Title: The Leader and the Pariah
Author: Traxits (also known as whitecarnations).
Rating: T (teen).
Word Count: 592 words.
PC: None.
Pairing: None.
Spoilers: Landsmeet spoilers.
Summary: This is actually in response to a challenge posted on Lunaescence. "Write either one shots or drabbles with the following themes (as taken from the song 'This is War,' by 30 Seconds to Mars): the good, the evil; the soldier, the civilian; the martyr, the victim; the prophet, the messiah; the liar, the honest; the leader, the pariah." In this work, I've paired each of them up, designed to kind of play off of one another.
Notes: Part 6 of 6.

[[ ... The Leader ... Anora ... ]]

She was reeling, splattered with her father's blood, unable to breathe. It wasn't supposed to happen this way, she realized slowly, foolishly reaching up to touch the cooling red fluid on her face, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly parted. She was gasping softly, unable to catch her breath. Was she screaming? No, not out loud anyway. Her blue eyes darted around the room, locking in on each person there, looking for other horrified expressions. There were precious few of them.

It hadn't been fast; Alistair had to swing three times before her father's head had finally been completely severed. A testament either to her father's stubbornness or to Alistair's lack of decapitation skills; she wasn't sure which. Her hand fell from her face, her fingertips stained a dark red. She composed her face, looking out over the Landsmeet, the nobles she'd been skillfully conducting most of her life. It was a shame that the symphony had veered so wildly out of control, all due to a certain pair of instruments that didn't follow their composed parts.

She glanced back at them now, watched as they whispered among their group, as they decided the fate of her country. No matter what, Ferelden would still have her; she would be there to defend it, or they would kill her. Anora bowed to no one, least of all a pair of rogue wardens who couldn't even behave properly in the court. Her eyes closed for just a moment, and she felt Cauthrien's heavy hand on her shoulder. The last thread connecting her to her previous life as Cailan's wife, she realized slowly, and she couldn't held reaching up and touching the hand for just a moment before she steeled herself and received her answer, her fate.

[[ ... The Pariah ... Morrigan ... ]]

She had watched them for hours, as they trampled through her wilds, stepped on her plants, slaughtered her wolves. She had run alongside those packs, encouraged them into attacking, and then watched as they were killed, studying how they worked. Three of them, at the very least, were complete fools. One though... one of them seemed to have a working brain. It was this one that she focused on.

A bitter taste was in her mouth, and she didn't know it's source. She wasn't certain if it was the plan she knew her mother was concocting, or simple intuition, knowing that there was so much more going on here than she knew. Her mother concealed much, and Morrigan knew that. She knew better than to trust the batty old woman.

She sneaked around the trees, letting her form slip down into something low and shaggy, a wolf that could run for miles. She watched them as they scuffed around the stones, looking for something, looking for those blasted pieces of paper that her mother coddled so. She slipped around them then, heading into the ruins once she was certain that they weren't going anywhere. She eased out of the wolf's body then, back into her own, and she dressed quickly, taking only a moment to prepare herself.

When she walked down the walkway to where they were all four looking into a ruined chest, she had the perfect smile on her face, derisive and arrogant. She wasn't some scared apostate, looking for forgiveness. She was Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth and a powerful witch of the wilds. She stepped slowly, letting her body swing seductively, as though it were natural, instinctive. In some ways, it was.

"Well, well... what have we here?"