The Longest Memories
Chapter Three / Falling Stars
Author's Notes: Please R/R; critique means the world to me. To clarify, the story does not follow chronological order, though it will end in the same place it began, roughly a decade after the Blight.
Since the Warden first rode off with her Antivan Crow, Anora hopes she will find a new companion to steal all her time. Her wish has half come true. The Warden has several companions, and probably half a dozen more she does not bring to court, but none have occupied her entirely. Anora did not know if her husband realized at first. She will not tell him; that would make her too much the jealous harpy. And too, she does acknowledge her jealousy. It would be grand to have a stable of lovers, were her life consumed by adventure instead of governing.
Anora cannot look at Zevran and not think they have tumbled through all manner of barns and bedchambers. In truth she does not know why the Warden did not choose him from the start. Did not like attract like?
When the Warden left court to travel soon after the Blight, the elf accompanied her as a protector. Six months, Anora cautioned. The First Warden has named her Arlessa of Amaranthine, though Anora had already given her the position. Whatever the First Warden might think, the arling is a Fereldan holding, not a city-state like the Free Marches.
She sees their expressions when they return six months later. The Warden still limps, but not so badly as when she set out. The scar on her chin left by her father's shield has faded. The elf looks unchanged. Some might think their closeness akin to war stories and camaraderie, but Anora sees past the pretenses.
They sup together in the dining hall. Alistair sits beside her, tense as a rabbit, as if he expects Anora to renege on her word.
Does he think she plays these games? Anora sometimes uses her seeming physical weakness to her advantage, but not her feminine wiles. If it cannot be had with intelligence or intrigue, it is not worth having. To head off an awkward dance, Anora has already told Alistair he is free to bed the Warden during her stay, so long as he remains discreet. She and the Warden agreed long ago. He searches her eyes, trying to find a trap or emotional string she can later pull. He will find nothing he himself does not invent. At last, he takes her hand and leaves a long kiss. If she must ever hurt him thus, it will be the stark truth—the Warden spared Loghain so Anora would honor their accord of alliance, marriage, and tupping.
Finally, her husband consumes enough wine he is taking the night at face value. The Warden has regaled them with anecdotes of their travels, but now he asks the question Anora has wondered since she arrived.
"You had six months—obviously you did not circumvent Thedas. Where did you go?"
The Warden glances up through a lock of hair. Anora knows she hesitates.
"Tevinter."
There was an uneasy silence. Two elves, travelling in Tevinter…
"Before you ask, no, I was not absconded into slavery. Oddly I received nary a single 'knife-ear.' Well, I did but..." the Warden laughs, albeit nervously. Her companion takes over, but his normally dulcet tones are less honeyed.
"Ending the Blight makes you popular in Tevinter. A rather inebriated dockworker made a…creative comment involving knife-ears and flexibility, when suddenly a beautiful raven-haired mage set him on fire."
"Funny, yes," Alistair groans. "Incineration, hilarious."
"Yes, I suppose," Zevran says. "But he jumped into the water—though I doubt the mage took that into consideration. She chastised him for not recognizing the Hero of Ferelden and invited us to her manse. Ferocious creature, though I was confident if she planned to murder us she could do so without feeding us first. Her name, my dear?"
The Warden prods him with a fork. "Hadriana, you twit."
"Why of all the places in Thedas did you choose Tevinter, home of slaves, blood mages, and heretics?" Alistair interjects.
The Warden allows a crooked smile. "Buying slaves." She takes a long draught of wine as Alistair waits with wide eyes. "You forget, my people were foolish enough to trust Tevinter mages. I wanted to find those they had already shipped off."
"A needle in a haystack, surely," Anora says.
"I thought so, but a slave ship coming from Ferelden stood out in records. I tracked down my elder, Valendrian. He was not in as poor shape as I feared." From the way her eyes shift, Anora guesses her fears were behemothic. "I found two others. They all returned home."
"You would not think our Warden such a diplomat," Zevran pokes. "Until she reaffirms your suspicions by ripping open a new political conflict."
Alistair looks perturbed but the Warden scowls and elbows the Antivan. "There is no new political conflict in Tevinter. Old rivalries become ancient ones. Hadriana treated us well though, and insisted we meet her mentor." The Warden's eyes darken. "Creepy bastard. Friendly enough but…" The wine paints her memories in a softer light and she dissolves into giggles.
Zevran sighs and continues. "Her mentor was a magister, and possessed a beautiful, ferocious slave and bodyguard. He offered her a chance to spar with him, and when our Warden declined, he offered a more intimate encounter instead. To this day she blames the translator, yours truly, for not communicating the nuances of her reply. 'Your ears show you as half-elven, ser, would you yourself offer me the same arrangement?' In truth, elven mages are treated little differently than human ones in Tevinter, but the…motif of her answer caused some manner of spectacle."
"Does this spectacle involve diplomatic concerns?" Alistair asks with a groan.
"I am a Grey Warden; we have no political concerns," the Warden says impetuously.
"I believe the magister had lost a business deal or a mistress that day, for in response to this flirtatious teasing, he ordered his slave to chastise her—"
"The elf had lyrium branded on his skin," the Warden emphasizes. "I did not realize—"
"Pacing, my dear, we are getting there. Since we arrived, our daggers stayed coated in magebane—a diplomatic insurance. Our lady meant only to fend him off, nicking his forearm. Unfortunately the magebane had an unlikely reaction—the poor creature went into convulsions. Luckily, as much as defeating the Blight makes you popular in Tevinter, nothing compares to embarrassing a magister, at least to his rivals. We stayed in a far nicer manse while we tracked down the elves."
Alistair looks distressed. Perhaps he senses the Warden is not so flippant about her time in Tevinter as she appears. She has to know her jape possibly lead to the death of the slave. Sighing, the Warden makes an attempt to assuage them.
"The Archon won't be sending a strongly-worded letter. By fool's luck Zev and I put down a Qunari assassin. The invitations rolled in. The magister himself even left for Seheron the week after."
Anora wants to throttle her, or at least drag her into her study and throw a history book at her. The Imperium forgets its rights far more quickly than its wrongs. The Warden will soon be an arlessa, and cannot act on rash larks. An arling in joint possession of Ferelden and the Grey Wardens is already a political crisis in the making. Though she does not think the elf incapable, she feels something uneasy quicken in her stomach.
A feeling passes between the elves, and the Antivan drains his wine. "I am gracious for your hospitality, your Majesties, but I have a room reserved in the city. May I bid you good night?"
Anora dismisses him and soon herself. The wine has softened her feelings—she craves her warm bed more than a political discussion. Erlina soon joins her. With Alistair occupied, she offers her bed to her confidante. Gwaren was colder than Denerim. Growing up with no siblings, she and Erlina would often fall asleep after an hour of talking and be much too warm to brave the cold halls.
The elf unbinds her hair, Anora's eyes closing at the relaxing touch. Alistair is sweet when he undoes her hair, but he seems as confused by her pins and tresses as Orlesian diplomacy.
To her surprise, Alistair and the Warden do nothing more than talk late into the night. Some wounds still need healing, she assumes. Night has just taken the first gray of pre-dawn when Alistair climbs into bed. She feels him pause when he notices the elf, but he is too tired and tender to order her out.
"Will there be any repercussions with Tevinter?" he whispers, half-hoping she is awake.
The question makes her smile. Six months ago she would never imagine her husband going to sleep with politics on his mind.
"A lesson, husband," she says, voice thick with sleep. "She is a Warden. If someone else can be blamed in a situation where you carry no fault, stay out of it."
Zevran did not accompany her to Amaranthine though. Anora learns this by accident.
She takes the short way out of the palace, craving a morning ride. The forest may be thin with game, but the ground remains sound enough. The queen does not expect to hear two voices coming from a little-used room.
"My dear, I'm afraid I have delayed my own task long enough."
The Warden's voice is tight…and breathy.
"I would come with you if I could. I don't know the first damn thing about running an arling."
"You did not know the first damn thing about being a Grey Warden and you managed that well enough. My dear, I would not leave your side if I thought you in danger. You will have enough problems in Amaranthine without Crows sneaking in."
Her reply cuts off almost before it begins; Anora can guess why. She hurries on. She can advise the Warden if need be. To secure the support of the populace, she might consider a marriage. And Vigil's Keep—Arl Howe was too obsessed with privacy to utilize its economic capabilities. With more merchants the Warden can repair the walls and create a trading hub, away from the politics of the city. She will bring this up.
Anora knows the elf has since been connected with the deaths of several high-ranking Antivan Crows.
Anora meets the Warden's next companion when she orders her to court. Amaranthine is a razed ruin now, by the Warden's own hand. Alistair heard she was badly injured in the siege of Vigil's Keep and wanted to blow his horse out in a mad rush to reach the arling. Anora barely talked him out of it. The roads crawled with darkspawn and her belly carried no heir.
Though at that she has wondered. Lately food has turned her stomach and she has had to fight to stay awake during petitions. Perhaps a mild sickness; she dares not hope.
The Warden arrives with a single companion—a blond mage, judging by his robes. Anora knows they are intimate the moment he helps her from her horse, his hands delicate around her waist. She seems about to lean into him for the briefest moment before she straightens her shoulders and stands square.
She kneels, eyes downcast. Anora feels her stomach sinking. She will not like this talk. Still, better to lance the wound than let it fester.
"Rise, Warden," the queen states. "The king believed you were a day away and is still en route from Redcliffe. Allow me to see receive you in my study, with your companion if you desire."
Alistair believed; Anora did nothing to dissuade him. As uneasy as she feels, she bears little anger. What she wants is the truth. Her agents' missives are a pandemonium of witchcraft, fantasy, and dismal circumstances. Alistair has acquired a grasp of statecraft, a year into their marriage, but lets his emotions entangle his judgment. She will spare him the conflict where the Warden is concerned.
"As you will, your Majesty." The Warden grimaces as she rises, favoring her shoulder.
Anora feels worse from her unusual formality.
Two hours later, as preposterous as a truth is, it is still the truth. The Warden has not lied.
"I am glad Alistair is not here," Anora says. "He will not understand your reasoning for allowing a self-possessed darkspawn to live. I do not."
The Warden nods. "Your Majesty, the battle for Vigil's Keep was a desperate one. I was…wounded." Her voice is bitter.
"Impaled, to be medically precise," her companion cuts in. Anora dislikes his manners, but sees his care for the Warden. "A broken arm, cracked collar-bone, and a sword through her clavicle. If you ever see the Templars, you should mention their witchhunt for me could have cost the Hero of Ferelden her life."
"Enough, Anders," the Warden says. "Aye, it was embarrassing, if sweetened a bit by victory. Anders healed me as best he could, but we had little time to track the Mother to her lair. I was presumptuous of my ability to fight through an injury. The Architect offered aid, and a strange…perspective."
Anora sighs to herself. Bow to the lesser evil to prevent the greater. Strange how such a course forces one to keep bowing, until he destroys all he tried to save. She bridles her pessimism as best she can; Anora knows little of darkspawn. The dwarves have said the Deep Roads remain calmer, despite diminishing numbers of the monsters above ground. She hardly believes the stories the Chantry tells of good and evil. To assume darkspawn will always be a mindless force would circumvent study.
"You do know burning your own city will ruin your economy and embitter the nobles toward you?" She keeps her voice cool and measured.
The Warden nods, her eyes stormy. "I should be thanking Andraste my vassals did not burn me for saving their arling. Amaranthine was already lost; darkspawn swarmed within the gates, and the people died of their sickness. Vigil's Keep stood at full strength and was packed tight with smallfolk." She inclines her chin. "Did I make the right choice?"
Anora sees the weak twist to her mouth. She is used to making snap decisions, bearing the hurt to win the battle. The queen knows she still hurts. Her leaning against Anders came from fatigue, not stolen affection, though she still thinks they are lovers.
"You made a choice. If you can bear the consequences, then it was the right one."
The Warden sits back, eyes closing the briefest moment. Anora cannot offer her absolution, but she can assure the Warden she does not need it.
"I brought in merchants to Vigil's Keep and safeguarded the Pilgrim's Path," she says. "We've found granite and silverite. The arling will not be penniless."
Anora is pleased at her followed advice. She feels a pang of sympathy for the Warden. The girl cannot be more than three and twenty, if that. The First Warden—all of Ferelden—needs her to be a hero. It is not a mantle she can shrug off.
A servant arrives with trays of steaming food—they requested dinner in private, to better catch up without the chatter of the palace. Anora finds she has no appetite, pushing the seared venison around with a fork.
"You need to eat, your Majesty," the mage says.
Anora prepares an annoyed retort, but something in his tone makes her pause. The Warden too is looking on in interest. Anders seems aware of his awkward request.
"I only meant, you're eating for two. Well, one and one-tenth thereabouts, but still."
"What are you saying, mage? You are not my doctor."
His eyes dance in the dim light when he realizes he is the first to notice. "Doctors. So draconian and old-fashioned. I am a spirit healer; I work with life force. Your Majesty, you are with child."
"Grey Wardens do have some perks." Anders bites into a roll, eyes merry. "Release from slavery is one of them."
Alistair arrived that afternoon, flustered to see the Warden reached Denerim before him. Anora gave him her opinion of Amaranthine. He was placated for the moment, and distracted more by the Warden than her first six months as Arlessa. When she greets him in the main hall, kneeling like the perfect courtier, he drags her up in an embrace. It is touching rather than romantic, the way two friends may greet each other when they learn they have both survived the war.
They sit in the dining hall now, supping on honeyed capon and a spread of vegetables. The Blight had forced them to import more food from afar. Costly, but she was acquiring new tastes. Pistachios from Antiva, artichokes from Tevinter—eating for one and one-tenth would be a more enjoyable endeavor.
Alistair will learn of her condition after the Warden has left for Amaranthine. It does not sway her happiness though, or her fierce glee. For years she bit her tongue when the arls' bored daughters wondered if she was barren. It would not do for a queen to point out they had no bastards in their bellies.
The king, she can tell, is surprised at the Warden's choice of companion. He still tries to be friendly.
"To my horribly unmagical knowledge, the Ferelden Circle is better than any in the Marches. Particularly Kirkwall—there's apparently a Knight-Commander even Gregoir finds intolerable."
Anders' mouth still smiles. His eyes do not. "I guess I escaped seven times because I was inexcusably picky."
Anora senses the Warden's annoyance and grants her a reprieve. "I know you are still on the mend, but your limp is completely gone. Did it heal on it its own?" She doubts it did, but it allows the Warden to smile and change the subject.
"Nay, Anders." She gives his arm a friendly squeeze, and Anora catches the half-beat it rests there too long. "There was a scrap of metal still stuck in my leg, and something fucked up in the sacra…sacri—"
"Sacroiliac joint," Anders interjects. "You failed to mention that the Archdemon dropped you ten feet."
"My hip wasn't broken and I was in armor," she nips back.
Anora sighs to herself. She knows where the sacroiliac joint is, and can only imagine how they discovered the source of the Warden's pain. Not that she begrudges the Warden a lover when she is away.
Alistair takes her hand—he senses her moods better now, but happily he still fails to read her mind. She wonders if he suspects the Warden has new bedmates. How could he not? But sometimes his naivety still surprises her.
Anora feels his palpable relief the Warden has returned, scarred but healthy. She sees the longing, the memories, each refracting in his eyes like a hundred missed moments. She does not begrudge him this. Her arrangement still stands, still earns his shining eyes and tender embrace when she reminds him.
Erlina shares her bed tonight and they are not disturbed. Her confidante knows her too well to pick and scratch at her feelings.
"That mage is handsome, no?"
Anora grins. "Normally I would think it odd, but the earring is charming."
"And that precious kitten!" Erlina sits up, eyes mischievous. "He may be lonely tonight. We will not be disturbed, if you think your bed is still too cold."
Perhaps the thought should shame her, had Anora not outgrown such nonsense.
"No," she sighs. She does consider it. She is pregnant now; there would be no need to procure a tonic, or demand a messy maneuvering. "I do not have the luxury of such a habit."
The mage does stay in her thoughts, not for his charm, but his sadness. The Warden must know the wounded creature he is, just below the wit and charm. Escaping the Circle seven times? Alistair did not like talking about the Warden's adventure when the mages rebelled. It made her wonder what drove them to such lengths. Doubtless they saw it as imprisonment, but to be moved to slaughter…the common explanation was demons, but Anora did not doubt the desperation and cruelty of men, even if demons preyed on such thoughts.
Despite the Templars' assurance such an event would never happen again, Anora doubs their confidence. Anything can happen again. The uneasy feeling stirs in her belly as she thinks of that isolated tower.
She leaves the bed, pulls on a robe, and checks that she still looked presentable. This is unconventional of a queen, perhaps, but so are many things about her.
"Erlina, find Anders. Do not let him have the wrong idea. I want to ask him about the Circle."
The Warden departs, but not for Amaranthine. Anora breaks her fast in her study, leafing through correspondence she has no desire to read. The voices travel down the hall.
"No, Anders, I need you back at the Keep."
His voice is hushed, bordering on desperate. "You know they don't like me, apart from Justice. They don't trust mages."
"Velanna is a mage."
"Velanna does not care, nor does she like anyone apart from you and the Howe."
"I shall miss you, but the Keep needs you to train the new mages. Most learn how to throw a fireball and think they are Darinius reborn. We need healers."
A rustling sound and a sigh. Anora is curious, despite her nobler self. She glances out the doorway. Instead of a lurid interlude, the mage looks grieved. His forehead lowers to the Warden's, hands clasping her forearms. Anora knows her stances well enough to see the Warden is shifting with impatience.
"I would not send you back if I thought you in danger," she finishes, breaking the embrace.
Later, Anora takes a steadying breath when she hears, from the groom of all people, they have gained a new horse. Anders will return to Amaranthine by ship. The Warden…
"I need to go to Orzammar," she says, a sour lilt to her words. "Nathaniel is a fine seneschal."
"Warden," Anora says, low and cold, "What in Orzammar is more important than your arling?"
The Warden's hands shift on the horse's bridle. The queen does not know if Alistair knows of her plan, or if he would even understand why it would be a ridiculous idea. She abandons her duty?
"The Architect," she says. "I need to know if there is another like him—it—whatever. I've heard a name but can't remember where or what." She looks distraught, and the courser begins to snort above her wrist. "Have you heard the name Corypheus?"
Anora has not. "You have a responsibility to your people—"
The Warden mounts her horse, looking even smaller atop the swarthy mare.
"I have a responsibility to the Grey Wardens, and to Ferelden," she states. "Am I a Warden or an arlessa first? Maker if I know. I do know that if there is another creature in Thedas like the Mother, I need to kill it. Something screams to me I should know the name Corypheus and I don't. I want to ask the Shaperate."
Though she clearly tries to sway her with oration, Anora does not sense she is trying to lie. She does suspect she is partly lying to herself. She has no desire to return to Vigil's Keep, going in person when a letter would suffice. Seeing the proud set of her jaw, the wild fire in her eyes, Anora desists in convincing her otherwise.
"Give me your word you will return to Vigil's Keep."
"I will return."
Anora knows she should add more facets to her word, less freedom. She supposes she does not want to be the one to who the Warden breaks her word. So she nods, and offers a last farewell.
"I know not this name, but Corypheus sounds vaguely Arcanum. If you made any contacts in Tevinter—ones whose slaves you did not assault—I would write them. I also plan to visit the Circle of Magi soon. I will ask them to consult their library."
A marred smile, notched by a scar. The Warden flees.
