Upon the Morrow – Epilogue
Chancellor. After being called "the Warden" for what feels like forever, it is an odd title. Like trying to wear someone else's armor; useful, powerful, but it just doesn't fit quite right.
These past six months have given me time to adjust to it. It is certainly easier to wear than my other title, Hero of Ferelden. But today, it stings as if someone branded the words "King's Gilded Whore" across my chest.
People will notice my absence. It will only feed the fires of rumor and intrigue. I should be there, in the front row of the crowded audience, giving my silent seal of approval of this union. In the eyes of many, this gesture would mean even more than the words of blessing the Grand Cleric will speak over them. Several even recommended that I approach Her Reverence and offer to do one of the traditional readings from the Chant of Light.
My courage in this matter is spent, however. I barely had any in the first place. When my shield refused to even consider the idea of ending things between us, I found hope in that. But I've watched them since then. Playing the role of First Chancellor, I serve as witness to their joint rule. Alistair is a quick learner, and Anora much more forgiving than I believed she could ever be. She does not berate him, and when they argue it is more of an exchange of passionate ideas rather than opposing forces warring with words.
He claims not to love her. I want to believe him. He honestly may not, as of this moment. Even now as he waits to profess to love, honor, and protect her in under the Maker's gaze and in the eyes of men. But I've seen them together, every day. It constantly reminds me of the beginning of our travels together. It's not as organic of a relationship, which is not surprising given how well Alistair and I got along when we first met. Our meeting was as comrades in arms. On top of that, I'd been granted Duncan's seal of approval as a worthy addition to the Grey Wardens. He and Anora met as enemies, she the untrustworthy daughter of a man whom he reviled more than the most unscrupulous of malificar.
Time changes everything, however. The only thing we are assured of in this life is change. Look at Arl Eamon. From a ruling arl with a loving wife and son, to a landless noble whose son lives in the Tower with a melancholy wife who still persists in her belief that Eamon lies to her about Alistair's father. She still wonders about why he's so fiercely loyal to him, loyal enough to give up his lands and live at court as his advisor.
She won't be happy if Alistair appoints him as First Chancellor.
Everyone is so focused on the wedding that I should not have trouble slipping away. I will make my way to Weisshaupt. They deserve to know the truth of what Alistair and I wrought that night in Redcliffe. If they will listen to my plea, perhaps they will even allow me to lead the hunt to find and kill her, and the child. Sten's speeches about atonement and honor are starting to ring more true in my heart than they once did.
Maker's Breath, even if Alistair could forgive me for running away, he will never forgive me for killing his flesh and blood, no matter how tainted the child may be. But I would be able to undo what we wrought. I fool myself not about my part in this. Just because I did not, could not, perform the ritual with Morrigan, it does not make me any less responsible for the outcome of her dark promises.
I look around my solar, a grand place for a grand woman with a grand purpose. It is not meant for the likes of elven whores who willingly allow witches absolve them of their sworn duty.
My old pack is stored in my closet, as well as my fine dragon scale armor. I will have to find provisions on the road, for today the kitchens will be a cacophony of noise and insanity. My old bedroll still hangs from the bottom of it. I will have to find a tent as well. A small one, easily carried. The smaller the better. Space for only one is ideal.
But there is one thing I must do first.
It is old and dry now. The petals a deep sanguine color, more black than red. I'd dried it, pressing it between the pages of a journal I rarely kept up with. Always I carried it with me when we fought the Blight.
But the Blight is over. And so too is that which the rose once represented.
I briefly consider sneaking into the royal apartments and leaving it on their bed. No. Not today. I dare not put a thorn in the paw of this union. It will make what needs to be done all the harder. Nevertheless, this relic will not be accompanying me.
Leliana. She will understand. I showed her the rose in camp one night during our travels, and together we giggled like school girls over it. By the time she finds it, my presence will surely have been missed. It may even inspire her to write a song. Bards love these romantic tragedies; Sister Justine was right about that.
I pressed the rose into the journal, wrote a simple goodbye on one of the blank pages, and closed the book's belted clasp. I gave the book to one of the guards stationed in the hallway outside my solar, requesting that the book be delivered to my friend the bard.
As I passed under the city gates, the bells began to ring. Their music spread through the city, as each district Chantry took up the toll. It was then that I broke into a blind run, not daring to look back.