VII. Mutt
Arl Eamon lived. Even though Alistair questioned my choice in sacrificing Isolde, we simply did not have enough time. The Landsmeet was coming, and yet another pawn fell into place. Anora.
In the Arl of Denerim's estate, I was an invisible spectre silencing those who would announce our presence. Even as they rushed us, I cut them down, soldiers too unfortunate to be in our way, guarding those they thought loyal to Ferelden. I saw the bloody chambers of ambition and greed, friend turned foe, false promises. I saw the treasure chests spill with loot, torture racks that contained limp bodies. All of Howe's perversions laid bare, his hoarding of wealth and power.
It was a nightmare come true when we met in the dungeon. I had all sorts of words for him, words like traitor and betrayer, translated into the harsh ringing sounds of redsteel against armor. I made him suffer in his last breaths, riddled him with wounds, made him taste lightning and contort his charred, tightened flesh. Morrigan put him in a crushing prison, and I stood there to watch him shudder, made sure he saw me in front of him as he lost his final breath, the sounds of the battle dying around me. I avenged the memory of my father and mother, my sister-in-law and little Oren.
I felt no regret and no semblance of mercy. I spat on his corpse.
--
Anora was in disguise when I would have rather she stood by us in earnest, to prove herself. I saw what she could be, a slithering viper, beautiful and poisonous. Like father, like daughter, she betrayed us in front of Ser Cauthrien, to save her pretty face. I tired of all the lies, even as I dealt in half truths.
I have known so much betrayal.
Ferelden needs a good king, someone both just and merciful. Someone who knew what it was like to be a commoner. I saw power and balance, the fist of the templars for their wards, troubled elves against werewolves of the forest and the riots of the dwarven castes. I understood all of that, and knew that I could not put Anora on the throne.
Ferelden needs someone like you, not Loghain's daughter who is well-versed in treachery. Alistair waved a hand, protesting that he didn't have words like I did, that his arguments always appeared less sound. That he would listen. I knew he would give in after a time, they all did. I was a bard of seductive words. I wove a careful net, to intrigue or to lure, to coerce and bend to my will.
I bound him with what should have been his strengths, what made him good and kind, noble and pure. I bound him with his sense of honor, his trained obligation and above all else, his duty.
We made love in a feather bed, with proper blankets and a fireplace that kept the air warm around us. I saw what we were for the first time in our coupling, instead of hidden in the darkness of evening and the canopy of the tent above, no longer secret rendezvous kept quiet. His gaze when he looked at me has changed, from questioning and hesitance to assurance and rebellion. I felt his distance from me grow with each joining, our desire for each other still there, but the constant, torturous reminders of the taint, my barren womb. We made love with a ferocity that thrilled and frightened me both, a savage communication with our bodies. He drove into me like he demanded an answer: why he must be king, why I asked this of him. He drove his resentment and his frustration, his love and his passion, all into me.
And I cried out under him.
And I made him king.
