Author's note: Thanks so much to everyone who's reading and reviewing; I love hearing from you! And thanks especially to clafount for taking the time and energy beta-read my scribbles...if you haven't already, you should totally check her stories out!
Highever Castle
9 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon
oOoOo
The pyre had burnt all evening and through the night, giving over to embers only in the small hours just before dawn. Exhaustion weighed Lambert down, but he stood watching, though his two remaining lieutenants had caught a few hours' rest at his unbrookable insistence. She stood beside him, dressed in simple Chantry robes, her hair shorn down to the scalp and the left side of her head covered in bloodied gauze which half-obscured the sunburst brand burnt into her forehead.
"It is nearly time to go," he remarked in Orlesian, when the light of morning became stronger than the glow from the remains of his fallen brothers. She didn't answer him, as indeed she would not unless he gave her a command or asked her a question, but her one remaining eye pivoted to regard him with detached attentiveness. "Had your companion elected to remain," he went on, "it is almost certain that your combined prowess would have thwarted me." He had no trouble admitting that, at least where no others could hear. Any shame he felt was overwhelmed by his curiosity. "Why did you order him to leave?"
"I did not wish him to remain," she replied, her voice a rough monk's chant.
"That raises the obvious question," he pointed out, turning to face her more fully and crossing his arms. "Eventually you will learn when to answer obvious questions without having to be told."
"Yes, Lord Seeker," she chanted at him. Despite common opinion, Tranquil mages were not idiots; indeed, their inner clarity and unparalleled focus allowed them lucid insights beyond any other creatures Lambert had ever encountered. But they assigned no value to their observations, could no longer imagine the facts from another point of view...from any point of view. "If I had succeeded in slaying the lot of you," she went on, "it would only have delayed another such confrontation, and it would likely have resulted in Teyrn Fergus' death. This was not a desired outcome."
Lambert took a breath, considering her words. "Your reputation would have demanded you seek retribution," he pronounced. "For what reason must the teyrn survive?"
"Ferelden must be united," she explained, and when he tipped his head, she continued in the same rough monotone. "Orlais is becoming less stable, the Qunari are beginning preparations for an eventual invasion, and another Blight will soon erupt across the centre of Thedas."
The Lord Seeker was intimately aware of the first fact, and anyone of consequence in Thedas was ever mindful of the second, but the third gave him pause. "My associates in Weisshaupt have made no mention of an impending Blight," he commented, to himself. "How do you know what they do not, Athadra?" He allowed himself the use of her former name, however cruel it might be to maintain the illusion that she was still a person.
"Because," she said, "I have woken the two remaining Old Gods." In the mouth of anyone unkissed by the Chantry's justice, such an admission would have been relayed passionately, likely in a tone feverishly urgent. But the one-eyed elf's monotone did not break, did not give any sign that she was any longer aware of the import of her words.
It was certainly an unexpected bit of news. "I had wondered about your business in Kirkwall," Lambert admitted after he'd taken a moment to process the revelation, frowning deeply and returning his gaze to the smouldering remains of his platoon of men. His own plans would have to be accelerated in the face of this new development. "In time, you shall give me a full accounting of your achievements and designs...but, for the moment, I would like your opinion on something."
"Yes, Lord Seeker," she acknowledged.
"Over the course of our vigil, I have more than once felt tempted to kill you," he allowed. "Unlike you, I am still cursed with the bonds of fraternity, and you slew a great many of my brothers."
"Forty-one," she supplied, neutrally.
He had to take a breath and close his eyes; if he didn't know the better of it, he might be tempted to think she gloated. "Forty-one," he agreed. "Thirty-seven in direct combat, and the balance through the darkspawn taint in your veins." He forced his eyes open once more, forced himself to look upon the embers of his fellows. Even if Athadra did not promise to be a fount of information, he would not allow himself the base satisfaction of revenge; the souls of the dead would not be joyed by her execution. They'd all known the risks, they'd all volunteered to bring her into his service, they'd given their lives to sear the brand into her flesh. "I would learn where I erred, and how I might have kept this pyre from growing so high."
"You erred by not killing me," she told him.
He snorted. "I shall not nullify their sacrifice simply because I loved them," he countered, somewhat heatedly. "Do you not wish to live, even now?"
"I prefer to live, Lord Seeker," she stated, reflexively. "Yet each hour of life you grant me increases the likelihood that I will regain my connection to the Fade, and if that ever happens, I will kill you." Lambert had long thought himself immune to the alien quality of a Tranquil's delivery, long considered himself above surprise at what they might tell him, but a breath of ice tickled up his spine at the clinical prediction. Before he could gather his wits, she went on, dispassionately. "If you prefer to avoid that fate, you should interrogate and then kill me."
The Lord Seeker felt his mouth run dry as he glanced at her; she was a maleficar, a blood mage. It was the little-known reason that Harrowed mages were executed by templars rather than made Tranquil-even Tranquil mages could cast spells with their own blood, when prompted, and templars ever feared the Tranquil using such gifts unsupervised. But Lambert van Reeves was no simple templar...he was Lord Seeker, and he did not fall prey to unfounded paranoia. "You will not kill me," he said, baldly, and then he followed up with "I forbid it," just in case.
She inclined her head, docile as a broken horse. "My sole priority is my own survival," she acknowledged. "Living under your protection is the most likely scenario to prolong my survival, and therefore I must obey."
Lambert nodded, almost satisfied. "Such is the fate of all Tranquil," he said, "until they grow old and die. None has ever been restored." No mage, he added, mentally, but the thought did not linger long in his mind, for there were secrets even the Lord Seeker preferred not to think upon too deeply. Yet it was not precisely true that the Rite removed all emotion from its subject...rather, in mages, it turned every thread of thought to fear of death and disobedience most of all, which did much to explain the Tranquil mages' docility. There was no response to his musings from the branded elf, no flicker of disagreement behind that blood-coloured eye...but, then, there wouldn't be. And the Lord Seeker found himself curious as to just how secure the secrets of his Order still were. "Do you know otherwise, Athadra?"
"I suspect otherwise," she replied, after a pause which was longer than it might've been. "A mage in my employ became possessed by a spirit, many years ago," she explained, when he nodded for her to continue. "His associates in Kirkwall described to me an instance in which my friend's presence temporarily restored a Tranquil mage's heart to his mind, though I never investigated the matter further."
That breath of ice returned to Lambert's spine. Twice in one morning, which hadn't happened in quite some time. "Luckily, Tranquil mages are invisible to demons themselves," he pointed out. "So, as long as we do not happen upon any abominations in our travels, I should remain quite safe." Indeed, Tranquil mages had long lived and worked in Circles, places where centuries of concentrated magical exercise had thinned the Veil considerably, and there had never been a recorded instance of a Tranquil being possessed and having their severed magic restored to them. Even the apocalypse of the Fereldan Circle during the Blight had not produced such, and there had been no suspicion generated that Lambert had ever discovered. Still, he thought it best to redirect the conversation. "You have yet to answer my question," he reminded her, frustrated that he was repeating the elf's own words from the beginning of the battle. "How did you defeat so many hardened Seekers?"
"Their training was insufficient," she replied, blinking her single eye.
Lambert arched a brow. "They were the best warriors I could have asked for," he growled, crossing his arms to help combat the urge to draw his sword. "None in Thedas should have stood their equal."
"Except for me," the elf pointed out, placidly. "Your warriors train to hunt mages and fight against templars. Such tactics are unsuited for combating Grey Wardens, especially ones such as I."
That answer was...unsettling, in its sheer mundanity. Part of him had been hoping that the Warden had already been possessed, to fight so valiantly and to nearly succeed against impossible odds. But he knew that hope was foolish, for even in the depths of her desperation, Athadra had not become a twisted abomination as so many other mages had done when facing certain death at the hands of the righteous. Another part of him could not help but admire her resolve in the face of temptation to which so many of her kind all too readily succumbed. "When we arrive at the Spire, you will tell me how the Order might redress the deficiencies in our training," he instructed, with another lingering glance to the smouldering pyre. "Let us go," he decided. "We have a carriage to load and a ship to catch. You might even know of one of its passengers."
She absorbed his command and his comments without retort, turning only when he began to stride away from the remnants of the pyre. She limped, making no complaint; not yet fully healed, it was something of a miracle that she had survived at all, given the gravity of her wounds. The lost eye was beyond the apostate's skill to restore, though that was in some ways the least of her injuries.
Beneath the robe and in addition to the well-worn scars she'd earned since leaving Kinloch Hold, she carried new marks which would pucker her flesh for the rest of her life. Deep fissures in her shoulders, elbows, forearms, and wrists hinted at much greater damage to flesh and bone, and it would be unlikely that she could ever properly wield a pen again, much less a dagger or a sword. Even the most skilled of healers wouldn't be able to make her as she was at the height of her power.
Yet, as they stepped away from the fire and the dawn, Lambert caught a glint in the depths of her right eye that he couldn't quite convince himself was merely a reflection of the morning light, and he had to ignore a third chill in less than an hour to tingle over the base of his spine.
oOoOo
Royal Palace, Denerim
11 Kingsway, 9:39 Dragon
oOoOo
It still amused Anora that, after nearly a decade of residence in the most well-stocked palace in the country, her husband continued to devour every meal as though he were still the half-starved wastrel traipsing about the countryside with his little sword and bloodthirsty companions. It amused her, but there was disappointment threaded through her amusement, along with touches of anger, though it had been years since she'd given herself over to either. Alistair's appetite was driven not by greed, but by the curse which lurked in his blood, which had already robbed him of any chance of a legacy and would eventually rob her of his presence. That she felt the occasional desire to weep at the prospect of losing him had first come as something of a surprise, given the political foundations of their union and the fact that he was already in love with another woman. But somewhere in the years after Cailan's death by the inaction of her father, after her father's murder by Alistair's leader and friend, after the wedding that saved the country, Anora found the inner distance between her heart and her mind growing short. When she looked at the man now, with his close-cropped beard and the lines just beginning to crease around his eyes, she felt an upwelling of affection which nearly frightened her with its sudden intensity. "Have you made the arrangements for your journey, Alistair?"
The King of Ferelden tried to answer through a mouthful of lamb stew, nearly choked, and had to take several gulps of water before he cleared his throat. "Yes," he managed, and he at least had the wherewithal to look chagrined. "Teagan and I will set out day after tomorrow...if I don't manage to please the Bannorn before then." He coughed again, and then took another great mouthful of stew.
Anora rolled her eyes; she'd longsince abandoned warning him off of such cavalier humour. "And after you tour the Free Marches," she wondered, after chewing methodically through her own bite of stew, "will you be accompanying your uncle to Val Royeaux, or shall the two of you part company?"
Alistair did not attempt a reply at first, but he did give her a measured look as he considered her true question. Will you see her before you return? "I think we'll part ways," he settled, and she believed him.
"Then have Teagan send my regards to the empress and the Divine," she told him, her brows drawing together with unfeigned sympathy. Anora should have hated the bard, Leliana, or at least felt indifferent to her continued claim upon Alistair's affections...but since she'd left Denerim, the queen found herself missing the other woman's company and companionship nearly as much as the king must have. "And make certain you come back safely to me." She was not a superstitious woman, but ever since Cailan's father had sailed away and never returned, Anora always worried about journeys by sea. Yet there were Fereldans in Kirkwall, in Ostwick, in Starkhaven and other Marcher cities across the Waking Sea, and Alistair had a duty to see they were well-treated and welcomed home, if they'd a mind to escape the madness that had erupted across the rest of Thedas in the last four years. Besides, he'd told her one night, after she'd confided her misgivings, it's not like I wouldn't rather fly across the ocean on a griffon, if only they hadn't gone and got all extinct. Think of all the wasted potential in being able to swoop into fancy parties unannounced! On a griffon! And then he'd held her, and kissed her, and promised to come back.
He looked on the verge of renewing that vow, only to pause, his eyes narrowing as he looked to the drawing room door. A frantic knock was not long in coming. "Beg pardon, Your Majesties," came Telmure's muffled voice, through the thick wood. "But Ser Nathaniel is out here, begging a word. Says it's urgent."
Nathaniel? Anora kept the relief from flickering across her features; if it had to be a Warden, there were few who'd be as welcome as the son of her father's former ally...and she secretly hoped that he had not brought his commander in tow. Alistair was already on his feet, halfway between the doorway and the double-bearded waraxe hanging above the fireplace, as though he might just jot off for a spot of darkspawn killing before bed. Anora barely had time to join him, snatching a napkin off the table as she went and wiping a stray bit of stew from his stubbled chin before he cleared his throat. "Enter," he said, sounding infinitely more regal than Anora could have imagined when she first met him.
The door opened at once, and Anora had to hold back a gasp at the sight that greeted her; Nathaniel was in one piece and visibly unhurt, but he was filthy, his face drawn and hair disheveled, his armour stained with grass and dirt and flecks of rust that told her he'd been traveling for days without taking it off. He half-swooned, half-stepped into the room, and Alistair rushed forward to grab him before he fell. "Thank you," the Warden hissed through cracked lips.
"Please," Anora pressed, "come sit. We've plenty of water and food still."
Nathaniel nodded in gratitude, and the King of Ferelden ambled the Warden over to the seat he'd just vacated a mere moment before. "Maker, Nathaniel," he breathed. "What's happened to you? Aren't you supposed to be in Redcliffe?"
The Warden fell heavily into the chair, and his reply was delayed by a deep draught of Alistair's wine. "Thank you, my liege," he sighed. "We were indeed in Redcliffe until quite recently."
Anora's curiosity got the better of her suspicion. "What has happened? What brought you to us in such rough shape?"
Nathaniel inclined his head in a small show of deference, though he did not lower his eyes. "Athadra is...gone."
It was the middle of autumn, so the crackle of the fireplace provided cover for the thick silence which followed the haggard man's pronouncement. Anora blinked several times, while Alistair's brows drew together, almost as though he were reading a table of sums, simply unable to comprehend. "Gone?" He ventured, after a heartbeat, sitting beside his fellow Warden. "On a mission, you mean?"
One of the few gulfs remaining between the king and queen was apparent, at least to Anora, by the latter's willingness to hold out such vain hope for the Champion of Redcliffe; theirs was a bond forged deep in the heat of battle, a friendship that transcended politics and even morality, and the queen did not begrudge her husband the connection...but she saw at once that Nathaniel would not have run himself ragged to relay such a simple message to the pair of them. The Warden did not respond at once, though his cracked lips parted and he seemed on the verge of speech more than once. Eventually he swallowed, slowly shaking his head. "I do not think so," he allowed. "I believe she is dead."
"What?!" Alistair stood so suddenly that his chair clattered backward onto the floor. "What do you mean, dead? How could she be dead?"
The man's reply was a heartbeat in coming. "I do not know, my friend," he rasped, and he was almost a good-enough liar for Anora to believe his claim of ignorance. "But I think it's quite likely."
The king began to pace, fidgeting, seeming much more like a nervous boy than the well-seasoned monarch she'd groomed him to be. "She can't be dead," he insisted, throwing a wild look to Anora. "Can she?"
Anora recalled her few private conversations with the Commander of the Grey over the years; not a single one had passed without the credible threat that Athadra would murder her if Anora did not keep the woman's secrets. The novelty had worn off quickly, but the fear had remained, and there were a few things gleaned in those encounters which the queen had not even told her husband. "If you are asking for my opinion," she ventured, choosing her words with care, "I would have to say I am unsurprised. Violent people often encounter violent ends."
A shadow moved in the corner of her vision. "I have known many violent people," the shadow said, its clipped Antivan accent familiar. "Most of them are quite predictable and boring," Zevran continued, stepping into the light of the braziers. He looked heavily from Nathaniel to Alistair and then Anora. "Athadra is quite the opposite of either." His face was a caramel mask, flawless and gleaming, standing in distinction to Nathaniel's unkempt appearance...though the two men's expressions were oddly similar.
"This is…" Alistair began, but he trailed off and then busied himself with righting his chair, though he did not move to reoccupy it.
For her part, Anora gained control of her runaway heartbeat, frightened more than she'd ever admit by the elf's easy appearance in their private chambers. Her husband trusted the assassin, it was true, but Anora could not banish every fragment of suspicion. "Were you attacked?" She asked, her eyes cutting to the Warden. "Are there any other casualties?"
Nathaniel's mask threatened to crack when he looked at her, for just an instant, but he quickly schooled himself. "No," he admitted, shaking his head slowly. "The Commander and I were traveling...alone," he allowed. "The situation became dangerous, and then untenable...and she sacrificed herself, to save me." He shook his head again, firmly enough that greasy hanks of his hair fell across his face. "I cannot tell you any more, except that Athadra's last words were for you to keep this land united."
The king choked on a strangled gasp. "You left her?" He managed, his voice thick with the sting of betrayal. "How could you?!"
Zevran spoke up again, his velvet voice cutting through Alistair's rage. "When my Warden tells you to flee, you do not question," he informed them. "You turn and you run and you do not look back. You know this, mi amigo." Alistair did not look like he knew anything of the kind, but Zevran kept speaking, regardless. "It is not her violence which sets her apart," he supplied, coldly. "But the distance she is willing to take it."
Alistair had no answer for that, so Anora stepped in once more. "You are certain she did not survive, Nathaniel?" The man inclined his head, his eyes lowering to the table. A spasm of emotion twitched over Zevran's face, but the elf's features quickly sublimated back into the mask of indifference...a dangerous expression in a trained killer. The queen cleared her throat. "Then...you have our condolences, and our thanks for rushing so quickly with this information." She gave her husband an expectant look, and he closed his mouth smartly, nodding.
"Right," Alistair affirmed, shaking his head. "I just...I can't believe…"
Shakily, Nathaniel took to his feet, pushing heavily against the table. "Zev," he gruffed, pulling the hair from his eyes. "She...wanted you to have this." He dug in a grubby pouch at his belt, and produced a grimy ring, spackled with rust...though, upon closer inspection, Anora realised that the rust was actually dried blood, and the grime lay upon pure gold.
The Antivan took the bloodstained jewel without hesitation, his bare hand closing over it and his eyes fluttering closed. He breathed a mumbled prayer in Antivan before his eyes opened once more. "Gracias, Nathaniel." He breathed a heavy sigh, suddenly turning toward the door. "And now I must take my leave."
"Wait," Alistair called, reaching out grab at the elf's shoulder. "You can't go."
Zevran proved nimble enough to dance backward from the gesture, though he gave the desperate man a sympathetic look. "I daresay you could not stop me, amigo viejo, and I recommend you do not make the attempt."
The king stopped short, his brows drawing together in a mild show of a much deeper hurt. "But..." He stammered, and Anora heard his real entreaty; Zevran was the man's last link to the Blight Companions, after Leliana took up duties in Orlais and the rest of their motley crew dissolved into the four winds, and now that Athadra had apparently breathed her last.
The assassin clenched and unclenched his unoccupied fist, his eyes sharp in sudden, deadly concentration. "Her final request was that Ferelden remain strong, for the troubles to come," he said. "Our Warden is gone, and we shall never see her again." He turned, making for the door. "And now I have said enough."
Anora's lips formed around her question before she even knew she was curious. "Where shall you go?"
Zevran paused, his hand on the door's latch, and he glanced back just enough to give her a glimpse of his tattooed cheek. "There is nothing left for me in this country but fleas and whores," he told them. "So my first stop will be to say farewell to them, before I return home." The elf took a breath, facing forward again. "Goodbye, Alistair," he allowed, "and luck be to you both."
Then he was gone, as abruptly and certainly as if he'd never been. An emptiness settled over Anora's stomach as she regarded her husband; he looked stricken, which she could understand, but they could ill afford to indulge him in his grief, with the mounting threat of the mage rebellion and their need to replace Zevran's subtle services as quickly as possible. "Nathaniel," she said, sparing the man a tight smile. "Please stay the night; eat a decent supper and breakfast, and take a good horse from the stables on the morrow for your return to Redcliffe."
The Warden paused in slurping the soup he couldn't resist eating while Zevran had taken their attention. "You have my thanks," he managed, his voice shaky with his fatigue.
She nodded, willing her nose not to wrinkle. "And a bath, straight after your meal," she insisted. "My husband and I shall retire to our bedchamber for the night. You're welcome to sleep in the guestroom, down the hall."
Nathaniel reiterated his thanks, and Anora went to Alistair, taking him by the hand and leading him through the drawing room to their sleeping quarters. Once the heavy door was closed, she clasped his still-strong shoulders. "I am sorry," she assured him, though the frigid void still tugged at her insides when she felt her own gratitude at the Champion's apparent demise. "I know she...meant a great deal to you."
Alistair swallowed thickly, his eyelids fluttering, and then his strong arms coiled around her torso, pulling her into a crushing embrace. "I love you," he whispered against her cheek.
The solemnity of the vow wrenched that chilled emptiness away, and Anora felt her hollow spaces filling with a gentle warmth as she fell into the man's embrace. "I love you, too," she said, and meant it.