Author's Note (1/25/19):
This is a sequel to "Bright Things". This was written post-Inquisition. This work assumes all origins are valid but not necessarily simultaneous, and that most of them could not have survived without Duncan's interference. This is not a "multi-Warden" fic.
Warnings for: a child bride, pregnancy, eating disorders caused by the Taint, mages with agency, templars on leashes, Alistair and Zevran butting heads, Sten's artistic side, an abundance of Howes, magical medicine, a plague
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Please enjoy, and if you do, leave a review! This story is also available on ao3.
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Necessary Evils
by brightlin
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Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —
- Emily Dickinson
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Part One : The Mirror Cracking
Chapter One : Queen (Elissa)
The woman pulled the wide hood of her cloak up over the crest of her head, and felt the thick black wool drape around her ears. The wool was warm, but not as warm as the soft sealskin she kept in her trunk. Wynda's cloak stank of death; it was unseemly among civilized company. Elissa found she preferred it. The autumn wind picked up, and carried with it the smell of burning refuse in the dry brown fields, black smoke from chimney fires, and wet rot. Her horse, a gray filly, crunched through the thick leaves on the road. She rode side-saddle, with the folds of her dress hanging over the edge of her fine Orlesian boots.
Naturally, it was all a farce.
Moira Theirin had once known how to wear all the faces of a rebel queen— knight in gleaming armor, sage, orator, general, delicate woman— and how to switch between them imperceptibly. Perhaps the roles had not been quite so contradictory in her time. In Orlais, Lissa thought ruefully, they did this much more sensibly. A mask for every role. The Warden would wear a mask of burnished silver, etched with the lines of fine feathers. It would cover her lips, smooth over every hint of deception, make every word ring true. The Warden never doubted herself, never second-guessed, never worried if others would see how she shook in her boots.
The mask of Lady Cousland would be made of crystal, delicate and cracked up the middle. Distorting her features but concealing nothing. Every day the crack split a little wider.
The wind passed through the folds of Lissa's fancy clothes, rending her into a paper doll.
Elissa had been about nine years old when she first stood in the royal palace before the painting of the Queen. It was a massive undertaking; the canvas was six feet high and nine feet long, and covered most of a wall in the gallery. The woman in the painting had a severe countenance, beautiful but terrifying, which reminded young Lissa of no one more than her own mother. With good cause— all likenesses of the real Moira had been destroyed by the Usurper Meghren. Another sat for King Maric's commission. Fenella Mac Eanraig, née Theirin, had more than a cursory resemblance to her sovereign cousin. The two as girls had passed for twins— the same waves of blonde curls, the same piercing blue eyes, the same strong Theirin jaw.
The artist had taken several liberties with his work. For one thing, Lissa found it highly unlikely that Moira had ever used a Tevinter chariot in battle. For another, Moira had been given fiery red hair. Lissa had not known Moira, or even her own grandmother Fenella, but she did know that detail was wrong.
History always forgot the details. But it remembered the victors.
At nine, the inaccuracies had annoyed her practical girlhood sensibilities. At eleven, she had sat before it with her sketchbook and tried to copy the lines of her armor. At thirteen, she began to see herself in Moira's face, a mirror in the paint.
Her father was a member of the king's private council. More often than not, Elissa came to Moira's gallery to hide.
"Hello," said a voice— familiar but not familiar— from behind her. "No, I didn't mean to startle you. Don't get up, child."
Lissa warred with herself internally, unable to decide between her obligation to stand in the king's presence and his command to stay seated. She tried to speak, but found herself terribly tongue-tied. "Your Majesty," she abruptly burbled, lowering her head as a flush of scarlet shame shot across her cheeks.
Maric smiled behind his neatly trimmed beard. "Whom are you hiding from today, Lady Elissa?"
"How did you know?!" she asked, mouth falling open. She wondered how it could be that the King of Ferelden would know her secret. Was it possible that he really knew everything?
He threw up his hands in a charmingly disarming fashion. "I must confess. Ser Elric told everything." Ser Elric Maraigne was the knight stationed outside the gallery on that day, with his nose deep in a book. Evidently, she had not had passed him by unnoticed.
Conscious that the king had asked her a direct question, Lissa spoke. "Anora wants to dress me up. But I'm not a baby any more. I'm too old for that game." Self consciously, she tucked her ratty strands of red hair behind her shoulder. She'd lost her ribbons. Again.
Maric laughed. "I've heard you'd rather play swords."
"I'm not playing, exactly. I'm very good," Lissa explained earnestly, "In Highever, all the boys want to spar with me. But here, Fergus and Cailan tell me I have to stay with Anora, and do what she wants." Oh Andraste, hearing it out loud did make her sound like a bitty bairn. Here she was, a grown girl only months away from her debut ball. Her white satin ballgown was nearly complete, her engagement to Nate Howe assured, her dancing shoes on order from Antiva City, and still she was sitting here in the dusty corridor, sniffling to her King about an older girl picking on her. Mother would wallop her for sure. "Please don't tell my parents I said that."
Maric heard her hiccup in distress. "A king's promise, my lady." He held his easy smile, ever gallant, and turned to the larger-than-life portrait of his mother before them. "You come here often," he noted.
"She looks like my mother."
The king started, and let out a bark of surprised laughter. "I suppose it does look something like Eleanor. Or Nell," he added, referring to her mother's twin. "You know, I never noticed." He stepped closer, and touched the canvas with two fingers, right along the shadow of Moira's jaw.
"It's wrong." Lissa frowned. "The artist did it wrong. She's meant to be blonde."
Maric hummed, with his back to her. His pale blond hair was worn long. Usually when she saw him in court it fell around his shoulders, but this time it was tied back in a tail. 'Must need a wash,' she thought, and silently tittered over the image of His Royal Majesty, naked in a bathtub, with the foam layered up to his neck.
People said he was handsome. In her limited experience, people said plenty of things. But they did hang pictures of him in their houses, from when he was younger. Before he'd grown out that silly, pointed beard. Lissa didn't much see the point of it. Maric was still lean and muscular, and did not need to cover up a softening jawline or double chin. The yellow beard, a shade darker than his hair, just made him look old. Perhaps it was supposed to make him look dignified. But if that was the case, he shouldn't stomp around the palace wearing threadbare velvet tunics with stains all down the front.
Twelve years he'd been like that, almost her whole life. Since the terribly sad death of Queen Rowan, her Nan said. Once he had even gone down into the Deep Roads with the Grey Wardens, which everyone knew was a death sentence, but had come back alive.
"I can't tell anymore," Maric admitted softly, mostly to himself. "I don't remember what she looked like. I've spent half my life without her now." He swallowed, and lifted his hand from the glossy canvas. "At the very least we can say it's a very expensive portrait of your grandmother, little pup."
Lissa bit her lip, sorry that she had made the king sad. "Do you want to know why I come here, every visit to Denerim?"
Maric turned to look over his shoulder. "Yes, I think I do."
"I think… I think someday that will be me. Not the queen, that's Anora's job. But… I'm meant to be an arlessa. In Amarantine City." She flushed. "You know that. I mean, your majesty."
"I follow," he nodded.
"People will depend on me. I come here and I wonder, how did she do it? H-How do you do it?"
"A thoughtful question," Maric replied, looking contemplative. "Believe it or not, the fact that you worry is a good sign."
"Da says that."
"I'm sure he does. The first thing you must know is that a ruler in Ferelden is a servant of the people. Remember this and you'll be better loved than any Orlesian noble." His bright blue eyes lit up from some joke she did not quite follow. "The Valmonts think think they tax in the Maker's name. But we Theirins know better." She opened her mouth to protest, but he gently continued, "Yes, you can be a Theirin and a Cousland both. They are not so different, pup. That is the second thing you must know. A ruler surrounds themself with people who are much wiser than they."
"But you are ever so wise!"
He laughed. "Maybe. Loghain would tell you that I wasn't, in the beginning. How old are you now?"
"Thirteen, going on fourteen." She caught herself picking at an ink-stained cuticle. "But, um, I'm meant to marry Nate when I turn sixteen."
"You like this boy?"
"Your Majesty?"
"I thought to ask," he sighed, waving her concern away. "I hope Master Nathaniel is quite... different from his lord father?"
She shrugged, but a smile broke across her lips. "Yes."
"Fine, fine." His expression became distracted, as he gazed across the hills in the painting to a dark castle crowded close to the sky. "Do not let Anora bully you so."
"You'd do better telling Cailan that."
"Such cheek."
"Elissa," someone said.
"Your Majesty?" she repeated absentmindedly, lulled by the rhythm of her horse.
"I'll have none of that now," Alistair snorted. He adjusted the reins in his left fist to match pace with her. "You look like you're about to drop off the side. Should we stop and set camp?"
She coughed into the back of her glove. "No, I'm fine. I was daydreaming."
They had set a grueling pace from Ostagar back to Redcliffe. Once there they had bathed and changed and mounted fresh horses. He'd stepped away to shave before the glass and returned to find her sleeping in the cooling bathwater. More than anything, she needed rest, but she had learned to live without it. Nearly. Almost.
"What about? Let me guess. A warm bedroll? Lissie, another half mile and you'll be cracking your head on the ground like an egg. And Uncle Teagan will blame me for certain."
"No. It was… your father, actually."
Alistair grimaced. "That's it. We're stopping."
"But we still have the light!"
"Then we'll hunt. Show me how you can hunt in a dress," he said teasingly, and turned his horse off the road. With a long-suffering sigh, she followed him into the woods. Beyond the first copse of trees was a suitable clearing with a decent windbreak of thicket on all sides, and a narrow trench of fresh water for the horses. Really, one could not ask for a better campsite. There was evidence that others had been there two days past— trampled grass, cold ashes— but no clear sign of whom they might have been. Alistair tied up the horses for the night, while she picked around in the remnants.
Lissa's dress was too valuable a prop to be damaged tramping around in the brush after small game, grouse or pheasant or rabbit or nug, whatever it was that lived here. It was inky black, the color of mourning, the color of the stains on her fingers no matter how hard she scrubbed. Damn thing. Might as well have been white, the way it showed the mud. The skirt was gathered and stiff, and the waist was quite fitted from her hips to her bust, as was the Fereldan fashion. At least there was no corset; she'd never been able to ride for long with boning crushing her ribs. The high collar made her feel like she was slowly strangling.
There were a good deal fewer buttons down the back than there should have been. Morrigan apparently disliked finishing buttonholes, and so had placed only five large fastenings down the back, rather than the standard line of miniscule buttons which required the assistance of a second pair of hands. Thank the Maker for Morrigan's sensibilities overriding Leliana's vision. Lissa slipped her hands under her cloak and with a little squirming managed the fastenings one by one. It drooped, but mostly held its shape, even as she tugged it from the wrists. The cloth was thoroughly darted and starched. Another moment and she stepped out of it, clothed only in her smalls, her wool cloak, and her boots.
Alistair's eyes went as wide as the moons. "What are you doing?" he asked, with a fixed stare upon her breasts. She coughed pointedly. He flushed, realizing he'd been caught looking, and tried his best to keep his eyes on hers. Bless him. His neck was even red. "Why are you—" He bit off the word, "—naked?" Still waiting for lightning to strike him, apparently.
"I cannot hunt in this dress. I only have the one; Leli took the other one ahead. If I tear it, she and Morrigan might murder me."
"Well, you'll— you'll freeze!" He rushed forward and slipped his arms around her, using his own cloak to shield her. He was wearing one of Teagan's cast off shirts, which was too tight around Alistair's broad chest and shoulders, and so she could vaguely see the outline of his muscles. He was warm, just his… proximity. Like an aura of heat.
He never could hide his embarrassed arousal. She could read the signs on him like an open book. The flame of his skin, the way his thighs clenched when he tried to disguise an erection. Shy, naive, polite, terribly eager to please. It was one of the things she loved about him.
It was a shame she would have to teach him how to to lie with his body language, not just his tongue. His face was too emotive. But there would be time for that later. She craned her neck upward to kiss him with apology. No good to make him suffer. "What did you bring to wear?" he asked, only pulling his mouth half-away from hers, so that it came out mumbled. She can feel his hardness graze her belly.
"Nothing. Well, socks," she admitted. "One of your shirts. And those horrendous plaidweave leggings Sten bought for Morrigan. She tried to feed them to the dog."
"Mmph. Fashionable." His mouth kissed down her jaw and alit upon her ear like a hot little butterfly. Her stomach began to turn in funny flips.
"I was in a hurry, and Leliana packed all my good things. I should have asked Marla, come to think," she said, referring to the elven apothecary-in-training. "She's the only one who's really my size." Lissa's hands snaked their way under his shirt.
"Fuck," Alistair hissed, more in annoyance than arousal. "Your hands are like ice."
She laughed. "Warm them for me?" She playfully slipped one hand under the waist of his breeches.
"No!" he huffed, as a shiver shook through his shoulders. "Don't touch me there. You'll freeze it off." Still, his hips rolled forward against her hand.
"No?" she queried, amused.
Alistair looked conflicted. His hand wandered up her ribs, coming dangerously close to brushing the peak of her breast. "I'll probably regret this. Daft woman. Wearing nothing but a damn cloak in autumn." His cock seemed to burn under her cool touch, and when she grasped the shaft, he groaned in equal parts pleasure and agony. "You should let me set up the tent," he hedged, giving an experimental thrust into her hand. "I'm not doing it out here in the leaves. People might see. The horses might see."
"I thought you'd always wanted your lampost licked in winter," she smirked, waggling her eyebrows.
"That was a metaphor. I was being metaphorical," he protested, reaching down to unlace his breeches. His nostrils flared with every breath, and his lip curled up just a little. There it was. That tiny feral edge behind his charming good-boy templar manners which took her breath away.
They never made it to the tent.
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"You've got leaves in your hair," he noticed lazily, with a pleased, sated look on his face. He reached out and plucked something from the tangled mass she called hair.
Her hair was not styled in any sense of the word, but it was washed and combed and tied into a sloppy lump behind her ears, so it was better than it usually was. She envied Leliana's stick-straight ginger hair, always braided perfectly; Solona's waterfall of raven hair, coiled into beautiful shapes; even Morrigan's brown-black tresses, which fell as perfumed waves when she unpinned them at the end of the day.
Oriana— in this moment it only hurt a little to think of her dear sister-in-law— Oriana had this special cream, and once a week she would sit Elissa down and soak her hair in a basin of hot water, apply the stuff with a comb, and rinse it with iced water. It stank, almost eye-wateringly, of roses, to cover the smell of lye. Some sort of Rivaini invention, popular with Antivan women, to make hair soft and glossy. Lissa did not even know the name to find it again.
A week after Oriana died, Elissa cut her hair off. Two feet of curly hair spattered into the dust. Duncan had watched her with a strange expression, almost amused, but made no commentary. Somewhere near the Maker's bosom, her mother wailed in horror. They had powdered and perfumed her, soaked her skin in lemon and her hair in lye, varnished her bitten off fingernails and shaped her boyish frame with padded corsets to make her a lady perfect for Lord Nathaniel Howe and yet—
She was shorn-haired and freckled and Alistair loved her in spite of it. (And Nate had never cared.) So what was it all for? What was the point in being a woman?
"You're a million miles away again," Alistair observed, crushing the dried-up leaf in his fist. "Not still thinking about Maric, I hope." He teased, but there was an edge of worry in his eyes.
"No. I was thinking that you love me."
"I do." He smiled. It was nice. His pupils were large in the waning light. "Feeling sentimental, my dear?"
"I suppose I am. It's been a long while since we did this." She blinked. "How long, do you think?"
"Three, maybe four weeks."
She sat up. "Ah, shit."
Alistair's eyebrows shot up. "What?"
"I forgot… I haven't taken. Leliana's potion, I mean. I haven't taken it since the last time we had sex."
"Oh." He swallowed. "Maybe it doesn't matter?"
"Doesn't matter? Of course it matters! I can't have a baby during a Blight! I'm the fucking Warden!" She lept to her feet, dragging her cloak behind her. It was all wet up the backside from the damp earth. Her smalls were still wrapped around one ankle, stripping her of the last of her dignity. 'Shit. SHIT,' she thought. Something wet drooled down her thigh, cooling in the air.
Alistair followed her up, tucking himself back inside his breeches as he went. Maker's breath. "Lis. Lissie. Don't panic." He reached out to comfort her, but apparently thought better of it when she whipped around to look at him. His hands hung stupidly in the air.
"Of course I'm going to bloody well panic, Alistair. Of all the stupid…"
"Wardens can't have children," he blurted.
"What? No. Why?"
"It's just something… they told me. I should have told you. I meant to tell you. Um, one Warden yes, two Wardens no."
"Why?" she repeated, trying to cut through his nervous chatter.
"I… You see, they only told me to make fun. Because I was a templar, and a… a virgin." He managed to say the word without turning totally pink. "I was too… I couldn't… I didn't ask the specifics."
"I see."
"There weren't any female Wardens in Ferelden, anyway. There was an elf, um, Tamarel, before me. She was the only one. At the time I thought—" his eyes widened as he remembered. "Nevermind what I thought, I was being a prick. Obviously, there are female Wardens."
There was a buzzing sound, growing to a soft roar. Her ears were ringing, she recognized belatedly. For an astounding second, she thought she could hear the voice of a child on the road. She spun in that direction— nothing. Bleed-through from the soulbind. Alistair's garden. He was still talking. Lissa couldn't really hear him. He was apologizing, tripping over his own tongue.
"Stop," she said, raising her fist to cut him off. Maker, she wanted to hit him. It would not help things, but she might feel better. "I need to tell you something."