The Longest Memories

Chapter Two / Revenge or Justice


At first, Anora thinks the Landsmeet ripped the Warden and Alistair apart when the elf granted her father mercy. This did not give her happiness at the time, but satisfaction there would be one less rumor to quell. Alistair was younger and foolish then. He has matured since; he would be insufferable otherwise. Regardless, his outburst only added to the Landsmeet's theatrics. Some say the Warden has a badger's heart, but if they had been in Denerim that day, they would agree she has a thespian's soul.


"I will be Alistair's champion."

A stunned silence, followed by murmurs and chuckles. This skinny elf, challenging Ferelden's hero, Loghain Mac Tir?

Anora's heart pounds. She has placed her throat on the block and now someone will swing. Her father will leave the Warden a bloodied mess on the floor. Then she will have to face him, after calling him mad before the bannorn. Or, if her father somehow loses, this elf will have to kill him to beat him. And if he does yield, Anora now doubts the Warden would stay her blade. She has seen the Warden and Alistair together, and now Alistair's face is stark with fury at the man he blames for Ostagar.

The Warden wears odd black dwarven armor. She wields two daggers, rune magic dancing along the blades. In her small hands they look like shortswords. The battle begins.

Anora cannot decide if the Warden fights like a rogue or warrior. Each stab aims for the throat or vitals, and she never stays in place long enough to take a direct blow. Yet, her armor is strong, and she uses none of the feints or backstabs common to an assassin.

But her father knows this dance. She will not wear him down. She will not realize he is faster than he looks. He waits, striking and blocking with grim skill but never doing more than screeching off her armor and parrying her own strikes.

Then the Warden steps a fraction too wide, a moment of imperfect balance. Loghain lunges forward and smashes her with his shield. She is, for all her accomplishments, still a fine-boned elf. She flies back, hitting the ground in a painful crash. Loghain is beside her, sword raised to end it. Anora sees Alistair straining—a hulking Qunari and a stocky dwarf have him by each arm. To his credit he stays silent.

The explosion rocks Anora back and cries echo through the chamber. In truth it was the sound and sulfurous reek more than the destruction. The Queen has heard of these rogue weapons, small explosives meant to stun. Smoke forces her to squint to see the battle through a hazy scrim. The bomb sends her father stepping back, surprised more than hurt. That is all the elf needs. She leaps to her feet and batters him in the windpipe with the pommel of a dagger, his breath choking just as her boot hooks around his.

He goes down. Of course is he the Hero of River Dane; he does not fall. He lands hard on one knee, the other bent before him. He can cut her open easily, but before he can raise his shield her blades are at his throat, a twitch away from skin. Even breaking her wrists with his shield would risk a cut artery. That they have stopped short makes Anora stifle a gasp.

"I underestimated you, Warden" he says, winded and hoarse. "I yield."

The Warden spits a glob of blood onto the stone floor, sweat pouring from her forehead, more blood dripping from her mouth and split chin. Damp tendrils of hair cling to her face. Anora sees her considering. For the barest moment they flick up to her, green and piercing.

"I accept," she says, just as breathless. "If you try to kill me, my companions will not consider it part of our duel."

He bristles at that. "I am not some assassin."

The Warden smirks, faintly, and steps back, daggers still in hand.

"I didn't just hear you say that! You're going to let him live?"

Alistair has wrenched his way free and storms into the circle, his own blade drawn, ready to take her father's head even if it costs him a throne. The Warden steps between them, undaunted. Her father glares pure venom at the elf's intercession, as if he needed someone to defend him from this younger Cailan. Then another man breaks through, a tall stranger with a mane of dark hair.

"There is another option," he begins, his Orlesian accent belying his native features. He suggests the Warden conscript him.

Alistair looks close to choking. "Joining the Wardens is an honor, not a punishment!"

The Warden argues with her enraged lover, trying to pull him aside and speak privately. The elf's eyes have locked on his, compelling him to fall in line. Anora guesses she planned this. The Warden surprised her when she promised to spare her father's life. She never mentioned pressganging him into the Order, but when the queen thinks back to Arl Eamon's estate, she knows the Warden was considering more than her future with her lover. She overestimates his common sense, or at least her hold on him.

Alistair refuses. He will not move to a quieter location where she can persuade him, or stand and accept her purpose. It makes the Warden's knuckles white over her unsheathed blades.

"He sold your people into slavery," Alistair cries, looking as if she has been taken by a demon.

Anora has seen the damning letter, filched by Erlina from Eamon's estate. She debated keeping it, knowing it would not ruin the Warden's chances at the Landsmeet. She believes—wants to believe—it was Arl Howe's influence. The reptile presented himself as a master of intrigue, assuaging her father's dislike of politics. A crime allowed bears all the wrong of a crime committed; she also believes this, but some wrongs can be addressed later.

"Aye, and he will follow an elf now," the Warden growls. "My loyalty is to the Wardens first. I came here for them, not Ferelden." A half-truth, Anora thinks in later years, when the Warden treats an order from Weisshaupt like a polite suggestion.

The Warden spoke differently when she accused Loghain of enslaving elves. Her father had blanched in fury when she shot back, "You accuse me of handing Ferelden to Orlais. How is offering it to Tevinter any better?" Given the blood mages at the Circle and rumors behind the Arl's poison, she caused more than one bann to change allegiance.

"You put me on a throne," Alistair says, voice halting. For the first time, Anora detects a threat. So does the Warden.

She glares, offers a blood-stained smile. "If Loghain survives the Joining, he will be a Grey Warden. Exact a king's justice, and you will be known as King Arland, Second of his Name."

"You promised me we would stop him!"

"He's stopped. You never said kill him."

In years since, Anora has come to realize the Warden always stands by her word. Often her literal, deceptive word, but still hers. According to rumors, the Dalish keeper would rue the day she agreed to end his clan's curse, had she not kept her word and taken his head. The queen imagines it comes from the Alienage. In poverty, what does one have as collateral, beyond one's word?

Anora cannot read the Warden's face now. She is furious, but only in part. She had to know Alistair would balk, but not this much.

At once, Anora senses the tension reaching a pitch. Alistair still looks ready to attack. Her father's hand has drifted back to his sword. Perhaps out of habit, though more likely he is weighing the outcome of killing Alistair. And Arl Eamon—he looks ready to rally his men in the name of defending their heir.

Regardless, Alistair's dramatics have gone on long enough. A poor image for a king.

"Alistair, compose yourself!" She can still crack her voice like a whip.

She walks right to him. Brandishing a sword at an armed warrior is one thing, an unarmed woman is another. Jaw clenched too tightly to speak, he sheathes his blade.

The Warden kept her word. Anora will not be bested and break the engagement. His temper does not worry her—the palace guards are loyal to her and her father. Even now, her betrothed is red-faced. Still too fuming to look embarrassed, but he is arriving there. Anora looks to the balcony of Arl Eamon and finds much the same fury, only better reined. She does not begrudge him his reasons, yet she knows he would have supported her overthrow. For that she offers him a swift smile. To gloat would be undignified.


Anora thought that would be the end of their relationship. Alistair sulked in a tavern until it was time to draw his blade at Denerim. Then, between the slaying of the Archdemon and the palace celebration, he visited the Warden. She convalesced in her bedchamber, conscious but half-crippled. Apparently not so exhausted. Anora never knows what was said or done, but slowly the ice thawed between them. It took the Warden nearly dying at Vigil's Keep for it to mend—never without a tinge of betrayal, Anora guesses—but enough for the queen to thank Arl Howe for turning traitor so she could install the Warden as Amaranthine's new liege-lord.

The day after the royal wedding, the Warden leaves for travel, her elf assassin in tow. Anora does not know if this out of courtesy, but it relieves her just the same.

Their marriage has its awkward beginning. He looks too much like Cailan but has none his inborn authority. Anora does not pretend to love him, but she tries her best to be hospitable. He reciprocates in his fashion, though she has to ask during their wedding feast if he expects an execution instead of a bedding.

Consummation sees them alone for the first time. He has a body carved from rock, courtesy of darkspawn, bandits, and demons. Anora has attractive parents and an attentive handmaiden. With closer proximity to new her husband, she sees things she likes. His eyes are hazel, flowing between amber and forest green depending on the light. If she did not know better, she would ask if his mother was an elvish scullery maid.

The morning after, he takes her to the courtyard. She is curious. Alistair has lost the recalcitrance of yesterday, but now stares nervously ahead. As they near the doors, he finally speaks.

"I have something for you. I…I hope you like your wedding present."

Anora wonders why it requires a walk to the courtyard. Yesterday she presented him with a sword, a prized work of Navarran craftsmanship. He begged her leave to present her own the day after. His hesitant arm at her back guides her past the threshold. She still smells a tinge of smoke.

An elf stands at attention but Anora notices his more attractive companion. The gyrfalcon regards her with knife-sharp eyes. The hen's plumage is stark white with gray arrowheads along her back and wings, and her gleaming talons dig into the thick glove. She is beautiful, cold, and deadly. Anora can think of no finer praise

"Forgive me…if you don't like falconry I will find you—"

"I do not strike you as one who enjoys a boar hunt?"

His mouth tightens. Not anger, but nerves. He tries to reply, but she silences him with a quick hand. Anora must remember he does not know her well.

"I enjoy all hunting, though I fear the surrounding forests are scarce now. Thank you Alistair. She is a wonderful gift."

He cannot quite hide his sigh of relief.

In truth it reminds her of home in Gwaren. She enjoyed hawking, though she had little time for it, and Cailan had little patience.

If it takes gifts rather than near-death experiences to thaw the ice, so be it.

At first, they get along better at night than during the day. She needs an heir, and the report she commissioned shows Grey Wardens indeed have few children. She resigns herself to the name he might call out when he spends himself inside her, if only to steel herself against the pang she learned from her first marriage.

If he does ever say the Warden's name, Anora never hears it. For a boy raised in the Chantry, he is twice as sure of himself betwixt the sheets than atop a throne. Anora knows where this experience likely comes from, but does not feel bothered. Betimes, it gives her a perverse picture of the Warden she would never see otherwise. Though she gave her a dagger on her wedding day, Anora sometimes considers this her second, if unconventional, wedding gift.

She has planned to rule alone, with Alistair pleasing the populace, providing her an heir, and standing attractively beside her at court. He surprises her two months into their marriage when he asks her to explain an account book. When she acquiesces, somehow he retains most of what she says.

Soon Anora has a different reason to teach him the art of statecraft. Arl Eamon seems intent on serving as an adviser. Driving him from court would anger too much of the bannorn, so she deigns to teach Alistair to recognize a foolish idea instead. He will at least learn from her perspective.


They do not always agree, as she finds herself one evening when discussing the city elves.

"Send the palace guard to the Alienage?" His eyes are wide. Glittering in the candlelight. "Why in Maker's name?"

Anora sighs. He has matured in the three years since their marriage, but still does not realize some problems have no perfect solution. The Alienage is rioting. The week before, humans beat Alienage's titular bann to death en route to the palace. Anora has hanged the murderers but not before there was open fighting in the streets and a noble's mistress was dragged from her horse and assaulted. Erlina has attended their gatherings, and returned with too many whispers of revolt and vengeance. Anora takes out a piece of parchment and wets a quill.

"Attend to reality, Alistair." The quill scratches as she outlines the city walls and shades the river. "The Alienage is a small portion of Denerim."

"—And worth so much less? This is exactly what Arl Howe did." He has that stubborn tone to him, one that makes Anora want to jab his hand with her quill.

"Let me finish." She draws in the Alienage and separates the city into its quarters. Finally, she shows it to him. "My guards will disperse the riots and draw blood if the elves retaliate. There will be broken windows, damaged stores, and traumatized children. It will happen once."

"You speak like those are trivial."

She forces herself to patience. "Compared to what? Lynch mobs setting fire to houses and inadvertently destroying a quarter of the city? Banns sending their guards to abduct females for rape?" He must know the Warden's background, for his eyes shift. "It will be a long time before tensions reach a boiling point again. My guard will then ensure humans stay away from the Alienage." Her eyes narrow. "And if you ever compare me to Arl Howe again, husband, you can acquit yourself to a year of lonely nights."

His loyalty surpasses Cailan's. The Warden still has a hold on him; he will bed her when she returns to court. Beyond that he stays faithful. Anora knows her father would rail at him, but she is content. The arrangement allows her affections and does not interfere with her governing.

Alistair looks wounded, and she deigns to turn it into a lesson.

"Arl Howe's actions against the Alienage were vindictive. He sent in elves infected with Blight, razed an orphanage, and invited slavers." Alistair will argue the last point, but Anora refuses to desist. "That is not justice."

She cannot explain all of her reasoning. It is a feeling, a twinge of foreboding. She does not laugh when the banns jape about the elves revolting. The possibility stands. Unlikely to start in Denerim, but no reason it cannot spread. She knows feelings can deceive, but if she cannot trust herself, she is lost.

Alistair looks doubtful, but he has never overruled her once her mind was set. It is late. Anora rises, stretching her stiff shoulders and hearing them crack.

"Come along, husband. Our next heir will not conceive itself."

Her parents had a way of resolving disagreements. She has learned from experience they were right.