Dragon Age: Origins/Awakening, Part 5: Permanently Frozen
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Her father’s captain stood between them and the exit, demanding that the Wardens surrender. Anora waited with white knuckles, willing the tiny dark elven woman not to say anything stupid.
“Never again shall we submit,” the Warden gritted, fitting an arrow to her bowstring and drawing with one fluid motion.
Cauthrien’s archers lifted their bows; Erlina screamed. Anora gave her a shove toward the door. “Go! Go, go!” The Wardens had come to rescue her, after all. The least she could do was try to avoid getting captured again.
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“You ran away!” Mahariel poked the queen’s breastbone in accusation; Anora, looking positively affronted, stepped back. “We risked our lives on your behalf, and you ran away!”
“Warden,” the queen said, patience mostly masking irritation, “what good would it have done you if I had gotten myself killed in the fight? I thought you and your companions would be better off if you were not trying to protect myself and Erlina as well as...” She paused, stepping over an uncomfortable word. “As well as stop Cauthrien.”
Mahariel stepped forward again, scowling. “We could have used the help.” She lifted her finger for another poke, but Anora unexpectedly caught her wrist.
The Dalish elf was stronger than the larger human woman, and could have easily torn her hand away, had she not been so surprised. Anora’s wide blue eyes were hot with anger and authority. “Stop that.”
Mahariel took another step forward; Anora stubbornly refused to yield, so they were practically chest-to-chest. Mahariel met the challenge in those eyes with a smile. “And if I say I will not?”
A heartbeat of silence, then Anora loosed her hold on the elf’s wrist. “Do not be childish, Warden,” she said, shaking her head so that they were no longer staring at each other. “We have important matters to discuss.”
She, too, wears the horns of Ghilan’nain. She had practice in sensing it, that tiny spark that heralded when another woman burned for her. But a... a shemlen?
Her blood rose to the idea of a challenge, that was all.
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It was quiet at Eamon’s estate. The Landsmeet gone poorly for everyone. The Wardens discovered, too late, that they had lost Anora’s support when they insisted her father had to die. Eamon discovered that the Warden would not put his pawn on the throne. And Anora discovered that, even with all her influence and power, there were some things she could not cause to happen. Or unhappen.
A small dark shadow appeared in the doorway to her room. “Traitor.”
“I might say the same of you.”
The Warden strode in, pointing with that poking finger. “I gave you your throne. I never pretended I would do other than I did.”
Anora turned away, looked down at the papers on her desk. “You won. Now go away, please.”
A small, rough hand on her shoulder turned her back around. Anora inhaled sharply, astonished at being handled so. The Warden scowled up at her. “You lied to me.”
“And you,” Anora said in a voice of deadly quiet, “killed my father. Shall we say it’s even?”
Poke. “Apologize.”
Anora crossed her arms. “No.”
They glared at each other in the lamp-lit darkness for a long moment. Then the Warden moved, too fast for Anora to react. A hand clamped on the back of her neck, and she drew a breath to scream for help.
But she was not thrown to the ground, or into a wall, but rather pulled forward into a hard, bruising kiss. The scream came out as more of a startled squawk, and the sound of it was swallowed by the Warden’s hot, open mouth. Off-balance, physically and otherwise, Anora offered no resistance as a probing tongue plundered her mouth in a way Cailan, always so careful with her, never had.
One of them shoved the other; perhaps they both did. Mahariel stared at her before twisting her head sharply away and retreating down the hall.
What... what just happened?
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Tomorrow, she would die.
Mithal, mother-of-all, must have guided her feet, putting her on that path. In the face of death, one thing in particular was the defiant cry of life. The royal guards did not move to stop her as she silently made her way to the queen’s tent.
One of the Circle’s glow-stones provided the light by which Anora pored over some bit of paper - the notes she took when the scouts reported back, probably. She reached for a small blade when Mahariel pushed open the tent flap, then relaxed when she identified the intruder. “I thought even the Dalish had the courtesy to announce themselves,” she sniffed.
She ignored the barb, intent upon her quarry. She got quite close before Anora put up an arm as a bar. “Warden. Why are you here? Are there new reports?”
She shook her head. “Lay with me.”
”What?” The queen was scandalized, affronted, and probably about to shout. Mahariel put a finger to Anora’s lips, almost tenderly. To her surprise, it worked.
“Tomorrow,” she ground out, “I go to fight and to die for my people but also for yours. I want...” She huffed, exasperated with words. A connection to something besides the Archdemon. To be remembered. To forget. To feel. “...you. As you want me.”
Anora raised a fine eyebrow. “Warden, you do presume -”
This time, she silenced the woman with another kiss, hot and deep as that first accidental, impulsive one. She poured herself into it, her hope and fear and bittersweet life, and after a moment, she felt the queen respond. Hesitantly, delicately, but it was there.
Then she pulled back, perhaps having startled herself. “Warden, I must insist -”
She held up a hand to interrupt. “If you tell me go to, I will.” It wasn’t a reassurance - it was a challenge. Do not test me, play no games. Be honest, if but for one night.
Uncertainty sat strangely on the queen’s face. One hand clasped her other elbow and she looked at the small desk, the ground, anywhere but at her visitor. “I... I’m not sure what to think, or to say...”
The elf pulled her close again, tilting her head up to say quietly in her ear, “My name is Mahariel, not ‘Warden.’ You could say that.”
“I... well, certainly, but I meant rather about the matter -”
She silenced her with another kiss, and Anora did not tell her to go.
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“Look, the Grey Wardens... you are the closest thing I’ve had to a real family. You’ve been a better sister than my actual sister. It’s meant more to me than I can say.” Alistair glanced sidelong at the struggling mound of flesh that was the wounded Archdemon. “Even if I... didn’t always think brotherly thoughts.”
Mahariel half-grinned. She felt oddly light, as if she were half into the Beyond already. “All is forgiven, lethallin, blood-brother. Tend my grave well.”
“Right. About that.” The blow from his shield sent her flying back; she hit the ground, rolled, and came up on her feet. She dashed after him - she had lighter armor, ran faster, might still get there first...
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And Mahariel whipped around, tears in her eyes. “Say nothing! You did not know him.” Her face turned ugly with grief and anger. “What was he to you? A would-be usurper, who called for your father’s death. Are you not pleased with this?”
“It gives me no joy,” Anora said coldly.
“Nor sorrow either,” the elf spat, shoving the queen aside and storming out of the Chantry.
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Mahariel looked down at the map, up at Anora. “Is this a bad joke?”
“I cannot carve up the bannorn, Warden.” Anora tapped the area just north of Ostagar. “The Hinterlands were never well-populated to begin with; after the Blight, they are all but abandoned.”
“The land is tainted. Poison. A poor gift.”
“Land can recover from the taint.” Anora gestured to a pile of several books beside her. “I’ve read historical accounts from other times, places... it’s true that there are places that never recover, where things were particularly bad. But this is the briefest Blight that ever was. The corruption had no chance to root deeply in our land. The recovery will take work, hard work, but I do not think the Dalish are averse to that.”
Mahariel grunted, still eyeing the map. “And are we to swear our allegiance to your crown, then?”
Anora was far too well-mannered to roll her eyes. “Isn’t it true that the Dalish wander precisely because they will not accept a human ruler? No, the lands, and Ostagar, will be your own. Govern them as you will.”
“I did not think you would do this,” the Dalish admitted.
Anora permitted herself a small chuckle. “I am not ungrateful. And although I am frequently careful with my word, I do not like to break it. Not for anything less than those things I hold dearer than honor.”
“Then... the People thank you.” Mahariel finally lifted her eyes from the map, and the intensity in them stole away Anora’s breath. “I thank you. None can know the future, but at least for this little while - we will have a home. Ma serranas.”
She must be pink to the ears and her chest was oddly tight. Rolling up the map was a weclome distraction. “You are most welcome,” she said, as levelly as she could.
A weathered hand suddenly appeared, palm-down, in the center of the map. Anora looked up, a trifle indignant - who just grabs at the task the queen is doing? - to find Mahariel’s large, dark eyes inches from her own, bright with unspoken words.
There had been days, since the Archdemon’s death, when she had wondered if it had been some strange dream. It seemed impossible that she had fallen into bed with an elf, a woman, and that it had felt better and more right than any of her dutiful nights with her husband. The Warden was a fire who, burning, gave heat and light but also threatened to consume.
So Anora tried to ignore the growing warmth in her belly and how it might illuminate her own desires, her own nature. She made herself say it: “You should go.”
The Warden’s eyes hardened, searched her face. “You are afraid. Of what?”
Tears sprang into her eyes. Tears? “That I will forget,” she said, then took a breath to steady herself, “who killed my father.”
Mahariel snapped straight and turned abruptly for the door. “As you will.” But she paused under the arch of the frame. “It was not for Ostagar. It was not for Eamon. Nor did I care that he set your lords against each other. He - not his creature Howe, it was his mark on the paper - he permitted people to be sold to Tevinter, into bondage and death. How do your laws say he should answer for such a crime?”
The room was quiet save for the scratchy sound of parchment rolling. “It is a capital crime,” Anora finally admitted quietly. “Execution is the penalty.”
Mahariel grunted and stepped into the hall.
“He was my father!” Anora cried out after her.
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Her mistake.
She shrugged and shook her head. “No. Won’t do it.”
The courtiers all murmured in surprise; Anora didn’t seem to have anticipated that, either. “Warden... that is, Warden-Commander, it is my intention to give Amaranthine to your Order. Someone must administer it. As the ranking officer...”
“We can bring in someone from Orlais,” she said.
Another murmur, a little darker. “May I ask why you refuse the position? Is it... something cultural? Perhaps we can arrange for adequate accommodations.”
“It would put me under your authority. You blame me for Loghain’s death.” Mahariel shrugged again. “Seems like that would be really stupid.
No murmur. You could have heard a pin drop.
“I see. Seneschal, please clear the hall so I may converse with the Warden-Commander.” Nobles and guards began to file out around her; she kept her eyes on the throne. Anora held her gaze, more bravely than in the past. When the crowd had gone, she dismissed the seneschal himself with a glance and a nod. “Warden-Commander...”
Mahariel crossed her arms over her chest. “You think you can remain fair and unbiased and so on and so forth, I am sure. Forgive me for being slow to test it.”
Anora stared at her, mouth pursed. “You are really very rude,” she said severely. “You interrupt constantly.” The queen rose from her throne and stepped down to the floor of the hall. “You... you did me a kindness.”
“What?”
Anora turned to look out the high windows of the hall. “You were correct. He was guilty of selling citizens of Denerim to the Tevinter Imperium. Even if he thought he was somehow sending them to a better place than the Alienage... what he thought does not matter. He accepted coin for their bodies and their lives, and that is not something we countenance in Ferelden.” She set her shoulders back. “It would have fallen on me to preside over his trial at the Landsmeet. And to pronounce his punishment. Either spare him and flaunt the laws of my own kingdom, or adhere to the law and destroy him.”
Mahariel shook her head. “He destroyed himself.”
“A small comfort. At any rate, your... hasty action at the Landsmeet spared me from that decision. I loved my father, Warden, and his loss is painful to me. But I see that it could have been a greater wound.” She turned back, away from the window. “I hold no grudge.”
Mahariel studied her fair face for a moment. The queen was a skilled liar, which the shemlen called ‘politician,’ and Mahariel might not know if this was just a ploy to get her to take responsibility for Amaranthine. She wished to believe it, which was dangerous...
But what was the risk, truly? If the situation in Amaranthine grew unbearable, she would leave for the Hinterlands. Very easy solution. “Then,” she nodded, “I will hold your land for you.”
Anora looked relieved. “Thank you.”
They each waited for the other to say something more, until the seneschal knocked on the door to inquire if he should send the courtiers home for the day.
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“I am Dalish,” the Warden-Commander glowered. “I will not forego the rites of my people.”
“And I could accept that,” Anora nodded. “I might prefer if you could have them privately but you are the arl. Why did you drag the Vigil’s elven staff into it?”
“They should know something of their heritage.” She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Then teach a class! You cannot order god-fearing Chantry folk to participate in your...” Anora hastily edited out whatever adjectives might fit there. “In your rituals.”
Mahariel shook her head. “I didn’t order, I invited them.”
“You’re their arl! Do you really think they will tell you no?” The elf’s astonished face told her the answer. Anora rubbed her forehead. “Maker’s breath. You did.”
Astonishment faded into a scowl. “And how should I know your customs? I remind you again that I did not ask for this task. If you find me unsuitable -”
“You needn’t be so defensive. If your intentions were honorable, then in the future simply -”
“Then in the future, it will be some thing!” Mahariel waved her hands angrily. “I will do nothing but fail here. And you set me to the task!”
“And I ask again, are you insane?” Anora threw her arms wide to gesture around the Vigil. “All saved from an unprecedented darkspawn attack, the basements secured, the walls reinforced, its soldiers in new plate... You call this a failure?”
“You are here, so I know I have caused some trouble.”
Anora paused. “Perhaps a fair assessment,” she admitted. “I have much to do, rebuilding Ferelden, and often it is only the problems which gain my attention.” She smiled warmly. “You are a strong presence in the north. Amaranthine has many troubles, but it is hardly your fault that the darkspawn are slow to leave this area. And you make inroads against them daily.” She reached out to grip the other woman’s upper arm. “You are doing very well.”
Mahariel looked at her arm, eyes following it up until they met Anora’s. “In truth?”
“In truth... I came frustrated, perhaps even angry. But never disappointed.”
She was not as surprised this time, when the Warden-Commander bore her backwards, up against a wall, lips hungry on her own. And she was less surprised at her own response, less afraid of it. She sank her long fingers into the elf’s military braids and urged her down, down to the floor with her, because standing seemed like too much trouble with all they had to do.
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*catches breath*
Oh my....
Non-OP loves this!
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