Dragon Age: Origins/Awakening, Part 5: Permanently Frozen
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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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