A Blighted Icosalogue, a dragon age fanfic

A Blighted Εἰκοσάλόγος

Major-General Lewalt has broken his share of bad news in his time (though never to a cadet so young, or so high-born). He has seen tears and indignation, has seen callousness and incomprehension. But that never makes it easier. "Listen, cadet," he sighs, "there's no easy way to put this." Slowly, gently, he tells her what has happened. That she wouldn't go home these Saturnalia, and that there are some gentlemen from the National Intelligence Service waiting in the corridor to ask her some very pointed questions about high treason. She stands in front of his desk, her uniform pristine and smooth and her back as straight as a flagpole, staring at the portrait of the king on the wall behind him. A twitch goes through her chest as she struggles to contain her breaths. A lip quavers. When she speaks, her voice is almost calm. "I understand, ser," she says, as if he hadn't just destroyed her life. "I will cooperate with their inquiries to the best of my abilities." She hesitates and for but a moment he can see fear slipping through Cadet Cousland's cold eyes. "Will that be all, ser?"

He tells her about the warden outside.

She takes the tainted sacrament, she girds herself in armour, she goes into battle with no complaints. She knows her duty. She did not choose it for herself: but one never does. Duty is imposed, not chosen.

She treats with her comrade, grating though she finds him. There is not a serious bone in his body, and his wit deflects responsibility as well as the plates of his armour deflect Darkspawn musket shot. She makes no effort to disguise her disdain; he wouldn't have made it a week at the Academy. Monosyllables serve her well these days. As he prattles on, she fantasises about the day their joint assignment will be over and she will be able to request a transfer to a different partner. But to fight alongside him is her duty, so she has his back when they lead attacks out of the trenches at Ostagar, and he has hers. Darkspawn gore, mud, and blood coat their armour by the end of each day, and as they sit together cleaning the motors and the electronics she tolerates his buffoonery with strained courtesy. Because he is her comrade and her brother, and she owes that duty to his uniform.

From one day to the other, the line at Ostagar collapses. She doesn't quite know what, precisely, happened. One moment, she is contemplating a dinner invitation from the king, the next her armour is throwing up error messages as the ogre moves to crush her in its fist. When the roof of the abandoned theatre collapses over their heads, courtesy of some Darkspawn magic no doubt, she doesn't know if it's their armour or the witch from the wilds who saves their lives.

The king, she learns, is dead, his armies scattered and broken. Her teeth clench at the thought of General Mac Tir moving his divisions north, leaving thousands to fend their way back behind Fereldan lines on their own, when he should have given his life rather than surrender but one metre of sacred Fereldan soil. She remembers what her father had once told her when, fresh from the Academy, she'd gushed about the general. Blood and breeding beget honour in a way that martial deeds never can.

She listens to the crackling radio. Orlais is watching the situation closely. Images of mushroom clouds flash through her mind. For the first time in her life, she is afraid.

The witch's company is, in some ways, refreshing. Here is someone who does not mince words, who does not wear her heart on her non-existent sleeve. Here is also someone who wastes all her energy on bickering with Alistair; who delights in inefficiencies and who is, above all, an apostate. At first, she has to struggle against the cadet captain in her, who wants to do her duty and report the witch to the proper authorities. She has given a promise, even if it was ill-conceived, and her word was her bond.

When they arrive in Lothering, and are immediately confronted by a pair of very polite gendarmes, she realises that the parameters have changed. There's something about wearing half a ton of powered armour that keeps them from trying to arrest them, and good thing too—she'd have been obliged to go along with them. "They are fools to think they could compel us," the witch sneers grandly as they leave, "Is it wise to leave them alive to report back to their masters?"

She grinds her teeth and marches onwards. Her involuntary companions may have no comprehension of decorum, upright behaviour or duty, but they are tolerable company.

She doesn't know what to make of the sister when she somehow worms her way into their company. Friars aren't meant to move like that, warm breath over ice, and are not meant to smile like that, as if every sentence were a secret joke. They are not meant to quote films everyone but her seems to have seen, or to break their ways into a bank's database here, a news website there, and steal what money, documents and information they require to move on from Lothering. They aren't meant to be anything like that. But Leliana's voice is rich with earnest devotion, and soon she finds her attached to her armoured side like a spider. Do this, she says, try that, she says, and more often than not she does that and tries this and finds that, actually, it's not as bad as she thought. It would not do to let standards slip, she tells her when she finds the sister huddled over laptop and cold pizza one evening,, one had to have some dignity. And the spider grins that silky grin of hers and says, yes, but had she ever played a little something called World of Warriors?

"This shan't do at all. One must maintain some standards."

That was what the scary lady had said, and that was why His Honour Judge Fulbright of the Lothering Crown Court now found himself dressed in a colleague's ill-fitting robe and wig, hearing R v Sten in a town that would imminently be consumed by darkspawn. He glanced at the jury—police officers from this station that had been too slow in fleeing Lothering—not exactly a jury of the defendant's peers, but no one would have been able to find seven Qunari under such circumstances. None of them looked any more happy about this than he was.

"Has the—has the jury made a decision?" In truth, the only people in the office-slash-courtroom who appeared entirely unperturbed were the armoured lady herself and the defendant.

"Uh," the presiding juror made. "Guilty?"

"Are you sure?" the scary lady asked. He hadn't the faintest idea if that was supposed to be a threat or not, and didn't care to find out.

"No? We, er—not guilty, of course! Not guilty. Is that right?"

Tutting, the lady shook her head. "Truly? If that's hwat you say … Qunari—will you join us?"

Somehow, she'd always known that this one would end in disaster. How many mages were still alive, out of the hundreds that had once called the country's largest Circle their home? Fifty? Thirty? Too few to rebuild, too few to be of any use. She's always respected mages, from the visiting scholars and magicians her father had hosted at Highever Castle to those she'd fought alongside with in the trenches. Never trusted them, of course. A mage knew no country but the Circle, no king but their superiors, and no family but their kindred.

But nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the Circle in flames, gore and corpses flung about like rubbish. They should be better than this, she thought, seething silently. The sister, nursing a nasty burn by her side, silently pleading.

When they had escaped the grasping tentacles of the Fade, and the knight-commander (shaking, eyes so wide, greyer than he'd been an hour ago) asked her what should be done, it would have been easy to say: forgive them. Far easier to say than: annul them, including her that helped me.

But Couslands never took the easy way out. Couslands did what was necessary.

The day after the sister manages to establish an online connection with the Orlesian chapter of their order, she is almost taken from them. She'd smiled at Cousland as she left the room. Leliana smiled a lot these days—not that she minded. She'd just pop over to the shop across the street from their dingy motel, see if they had some of the cables she wanted, maybe some snacks for the drive westwards to Brecilia tomorrow.

When she hears the explosion, she's out in the street before the echo has faded. She can't see the sister anywhere, but there's an elf on the corner—pretty, blonde, olive skin and olive tats—with a knife in his hand and a smirk on his lips. She's on him at once, wrestling the former from his hand and the wiping the latter off his face. Someone screams.

Discipline—coolness—a stiff upper lip—constitute her very essence. They are the bulwark of dignity, the honour of nobility, and the fame of an officer. Later, in recollecting that day, she can't explain why she lost it. Only when Leliana (unharmed, thank the Maker!) pulls her off the elf does she realise he's dead.

They've three ancient treaties at hand, some with the dust of centuries on them. Their language is as curious as the signatories anachronistic: the Learned Masters of the Kinloch Confraternity. His Grace the Deep King of All Dwarves. And, well … the king of the Dales.

For lack of a better option, and because it's on the way, they approach Zathrian, keeper of a Dalish clan that happens to be nearby. He's not entirely sure what they want from him—he's fresh out of armies. She tells him to stuff the sarcasm and tell them what he can offer the wardens. Well, there is that issue with the werewolves …

It was not an issue her training had prepared her for facing, but they muddle through somehow. By the end of the week, the sister has composed a little tune about that time the Grey Wardens took on a disorderly bunch of lumberjacks to lift a curse. It's not all for nothing, though—two of the werewolves, it turns out, were once journalists from national newspapers sent to cover the altercations over a sacred oak's felling. That was decades ago, but the tabloids have long memories, and remember their friends.

She's never been very religious. The Maker had a place in her life, but if it was alright with Him she'd prefer He stay in the chantry and not bother her except on holidays. It's one of the things she finds so odd about Leliana. Stereotype dictates that someone like her—young and urbane, equally skilled with a laptop as with a gun, witty and more than a little nerdy—ought to be entirely areligious. That it wasn't so puzzled her, and at times she wondered if it was all an act. If it was, it was a good one.

Every now and then, when they were sitting next to each other in their rented van's driver's cabin, the sister will say something that doesn't quite add up, and it doesn't take long until she realises that she has a background in Orlesian intelligence, or worse. She has half a mind to turn her over to the authorities, but their predicament precludes this—as does her apparent sincerity. What could have moved her, a spy! to turn to faith?

When they stand at last before the Urn of Sacred Ashes, Leliana's eyes shining so brightly, she almost things she understands.

Introduction in hand, they make their way to Redcliffe. She's never met the arl, and only knows him from her father's bitter sarcasm whenever from the Landsmeet he returned. There'd been no love lost there, but Alistair swears Arl Eamon is an honourable man. Her concerns prove unfounded: a latter-day Amfortas, he readily agrees to work with her towards the deposition of Lord Protector Mac Tir, whose every move betrays his upstart roots and lack of breeding.

That isn't all she learns at Redcliffe. As they get back on the road, towards Orzammar now, she no longer knows quite how to handle Alistair. In everything he does, he is very nearly a disgrace to his uniform, and yet the blood royal runs through his vein with all the majesty of Calenhad. That turn of phrase—a sign? That gaze—a memory of Maric? No, there is just Alistair, and not a kingly inch in his royal body. What good was rightful kingship, if not paired with the upbringing whereby royal blood flourished? And yet—scorn all she might, he was her king and royal sovereign by right. Were he to ask, she would have surrendered her command. He never does.

She scorns the stone of Orzammar in all its austere severity. Though dwarves are now by tithe and treaty bound in friendship to Ferelden, it's not so long ago that they ruled her country by force and fear. She'd much rather have sought aid from Orlais, the empire of sunlight sworn to defend the free world from the Blight, but it's soon made clear they'll deal with the lord protector alone. Besides, she knows, Orlais's at no threat from the Blight, for Ferelden is expendable and they've weapons that no tainted horde withstands.

So she turns her face to stone and seeks the scientist who'd reshape the republic. In these dark forsaken roads, she's thankful for the sister's company. She knows not why, nor how, nor by what right, but a hand finds another in the darkness, warm lips soften their stiff kin, and a thousand years of breeding turn to ash before the radiant sun. For the first time in her life she's cut adrift. She's going mad.

Perhaps it's testament to her madness that, when the crazed researcher offers a weapon against the Blight, she immediately shoots her in the head. Aren't Couslands supposed to do what's needed?

First Citizen Harrowmont, surprisingly enough, keeps his word, and by the time they return to the surface, they have the first eight dwarven armoured divisions at their back, come once more to the surface to terrorise Ferelden. Her stomach turns at the thought that she should be the one who let the nation's fiercest foes back into the country, but spoilt for choice—she is not. Maker willing, Harrowmont will keep his word once more.

They march on Denerim, the royal banner at their head (for Alistair, she shudders to think, is king by blood and right). Queen Anora goes on live television to denounce them as traitors. In triumphal fashion, they move into Guerrin House on Dogsbridge Square, but no cheering crowds turn out to see them. The capital's with tension electrified. A Redcliffe tailor takes their measure for new uniforms, to look like wardens once again. She rights her buttons, puts a ruler to the pocket square, pins the double silver griffons on her lapels. The mirror has her forewarned when Leliana sneaks up behind her, and obligingly she tilts her head to accept a kiss on her neck. She squeezes her hand. Then it's off to battle.

Constitutional principles, drilled into her years ago, bubble back to the surface. It's the Landsmeet that rules on succession, and the Commons that appoint the regent until Cailan's successor can be determined. Mac Tir, Lord Redcliffe kindly explains, in the latter commands a majority so vast there can be no thought of challenging it. Hence, Alistair must be raised unto the throne, whence Mac Tir he may dismiss. Maker willing, that will be the end of it, and Loghain's still differs on the Lord Protector welcomes them to the city with grudging civility. She's never met him, only heard the legend: there's the uncouth worker's son in there, no doubt, that lack of refinement and of noveau-riche insecurity. But it's also plain to see the hero of River Dane, the man who once freed Ferelden from the dwarves. He will not see it fall again. They shake hands, firmly. "I suppose I should host you for dinner at the palace some time, Warden-Commander.""My lord is too kind, but Couslands do not dine with murderers and regicides."A hint of laughter lights up his dark and dismal face. "I was hoping you'd say something like that."

The Landsmeet convenes in Parliament assembled, in robes and coronets and swords. She looks out for Fergus, but Highever's teyrn is nowhere to be seen. Lord Redcliffe addresses the chamber for what feels like hours, discoursing on the constitution, on the Blight and on DNA tests. He's good at it, she has to admit, though she spends as much time trying to force Alistair to stop fidgeting and look reasonably kingly as she does listening. The Landsmeet adjourns for the day before a vote is called, and together they mingle with the peers of the makes the necessary introductions, and in truth she's the one leading most of the conversations. My lord, allow me to introduce His Royal Highness, Prince Alistair Theirin—emphasise that last bit. It's what's important. But for every lord pledging to support them, it seems three stand with Anora, or still others. Alistair may have the Theirin blood, but otherwise? And she slowly comes to realise what Eamon doesn't: that his claim is too weak, that he'll need help. An arl she knows comes greet her, calls her 'Your Grace' as if Fergus were knows her duty, and obey it she must.

She stares at her reflection in the mirror, locked in the Member's Bathroom in the Landsmeet lobby, and doesn't recognise herself. Her hands are shaking. Her eyes are wide open, and yet do not seem to see anything. She walks the halls of Parliament like a somnambulant, not quite sure of what? Of why? And of what now? She told him; he protested: we're not even friends. When has that ever mattered? What matters is that there's a king, that there's stability to organise the defence against the Blight. Or so she tells herself. It's becoming harder and harder to believe, and she wishes they could just get on with it. There's no time to lose, Lord Redcliffe argued, the vote is set for the very next day. The Grand Cleric of Denerim has bound them in holy matrimony in the Landsmeet lobby, using a pocket lighter in lieu of a sacred wasn't there. She must have heard by now. Take out your phone, she tells herself, call her. She doesn't stares in the mirror and sees a queen, repeats the Cousland motto to her reflection: What Is Needed, the laurels will provide. Ferelden shall endure.

By the slimmest of majorities, the Landsmeet elects Alistair king, who promptly dismisses the lord protector. Then, in a midnight session to which only the accused and the new king's partisans are invited, the Teyrn of Gwaren is found guilty of high treason, desertion and regicide, and condemned to death. She's not there, but walking the lantern-lit south bank of the River Drakon, not really taking in the skyline but mostly seeking an excuse not to return to Leliana. Only when Queen Anora calls her does she learn what's happening, and hurries back to kill Mac Tir serves no one, she fervently argues, and will only rob Ferelden of her greatest general, but Alistair is adamant and she's his subject now, and the Landsmeet has spoken. But she still wears the double griffons on her lapel, is still the (acting) senior warden in this realm. Alistair's fuming, some start to their marriage!, but Mac Tir lives—although, she supposes, he's her brother now, and all of a sudden Alistair looks like a credit to the uniform. But for all his faults Loghain is brilliant, eager and thoroughly military. She'd never admit it, but at times he's downright honourable.

As the darkspawn horde reaches the capital's suburbs, she finally gathers the strength to go see Leliana. They meet in Guerrin House's library, where the sister is seated in a bay window with a view of Regent's Park. Your Majesty, she greets her, and plunges a knife into her heart. It's just politics, she swears, a necessary step to stabilise Alistair's throne. She does not ask forgiveness, just her takes her hands and kisses them. She desires nothing more than to surrender herself, let it all happen, but it cannot be. Somehow, she forces herself to withdraw. Nothing has changed, Leliana says. Nothing needs to change. But it has, and to pretend otherwise would dishonour everyone involved. She is so sorry, she tells her, she wishes it could be any other way. They'll make it through this, she tells her as much as herself. Besides, she says, choking, nothing good could come from a relationship between a Level 90 rogue and a newbie was the first time she had ever heard her make a joke, Leliana said, and smiled. Keep that night, she sends Loghain to sleep with the witch. Why does she bother?

Once more, she girds herself in armour. This time, she has two wardens by her side: her king and husband, himself a hulking golem packed in steel and electronics; and the greatest general of their age, who'd insisted on coming. If he is to be a warden, he says, he'll not stand by while darkspawn sack the capital. She can respect that, but it still seems wise to keep him far away from vanguard of the horde only reaches their positions along the ring road late in the afternoon, but by then the evening sky is lit up by the fires raging in the outer boroughs. They fight with reckless abandon, and by the time the call comes over the radio that the Archdemon has taken the field, she is drenched in sweat inside her armour.A fighter pilot forces it to land, and dozens of soldiers riddle its wings with bullets before she arrives. Still, it is her who will own the credit, if Morrigan's ritual worked—if not, well, she'll die a good and honourable death. She draws her combat sword. When she plunges it into the Archdemon's heart, she thinks she can hear Leliana's voice.

She survives, praise the Maker and all that. The Blight is ended by her hand, but she does not feel like celebrating. There's so much to be done, to be rebuilt—the First Warden summons her to Weißhaupt, where she is invested officially as Commander of the Grey and Provincial of Ferelden. She returns to Denerim with three brothers to serve under her; Riordan, Anders and Kristoff—with Loghain, the core of the rebuilt weeks after the battle, Alistair is crowned king in a simple ceremony at the grand chantry. Then, he sets a crown on her head and briefly kisses her, just long enough for the cameras watching. She lies back and thinks of Ferelden that night, and from then on they mostly ignore each other. She sits next to him in cabinet, forms no small number of his policies, and once a week they dine together. Leliana soon leaves for Orlais. For a while, they write letters, back and forth. Then, she forces herself to end it: her and Alistair both deserve better, as does her nation. She does not hear from Leliana one is happy with this arrangement, but duty has her due.