Wynne woke up with the most terrible migraine she'd ever had in her life.
The senior enchanter would never have poisoned by Antivan tea in the Circle. Wynne was loved and respected there, by both mages and templars alike. Her advice was always heeded, her mentoring appreciated. And nothing in the Fereldan Circle of Magi was ever resolved through means as crude as poison. Oh, sure, the mages' last rebellion ended up with near-total destruction of the Circle and demons going amok, but still. No poison or other ignoble means of murder.
She made a mental note to never accept anything edible from Leliana again—or Zevran, for that matter. Or Lucilla.
The elderly mage looked around. She was still inside the royal tent, with its important papers, desks and trunks of supplies. In the middle was a brazier to keep the most important woman in Ferelden right now warm, but she was not there to appreciate it; her bunk was empty. Beside it was Alistair, sitting dejectedly, a flask in his hand.
"Wynne," he slurred. "I've a migraine. Can you wave your hands to make it better?"
Wynne sighed. She doubted that Alistair drank Leliana's laced tea and took the flask away from him.
"She's with her," Alistair rambled. In between hiccups , he added, "she says she wants a different healer. Where's Morrigan?"
"I don't know where Morrigan is," Wynne said patiently. When Alistair reached for his flask, however, Wynne shot him a dark look. "You're better than this, Alistair."
The man fell silent, and took his face in his hands. Wynne left his side and rummaged in the trunks for a makeshift potion. It was not a poultice she made often in the Circle, but travelling with Oghren gave her plenty of opportunity for whipping it up.
"Here," she handed her makeshift remedy to Alistair. "Drink all of it."
The young man obeyed. Wynne thanked the Maker for small mercies—here was, at least, a young fellow who appreciated her and followed her orders, like an obedient schoolboy or a rightfully filial son. And if Lucilla did not, so be it. Wynne had done her part in healing her body of all hurt it obtained from her battles.
Alistair looked up to Wynne as a kind grandmother—doting, benevolent and wise. But Wynne never got the impression that the other warden, Lucilla, did so. The young noblewoman was coolly civil with her, sometimes inquiring about her health, more often than not gently ordering her to create salves, balms, poultices and bandages. Wynne was never Lucilla's choice in missions—not even when she returned to Ostagar to salvage what she could. She was devastated by that decision, as she wanted to re-live what glorious moments she had of her life as a mage and subject of Ferelden, however horrendous.
Wynne was probably the first to have guessed Eamon's match-making plans. She was among the mages who prepared the drought made with Andraste's ashes that revived the old Arl. She saw the way Eamon's eyes widened when he heard that Alistair's companion was none other than the lofty daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland. She realized that it was the Maker's providence that a prince of Ferelden was trying to save his country from the Blight with the help of a woman fit to be among Ferelden's list of warrior-queens.
Except that Lucilla was more of a scoundrel than an honorable knight, and Alistair never really identified himself as a prince. And more importantly, that aristocratic Lucilla's heart was with another, someone so far beneath her station, it would be the height of scandal in the Landsmeet, maybe even beyond. Leliana was an Orlesian bard, after all.
Months ago, before they finished the treaties, Wynne was on shared night watch duty with Lucilla. It was the last time she the mage had spoken to their leader seriously and in private.
Every other member of their party was asleep, and Lucilla was poking the dying embers of their campfire with a stick, smiling and humming while she did so. Wynne knew that Lucilla wanted nothing more than return to Leliana's tent, to savor what joys of the flesh she could. But the elderly mage decided to give the noblewoman a piece of her mind.
"Tell me, do you love Leliana?" Wynne asked bluntly. She was no Orlesian who shrouded her true intent with flowery words. "And why do you lead Alistair on?"
"I beg your pardon?" Lucilla asked incredulously. The joyful, youthful look on her face was gone, replaced by the steely glare she reserved for intimidating her adversaries.
"You heard me, my lady," Wynne said. She believed herself wise; she had to call Lucilla out for toying with the hearts of two of her closest companions. "Do you know that love could lead us to the most dastardly of situations? It is selfish to fall in love, when someone is in your place. In any of you three. You have the burden of command, Alistair has his father's crown—"
Lucilla stood up to her full height, her posture that of a great feudal lord addressing someone so beneath her. With a melodramatic flair, she even drew her sword and struck it to the ground.
"I encourage each and every one in my circle to voice out their dissents and opinions of my actions," Lucilla said authoritatively. Wynne had never heard a more menacing voice in her life, not even from the demons of the Fade. "And I take my advisors' counsel seriously. Oghren dissented to killing Branka outright, but Shale opposed any attempts against Caridin. Sten refused to venture in Haven to find the Ashes. Alistair begged to save Redcliffe from the undead, and Leliana opposed to the use of blood magic in exorcising Connor. You asked me to rethink doing Master Ignacio any favors. All of those, I took into consideration before deciding our course of action."
Lucilla narrowed her eyes dangerously, and pointed the tip of her sword at Wynne's chin. "You're dismissed, old woman."
And with a stern command to wake Zevran and Alistair up for their watch, she turned her back.
Wynne did not turn her back to the Wardens. She thought about leaving, of going back to the Circle to help rebuild, but she could not leave Alistair. Not when the young lad asked her why she looked troubled, what he could do for her. He knew of the terrible burden of the last two Wardens of Ferelden, and she could not in good conscience leave him with Lucilla. Moments later, Leliana and Zevran inquired about her as well, but she politely refused any of their help. Shale offered to crush the head of the person who troubled her so, but she just chuckled; the Golem could never obey that order. Oghren could sense that she was troubled, and offered her a drink, which she accepted, vile as it was, and was thankful that the dwarf never pressed her for details.
Wynne never told another soul of the encounter between her and Lucilla. She was so humiliated by it, she felt that no one would be able to respect her anymore, let alone call her a mentor. Oghren seemed to understand; he knew what disgrace could mean. Whenever he caught Wynne looking particularly disturbed by Lucilla, he offered the mage a drink.
Wynne thought about apologizing, but she never thought of herself as wrong, not in that particular act anyway. Lucilla had duties which were distracting her. Besides, she was high-born; she should never love anyone below her station. She should not love anyone at all, except the man who would be her husband. Love was not something she could afford—not for Leliana, anyway. It was cruel of her to thus treat Leliana and Alistair.
And Wynne's sense of propriety was more than her sense of shame: she was tempted to warn Leliana about Lucilla's true horrible, manipulative nature, but Wynne was frightened of the consequences. Sweet and respectful as she was, Leliana was still Lucilla's lover. What if Leliana did not believe her? What if she squealed to Lucilla—would their leader slit her throat or merely throw her bags away? Nor could Wynne talk to Alistair. She saw the way his eyes followed her, like a mabari puppy longing for some attention. He sometimes voiced dissents to Lucilla, but he did it in a way that reinforced Wynne's association of him with mabari puppies: with a soft, pleading voice that she suspected Lucilla could never resist, or maybe that was how Lucilla kept him wrapped around her finger.
Also, leaving the party would also imply to Lucilla that she had won: that she could toy with the emotions of those around her. No. Wynne would stay, and help their little party in their noble cause, however ignoble their leader was.
But as far as leaders go, Lucilla was not a particularly bad one: she had results. All the warden treaties were fulfilled, in time, and in exemplary ways too, if Wynne would only admit it. Lucilla eradicated the undead crisis in Redcliffe and revived Eamon. She stopped the abhorrent slave trade of Fereldan elves. She emerged triumphant in the Landsmeet, restoring her birthright in the Teyrnir of Highever and securing Alistair in his father's throne. Now, she beheaded the Archdemon and stopped the biggest threat to her country. All of these led to her having the loyalty and gratitude of all Fereldans, noble and commoner alike: the queenship was all hers for the taking.
Wynne cast another look at the young lad near her, and felt a stab of pity.
Why did Alistair love Lucilla so?
"Are you thinking of asking me why I hold her so dear, when she clearly does not?" Alistair asked her. The lad had caught the way her eyes held him in pity.
Wynne was surprised at how quickly he had sobered up: but she shouldn't really have: if her potion could sober up Oghren, it could sober up anyone. The elderly woman saw Alistair as a young child, someone she ought to protect from the brutal realities of the world. Like a mage-child whose true powers would never be comprehended by fearful villagers, only by fellow great mages.
"I'll spare you the trouble, Wynne, and the embarrassment of asking. She's the only one alive who ever showed me affection and friendship," Alistair said, blunt and straight to the point.
"Eamon—" Wynne began.
"Eamon chose to love his wife than fulfill his promise to my father," Alistair finished. "And my father never even wanted me around. Lucilla tells me that Anora said Cailan discovered about me, and was about to contact me when the Blight started, so I'll never know if my brother truly cared for me. And of course, Duncan is as dead as the Archdemon."
Alistair opened a trunk to take another flask. He took a long swig before talking again. "This country needs her, Wynne," he continued. Wynne could smell his breath, tainted with the stench of whiskey. "Look at what she's done, in a year. Can you imagine what she'll achieve in a lifetime? But she needs a royal husband. Many block-head nobles would never listen to her ideas or follow her orders if she is only Teyrna."
"Don't sell yourself short, my King," a voice came from behind them. Lucilla entered the tent, limping as she did so. Leliana was at her side, but with a quick kiss she bade her lover to wait outside. Both women looked flushed, their hair and shirts in disarray. Wynne also caught the briefest moment when Leliana's eyes flashed dangerously at Alistair as she entered.
"Also, never say that again," Lucilla told Alistair, jabbing at his chest with her finger. "I would not have the King slander his own position, or the noble houses of Ferelden. And quit drinking too much. You need to appear dignified."
"I will take my leave, my lady," Wynne said, bowing to Lucilla. She was not inclined for a royal etiquette lecture.
But Lucilla took Wynne's hands and looked her in the eye. Lucilla's hands were very soft, as could be expected for a noblewoman, save for the parts where the hilts of her swords caused calluses.
"I owe many things to you, Senior Enchanter," Lucilla said formally, no longer bossy and commandeering. Uncanny how quickly Lucilla changed hats, the old mage thought."My life. That of the King's. Innumerable more. But I also owe you my apologies, if ever I have caused you any trouble."
Lucilla took a heavy ruby pendant attached to a thick gold chain, and placed it in the mage's hands. "So that you'll always remember me by. And if your travels should take you to Highever, my people will know that you have assisted their Teyrna, and will extend due gratitude."
For a moment, Wynne forgot everything. Lucilla's voice soothed her, flattered, her, even. Was Lucilla asking for forgiveness? Or was it her way of paying just compensation for services during the Blight? The mage took a look at the pendant, and it was quite an extravagant jewel. The blood red stone was almost the size of a hen's egg, and the heavy gold chain glinted in the firelight. Wynne was almost touched that Lucilla, who was so fond of jewelry, would part with one that was so beautiful.
Until she realized that Lucilla regularly found treasures, and this gift was one of many unenchanted, potentially useless things she picked up and discarded along the way.
"Take care of Alistair and Leliana, Lucilla," Wynne whispered. "They deserve so much better."
"You may not believe it, but they are quite dear to me," Lucilla answered. This time, her voice was softer, almost like a child's. "Far more than you know."
The elderly mage squeezed the young noblewoman's hands before she left.
She prayed that Lucilla would not discard kind Alistair or sweet Leliana just as easily.