I was listening to my iPod while writing, and a song came on that I love. Hallelujah, originally written by Leonard Cohen, but in my playlist it was performed by Rufus Wainwright. Look it up - it's amazing. A certain line stood out, this time: "It's not a cry you can hear at night, it's not somebody who's seen the light, it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah." And another, "I've seen your flag on the marble arch; love is not a victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah." And it occurred to me that there are many cold and broken hallelujah's in Dragon Age, and then...well. I'm not sure I'm happy with this, but it still sings to me.
As always, I don't own Dragon Age. Please read and review!
Hallelujah. I survived, and I wasn't getting married.
I should have been grateful. I'd never wanted to marry, never mind to a complete stranger. Part of me felt like there should be a celebration.
But how could I celebrate? My cousin, the spitfire, raped. My friend, dead. My betrothed, murdered at the hands of that pig. I may never have wanted to marry him, but he didn't deserve to have his throat cut for trying to save me from being raped and murdered as well.
How was it that survival felt like a loss, not a victory?
I had vengeance, but it felt hollow.
Hallelujah. I survived, and I was going to be a Grey Warden.
There would have been a celebration, that a lowly knife-ear from the Alienage was going to become one of the warriors of legend we'd heard stories about as children. At one point in my life, I'd have thought it an honour. That point ended when I was conscripted to avoid execution.
It should have been a celebration. Instead, it was a tearful farewell followed by slinking out of the city under cover of darkness like criminals. Leaving my family behind - my cousin, who'd just been raped; my father, who'd already lost too much. And all of them at the mercy of the town guard and the Arl of Denerim, whoever that would be now that Vaughn Kendalls was dead.
Yet another loss, couched as a victory.
Hallelujah. I survived, and I was Joined.
I am now a Grey Warden. Never mind the corpses of the innocent (if annoying) would-be brothers that I had to climb over when I woke. Don't think about what I've lost, what I left behind, the others who have paid their price in blood.
Am I honoured, Your Majesty? Of course. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. I survived, and am now one of two remaining Grey Wardens.
My recruiter, my saviour, is dead. So is most of the army of Ferelden. My only companion is a shell-shocked, immature pup of a failed templar. Oh, you'd like me to save the world? Why not. After all, I did survive. I should be celebrating.
At some point, would survival ever feel like the better of the alternatives?
Hallelujah. I survived, and so did the town of Redcliffe.
Well, sort of. Dozens perished. Families torn asunder, the dead rising. All due to the stupidity of one ignorant, arrogant, human noblewoman. Typical. Yet I was the criminal to be arrested? Why am I not surprised?
There should have been a celebration. But there was so much to do, and I was so tired. It was a relief to leave the templar to deal with the Bann and the idiot, though I felt a little guilty. The puppy eyes would be my undoing.
How tempting to allow a mother to sacrifice her idiot self for her child. But one look at my companion's concerned, pleading eyes, and I knew I couldn't. Hooray, one more chore to add to the ever-growing list.
His gratitude was almost worth it. Almost.
Hallelujah. I survived, and the abomination was dead.
It came at the cost of dozens of mages and templars alike, not to mention a grievous wound to the man it seemed I cared about more than I wanted to. The disapproval radiating from our newest companion grated on my nerves, but he saw her as a mother figure, and Maker help me, I couldn't deny him that.
The victory over a demon in the fade felt like a redemption, of sorts. Spoiled by having to listen to a vapid noblewoman prattle, but still. Hallelujah, I was capable of saving one child. Look at me go.
Hallelujah. I survived. Civil War, Qunari Mercenaries, Crow assassins, dirty back alleys and dishevelled brothel workers. Harridans and cultists?
Maker, what was this world coming to?
Hallelujah. I survived, and I was no longer so alone.
The only bright spot was him. The insecure, immature templar…was not what I expected. I'd never met a kind human before. I didn't know what to think. My hesitation went unnoticed, and somehow he joked his way straight into my heart.
And my small clothes.
Hallelujah. I survived, and so did the Arl.
Redcliffe rejoiced. It was all I could do not to tell them who to thank for the pyres burning on shore, and the small boats and dinghies sinking in the lake carrying corpses. It was difficult not to scream it from the rooftops. One man lived, while so many had died. Hallelujah.
It came with complications; my lover being put forward as King. Would any victory ever feel anything but bittersweet? I hated nobles. I'd never felt that so clearly.
Hallelujah. I survived, and the werewolves were cured.
I'd had to give up a potentially strong alliance, but for once I would do what was right, not what was convenient, and damn anyone else's opinions on the subject. I didn't see the exalted Grey Wardens from anywhere else offering any assistance. Alistair was right, the nearest Grey Wardens were Orlesian, but there were others. They'd had months to show up, and hadn't. Perhaps they got stuck at the border; my lover wanted, no needed, to believe. Perhaps they shouldn't have worn their Griffon-stamped armour and advertised their presence. Just a thought.
I'd still take the small victory as I saw it, the only one so far not...tainted.
Hallelujah. I survived, and Harrowmont was King.
The Dwarves celebrated. We had our troops, but at what cost? The golems, destroyed forever, never to be rebuilt. The Prince dead. The Qunari was right, the new King was weak and didn't deserve the throne, but I couldn't stomach working with the opposition. I just hadn't wanted his blood on my hands.
I'd never realised how much I'd taken for granted, before entering the forsaken Deep Roads. When we left, I stripped in the first field we came to and rolled in the grass, naked. I wasn't alone. I made them all swear not to let me go back there. When my Calling came, one of them would stop me from becoming a ghoul. I swore I'd kill myself before going back down there. I saw my despair echoed in his face. We hadn't deserved this.
Hallelujah. I survived, and even escaped from prison.
Don't think about the rape, the torture. Don't think about the piece of sanity I left behind in that dingy, dirty place. Don't remember the sound of my screams echoing off the walls. Don't remember his face as he watched...
Don't notice the pitying looks and the tension in my companions. Put on a brave face.
And come face to face with the person who betrayed me. Support you? Why, of course, you conniving, scheming bitch. What, you're surprised? A darkspawn would make a better monarch, Your Majesty. At least you can tell they are monsters from just a glance.
Hallelujah. I survived, and my home was saved.
Sort of. If you didn't think too hard about the dozens who'd been sold into slavery Maker-knows-where. If you didn't contemplate what the cowardly act meant for the future of all my people. Not people. Elves. Why should anyone care about a bunch of lazy knife ears? We were less than slaves. At least slaves were considered valuable.
Hallelujah. I survived, and Alistair was King.
Except that now I had to live without him. Now I would have to die to protect him, and the rest of the world, from the Archdemon...or convince him to lay with someone else to keep us both alive. Oh, why yes, a demon-baby seems like a marvelous solution to this problem. Why not?
It wasn't like survival was meant to be easy, or painless, apparently.
Hallelujah. I survived, and the blight was over.
It should have been a good thing. It should have been everything.
It was all I could do not to snarl at every soldier, every innocent person celebrating in Denerim's streets. I wanted to scream, to tear out my hair, but the sound wouldn't even have been heard over the cheering.
I went to the feast. I plastered on a smile. I exchanged pleasantries with the nobility and peasants alike. The whole time, I entertained myself by vividly imagining myself disemboweling all of them. I pictured their heads in their hands, their intestines splayed across the floor. I laughed, and danced, and avoided anything resembling intimacy with those I spoke to. I didn't mention the hypocrisy. I pretended I was happy.
I fooled all but one.
It was somewhat better when I left Denerim for Amaranthine. The separation, while painful, was necessary. And managing to avoid daily reminders of my pain was a good thing. I was finally Someone. All those years, before becoming a Warden, all I wanted was to be Someone, and I'd finally made it. I had power and influence. I had the ear of a King, if I wanted it. I had comrades and servants, lavish furnishings in my own, enormous apartment. I lived in a castle. My opinion was sought for all sorts of matters both great and small. My mother, Maker bless her, would have been so proud.
For all that, all I felt was emptiness and pain. I tried to ignore it, tried to move on. I allowed the flirty mage to make good on his boasts, and he did not fail to perform. I took the more serious, brooding archer to my bed next. I even tried them both together, tried to forget myself in hedonistic delight.
But once they'd both left, I was alone, in my too-large bed that was supposed to be shared with him.
It was my own fault. They'd asked my opinion. I hadn't even thought through the implications. I just knew Anora, the power-hungry bitch, couldn't be left to rule.
But I should have realised that Ferelden just wasn't ready for an elven Queen-Consort. And I wasn't prepared to be the shameful secret. Why had I bothered with convincing my lover to perform a ritual to ensure my survival? What, exactly, was the point in that?
Hallelujah, indeed.