A/N: I was really very touched by the depth of the reviews to the last chapter - it's wonderful and exciting that so many of you are thinking about the relationships and connections as much as I am. I can only hope that the rest of the fic will continue to be engaging, and thank you again for taking the time to let me know your opinions.
With much gratitude to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
The Theirin Birthright
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Denerim
The day to day rigours of ruling had always chafed on Alistair.
Oh, he could fake a smile as well as the rest of them now, he supposed, but he wasn't born for this, damnit; he hadn't arrived into the world knowing the difference between a virelai and an estampie, or which fork to use first, or how to address the son of an Orlesian lord whose mother was his granduncle's cousin twice removed.
Things had been far easier when he was just Alistair, the grey warden, not Alistair, the son of Maric Theirin, in whose veins ran the blood of conquerors and kings. Alistair the Kind, they called him behind his back. Alistair the Handsome. Not Alistair-who-could-never-darn-his-own-socks or Alistair-the-worst-cook-in-Ferelden.
It was times like these when he wished he was still invisible, wished that he could slip away from all this nonsense without a moment's thought. Let Ferelden rule herself. Let the nobility deafen their own ears with their bickering, and let Alistair-the-ordinary lay down his crown and pick up something far more useful, like a - like a sword.
Then maybe they would leave him alone.
"This is an outrage!" the Grand Cleric of Ferelden was fuming. "An affront to the Maker. A slight upon the holy men and women who carry out His good work."
"The news from South Reach is distressing," one of the banns commented. Alfstanna of Waking Sea, Alistair thought as he recognised her. "They say that Arl Bryland of South Reach has apparently converted to the cult of the so-called 'Child God'."
"Arl Bryland and those like him will suffer the Maker's wrath," the grand cleric continued in her tirade. "'For there is but one God...'"
"We all know the Chant, Your Grace," Arl Wulff said in a bored tone. "More worrying are the rumours that conversion to the cult apparently brings material prosperity. Not all men are as mindful of the Maker's teachings as we are, in the face of such temptation."
"Highever is also suffering," Teyrn Fergus interjected. "Crops have been poor three years in a row. The people are growing desperate."
"We don't need a war or some misguided crusade, Your Majesty," Arl Wulff said, slamming his fist into his open palm for emphasis. "What we need is nothing short of a miracle."
Bann Ceorlic spoke up, mopping his brow with a handkerchief as his voice echoed shakily throughout the chamber. "Perhaps we should pay homage to this Child God-"
"What?" The grand cleric drew her indignity around her like a shield. "No. Never! Speak such blasphemy again within these walls, and I will see you excommunicated for heresy," she snarled.
"Lords and Ladies, Your Grace, please!" Alistair snapped, finally losing his patience. "Ah," he said sourly as he noticed the latest arrival to the audience chamber, "it's our honoured guest."
"Guillaume Falaize, Warden-Commander of Orlais," the steward announced from the door as Guillaume walked inside, escorted by two of the palace guards.
"Your Majesty, you honour me with this audience," Guillaume said as he bowed, before striding up to the dais. He met the king's gaze, forcing himself to relax in the scrutiny of the Landsmeet. Guillaume was slightly surprised to note that Alistair was dressed from head to toe in black mourning silks; the chamberlain who had briefed him before his journey to Ferelden had neglected to inform him that the king was recently bereaved.
The assembled nobility looked at the Orlesian askance, a flurry of whispers rising up amongst them. Guillaume ignored them all, keeping his pace slow and measured as he approached the throne. His sword and dagger were bound to their sheaths in a gesture of peace, but they still drew black looks amongst the gentry, as though he would dare to strike down the king right under their noses.
"What is the meaning of this, Your Majesty?" Bann Sighard questioned angrily. "This is not a Grey Warden affair-"
"I'm afraid it is, my lord," Guillaume said smoothly, in thickly accented Fereldan. "We believe the false god to be connected in some way to the darkspawn."
"But darkspawn sightings have been dropping off for months," Bann Ceorlic protested, his hands wringing together nervously.
"Sire, may we speak in private?" Guillaume asked, with a pointed look towards Alistair.
The king narrowed his eyes, taking a swift glance around the chamber. "This session is in recess," he announced at last. "We will reconvene tomorrow morning."
"But, Your Majesty-" the grand cleric protested.
"Please, all of you…" Alistair sighed, making a dismissive gesture. "Tomorrow."
As the crowd filed out, Alistair stood, a pair of guards coming to attention and heading purposefully towards the king. "Somewhere private, hmm?" he said, with a peevish glance towards Guillaume. "Follow me."
The guards both stared daggers at the Orlesian, as if daring him to try anything, but Guillaume remained silent as he trailed after the king. The corridors in the Fereldan palace were long and draughty, the cold seeping into the stone and into one's bones. As they walked, the rooms they passed became less bare and impersonal, the addition of soft furnishings and paintings betraying a woman's touch.
Eventually, Alistair stopped, unlocking a door with a key from his belt. "You may wait outside," he said to his guards, who shifted uneasily.
"But, Your Majesty..."
"If he tries anything, I'll scream like a little girl," Alistair offered irritably. "Honestly, if the Orlesians were going to send an assassin, you probably wouldn't know about it until it was too late," he snapped, with more venom in his voice than seemed necessary. Guillaume noted the detail, filing it away in his mind for closer examination later.
The king had led them to what appeared to be a study, the walls lined with bookcases at either end. A cold, untended fireplace stood opposite to a large desk and an array of formidable looking chairs. A large painting had been hung above the fireplace, but its contents remained a mystery to Guillaume as it had been draped over with heavy swathes of black silk.
The king did not take a seat, and so Guillaume remained standing, trying to ignore the cold that was seeping into his bones. "Sire," he began. "May I speak plainly?"
"Please, please do," Alistair said dryly, with a wave of his hand.
Guillaume took a breath, steadying himself. "Is the so-called 'Child God' truly the embodiment of the fifth archdemon?"
Alistair grimaced, slowly walking away to stand before the room's windows that extended from ceiling to floor. Their installation had been an Orlesian conceit; Fereldan castles were built with consideration to both the climate and their defensibility. "The way you ask makes me suspect that you already know the answer," he replied.
"If we are to defeat this being, then we must be sure of what we are facing, Sire," Guillaume said carefully.
Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, staring down at the movement in the courtyard below. "Then... yes. Maybe. We can't know for sure-"
"The maleficar who is said to be with her," Guillaume continued. "Is that her mother?"
Alistair frowned, not liking the direction that the conversation was heading in. "Does it matter?"
Guillaume sighed. "It matters, Sire, because it can help us predict her next movements. Assuming that she has a certain… humanity to her, that is."
Alistair turned, choosing his next words with care. "What are you suggesting, Commander?"
"That the Child God may decide to seek out her parents, Sire. If they are still alive," he added, as an afterthought. "I am told that the maleficar travelled with you and the other two grey wardens near the end of the Blight-"
"She left us," Alistair interrupted, his eyes dark with memories. "She wasn't with us when we slew the archdemon."
Guillaume coughed politely. "Be that as it may-"
"I have no further information that could help you," Alistair snapped. "Not about the archdemon, anyway." He clasped his hands behind his back, striding over to the large maps of Ferelden that lay spread out over the desk. "Your men may remain at Amaranthine," he said, gesturing to the top right corner of the map. "I'm sure the warden-commander there will welcome you with open arms," he added dryly. "If you intend to march on Redcliffe, I want to hear of it first. As far as I'm concerned, this is a matter for the Chantry, not the Order. But I will not stop you."
Guillaume nodded. "Then there is the matter of the talking darkspawn who are rumoured to be here - specifically, the one called the Architect-"
"Your man released him, or so my reports tell me," Alistair interrupted, scowling. "He let him live. Deliberately! A darkspawn!"
"I know Gerod," Guillaume said. "He is a good man, and a good warden. He must have had good reasons for his actions."
"Maybe. But this wasn't his country. He didn't have to live with that decision; we do."
"Have you never had cause to show an enemy mercy, Sire?" Guillaume asked.
Something in Alistair's face flinched at that question, the weight of dark and unpleasant memories causing his eyes to narrow. "I assume you've read your history, Commander. It will show you that 'mercy' hasn't been one of my strong points."
Guillaume had heard about the death of Ferelden's former regent, how his blood had splattered his daughter's face in the midst of all his peers and subordinates. Though it had been the elven warden's hand that swung the blade, common theory held that it had been Maric's heir who had ordered the execution of Loghain Mac Tir.
"The Architect has not been sighted for over ten years," Alistair explained, "although I suspect you will find more recent information at Amaranthine. However, the Order's ranks are still greatly diminished in Ferelden. I doubt you'll find many men willing to follow you on a... religious crusade. But I'm sure that won't stop you from trying. In any case, Osric may have other ideas," he added dismissively, as he referred to the Fereldan warden-commander.
"Thank you, Sire, Guillaume said as he bowed deeply.
"Good luck," Alistair said. "You'll need it."
Guillaume stiffened, inclining his head at the perceived slight. "Maker watch over you," he said formally.
"May He watch over us all, Commander."
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Alistair slumped into a chair after the Orlesian had left him.
Maker's breath. As if he didn't already have enough on his hands...
He rolled up the maps on the desk, putting them away to one side and opened a drawer. He rifled through its contents like a man possessed, spare quills and pencils and bits of parchment scattering everywhere. When it was half-emptied, he reached a hand to the back of the drawer, pressing a lever to one side. There was the creaking of metal gears, and a second compartment was revealed. Alistair reached inside it, almost warily, and pulled out an envelope, smoothing it flat on his desk. Its corners were dog-eared and worn, and when he upended it, thin, fragile pieces of paper slid out.
Alistair thumbed through the pieces absently, spreading them out over the desk. They had faded with time, but the people and places they portrayed were still recognisable.
Leliana had often whiled away the idle moments at camp in song, but in her more contemplative moments she had picked up a pen or brush to pass the time. The practice helped her learn to focus on seeing what was truly there, she had explained to Sylvanna, and not only what others wanted her to see. What had been a frivolous pastime for a noblewoman's ward later became a useful skill for a bard and a spy.
Leliana's choice of subjects had been varied. She had captured the fluid lines of the Dalish aravels; the monstrous face of a Sylvan awakening from the earth; the twisted mouth of a darkspawn emissary snarling in anger. There were other sketches, too, more personal ones; Oghren trying to drag a pair of his pants back from Thetus' jaws, with Wynne looking on disapprovingly; Zevran sparring with Sten, the difference in size between the combatants appearing almost comical; even a good likeness of Alistair himself, helping Shale to carry firewood back to camp.
The last portrait was of the two other mages, and Alistair frowned as he looked at it. The two women had been near inseparable for much of the latter part of their journey, and their... relationship had been a thing of amused speculation (and in some cases, concern) for the rest of their companions.
The mages had been unaware of the bard as she had patiently drawn their likeness, Morrigan looking amused, relaxed, even, as she reclined next to a fire. Sylvanna had been talking, Leliana capturing her animated gestures and expressions vividly. The warden was leaning forward, her hand idly brushing the inside of Morrigan's knee; the small gesture of intimacy perfectly rendered, a tiny portion of time preserved forever. Alistair thought he could detect a trace of wistfulness in the curve of a line, here and there; in the way that Morrigan's face was only half-rendered, her features indistinct... but perhaps the sentiment was only in his mind.
Alistair had tried to put the events surrounding the end of the Blight out of his mind, with little success. First there had been the clean up; Denerim had been sacked by the invading darkspawn horde, with much of the palace itself burned or destroyed. As king, Alistair had been responsible for an endless flow of refugees, displaced humans and elves and dwarves alike who all who needed to be fed and sheltered and kept from each other's throats.
Then there had been the Orlesian wardens, with their questions and probing looks and suspicions, and Gerod, who had briefly taken the role of warden-commander at Vigil's Keep, though not without much complaint from the Amaranthine nobility.
And finally, there had been Anora, who had never forgiven Alistair for the death of her father. She had softened over the years, but never forgotten; much as Alistair himself had never forgotten Loghain's crimes.
It had been a dark night when Alistair had confessed to Anora exactly what had happened near the end of the Blight. He had left the details hazy, but she had guessed the majority of it. He had never expected her to do anything about it, but that was Anora for you - never content to simply sit back and leave things be. Alistair had been furious upon learning that she had sent templars after the witch and her child, and then secretly had been almost... relieved when the men sent forth had never returned.
Anora had always known that this would come back to haunt them, and in hindsight, Alistair should have paid more attention to her instincts.
Taking out a fresh piece of parchment, Alistair laid it out on the desk, its clean emptiness staring at him accusingly. After several fits and starts, he began to write.
Anders
By now, the Orlesians will have made themselves at home and you will be acquainted with their leader, a jolly fellow by name of Guillaume. They are ostensibly here to deal with our little problem at Redcliffe.
I need you to volunteer to accompany them and keep me informed of their progress. Try not to let Guillaume do anything stupid. If the rumours are true, then you may be facing at least two mages, both of whom are sodding crazy and dangerous to boot.
If Osric protests that he wants to join you, remind him that the journey will be grimy and uncomfortable and he'll have to make do with your cooking. If that doesn't scare him off, then nothing will.
Maker watch over you.
Alistair.
PS: Don't let the Orlesian get killed. You wouldn't believe the paperwork I would need to fill out.
PPS: Don't get yourself killed, either. We have few enough wardens as it is.
PPPS: And leave the cat behind. He's getting too old for this sort of thing.
Alistair blotted the letter, folding it into an envelope and dripping hot wax onto the back, before pressing his signet into the seal. He wished, not for the first time, that Oghren had stayed behind in Amaranthine rather than leading a 'research' expedition into the Deep Roads. Anders was all right, for a mage; but like all mages, he had more firepower than common sense. Alistair had even less faith in most of the other wardens.
Osric had risen swiftly to the rank of warden-commander, apparently due more to his diplomatic tongue than any military experience. He was a son of a minor bann who had only been forced into the Order as an alternative to hanging; with that in mind, he had done very well for himself, taking both the title of Commander and Arl of Amaranthine. Alistair had never learned of his crimes, and had decided that he didn't want to know. That was all the Order in Ferelden had come to: a handful of thieves, murderers, rapists and apostates, each without the good grace to die at their Joining. It was the sort of thought that would have angered him, once, but now the grim reality of it just made him numb.
The last ten years had been a struggle for Ferelden and her king. Alistair had always known that ruling would be hard, but he had never known just how hard. Nothing had prepared him for the misery that seemed to be part of the package, along with the titles and the servants and the large, empty palace.
Now that Morrigan and her ill-gotten child had returned, things looked like they were going to become much, much worse.
