Companion piece to 'The Grey Commander', which is the same story told in Alistair's POV
Disclaimer: Bioware owns all characters, lore, settings.
King of Me
It might very well be nothing. It might very well be everything, but by the Maker, Commander of the Grey Neria Surana told herself, she would remind Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden who she was and what he so 'dutifully' discarded.
The abruptness of their separation, the manner in which he told her they simply could not be grated so constantly on her spirit, jangled her nerves into a dissonant note, sent magic tingling dangerously to her fingertips in an urge to shoot lightning strong and true into his pretentious and ornamental armor.
He still rankled her, he still annoyed her, he still made her feel unraveled and unworthy, but still, she could not deny the low hum of pleasure and escitement of seeing him again.
She even read books on the damn subject. First love. Love spurned. Breaking up. Moving on.
Being dumped.
She flirted, or, she hoped it was flirting and not some sort of embarrassed attempt at flattery and coyness, and she hoped what she heard were responses. From Anders it flowed so freely she wasn't sure if it was flirting or normal. From Nathaniel, it was gentlemanly nod, a lingering kiss on her fingertips or a gallant bow and flourish of manners, she felt like a sodding Queen, and it made her remember him more, made her think of what could have been.
She was that naïve. Back then.
Nothing helped, no understanding was arrived at, no insight inspired, no catharsis to be had.
And this was after she had dispatched the Sloth Demon, Gaxkang, Ser Cauthrein, the Archdemon, the Architect and the Mother. Was there no moment of clarity, moment of peace, even within the midst of Grey Wardening, of being the Hero of Ferelden, of being the Arlessa…of…arling Amaranthine?
It dragged on for so long, this dejection, this hatred, that she actually found it funny and pathetic. She pitied herself and cursed her inability to get over his smile, his voice, his broad chest and narrow hips, his battle stance and even his smite.
It was ridiculous and she wished to be rid of it.
But it seemed that it did not wish to be rid of her at all, and her attachment to him, the memory of him, the idea of him, won out over her desire to be free of him.
Even now, a whole Hall of people away from him, separated by nobles, guards, servants, Wardens and even a few mabari, she could feel where he was, find him instantaneously not because of the glorious golden armor, but simply because she knew him so thoroughly that it was second nature.
She was always so good at everything she did.
Including loving him. She was so good, she couldn't stop, even if she wanted to.
She cursed, she raged, she stamped her foot (all in her head, of course), and smiled sweetly at Arl Teagan who kept touching her arm, tucking her hair behind her ear.
She was insouciant about it, but the Arl seemed to be enjoying himself, so she let him, if only to keep her occupied. There was no thrill, no heat in the wake of his fingers, even with all the wine she drank. He was also almost twice her age, and she almost felt like it was her father who did all those things.
"Commander."
"Please excuse me, Teagan." She ran her hand down the sleeve of his doublet placatingly. Thank the Maker. "Yes, Oghren?"
"He's coming this way."
"Hm?" she hummed, half-distracted, as she already saw Nathaniel coming right towards her, his face all a-brood and ominous.
"I said. He's. Coming. This. Way."
"Oh, I can see that, Oghren. He looks furious. What did I do this time? Or was it you? Did you vandalize his father's portrait like you did last month?"
"Not him, elf. Pike-twirler. He's plowing through nobles like a bronto in rutting season."
At this she narrowed her eyes, and indeed, saw the King of Ferelden fixing her with a fierce glare she had only seen him give Morrigan, long ago, when he thought he was about to be swooped on.
Then the gaze shifted to the King's own Uncle, who was abruptly taking his leave, walking backwards and waving half-heartedly to some other noble.
Suddenly, Alistair was in Teagan's place, his massive armor blocking the view of everything in front of her, and she took a long drag of her wine.
Andraste's ass, she needed to get out of here. They'd never spoken since the siege on Amaranthine, and she'd never answered a single letter. She couldn't, not with the tone he used, so innocent, so full of good intent. She could not trust herself to reply in the same tone or in anything less than a scornful bitch.
A hush fell over the vicinity, and most of the nobles moved away, feigning conversation, all peripheral vision centered on the King and the Warden Commander.
She knew it. It was a bad idea to come. It was a bad idea to drink wine. She couldn't remind Alistair who she was or what he had lost, she couldn't even remind herself what time it was, or where the privy could be. She wasn't ready for this. At all.
She wondered how far Weisshaupt was, and if Anders could be trusted to not run naked around the Keep more than twice a month after challenging Oghren to a drinking contest the night before. Between Varel and Nathaniel, there was nothing short of another Blight that the steward and the Howe could not handle.
She looked up to see the King looming, positively glowering at her, his hazel eyes alight with undisguised outrage.
"Your Majesty." She said, evenly, acknowledging him rather impertinently with another sip of her wine.
"Commander." This Alistair gritted out, and she knew his hands were clenching. She could hear the metal at his fingers.
"Yes?" she put her glass away, and smiled sweetly up at him. It was the only thing she could do that did not involve offensive magic.
"We have to talk." The King lowered his voice and suddenly grasped her elbow. Lightly.
"We can talk here." She replied evenly, his touch inspiring her treacherous knees to tremble and her heart to quiver, but she hoped her face betrayed nothing.
"No. We can't. Not about…" he gestured with his other hand, and the gesture was so dismissive, so kingly, she found that little hateful Neria deep inside her scream bloody murder. She held on to it like a weapon to wield, like a demon to vanquish, like a darkspawn throat to throttle, like a broodmother to slaughter. It cemented her heart in its place and stopped the trembling in her knees so quickly she thought she might kick him in the shin.
Oddly, she heard Loghain's voice deep in the back of her mind and saw his cold, blue eyes look approvingly at her.
You're beautiful for a Warden. And a mage. You don't have to belong, you forge your own way. You put Kings on their thrones and Teyrns under your thumb. I have known only one other woman who could match your strength, she stood as tall as I, and yet you would hardly reach her own shoulders. You are made for this. I have been waiting for someone to tell me what to do for so long, tell me the right thing before I could even think it, and I have found it, this late in my life, and for that I am grateful to you, Warden Neria.
"About what, Your Majesty?" she never knew she could muster that much venom in her voice. She really should thank Nathaniel for that.
His frustrated groan made her smile, a small, wry, careful smile, that she knew would set him on edge and give her a way to get out of this conversation and safely within the circle of her Wardens. Where were they?
A hand behind her found the one she was hiding, and the callused fingertips told her it was Nathaniel. It squeezed, she squeezed back, hard as she could, and let go.
"May we speak privately, Commander?" he said it in exactly the same tone she did, and she felt the hatred and the months come upon her as adequate shields. For once, in his presence after that fateful Landsmeet, she felt she could match the hurt he had inflicted, if only by the look in her eyes.
She did not bother to hide her disdain and suspicion. She hoped it made him scared. She hoped he feared for his life.
She turned to Nathaniel, who she knew was behind her, as well to Anders, whose scent of cologne and lyrium announced his presence. She posed a silent question, insolently, not deigning the King of Ferelden a reply before she consulted her Wardens, her boys, her dexterous bow and her apostate healer.
Nathaniel searched for something in her face, and apparently found it, for he smiled a slow, sly smile, so Rendon, so Howe, and she smiled back.
"Well here's the pretty girl and the warm meal. Say the word Commander, and the fool gets the lightning." Anders whispered in her delicate ear, mouth brushing the arc, deliberate and seductive. "We'd have to run like the darkspawn after the Blight, of course, all the way to Rivain, even, but I wouldn't mind one bit."
She wanted to kiss them both. Why had she not moved on already?
"Neria." Alistair said again, heavily, more urgently, his voice finally betraying him in its low whisper. He was as mad as she was, only she didn't know what he could be possibly furious at. He broke up with her, he was the King.
"Of course, your Majesty. Forgive my manners…and my Wardens…" she drawled the last bit out in a breathy sigh, full of thrilling promise, meant for Nathaniel and Anders. "Lead the way, I will be happy to oblige you not only as the King of Ferelden but also…a brother."
Alistair nodded curtly and pushed his way past Nathaniel, Anders, Oghren (who belched loudly with a mutter of 'sodding pike-twirler'), cutting a clear line back towards the throne and the dais.
She followed, flipping her hair over her shoulders. She glanced back at the two human males who came to her rescue, and audaciously blew them a kiss.
Then, turning to see the King's golden armor in front of her, she cast a small spell to erase the remnants of alcohol in her.
For this, there would be no enchantment save those she could wield with her eyes and her lips. There would be no mercy, no quarter, no subject too taboo, no issue too sensitive. He sought her out, he and his ridiculous armor, his magnificent gait and barely-restrained strength, his anger and his uncertainty. She would give him no ground to stand on, and make sure he knew what he had done and what he could never do again.
She wanted to remember this moment. She wanted this moment to erase everything else about Alistair in her mind but for this one moment, he as a King and she as a Commander. He as the discarder and she as the discarded. He as regretful and she as utterly irreproachable.
She would remind him who made him King in the first place, whether he liked it or not, and she would remind him, in her eyes now, he wasn't King of Anything.
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