held her tight against his bare skin and closed his eyes. She did not usually embrace him so often, much less seek refuge in his warmth.
A little later, the relaxed weight of Anora's body told him she had fallen asleep. He knew it would happen… after all, that potion he had let slip into her wine at dinner had been meant for precisely this purpose… to put her out like a log.
Alistair stayed awake a while longer, holding her and staring into the darkness of the ceiling while his mind returned to the note Teagan had handed him… to the words of Commander Clarel of the Wardens… and to everything it had stirred inside him.
Because yes, he was King of Ferelden… but he was also a Grey Warden. And like all those of the order, he had begun to hear the Calling.
It felt far too soon to leave this world, but there it was—that terrible and beautiful song at once, slipping into his silences, slowly driving him mad… dragging him into memories of happier times. Times beside the only woman who had ever made him feel alive, loved, complete.
Praianna.
He wanted to find her… but he also wanted to be a good king.
The dilemma tore him apart.
Alistair pressed his lips together, his gaze lost in the gloom.
It was time to act. Time to abandon the throne…
🌷
Notes:
Arl Teagan Guerrin:
I sought a chance to speak with you in person, my lord, in hopes of convincing you to allow us to send further aid to Ferelden, to give the Grey Wardens in your homeland a chance to rebuild. I hope this letter succeeds where my requests for a meeting have not.
I understand Fereldan feelings regarding Grey Wardens. Sophia Dryden's actions were reprehensible. Grey Wardens are forbidden from interfering in the affairs of nations, save when we must exert our authority to battle the Blight. Still, even you must acknowledge the vital necessity of my Order after the Blight nearly ravaged your homeland. Without the Grey Wardens, Ferelden would be a wasteland populated only by darkspawn.
I understand as well your concern that I am a mage living outside the confines of the Circle. I have been informed that you saw magic ill used by apostates at Redcliffe. You have my sympathy in this, but not my apology. The Maker saw fit to give me the gift of magic, along with a temperament better suited to battle than to quiet meditation. I left the Circle legally, and the Grey Wardens gave me a chance to use my abilities to defend our land. I am no apostate.
My first interest, Arl Teagan—indeed, my only interest—is to see this world protected from the Blight. I may be Warden-Commander of Orlais, but I am not Orlesian at heart. I am a Grey Warden and nothing more, and I will defend this land from horrors you cannot even imagine. My oath comes before political ambition, before concerns about the rights of mages. It will one day come before my own survival.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Yours,
Warden-Commander Clarel de Chanson