Well, I must say it; I'm in love with a video game. Don't judge me.
Anyways, this isn't a bunch of one shots like I usually do, so I hope people bare with me.
Bioware owns everything, I'm just their insane pupper master thanks to good 'ol fanfiction.
Anyways, enjoy.
MEMORY LANE
I
"So, tell me if you've heard this joke; 'So, a bastard Warden becomes a king...' Yeah, that's it. It's short, but I'm working on it," I jested.
She raised an eyebrow at me sceptically, crossing her arms atop her chest upon rising from the chair that sat before the dying fire. I received no mirth filled smile, much to my disappointment.
"I fail to see the humorous side," she replied uninterestedly.
Come on, Alistair, cut to the chase already. She already knows what's coming, she's no fool. There's no point prologuing the inevitable with terrible and meaningless jesting.
"Look, Nallia," I frowned lightly. "We need to talk."
I sighed, reaching out to clasp her small hand within my own clammy one; selfishly hoping to borrow some of her strength through the simple touching of our bodies. I clasped my fingers around her hand, her skin unusually cold. She looked down at my imposing hand with a deep set frown, recoiling from me with the sharp withdrawal of her own. She took a small step back and out of my reach, recrossing her arms.
"Say what you have to say, Alistair," she ordered of me.
Her tone was void of any emotion, and I barely recognised the stoic woman before me.
I felt my throat constrict and my stomach knot. I yearned to hold her, tell her everything was alright. I wished to tell her that nothing had changed. I was never a very good liar though.
More than anything, though, I wanted to see her smile.
I cleared my throat and started speaking in a mad, awkward rush. Each word seemed to flow into the next.
"You realise that, now that I'm king, I'm expected to have an heir to the throne," I paused.
I couldn't understand her usually easy to read expression. She was usually such an extrovert, yet here she stood, silent and impassive.
"It's not going to be easy for one person with the taint, but Two Wardens' of the Greyish Hue trying to have children together? It's not possible. I'll never be able to produce an heir with another Warden," I finished lamely.
"Cut the crap, Alistair," she hissed.
Her eyes were glared into slits and I knew she didn't appreciate my pathetic excuses.
"I know the real reason as to why you can't ―neigh, you refuse― to be with me," Nallia said.
Her voice started in a quite waver, but rose as she let her anger fuel her.
I closed my eyes as I took a deep calming breath, releasing a wavering breath of air as I opened my eyes. She watched me with nothing at sadness in her eyes, no sign of empathy. She hid behind her show of anger and drew strength from it.
"You refuse to stay with me for the simple fact that I have pointed ears. So don't make other excuses, tell me the truth," she spat. "I deserve at least that after all we've been through together."
I wanted to tell her it wasn't true, I wanted to say that I would never leave her simply because she was an elf. I wanted to say it wasn't because she was from an alienage. I bit my tongue; such hollow words would do no good.
Her voice calmed slightly as she took a deeply racking breath. She ran her hands through her closely cropped hair, her pale slim fingers knotting the dark, unruly mess further.
"You're the king now, Alistair," she said more quietly. "You make the laws, you can change things. You're going to let a little discrimination stop us from being together? Nobody can tell the king what he can and cannot do."
An undertone of desperateness clung to her plea.
I sighed, knowing that it could not be, could never be. An elven queen would not be accepted by the greater population of Ferelden, no matter how much I wished it so.
"Nallia, don't make this harder than it already is for me," I begged of her.
Shaking her head, the harsh woman returned; her steel grey eyes cold and hard. She glared at me.
"Hard? You think this is hard?"
She gave a dark, humourless chuckle that I never wished to hear from her again. It was so different to her usually merry and carefree laughter, the type that shook her body and left her gasping for air as she would wipe away joyous tears.
"I hope your crown keeps you warm at night," she hissed quietly, "Because you're going to lead a very lonely life, yourhighness."
She spat my title as if it were some kind of curse.
And it was a curse as far as I could see.
I'd prefer it if she'd lashed out at me and called me an arse, or even yelled at me for being weak. I'd have preferred anything other than this plain and hurtful truth. I looked to the cobble floor with downcast eyes.
"Sacrifices have to be made," I whispered. "I accept my fate."
She was the one who put me in this position; she could have chosen Anora to rule Ferelden. It was her fault.
The thoughts of blame passed as quickly as they had come, however. I simply could not point my finger at her. I knew that Anora was never a valid candidate. The cunningly deceptive woman would be Ferelden's ultimate downfall. We'd both been pushed into a corner.
She'd done what she had to do. Now, I was doing what I had to do. Things were the way they had to be. There was no escaping it.
"Maybe I should not have chosen someone so weak to be king," she spat.
Her eyes were aflame with fury now. I don't know if I preferred this or the cold, hollow woman from before.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," I said feebly.
She said nothing, choosing to simply watch me with her smouldering eyes.
"I'm sorry too," she spat.
Turning on her heel she retreated from the room, her stride even and regal. She pushed roughly past her fellow rogue Zevran, whom I only now noticed standing transfixed in the doorway. He bore an intense frown; one that I knew better than to assume was a show of concern or anything akin to such an emotion. It was but a look of deep thought.
I clenched my shaking fists, turning away from the Antivian. I scrunched my eyes tightly shut, hiding the true depth of my hurt. I heaved in a great gulp of air before speaking next.
My voice wavered, but I said what I had to.
"When you, no doubt, go to comfort Nallia tell her that we're to make for Redcliffe as soon as possible," I issued to him formally.
A few moments passed before I received a sceptical reply.
"Why is it that you cannot simply tell her yourself?" he pressed. "I do not wish to start passing notes between the two of you."
I took another calming breath, I didn't need this. Shaking my head slowly I bit back an angry retort, knowing that it would do no good to take out my frustration on the cocky elf.
"I'm heading back to camp," I replied evenly. "I need to… I need to be alone for a while."
The assassin said nothing more, silently leaving in search of the other elf. Moments passed and I opened my itching eyes, greeted with the sight of the dying fireplace and the flimsy wooden chair she'd been sitting on once more.
A few cinders remained within the smoking alcove, and with it lay a shrivelled item that caught my eye. I frowned at the sight of it, not knowing what it was and why it had caught my attention so.
My heart seemed to slow and I understood.
It was a rose, burnt and shrivelled almost completely beyond recognition. It was the rose I'd given her.
The dam broke and I let out a strangled yell of desperation, my breathing shallow and uneven. I lashed out at the chair and sent it flying against the cold stone wall of Eamon's estate with one hard kick. The wood splintered beyond repair upon immediate impact.
I felt no better.
My shoulders heaved with my heavy breaths, and my heart hammered in my chest. Another strangled noise escaped my tightly pursed lips.
I pressed my face into my shaking hands, stumbling backwards until my back found the wall. There I simply slid into a sitting position, pulling my knees up before my face like that of a pathetic child. My face hidden in my hands, I sat, choking back forceful sobs into my hands.
She was right.
I'd always be alone.
"I demand justice be wrought!"
And I demand peace and quiet. It's healthy to want.
I sighed, squirming in my seat so as to regain feeling in my tingling arse. Cringing at my immediate discomfort I added 'order more pillows for the throne' onto my to-do list. It was right above greeting the newly Joined Grey Wardens and ordering finer made weapon's for my army. I have my priorities.
"The damnable elf attacked me. In my own home, what's more," the demanding noble continued. "She brutally lashed out at me. I demand compensation. I demand restitution!"
Is there anything that he doesn't demand? Well, apart from being abused by his elf slave, apparently not much.
His face was flustered in anger at the unthinkable wrong that had befallen innocent he. Why would one wish to hurt someone as oh-so-tolerable as you, I wonder? Again, I did nothing to suppress my sigh.
Rubbing my hand over the bridge of my nose, I shook my head slowly.
"What did you do to receive such treatment from the elf?" I asked of him begrudgingly.
I wished to be rid of him. I wished to retreat to the confines of my chamber. I wished I weren't king. I wished… I wished many things.
His eyes widened as if such a question on my behalf was unthinkable, were I anyone else, he would have lashed out, I knew this. However, I was the king, to do so would be asking for a new home behind bars.
"She spoke out of line," he replied regally. "When I applied disciplinal measures, she hit me."
Oh, the audacity. I rolled my eyes. It's tick for tack, if you ask me.
"What, pray tell, were such disciplinal measures that you carried out?" I pressed.
I knew the answer already, but I wished to hear him say it.
The noble in question shied away from me for the barest of moments. He quickly regained his ever regal posture, however. His spine was no doubt supported so rigidly by the elongated stick he forever had up his noble arse.
"I apply the effective use of physical motivation amongst numerous other age old disciplinary methods," he replied vaguely.
I raised an eyebrow. He was trying to avoid simply stating that he'd hit her. I'd have to say it for him, it seemed.
"So, you hit her first?" I pushed.
He stuttered incoherently for a matter of moments before frowning indignantly.
"I am not on trial here, your majesty," he reverted.
I'm the king, am I not? I can trial whomever I deem fit, or unfit, as the case would have it.
It seemed he wasn't finished in his refreshingly improper tirade, however.
"The dirty elf that dared step out of line should, at the very least, be slapped in gallows for what she's done. She deserves no better. The elf should not forget her place, it sets a bad example," as an after thought, he added, "my King."
He could have called me 'Your Awesomeness' or 'Oh Greatly Witty One Who is By Far More Handsome Than Myself', (Oh Great One, for short), and it wouldn't have made any difference. He'd already tarnished the name I'd been desperately trying to build for the elves. There was no escaping the grave he'd dug so thoroughly for himself.
His face was blemished with a growing red hue, his anger barely held in check.
I glared my eyes at the sudden direction of conversation. It was no longer about a servant stepping out of place; it was about the hierarchy of humans in comparison to the elves. Placing my hands atop each arm rest, my previous discomfort forgotten, I stood. The guards placed at each entrance snapped to attention at my sudden action.
"The elves," I started monotonously.
It would not do for me to loose my temper.
"The elves have earned their status as equal citizens after the most previous Blight," I stated through tightly clenched teeth. "You'd do well to remember that it was a dirty elf that saved your worthless hide along with that of all of Ferelden, nearing on five years ago. Or have you forgotten already?"
My voice rose with each word. Taking a deep breath I attempted to calm myself once more, bottling the fury that I wished to release upon him and all those that still spoke ill of the elves. It seemed my vision of equality of races within Ferelden was more idealistic than achievable.
The noble hung his head, trying to hide the fury in his eyes with a feint of shame. He pathetically fell to one knee, avoiding eye contact.
"My most," he paused, "humble apologies, your highness."
I closed my eyes, regaining my calm charade.
"Get out of my sight," I commanded.
I sighed, knowing that I would not hear the end of it were he to leave angry at me. It would bode ill for me were I to piss of every noble within Denerim. I was high on the way to doing so.
Again, I sighed.
"You shall be issued a new servant to fill the elf's place, but it is she that shall receive the compensation money. She shall receive such for being unjustly released from her current job for doing naught but defending herself. Have your guards bring her to the coffer's to speak with my treasurer."
He glared his eyes at me, but said nothing more on the matter.
Maybe I could've handled that a lot better, but I found that I didn't care.
"You're dismissed," I issued formally.
By the Maker's Balls, whilst he's at degrading the status of Denerim's elves in my own castle, he might as well mock the Grey Wardens, spit on Ferelden's slave-turned-Warden hero, and scrutinise my choice of not having taken a wife after being on the throne for near five years. I didn't wish to talk to him for a moment longer lest he unknowingly touch upon yet another sensitive topic in his noble obnoxiousness. I don't think I'd be able to take any more.
With haste, he rose from his kneeling position, offering a clipped bow; as forced as it was mocking. With hurried steps that echoed throughout the now quiet chamber, he retreated from my smouldering gaze.
With a fake smile of mirth, I fell back atop that of my intolerably uncomfortable throne. With a shake of my head I admitted another smile that did not reach my eyes. It never did.
"Well, that was fun," I said sarcastically.
I was offered no reply from that of the numerous royal guards that stood vigilantly within the room. With a crestfallen sigh, the all too familiar feeling of aloneness crept in once again. I always felt alone here, despite the apparent hustle and bustle of my castle and the guards that stood but a few feet from me, ready to follow through with my every whim.
I'd never felt more alone than I did as the king of an entire country of people.
As loud as it was sudden, a commotion sounded from the entrance of the castle. Voices called out in warning, and the metallic hiss of swords being released from their sheaths rang clearly.
Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I felt my smile grow at the prospect of a fight of sorts, anything more than simply sitting here.
I made to rise from my current position once more.
Before I could stand, however, a lithe figure bounded within the room, several guards shadowing him, their weapons drawn.
My guest in question, however, seemed unfazed by such unwelcoming reception. Andastre's tight perky arse, he seemed more amused than anything. What an odd reaction to being surrounded by nearing on ten guards. The only person I know that would react like that is…
Then I recognised him; his sleek blond hair tied away from his face, a simple decorative braid hanging loose, flawless tanned skin, dagger-sharp ears…
I didn't know what reaction to give upon my old comrade's unexpected arrival. I found myself feeling a well of thankfulness and hope rise within me. It was the very same feeling I received whenever news of my past companions found me.
It gave me hope knowing they were all okay, that they had found peace in their own lives. Most of all, it gave me hope thinking that they might one day come bearing news of a new danger which would regrettably steal me away from my position atop the throne for at least a short time.
It was selfish, but I had thought that every hero got happy endings. What wrong had I done to not deserve mine? I'd been unjustly cheated of my happy ending. Maker and all his prophets be damned.
"Zevran," I greeted.
I gave the new arrival a smirk and a curt nod.
Upon noting my reaction to the obviously Antivian stranger, the guards stood down, if not a little lamentably. They did, however, keep their weapons tightly in hand as they returned to their given posts.
"Ah, my king," Zevran gave a mocking flourish of a bow, mirth clear in his light brown eyes. "It would seem that kingliness does not suit you quite as well as I'd expected. A shame you do not wear the crown more often though, that ―if I do recall correctly― brought out your eyes rather flatteringly."
I hid my thankfulness at the fact that he still treated me much the same with a show of sarcasm.
"True, the throne is somewhat of a nuisance, yet I cannot help but revel in the fact that I can throw whoever I wish into prison with but a snap of my royal fingers."
"Why? When you could do such more fulfilling things with said fingers, no? At least, that is what our previous leader used to say with a twinkle in her merry eyes."
An uncomfortable cough sounded from one of the guards, whilst others looked on in either confusion or looks of shock akin to beached fish.
I simply shook my head, a dry smirk returning to my lips.
Not that I didn't appreciate some fresh company, but it would be foolish of me to think that he was simply here for a social call. Last I'd heard he was travelling through Antiva in search of The Crows. He'd been accompanied by the previously mentioned Grey Warden; our fearless leader, Nallia Amell.
I'd never quite understood why she enjoyed the assassin's company. By the Maker, I'd never even understood why she tolerated him, let alone called him friend. I'd understood why she'd chosen to leave with him, however. I understood why she would not ―could not― lead Denerim's army, as I'd hopefully offered to her. Upon my naming of king I'd pushed her away, and she'd retaliated in kind, seeking willing comfort elsewhere.
I'd learnt the hard way that time did not heal all wounds, contrary to popular belief.
Something that did not add up, however, was the apparent lack of the said Warden. I hadn't heard news of the two parting ways. If such a thing were to have happened I'd surely have heard of it. Gossip within Denerim travelled like wild fire on lithium. Plus I'd kept a trained ear out, even to this day, about any news concerning her.
I hid my curiosity as best I could, but upon looking over Zevran's shoulder in hopes of catching some clue as to her whereabouts, he smirked knowingly.
I'd been caught out.
I gave a sheepish smirk.
"I guess I shall cut straight to the chase, hmm? You are obviously busy, what with sitting on a throne looking important. It must be tiring, I'm sure," Zevran mocked.
More beached fish expressions from my guards.
I chuckled lightly, shaking my head as a relaxed sensation took over me in reply to our casual banter.
"You have no idea," I replied feinting earnestly. "You loose feeling in your arse and if you curl your legs up under you the feeling in them goes away instead. So I am left with the choice of forgoing the feeling in either my arse or both my legs. Whoever thought being a king would be filled with such difficult decisions?"
The elf offered a small chuckle.
"I'm sure," he said. "Now, before I forget why it is that I've graced you with my wonderful presence, I really do insist we find somewhere more private to talk."
Usually I would have jokingly insinuated some form of innuendo upon being asked to converse in private with someone, but the look of seriousness that had befallen the elf told me that this was no joking matter.
I found myself frowning in reply to his sudden change in demeanour.
"Of course," I replied simply. "I'll show you to my chambers. We shall have some privacy there."
I rose from my place atop the throne, groaning earnestly. I'd bested dark spawn, Oghren's home brewed ale, dragons, and archdemons alike. Nothing pained me more than sitting atop that damnable seat. I rubbed at my backside, hoping to return feeling to it.
The Antivian assassin raised a perfectly arched eyebrow in reply to my action, a roguish smile creeping upon his thin lips.
"Do you require some help with that?" he asked innocently.
My hands immediately stilled in their rubbing motions and the gaping of the guard's continued.
This time I mimicked the reaction of the guards as I second-guessed the decision of talking to him alone in my chambers.
The feeling was quick to be replaced with amusement, however.
What was the world coming to? I'd even missed the damn assassin and his open-mindedness, regardless of how incessantly ill placed his attention sometimes was.
"Before we leave, can I have a spoiler? The suspense is simply killing me," I pressed. "Quickly, before I become the first king to ever die of means other than poison or battle. I don't wish to forever be known as 'Alistair: That guy who managed to die from suspense,' you know," I made a flourish in the air before me as I ranted. "I promised myself a long time ago that I would never bear that title."
I walked down the few steps that led to my throne towards the elf in question. He bore an amused smile, but shook his head apologetically.
"It's about Nallia, I shall tell you that much," he admitted, "More than that I shall not say here."
I felt my chest constrict painfully at the mention of her name. I thought of her often, true, but for five long years I hadn't heard her name said aloud. It was always 'The Hero of Ferelden' this, or 'Our Grey Lady' that. Her name being spoken aloud sounded foreign to my ears. The small flutter in my stomach and the well of despair that followed, however, was something I was all too accustomed to.
"Suspense, we meet again," I muttered.