No More Heroes, Chapter 13
Title: No More Heroes, Chapter 13
Characters: Anora, Justice/Loghain, Alistair, Wynne, Anders, Nathaniel, Cullen, Leliana, Zevran
Rating: T
Words: 1,800
Summary: Anora attempts to plan a war beside the spectre of her father. The reunited companions return to Denerim. Anders meets Cullen. Alistair meets Justice.
Previous Chapters
Anora wondered - not for the first time - how she had convinced him to stay. Not him, she reminded herself, it. The spirit's explanation had been a simple one: it retained the memories of its host, all that he had ever been. It knew her as he had in life, better than anyone in this world. For two nights she had slept on that, troubled and tossing, and for two nights he had arrived at dusk, watching her wordlessly through the farmhouse window. She knew then what she must do.
It would mean awkwardness and it would mean pain, but Ferelden had its general once more.
She watched him now as he leaned over the map table, watched the stone armies slide beneath the gnarled fingers of a master. His deep cowl hung low over his face.
"There is little enough light... spirit." Still she was unsure how to address him; the word always seemed to stick in her throat. "Why do you remain hooded?"
Justice raised his head, looking to where she sat with shadowed eyes. "For your benefit."
"Are all spirits such fools?"
He paused. After a long moment, his hands moved to the hood, letting it fall against his back. "This form causes you discomfort."
"And you think to protect me at the expense of your own. Sit."
"I do not require... comfort." But he sat.
They fell into silence again, studying the terrain between them from opposite ends of the table. Still he avoided her eyes, but Anora found her own straying inexorably upward, watching the familiar brow crease in troubled concentration. It was not often that she had seen uncertainty on her father's face. This was something new.
"We have been raiding on the north side." She slid a pair of white pebbles across the map. "Harrying the walls in small parties."
"A frontal assault would have more merit. We are not thieves."
Anora's eyes narrowed. The words had a familiar ring of steel-edged certainty. The Spirit spoke often of what was just, what was noble, seemingly driven to speak of it to the exclusion of all else. Some whispered that her father had been just as blinded by his cause. It was... unsettling to wonder where one ended and the other began. "We are also small in number."
He sat stiffly back in the chair, meeting her gaze at last. Anora could not help but filch, wondering again if he was no longer the man she had thought, no longer the man she needed. He wasn't, she reminded herself. Her father was dead.
"Surely you can see that."
He nodded. She tried not to notice the way the loose skin twitched round his chin. "But I find myself troubled." The tone left no doubt that this was a new sensation.
"About?"
"Are not the darkspawn fighting for survival, the same as you?"
Not "we," she noted. Anora scowled. "You cannot be serious."
"They are a cancer in the heart of this world, there is no doubt. But I... this body..."
She pinched shut her eyes. For a moment he was a tired old man, a stranger that she had glimpsed only once before. It had been frightening, seeing him sink to his knees before the Warden, defeated in single combat but a self-righteous girl. And yet she would have gone to him as she nearly had then, thrown her arms around him as she had not done in many years.
"The things that this body has done..."
So that was it. He did not doubt their cause. But this spirit, this untainted force of justice, found himself trapped with a past that he could not stomach. Anora felt a twisting in her gut. "…He did for the good of Ferelden."
"You defend him." The spirit did not look surprised, merely sad. "I... remember this. You did it once before."
"In the Landsmeet, yes."
The smile was small, a tautness tugging at those sallow cheeks. "So proud he was. He would have thanked you, if he could."
"And yet you wouldn't."
"No."
"Can you choose another... host?" "Body," she had nearly said, but the word died on her tongue. Again, she was thinking of the Warden. No doubt the spirit would have found the girl more suitable and them both the happier for it. Her father had earned his rest.
"You are angry."
She was on her feet, she realized, the weight of the spirit's gaze balling her fists at her sides. There was no emotion there, no judgment, merely a cold curiosity. "I-"
"My Queen!" The trapdoor above was thrown back. She could not put a name to the soldier, but there was no doubting his excitement. "Lord Howe has returned!"
Something inside her fluttered, but Anora chided herself as she turned on her heel and made for the stairs. Nathaniel had gone hunting a witch. Better that the scouts spy Bann Teagan, riding with a host of Orlesian Wardens at his back. She dimly wondered what Justice would think of that; certainly her father would have loathed the idea. But Wynne had sent the riders north long before Anora's arrival and there had been no word of them since.
Justice followed, pulling his hood up again as they crossed the fields, making for the copse of trees nearest the road. It was a large party, the soldier who had summoned them explained. It would not do to draw attention in the open.
They were already waiting when Anora arrived, Wynne and the scouts and the strangers. She would have to speak to the men about how they passed information - she was their Queen, after all - but the thought was a fleeting one. Nathaniel had returned with the elf and the dwarf and the golem still beside him, adding to their number a Qunari, a dog, a red-haired archer, a mage, a sneering wildling and a haggard beggar. It was to this last that Wynne moved, taking his chin forcibly in her hand as she brushed lank and filthy hair from his eyes.
"Ow."
Healing light bloomed from her fingertips, her free hand prodding his chest as she studied him. After a long moment, she pulled him into a fierce hug.
The elf chuckled. "No such greeting for me?"
They ignored him, the beggar's eyes falling closed as he sagged against the old woman. "The armor is... well, wow."
Wynne pulled back with a smirk. "Be careful where you put your eyes, young man."
Anora gaped. This stinking, filthy man looked as though he could barely lift a sword, and yet only months ago he had stood before the Landsmeet, as proud and resplendent as Cailan had ever been. How it had galled to see him in that armor, nearly as bitter as his brazen claim to her throne. He would not stand so proud without his Warden by his side, she had told herself, and it seemed she'd had the truth of it. The armor was gone, the Warden was gone… and with them most of the man.
But he was watching her now with narrowed eyes. Alistair the bastard, Alistair the last Grey Warden.
She barely noticed as Nathaniel moved to her side, inclining his head in an only mildly insolent nod. "Your Highness."
"So this is the Queen, is it?" The man who stepped forward was a mage by his robes, his smile near as mocking as Nathaniel's smirk. Light danced between his fingers as he bowed, offering up his palm to reveal the conjured likeness of a flaming rose.
Anora arched a brow.
"You're just as pretty as Nathaniel said. He went on and on..."
"I said no such thing."
"Ah, but you were thinking it. I can tell." He tapped the side of his head with his free hand. "Magic and all that."
Anora cast Nathaniel a dubious glance, but the mage cursed then, the light in his hand winking out. "Oh, sh-!" He sank to his knees, cradling the hand as though burned.
"Stop right there!" Swords were drawn behind them, armor clanking as Ser Cullen and his templars burst through the trees. At least he showed her some deference, his nod hasty as he sneered down at the mage. "This man is a dangerous apostate, Your Majesty."
"Oh, not this again."
Cullen glared. "Three good men were sent after you, mage. Three good men died."
Even from his knees, the man managed a shrug, but strangely it was to the red-haired woman that he looked. "I didn't do it."
"Then who did?"
"The darkspawn. I thought that would be obvious."
"Or simply convenient." Cullen strode forward, grabbing him roughly by the collar. Two of the other templars moved to either side, taking the man beneath the arms. "This mage has escaped seven times, Your Majesty. By your leave..."
The templars wanted mages, mages that she desperately needed. The man seemed harmless enough, but if this would appease them... Anora nodded. "Do with him what you will."
Fear entered the man's eyes at last, his legs dragging across the ground as he struggled against the templars. His gaze swung wild, passing over the red-haired woman's protests, to fix at last upon Alistair. "Warden!"
He blinked.
"Warden! Do that... thing. The..." He seemed to be searching for the words. "...The Right of Conscription! You can stop this."
But Alistair remained expressionless, almost uncomprehending, watching as the templars dragged the man away.
"What will they do with him?" The woman had taken half a step forward, as though she would give chase.
Beside her, Wynne folded her arms. "Return him to the Tower. They would not risk the Rite of Tranquility, not here." But there was doubt in her voice.
"It is... not right." The whisper sent a shiver up Anora's spine as it always did, but she was not the only one to start in surprise. The figure at her back turned his shadowed cowl to follow the mage's shouts down across the hills.
"Who is that?" Alistair's hands clenched at his sides, his eyes locking to the hooded spirit. Fear and exhaustion seemed to come over him in waves, his entire body trembling as he reached clumsily for his sword. His voice broke. "Who is that? Show yourself!"
"Alistair..." The word was a warning, Wynne stepping in front of him, but he pushed past her.
"No... no..." The blade shook before him. He seemed to notice Anora then, sneering as she put herself between them. "No, you don't get to... Not him."
She felt movement at her back, saw Alistair stagger as Justice lowered his hood. "Hello, Alistair."
With a final strangled cry, the hope of Ferelden swooned and collapsed into a crumpled heap at Anora's feet.
Characters: Anora, Justice/Loghain, Alistair, Wynne, Anders, Nathaniel, Cullen, Leliana, Zevran
Rating: T
Words: 1,800
Summary: Anora attempts to plan a war beside the spectre of her father. The reunited companions return to Denerim. Anders meets Cullen. Alistair meets Justice.
Previous Chapters
Anora wondered - not for the first time - how she had convinced him to stay. Not him, she reminded herself, it. The spirit's explanation had been a simple one: it retained the memories of its host, all that he had ever been. It knew her as he had in life, better than anyone in this world. For two nights she had slept on that, troubled and tossing, and for two nights he had arrived at dusk, watching her wordlessly through the farmhouse window. She knew then what she must do.
It would mean awkwardness and it would mean pain, but Ferelden had its general once more.
She watched him now as he leaned over the map table, watched the stone armies slide beneath the gnarled fingers of a master. His deep cowl hung low over his face.
"There is little enough light... spirit." Still she was unsure how to address him; the word always seemed to stick in her throat. "Why do you remain hooded?"
Justice raised his head, looking to where she sat with shadowed eyes. "For your benefit."
"Are all spirits such fools?"
He paused. After a long moment, his hands moved to the hood, letting it fall against his back. "This form causes you discomfort."
"And you think to protect me at the expense of your own. Sit."
"I do not require... comfort." But he sat.
They fell into silence again, studying the terrain between them from opposite ends of the table. Still he avoided her eyes, but Anora found her own straying inexorably upward, watching the familiar brow crease in troubled concentration. It was not often that she had seen uncertainty on her father's face. This was something new.
"We have been raiding on the north side." She slid a pair of white pebbles across the map. "Harrying the walls in small parties."
"A frontal assault would have more merit. We are not thieves."
Anora's eyes narrowed. The words had a familiar ring of steel-edged certainty. The Spirit spoke often of what was just, what was noble, seemingly driven to speak of it to the exclusion of all else. Some whispered that her father had been just as blinded by his cause. It was... unsettling to wonder where one ended and the other began. "We are also small in number."
He sat stiffly back in the chair, meeting her gaze at last. Anora could not help but filch, wondering again if he was no longer the man she had thought, no longer the man she needed. He wasn't, she reminded herself. Her father was dead.
"Surely you can see that."
He nodded. She tried not to notice the way the loose skin twitched round his chin. "But I find myself troubled." The tone left no doubt that this was a new sensation.
"About?"
"Are not the darkspawn fighting for survival, the same as you?"
Not "we," she noted. Anora scowled. "You cannot be serious."
"They are a cancer in the heart of this world, there is no doubt. But I... this body..."
She pinched shut her eyes. For a moment he was a tired old man, a stranger that she had glimpsed only once before. It had been frightening, seeing him sink to his knees before the Warden, defeated in single combat but a self-righteous girl. And yet she would have gone to him as she nearly had then, thrown her arms around him as she had not done in many years.
"The things that this body has done..."
So that was it. He did not doubt their cause. But this spirit, this untainted force of justice, found himself trapped with a past that he could not stomach. Anora felt a twisting in her gut. "…He did for the good of Ferelden."
"You defend him." The spirit did not look surprised, merely sad. "I... remember this. You did it once before."
"In the Landsmeet, yes."
The smile was small, a tautness tugging at those sallow cheeks. "So proud he was. He would have thanked you, if he could."
"And yet you wouldn't."
"No."
"Can you choose another... host?" "Body," she had nearly said, but the word died on her tongue. Again, she was thinking of the Warden. No doubt the spirit would have found the girl more suitable and them both the happier for it. Her father had earned his rest.
"You are angry."
She was on her feet, she realized, the weight of the spirit's gaze balling her fists at her sides. There was no emotion there, no judgment, merely a cold curiosity. "I-"
"My Queen!" The trapdoor above was thrown back. She could not put a name to the soldier, but there was no doubting his excitement. "Lord Howe has returned!"
Something inside her fluttered, but Anora chided herself as she turned on her heel and made for the stairs. Nathaniel had gone hunting a witch. Better that the scouts spy Bann Teagan, riding with a host of Orlesian Wardens at his back. She dimly wondered what Justice would think of that; certainly her father would have loathed the idea. But Wynne had sent the riders north long before Anora's arrival and there had been no word of them since.
Justice followed, pulling his hood up again as they crossed the fields, making for the copse of trees nearest the road. It was a large party, the soldier who had summoned them explained. It would not do to draw attention in the open.
They were already waiting when Anora arrived, Wynne and the scouts and the strangers. She would have to speak to the men about how they passed information - she was their Queen, after all - but the thought was a fleeting one. Nathaniel had returned with the elf and the dwarf and the golem still beside him, adding to their number a Qunari, a dog, a red-haired archer, a mage, a sneering wildling and a haggard beggar. It was to this last that Wynne moved, taking his chin forcibly in her hand as she brushed lank and filthy hair from his eyes.
"Ow."
Healing light bloomed from her fingertips, her free hand prodding his chest as she studied him. After a long moment, she pulled him into a fierce hug.
The elf chuckled. "No such greeting for me?"
They ignored him, the beggar's eyes falling closed as he sagged against the old woman. "The armor is... well, wow."
Wynne pulled back with a smirk. "Be careful where you put your eyes, young man."
Anora gaped. This stinking, filthy man looked as though he could barely lift a sword, and yet only months ago he had stood before the Landsmeet, as proud and resplendent as Cailan had ever been. How it had galled to see him in that armor, nearly as bitter as his brazen claim to her throne. He would not stand so proud without his Warden by his side, she had told herself, and it seemed she'd had the truth of it. The armor was gone, the Warden was gone… and with them most of the man.
But he was watching her now with narrowed eyes. Alistair the bastard, Alistair the last Grey Warden.
She barely noticed as Nathaniel moved to her side, inclining his head in an only mildly insolent nod. "Your Highness."
"So this is the Queen, is it?" The man who stepped forward was a mage by his robes, his smile near as mocking as Nathaniel's smirk. Light danced between his fingers as he bowed, offering up his palm to reveal the conjured likeness of a flaming rose.
Anora arched a brow.
"You're just as pretty as Nathaniel said. He went on and on..."
"I said no such thing."
"Ah, but you were thinking it. I can tell." He tapped the side of his head with his free hand. "Magic and all that."
Anora cast Nathaniel a dubious glance, but the mage cursed then, the light in his hand winking out. "Oh, sh-!" He sank to his knees, cradling the hand as though burned.
"Stop right there!" Swords were drawn behind them, armor clanking as Ser Cullen and his templars burst through the trees. At least he showed her some deference, his nod hasty as he sneered down at the mage. "This man is a dangerous apostate, Your Majesty."
"Oh, not this again."
Cullen glared. "Three good men were sent after you, mage. Three good men died."
Even from his knees, the man managed a shrug, but strangely it was to the red-haired woman that he looked. "I didn't do it."
"Then who did?"
"The darkspawn. I thought that would be obvious."
"Or simply convenient." Cullen strode forward, grabbing him roughly by the collar. Two of the other templars moved to either side, taking the man beneath the arms. "This mage has escaped seven times, Your Majesty. By your leave..."
The templars wanted mages, mages that she desperately needed. The man seemed harmless enough, but if this would appease them... Anora nodded. "Do with him what you will."
Fear entered the man's eyes at last, his legs dragging across the ground as he struggled against the templars. His gaze swung wild, passing over the red-haired woman's protests, to fix at last upon Alistair. "Warden!"
He blinked.
"Warden! Do that... thing. The..." He seemed to be searching for the words. "...The Right of Conscription! You can stop this."
But Alistair remained expressionless, almost uncomprehending, watching as the templars dragged the man away.
"What will they do with him?" The woman had taken half a step forward, as though she would give chase.
Beside her, Wynne folded her arms. "Return him to the Tower. They would not risk the Rite of Tranquility, not here." But there was doubt in her voice.
"It is... not right." The whisper sent a shiver up Anora's spine as it always did, but she was not the only one to start in surprise. The figure at her back turned his shadowed cowl to follow the mage's shouts down across the hills.
"Who is that?" Alistair's hands clenched at his sides, his eyes locking to the hooded spirit. Fear and exhaustion seemed to come over him in waves, his entire body trembling as he reached clumsily for his sword. His voice broke. "Who is that? Show yourself!"
"Alistair..." The word was a warning, Wynne stepping in front of him, but he pushed past her.
"No... no..." The blade shook before him. He seemed to notice Anora then, sneering as she put herself between them. "No, you don't get to... Not him."
She felt movement at her back, saw Alistair stagger as Justice lowered his hood. "Hello, Alistair."
With a final strangled cry, the hope of Ferelden swooned and collapsed into a crumpled heap at Anora's feet.