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Dragon Age: Progeny Ch. 14

Deviation Actions

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Morrigan felt positively ridiculous as she passed through the gates into Denerim's bustling market district.

Wearing a Chanter's robe invariably had that effect on her.

How Leliana managed to persuade her to don this disguise – again – eluded her. The first time, it had been in the interest of breaking Soraya and Alistair out of Fort Drakon after their failed attempt of free Queen Anora from her father's lapdog, Cauthren. Morrigan always resented the Queen for not stepping in and defending the two Wardens, but as it turned out, their little costume party was all for naught: Alistair and Soraya managed to break out without assistance.

Perhaps this time, it had more to do with Methys' pleading. If the child thought wearing a pig costume would help to save Soraya and Alissa, she undoubtedly would. Even now, her amber-and-moss eyes were frantically combing the crowd for those two familiar faces. Morrigan wondered if the Old God might rise to the surface of her daughter's consciousness again, and perhaps help them find the silver-eyed mage and her child, but it remained silent, sleeping.

Methys had no memory of the experience she had in the Wilds when the Old God chose to awaken and speak, and she had demonstrated no further unexpected upwelling of power. Morrigan was almost disappointed that they were on their own, and yet, she hoped the Old God remained asleep, leaving Methys as she was. Funny how her plans had gone to rot as soon as she saw those eyes, so like her own, staring up at her with complete love and trust.

And so, Morrigan and the Orlesian bard entered the city dressed in Chanter's robes, posing as missionaries. If anyone asked, Methys was Morrigan's niece, newly orphaned, from the Frostback Mountains. Rontu would require less of a lie: they would claim to have found him on the road to Denerim, which wasn't far from the truth, and that he had immediately bonded with Methys, also not much of a stretch.

"Well," Morrigan pronounced. "We're here. Now what?"

The red-haired bard glanced across the skyline of the city with a practiced eye. "Soraya and Alissa are either at the palace or in detention at Fort Drakon. We need to find out exactly where."

Morrigan bit back another acerbic remark when she saw Methys staring up at her, looking to her with expectation and hope. The apostate gave her daughter a wry smile, then turned back to Leliana. "Do you still have contacts with the Mages' Collective?"

Leliana nodded. "That's one avenue to consider. Follow me."

"What's another avenue to consider?" the mage asked smoothly as they wove themselves into the throng of market visitors and vendors.

The bard arched a brow at her as she looked back at her. "A visit to the palace. I'm a talented bard and a former comrade of the King…"

"Fine, we'll accompany you…"

Leliana shook her head.

"What? I'm his former companion, as well."

The bard shot her a pointed stare. "I don't want to have to break four of you out of jail, thank you very much."

"Not up to the challenge?"

"Can you carry a tune in a wooden bucket with a lid on it?"

Methys giggled with delight as her mother gaped at the insult. "She has a point, Mother. You can't sing."

Morrigan shook her head with a glower and a soft growl. They passed the Chantry, the sisters offering the morning Chant of Light, and entered the market district, weaving through stalls of fruits and vegetables, meats and leather, iron wear and porcelain, fabrics and shoes.

"Oh!" Leliana paused at a display of elegant satin slippers, her eyes widening in appreciation as her fingers reached for her money pouch.

Morrigan chuckled and placed a restraining hand on the bard's forearm. "Not now, Leliana. After this is all over, you may feel free to shop until you drop of sheer exhaustion, but right now we need to focus on getting our friend out of trouble… Oh, dear me. Those look just like the boots Soraya ruined!" She sighed, remembering how much she had liked those boots. Until Soraya, in a violent fit of morning sickness, had puked all over her favorite footwear as they picked herbs for poultices.

Leliana sniffed softly with laughter, pulling Morrigan away from the booth. "You're quite right, Morrigan. Come along."

They followed a side street into a back alley, most of the shops boarded up and closed. The bard went to a side entrance and stepped inside. Feeble sunlight streamed through dirty, mostly cracked windows, and dust hung in the air. There was a stale, dry smell, a ghost of herbs and poultices. This had been a shop catering to the needs of magi.

"What are we doing here?" Morrigan wondered aloud. "This place has been empty for some time, by the looks of it."

"Nice to see your skills of observation are as sharp as ever," Leliana murmured impatiently, then she bent to the floor and pried up what seemed to be one of many loosened floorboards with her fingers. Muttering a soft curse, she pulled up her sleeve, revealing the scabbard strapped to her forearm. She slid a dagger from the simple leather binding, and went back to work on the board. It popped free with a creak, and she turned it over.

"Methys, be a dear and fetch me a piece of charcoal from the hearth," the bard asked softly.

The child obeyed, returning with a slender, half-burned branch.

"Perfect, thank you." Leliana began to scrawl symbols on the floorboard. When she was finished, she turned it over and set it back in place.

"We're leaving them a message?" Morrigan asked.

Leliana nodded. "We just have to wait for their reply."

"How long?"

The bard sighed through clenched teeth. "Hopefully, not long. They've had to be very, very careful since the Chantry stepped up their discrimination against mages. But still, they have eyes everywhere and watch all these places."

"Lovely," Morrigan said with a sigh. "Now what?"

"Find a safe place to lay low. They'll know how to find us."

"What about the palace?" Methys asked with a frown. Rontu added his voice to her query with a soft woof.

Leliana bit her lip, considering. "I'll go as a visiting bard. There's an inn on the other side of the market district. You should stay there."

"We can't go with you?"

"Yes," Morrigan insisted, oozing smooth sarcasm. "Perhaps Methys and I can shift into mabari form and, along with Rontu, perform along side you as a dog act. We can be called the Flea-bitten Mabaris."

Rontu responded with a hurt whine, Methys scowling up at her mother as she patted the mabari's neck.

Leliana was nonplussed, nodding in approval. "Not a bad idea, Morrigan. But I want to keep Rontu out of sight as much as possible. He's supposed to be dead."

"Since when did this become your rescue plan?" the apostate snarled.

The bard clenched her teeth and answered. "Since you decided to whine and piss and moan instead of contribute anything constructive, Morrigan. And, to be frank with you, I'm sick of it."

She exited the abandoned building, leaving Morrigan in stunned silence. Methys slid her fingers into her mother's hand, tugging gently. "Shape up, Mother," she scolded in the same dry tone Morrigan employed when Methys misbehaved. "She'll cut us loose, I know it. And we need her as much as she needs us."

Morrigan followed her daughter, taking one last glance around the broken building. "I know, Methys," she concurred. She sounded almost apologetic. "I know."

***

"Not that one, either," Deynah's clear voice rang with disapproval as the Queen's maid presented yet another gown for the Grey Warden to choose from for the evening's festivities.

The ninth hour of the morning had come and gone, and the pile of discards was much, much higher than what remained for inspection. At this point, Soraya despaired of finding anything suitable. But, if the chamberlain's scowl was anything to judge by, politics were woven into every fabric of Denerim… including what made an appropriate party dress.

Not that Soraya cared much about clothes; she had been bridled by a practical nature and a deeply repressed femininity that, nonetheless, somehow managed to find its way out on occasion. But the clothes Anora had sent over were pronounced too plain, too ornate, too heavy for the stifling summer heat… too something… by the critical chamberlain. It had become her personal mission to find Soraya something that was not only appropriate, but would make a statement. What that statement was, Soraya had no hope of knowing.

The iron-haired woman grew silent as the young maid held up a gown with a flourish, as though it were made of solid gold. This one was the most ridiculous of the lot, and brought to mind a giant layer cake, all in pale blue. Soraya wondered for a moment if Deynah might grab the maid by the hair and swing her over the balcony rail into the courtyard below. The young lady had similar concerns, her eyes wide as she gulped audibly. Soraya's hands rose to cover her mouth as she stifled a snort of laughter.

"That one," Deynah announced in a sharp voice, like a whiplash, pointing imperiously.

"This one?" Anora's maid was struggling between smugness and shock. Her mistress would be pleased that her guests would wonder if Soraya was the dessert course, but she could scarce believe that the King's wily chamberlain had been so easily duped.

Deynah nodded, taking the monstrosity off the young woman's hands.

Soraya gaped, eyes wide with disbelief. "What? Are you out of your mind? I'm not wearing that!"

Deynah turned a cold eye on the mage. "Yes, you are." Then, turning her back toward Anora's maid, the chamberlain winked, the corners of her mouth twitching with restrained satisfaction.

The mage coughed, as though regaining her composure, ruled her face demure. "Please express my humblest thanks to the Queen for generously offering to lend me such a … lovely gown from her own wardrobe."

The maid simpered, bowed, and then gathered up the rest of the gowns into her arms and left, looking very pleased. Deynah spat an expletive a moment later, then she snorted, having adopted the look of a cat that has just feasted on a canary.

She shook her head at the mage, narrowing her eyes. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you, Grey Warden? 'Humblest thanks?' What do you think you're about? Gathering forces for another Blight?" Then she chuckled, spreading the garment next to the mage on the massive bed.

Soraya lifted one of the layers; it was as light as air and almost as transparent. How such lovely fabric could have been turned into such a frightful dress was appalling. She peeled back the hem, revealing that the veil-thin gown had been fitted over a sleeveless shell of lovely, heavyweight satin. She arched a brow at the chamberlain. "Well, I know you've got something planned. Mind sharing what that is?"

Deynah sniffed. "I don't know what you've done, but the Queen seems bent on making you appear the bumpkin at the banquet tonight."

The mage rolled her eyes. "This is how she hopes to convince me to take on the mantle of the Commander of the Grey, I suppose."

"No, this is something else entirely," Deynah snapped, her expression severe. "Do you not know what today is?"

Soraya shook her head, frowning in ignorance. Then her jaw dropped in disbelief. It had almost been so long ago, she had forgotten. She groaned. "By all the Spirits in the Fade, Anora commemorates her father's death with a gathering? Why can't she just visit his tomb?"

The chamberlain clenched her jaw. "She claims that this annual event is to honor all Ferelden's heroes, but her father is central in her pretty little speeches. Perhaps, she seeks to undo the memory of his treachery by reminding everyone about his part in defeating our Orlesian oppressors."

Soraya launched herself off the bed and onto the floor, where she paced to the open floor-length windows, fuming. "Loghain murdered King Cailan and all but two of Ferelden's Grey Wardens when he gave the command to withdraw from the field at Ostagar!" she spat. "He and Howe were abducting elves from the alienage and selling them as slaves! Nothing she can say will atone for what he did!"

Deynah sighed in commiseration. "The nobles are not fooled, but they are nobles, dear Warden. Any excuse to exchange gossip and political favors at the King's table is leapt upon like a mabari on fresh meat."

The mage took in a deep breath, a breeze ruffling her hair as she leaned her hip against the stone arch. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, more thoughtful now than angry. "Alistair attends these events?"

Deynah's eyes widened, her expression smoothing into careful innocence. "He does. It is very uncomfortable for him, I assure you. After all, it was his sword that cleaved Loghain's head from his treacherous shoulders."

"I remember," Soraya replied softly. "I was there." She suddenly turned, her eyes wounded. "I have no wish to be assured of his discomfort, good chamberlain."

The woman stood and went to the mage's side, placing a gentle hand on her forearm. "Forgive me, dear Warden. I did not realize that you still … held the King in such regard."

Soraya growled under her breath, angry that she had not hidden her emotions more effectively. It was dangerous to be in Alistair's presence… she scowled, reminding herself to refer to her former comrade as the King or His Majesty, even in the privacy of her own thoughts.

The mage changed the subject. "So, the Queen seeks the opportunity to make me, who granted the King permission to execute her father, look foolish by putting me in some silly gown?"

Deynah sniffed, smirking. "She hopes that you won't attend at all."

"But she invited…"

"Don't be fooled, girl," the chamberlain grated. "Anora likes being the center of attention. The presence of a true hero at tonight's event will shift the focus. Even so, surely you must realize that she is delaying your departure."

"Why?"

Sighing, the woman smoothed her hair from temple to nape. "We're trying to find out why."

"We?"

Matter-of-fact, with a delicate shrug: "When you live in a house divided, it is best to have eyes and ears everywhere."

Soraya made a wry face. "Spies? Interesting. I see now that I was wise in leaving Denerim and choosing self-imposed exile over serving the crown."

"Who says you can't enjoy thwarting Anora's pettiness while you're here?" Deynah insisted in a conspirator's tone. She walked back over to the bed, scooping up the gown in her arms. "By now, her glowing lapdog of a maid will have told her that you will be wearing the most hideous discard from her wardrobe to tonight's banquet. Whether she believes it or not, she also knows there is no way we can sew you a new gown in time for tonight. However, we can salvage this."

Soraya flinched as Deynah reached down inside the neckline and began to tear out stitches. Moments later, Deynah held up the satin shell.

"A few stitches here and there…" She gazed up at Soraya, raking her with a measuring eye. "You aren't as tall as the Queen; we'll have to hem it, as well."

"Are you saying I don't measure up?" the mage asked with a wry grin.

Deynah chuckled at the joke, then resumed muttering to herself as though she were planning a coup. "Some flattering sleeves … Petra can embroider the bodice… Maker, but she sews like most people breathe! Oh! There's enough here for satin slippers. I'll have Arneau work those up for you. I'll hide both of them in the root cellar if I have to, so all will be ready for this evening. No doubt, Anora will try to keep all the clothiers in Denerim busy to prevent exactly what we are attempting to do. I expected such antics, and Petra and Arnea are safely tucked away!" The chamberlain arched a brow at the mage. "The beauty of it all? This gown was for a birthday party three years ago, when Anora thought it would look adorable if an assortment of little blonde girls from the court would escort her: Which means, there is a matching gown for Alissa."

Soraya sniffed a laugh, nodding in appreciation. "Who would have thought you so devious?"

The chamberlain smirked. "I have to keep it well-hidden, for my King's sake. Still…" She glowered. "The Queen thought to make you look a fool in front of the whole court. That just rankles me to no end. Leave it up to me, dear girl…when I'm done with you…." She chuckled and said no more as she gathered up the pieces of fabric.

"I suppose I should fetch my daughter," Soraya said with a sigh, standing and slipping into her boots. "You'll need to fit her, won't you?"

Deynah nodded as she hung the shimmering, pale blue shell over the wardrobe door. The gossamer she laid aside on a nearby chair.

Soraya looked down at her peasant clothes, an ivory dress of woven cotton, and overdress of rough wool dyed cornflower blue. The only part of her ensemble that set her apart was her well-worn journey boots. At least she would be able to move about the palace without too much notice. She just hoped no one demanded that she attend the chamber pots.

Seeing her self-examination, Deynah came to her side and patted her arm. "Fear not. You will be a vision come this evening. I promise you!"

***

Soraya found Alissa in the company of the King and two young lads, hard at work in the training yard. Alistair's pleasure at seeing her was evident in his broad smile, which wrinkled the corners of his eyes. She felt heat rising to her cheeks, silently damning her complexion.

"Good morning!" he called out to her. The two lads paused and, following palace decorum, bowed respectfully to the lady.

"Gentlemen," she replied with a deep curtsey, then grinned and went to stand next to her daughter. Alissa was sitting on a bench in the sunshine, Taeva half-asleep in her lap. She smiled up at her mother, then pressed her face against the puppy's broad head.

"What are they doing?" the mage asked the child, reaching to stroke the pup's cheek.

"Practicing defense." Alissa didn't sound bored at all. Soraya soon realized why, when the boys made a few circumspect glances to ensure that the little girl was paying attention. The mage realized her daughter was lovely, but to already be attracting male attention, especially from boys almost twice her age, was unexpected.

"Ah," Soraya nodded, perching at the edge of the bench.

"No, no, no, lads," Alistair was shaking his head. "You're not supposed to retreat. Hold your ground. Like this."

"With all respect, your majesty…" one of the boys began.

"… you are much bigger than us," concluded the other.

"Size has nothing to do with it," Alistair insisted.

The boys looked at one another, then the King. They weren't buying it.

The King rubbed his beard, thinking. Then, he snapped his fingers. "I've got it."

He looked over at Soraya, then grinned and crooked his finger. "My lady Warden, if you would do me the honor?"

Soraya arched a brow, then stood and joined the trio in the center of the yard.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" she teased the King.

He chuckled. "Are you?"

"Do you have any idea how long it's been since I used a blade?" she asked as he handed her a worn practice sword, the leather wrapping the hilt sweat-stained and indented from countless hands, the blade chipped but still straight.

"I heard that you donated the Spellweaver to the Circle Tower to inspire a new generation of arcane warriors," Alistair said, and she blinked in surprise. He might forget more than half the names of men and women that comprised the Landsmeet, but an ancient, named weapon? Never. "The templars were greatly distressed when they couldn't remove it from the great hall. They can't even touch it, and the mages refused."

"Good," she said simply, swinging her blade a few times to accustom her arm to its weight and balance. It was heavier than the blade she used to finish the archdemon atop Fort Drakon eight years ago, her small palm unaccustomed to such a wide hilt. Spellweaver was designed specifically for tender-handed mages, and this sword promised an outbreak of painful blisters if she used it for very long.

"What do you need me to do?" Soraya asked the King.

He grinned, an evil glint in his eye. "Let me attack you."

She snorted. "That should be easy enough." Then, playfully, for his ears alone: "Just, please, be gentle with me."

He chuckled, winking over at Alissa. She smiled and waved. Then he turned to his squires. "All right, lads, pay attention. And, remember what I told you," he instructed. Then, under his breath but still loud enough for them to hear, "Maybe they'll believe me after this."

Soraya grinned over at Alissa, who was watching with some concern. Taeva woke for a moment, stretched and yawned, then rested her head against the little girl's arm.

"Ready?" the King asked Soraya as he dropped into an offensive stance.

The mage took in a deep breath, held it, nodding.

The King set loose a frightening battle cry, one that she had heard countless times before, a sound that thrilled and reassured her each time they went into battle. Three quick, long strides later, Alistair was almost on top of her, his blade arching over his head, threatening to come down on her with the full force of his strength.

The mage dropped down, bracing herself against the coming blow with her strong legs. She unconsciously clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut as she raised her arms, one hand clutching the sword's hilt, the other pressing the palm against the flat of the blade. Shining iron stopped his swing with a tooth-jarring clang.

The mage opened one eye and looked up into his grinning face. He was obviously enjoying this exercise, and she wondered at the real purpose behind it. All she knew was that she was outmatched and needed to even up the odds. She allowed her rarely-seen, shy half-smile – the one she gave only him – to come like a rising sun, slowly spreading across the landscape of her face, touching first the corner of her mouth, then lifting the apples of her cheeks, watching as his eyes widened in appreciation. Then, while he was suitably distracted – part of her mind wondered that something so small as a single smile could be so powerful if used at the right time – she winked and jabbed the pommel of her sword into his gut. He uttered a surprised grunt, and air whooshed out of his open mouth. While he frowned, taking a second to recover his breath as he took a step backward, she rose from her crouch, pushing her blade against his with all her strength to set him off balance. It was more difficult than she realized, and the two stood in the center of the yard in a lopsided shoving match.

"Andraste's flaming knickers, Soraya, what do you think you're doing?" Alistair's laugh rumbled up from deep within his chest.

"What I'm supposed to be doing: holding my ground!" she grunted, pushing against him harder.

"This is ridiculous!" he told her, through more laughter. "I'm… I'm bigger than you!"

"You said size has nothing to do with it!"

"Didn't you once say size has everything to do with it?" he purred wickedly.

She ceased her ineffective pushing to gasp up at him, mouth agape. Alistair took the opportunity to shove her backward with his index and middle fingers against her sternum. Her eyes widened as she felt herself falling. The King's hand shot out, fingers grabbing the leather cord for her amulet, as though that would keep her upright. He pulled her up, Soraya's body jerking in response with the rough movement. The cord snapped, her amulet flying through the air to skip across the sandy practice yard. Her arms pin-wheeling, she cursed and prepared herself for the fall, but Alistair dropped his sword to catch her around the waist.

Soraya took a shuddering breath. She'd not been in a man's arms for longer than she liked to think about, but being in his embrace unsettled her. He was the one person who had any true power over her, and not as king, but as a man. Was unnerving her his goal all along? She took a step backward, catching her breath, scowling up at him.

"Admit it," he said with a smirk, releasing her waist and leaning down to speak close to her ear. "I won."

She arched a brow at him, but he was already turning back to his squires, unmindful of her soft whispering behind him. "Now, as you can see, lads, she almost had me. She held her ground and…" Suddenly, Alistair jerked to a halt. Arms spread wide for balance, he looked down and saw his feet were encased in thick, blue ice.

He twisted around to see Soraya standing, one hip jutting out, blowing ice crystals from the tip of her index finger with a breath, as though she were blowing out a candle flame. "Admit it," she echoed with a wicked grin. "I won."

The king's twin squires were chuckling. Alissa's giggle, which sounded very much like her mother's as it echoed throughout the courtyard, joined them.

***

The Queen's hopes of having the former Grey Warden disappear in a crowd of well-dressed nobles – save that perhaps she stuck out like a weed amongst roses – were dashed when her chamberlain announced Soraya shortly before the banquet began. Everyone was seated already, curious heads turning as this late arrival entered the hall.

Anora sucked in a surprised breath when she saw that, instead of the blue monstrosity her maid assured her that the mage has chosen to wear this night, Soraya wore a floor-length gown of blue satin so pale it was almost white. So this was why the palace's best clothiers had been "missing" most of the day.

The Queen sequestered a stream of profanity behind her teeth, then turned around to glare at her maid. The girl's eyes were fixed upon the mage, her face a mask of panic and horror. Catching the Queen's seething eye, she turned crimson in mute apology, and then slunk away for the remainder of the evening.

Although not the height of fashion, by the end of the evening, a few noblewomen's inquiries about the mage's dressmaker would ensure that designs of the same striking cut and color would be added to their armoires in the coming weeks. It shone like silver among the golds, deep blues, crimsons and violets adorning the other guests. Her long hair was loose and long instead of bound up in ornamental braids, as was considered fashionable in Denerim society. When Alissa appeared at her side wearing a high-waisted dress of the same color, a single blue ribbon woven into a tiny braid amidst her long, soft tresses, the Queen struggled against retching as the entire hall seemed to either coo or sigh their admiration.

Alistair stood, speechless, gaping in a very unkingly manner. Before the mage's arrival, he was distracted, obviously disappointed that she apparently would not be attending the event. Now he was smiling broadly, brown eyes dancing. She half expected him to wriggle like one of the mabari he seemed so devoted to. It was all Anora could do to keep her lip from curling in disgust, almost losing focus on maintaining her well-practiced sublime, if small, smile of royal benevolence.

The king leaned over to speak quietly to his squires, and the blond-haired boys nodded at once and fled to the hall's side entrance, returning a moment later with place settings for the mage and her daughter. The boys began making room at Alistair's end of the long table, hastily laying down elegant white porcelain trimmed with the royal standard in gold, silverware and etched-glass goblets.

"I was hoping she would avoid the banquet," Anora muttered softly so that only Alistair could hear. It seemed hardly fitting that the woman who permitted the execution of the man whom this occasion intended to honor be present. Alistair had to attend, on pretense. But this was too much.

Alistair's frown endured a mere heartbeat. "Why?"

She did not answer, saying instead, through clenched teeth, "Why must you seat them at the high table with us?"

"Soraya is a Grey Warden and Champion of Ferelden," he answered, as though he should not have had to point out those facts and the all the ceremony it implied. "Who better to have as an honored guest at a banquet honoring Ferelden's heroes? It would be rude to put them with strangers."


Soraya had not felt this nervous since the night before she went to battle against the archdemon. Only Alissa's small fingers entwined with hers gave her the courage to walk up the aisle toward the high table. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw smiles and frowns in equal measure. She unconsciously raised her other hand to clasp her talisman, then recalled with a start that it had been lost when she and Alistair had sparred that morning. Instead, she wore a tear-shaped pendant loaned to her for this occasion. A Dragon's Tear, Deynah had called it. The blue opal hung from a delicate silver chain around her neck, as light as air compared to the comforting weight of the heavy Dalish amulet.

The mage and her child paused before the raised platform where the high table stood, bending their knees and heads in homage to Denerim's royal couple. Alistair walked down the three steps to the floor, taking each by the hand and urging them to rise.

"A Champion of Ferelden is not required to kneel," he reminded Soraya softly.

Soraya flicked a gaze up at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. "The Queen might disagree."

He snorted, dismissive, then smiled as he took an arm in each of his and led Soraya and Alissa to their seats.


As the night wore on, Anora hoped that Soraya would use Alissa as an excuse to retire early from the evening's festivities. But it seemed every male, married or not, insisted on taking a turn with the comely mage on the dance floor. Quite a few men, and women, too, danced with Alissa. Alistair's squires were positively smitten with her, remaining close at hand, as though nominating themselves her personal guard.

The only one who didn't seem to be having a good time was the Queen. If she had to listen to one more Arl or Arlessa comment about how surprisingly charming the Grey Warden and her offspring were, she would vomit up what little supper she'd been able to stomach. The mage had a previous reputation for being plain, somber and austere, if an admittedly earnest and diplomatic envoy during her effort to gather forces against the Blight. But this night, that reputation was flung out the window. She was pronounced "lovely" and "charming" and "bright." Her polite nods were accompanied by a warm smile, and she greeted those who had supported her at the Landsmeet with clasped hands. The King's eyes followed her everywhere.

Alistair ignored Anora during most of the meal, a fact not lost on their guests. It was as though they had returned to the first days of their marriage, except their roles were reversed: Alistair was the one at ease in the hall, laughing and exchanging witty banter with his guests, and Anora was the one who felt out of place, sitting rigid-backed and silent, with an occasional word or a smile that touched her lips, but never reached those lovely, violet-blue eyes.

Minutes seemed to pass too slowly, as though a single hour had stretched into several. Anora's attention turned inward, seething in silence beneath a thin veneer of royal gentility.

Rigid control was something she had been taught long ago by her tutors, who schooled her in how to be a proper lady. She was a practical, intelligent woman who recognized that in Ferelden, women only ruled through the men they married. Friends were fleeting, as loyalties shifted based on which allegiances profited most. Her father presented the context for her lessons, and taught her how to speak and dress in a manner that commanded attention. She learned how to use her beauty and intelligence to manipulate the men around her, including her father. No mere simpering idiot was Anora.

Another lesson her father had taught her, which Anora took to like a fish to water, was ruthless ambition. When Loghain suggested she bind to Cailan, she gladly accepted a marriage of convenience. Cailan was too far too busy playing soldier-king to give his realm much attention, so Anora stepped in and did all the hard work. Her constant encouragement kept him in the practice yard and on the battlefield, while she met with the Arls and gained favor with the Chantry.

And what thanks did she get? Her father took the role of regent upon Cailan's death. And after Loghain's execution, her compliance with the Grey Warden Soraya led to yet another marriage offer ... to Cailan's illegitimate half-brother; yet another insult.

She watched as Alistair smiled to himself, thinking no one noticed, as his former comrade-at-arms engaged in animated conversation with the Arlessa from Waking Sea. This was the man who had executed her father while she watched, in this very hall, no less. True, she could never have ruled with Loghain's interference; Maker forbid that a mere female rule their country. And yet, he was still her father. The few childhood memories she had of him were happy ones. His execution was not necessary. Riordan, the Grey Warden from Orlais, suggested that he undergo the Joining and become a Grey Warden. Anora remembered being relieved at this possibility of escape, and saw the same emotion in her father's dark eyes.

But, no. Alistair raged against the suggestion, and the mage took his side. Damn him and damn her. Instead, her father lost to Alistair in combat, his blood spilling on the stone floor not twenty paces from where she now sat. The sound of Alistair's warm, throaty chuckle seemed to mock her, and she clenched her teeth so hard she thought they would break.

Anora salved the sickening rage churning her insides with cold, calculated plotting. There had to be a way to dispose of Alistair and keep the throne. Previous attempts had failed or been aborted shortly before their discovery by the King's agents.

But this time, she vowed she would succeed, or join her father.

She could accuse him of infidelity: After tonight, no one would doubt her claims. But even if she discredited or disgraced him, he was a man, and king. He would maintain the throne, and she would be an exile at some country manor. The thought of either was utterly unacceptable.

Anora motioned a handsome, lithe elf steward over, and he poured more wine into her silver goblet. She sipped, the heat of the hall making the metal vessel sweat cold droplets. The wine cooled her throat, if not her anger as she considered a military option: Her alliance with the Chantry might afford her use of the templars as her own private army. The Bannorn might favor Alistair over her, but they would not challenge the Chantry and endanger their everlasting souls to damnation.

The mere kernel of this plan was enough to make her smile for the first time that evening with any sincerity. She would kill him, she thought as she sipped her wine, imagining his lifeblood gushing from his heart.

But first, she would break him.

And she would start with Soraya.

Anora excused herself, claiming an upset stomach that no one disbelieved for an instant after witnessing her husband approach Soraya with the boldness possessed only of a king, holding out his hand in invitation to dance. The blond mage hesitated, silver eyes almost scolding him, but he would not take no for an answer. Finally, she rose from her chair, her fingers disappearing into his palm, every line of her body rigid with resistance. But soon, Alistair had her giggling as he taught her the steps to a lively, but simple dance.

The Queen watched from outside, peering through a crack in the double doors, ignoring curious looks from the guards on either side of her. Alistair and the Grey Warden were weaving amongst other guests on the dance floor, spinning and turning, everyone smiling and laughing. Her dark blue eyes like daggers, she turned on her heel and walked quickly down the corridor.
We get an insight into Anora's machinations, and the fire hasn't exactly gone out between Soraya and Alistair...

Chapter 15: [link]

Oh... and I was listening to this while writing Anora's POV: [link] I thought it set a nice tone for writing the scenes.

Disclaimer: The land of Thedas and its denizens are the property of BioWare. Original characters are from my wild imagination.
© 2010 - 2024 Niksche
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TheLoneInquisitor's avatar

I like your take on Anora in general, but I believe she simply adored her father as a daughter and revered him as a man and a hero, her thoughts about him look a bit too cold and calculating to me while I can easily imagine her plotting to ger rid of her husband, especially after this evening :hmm: