A/N: It's been quite a while since the last chapter was posted, so here's a brief reminder: Following the Landsmeet and Loghain's execution, Aedan and Anora met at the palace to discuss their betrothal. They decided to marry in secret, and slept together for the first time, hoping to get Anora with child.


Chapter 9

Anora lay alone in her rumpled bed, dishevelled and slightly sore, with tendrils of hair still clinging to her damp skin. She wasn't entirely sure how long their encounter had lasted, only that it had left her exhausted. She'd been prepared for that, and even for the pain and discomfort she'd experienced during the early days of her marriage to Cailan. What she had not expected was to enjoy it.

Aedan had not been especially gentle, that was true – but nor was he so clumsy as Cailan had been. He knew exactly what he was doing, and her body, starved of affection for so long, had responded instinctively. Beneath the rough grasp was iron control, each touch and thrust carefully placed, driving all coherent thought from her mind until there was nothing but pure sensation, the feeling of him around her and inside her. So many months since –

Tears pricked her eyes, and she rolled over, clutching her knees up against her chest. It would do no good to think of that now, or blame herself for a physical reaction she could neither avoid nor control.

What disturbed her the most was the fact that he'd barely broken a sweat. He'd held her in his arms for several minutes afterwards, an odd expression on his face –compassion? Satisfaction? – before nonchalantly rolling off the bed and dressing himself to leave. Cailan had once hinted to her of the Wardens' legendary stamina; at the time, she'd assumed it was an exaggeration. Now, she wasn't so sure.

She would have to be careful, very careful. Sex could be a weapon like any other; she hadn't scrupled to use it herself during her marriage to Cailan. But judging by today's performance, she was no more a match for Aedan in bed than she would be on a battlefield.

She pushed herself up on shaky arms and slid off the edge of the bed, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she did so. Her face was flushed, her hair tangled. She walked over to the dresser to examine her reflection more closely, and as she did so, she caught sight of a familiar object on a shelf of the nearby bookcase. It was a snowglobe, a small souvenir created for the guests at her marriage to Cailan, showing the bride and groom together in wedding garb. Anora remembered the dress she'd worn, white silk and satin with gold embroidery: it was still in her wardrobe, untouched since that heady, bewildering day five years ago.

She picked up the globe and turned it over in her hands, watching soft white flecks drift around the tiny couple. They stood together on a miniature dais, forever young and golden-haired, hands clasped in the eternal embrace of husband and wife. Only five years on, and he was already dead, she married to another man for political advantage.

Eight months, give or take, since her husband had died. His body had never been properly honoured or even found, and probably never would be. And tonight she had shared her bed – the one where they had so often made love – with her new husband.

Forgive me, Cailan.

Carefully she opened up a drawer of her dressing-table and slid the globe into the farthest corner, shutting it gently but firmly on the memory of her first marriage. She could not bring herself, even in thought, to ask forgiveness of her father.

… …

Her sleep that night was longer and deeper than she had expected, given the day's events; she supposed she had Aedan's exertions to thank for that. The day dawned chilly and grey, but not wet; a suitable day for a funeral. Father's funeral.

Unlike with Cailan, Anora had no trouble accepting the reality of her father's death. Since it had happened directly in front of her, it could hardly be otherwise. Where once she had struggled to imagine Cailan's death, now she longed to be able to blot the image of blood and horror out of her mind – and knew that she never would be able to do so. Time might take the raw edge off her grief and pain, but that scene of violent brutality would remain as clear to her as it was today; a fitting punishment for a daughter's betrayal.

He would have understood, of course. He'd never forgotten the death of his own mother, cut down before his eyes by Orlesian soldiers. Oh, Father.

The funeral was to take place shortly after midday. Anora did not plan to hold court that morning, but she did agree to see Bann Ceorlic, who'd arrived at the palace practically begging her to grant him an audience. She was not pleased with him for intruding on her at such a time, and even less so when she heard his cringing 'explanation' for his behaviour at the Landsmeet. Watching him tie himself in knots might have been amusing under other circumstances; at this moment it simply annoyed her.

"Oh, get up, Ceorlic," she said at last, her patience exhausted. "I know perfectly well why you voted as you did. I loved my father, for all his faults, and I don't intend to punish anyone for supporting him. What I do expect is that you will serve me as loyally and faithfully as you did him."

He immediately began to protest his undying loyalty, but she held up a hand to stop him. "Enough. You may go, Bann Ceorlic – and if possible, I suggest that you avoid a meeting with my future husband. He may well be less… forgiving than I am."

Ceorlic hastily made his escape, thankful for his reprieve, and Anora returned to her duties. She spent the morning engaged in hasty preparations for the funeral; the afternoon would be spent in equally hasty preparations for the march to Redcliffe.

She could not eat very much at luncheon, though she forced herself to swallow a few morsels, knowing she needed to fortify herself for what lay ahead. Afterwards she returned to her chamber with Erlina, who helped her to dress herself in the dark, sombre colours suited to a funeral. It struck her that she had attended far too many of those lately.

Together they made their way to the palace chapel, where the body had been laid out according to Anora's instructions. She wasn't expecting to see many people there; only Cauthrien and perhaps a few servants. Certainly the worthy nobles of Ferelden would not be present; any kind of connection with Loghain was pure poison since the Landsmeet, as men like Ceorlic were discovering to their cost.

Therefore she was surprised to hear the soft murmur of voices as she approached the chapel door, trailed by the faithful Erlina. The sight that greeted her inside was astonishing: the small room was absolutely packed with people, almost all soldiers in full armour, their shields emblazoned with the heraldry of Gwaren. Her father's men, she realised.

The moment she entered the room, a hush fell over the assembled crowd. As she walked slowly up the nave towards the chancel, where her father's body was laid out on a bier, heads bowed and knees bent respectfully as she passed. Standing by the body was Cauthrien, who bowed to her in a formal, crossed-arm salute.

"Your Majesty." She straightened up. "I took the liberty of inviting your father's men to the service, all those who wanted to come. I thought they would want to pay their respects to the Teyrn." When Anora failed to respond, her voice faltered slightly. "I… hope I haven't offended you, my lady?"

For once in her life, Anora was completely lost for words. She opened her mouth to speak, realised that she was unable do so, and closed it again, turning round to gaze into the sea of faces. A hundred solemn pairs of eyes looked back at her, filled with love and loyalty and quiet grief. No matter what the rest of the world might say about their Teyrn, they were his men still, loyal to him unto death.

Her eyes blurred, and for a terrible moment she feared she might break down utterly in front of all those watching. Somehow she managed to stifle the small sound that threatened to burst from her throat; her breath hitched and she turned away before anyone else could see the tears glistening in her eyes.

"Thank you, Cauthrien," she managed to say, though she couldn't raise her voice above a whisper. A gulp of air, a hard swallow, and the dreadful ache in her throat began to recede. She bestowed a tremulous smile on the elder woman, then turned away to examine her father's body.

The embalmers had done good work. They'd cleaned him thoroughly and sewn up the wounds, dressed him in fine robes, the horrific gash across his neck hidden by his clothing. The cuts and bruises to his face, where Aedan had hit him with the edge of his shield, had been carefully concealed with cosmetics. He looked grave and stern, as he had in life; only the unnatural stillness and pallor of his face pronounced him to be dead, rather than merely sleeping.

Erlina followed her mistress, laying by the Teyrn's side a few of his most treasured possessions: an enamelled brooch gifted to him by Maric as a token of friendship, a small wood-carving of a mabari from her late mother, and his map-case. The maps themselves were safely locked away in his former chambers; he would have been horrified at the idea of burning those. Anora waited until all was arranged to her satisfaction, then leaned over and gently kissed the cold, still forehead, knowing it was the last time she would ever look on her father's face.

For a moment she imagined him at the Maker's side, reunited with her mother, with Maric, and everyone else he'd lost. A smile trembled on her lips as she slowly straightened up, wrenching her gaze away from him for the final time, and turned to face the assembled crowd.

"Thank you all for coming here." Her voice was stronger now, not loud, but clear and steady. "I cannot describe how it moves me to see my father honoured this way."

"Maker bless your Majesty," someone called, and others echoed the cry until the stone walls rang with the sound of their voices. Once again, Anora found herself blinking back unaccustomed tears. These men were Ferelden, they were her people –and come what may, she would strive to serve and protect them as her father had, for his sake as much as for her own.

The officiating priest – not, thank the Maker, the same one who'd conducted her wedding the day before – made a short speech describing the man that Loghain Mac Tir had been, praising his heroism during the War of Liberation, his more recent deeds tactfully overlooked. That done, the congregation filed slowly out of the chapel and processed to the cremation site – a small courtyard nearby where a pyre had been hastily constructed a day earlier. In better circumstances he would have been launched out to sea on a grand funeral ship, like so many great men and women before him – but that, of course, was not to be.

The pyre had been well constructed, and the flames caught quickly. The priest began to intone the final prayers, and Anora could picture her father, his soul finally at peace, looking down on the solemn scene with a wry smile. As the flames roared towards the sky, she found herself mouthing the words of the Chant along with the priest, finding meaning in them for perhaps the first time in her life.

Draw your last breath, my friends,
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.
Rest at the Maker's right hand,
And be forgiven.

… …

After the brief triumph and euphoria of the Landsmeet, and his first night with Anora, Aedan's return to Redcliffe had been an unwelcome dunking in the cold waters of reality. Apart from the darkspawn attack they'd barely managed to fend off, and the shocking news of the archdemon's appearance near Denerim, he'd discovered that rallying Ferelden's army under his banner was by no means as easy as he'd thought. These had been Loghain's men, after all; many had spent their entire careers under his command, and still considered themselves loyal to him. Already dark rumours were rustling around the campfires, claiming that Aedan had abducted the queen and forced her to marry him in exchange for her life and her throne.

Anora had reacted swiftly when the rumours reached her ears, telling Cauthrien in no uncertain terms to put a stop to them. Aedan had no liking for Cauthrien – he considered her an ill-bred upstart and a gullible lackey of Loghain – but he had to admit her value as an experienced and respected commander. The queen herself was addressing the troops now, and hopefully putting at least some of their fears to rest – no one who saw Anora in a determined mood could possibly imagine that this woman could be bullied into anything.

He and Riordan had remained in the great hall for a while to discuss battle plans with their various allies; it was only after their departure that he suddenly found himself alone with Eamon. Aedan was tired, frustrated and in no mood for an argument, but the confrontation had to come some time and so he steeled himself for the inevitable.

They regarded each other for several moments: the aging, grey-bearded Arl and the hard-faced young man. "And so Loghain's daughter sits on the throne," Eamon said at last. "The Theirin bloodline is ended. I suppose you did what you did for your own reasons, Warden, but… I wish it could have turned out differently."

Already Aedan could feel his hackles start to rise. "The Theirin bloodline isn't ended," he said shortly. "Alistair could still marry, providing he survives this battle. And I'm sorry to disappoint you over his taking the throne, but you can hardly expect me to agree with you on that subject. Even you admit that Anora is a fine ruler."

"She is a decent woman, but… she is much like her father." A somewhat sour expression crossed Eamon's face. "I suppose we shall see what that means, in time."

"It means we'll have a competent, experienced monarch on the throne instead of an untrained, unqualified boy. As far as I'm concerned, ser, that is all that matters."

He would have left it there if he could, but Eamon was clearly not about to let the subject drop. "He is Maric's son, whether he sees it or not. He has a good heart. I can think of no better qualification."

"Then you're a fool, Eamon!" Aedan's patience had finally run out. "Just for one moment, stop looking at Alistair as a miniature Maric and come back to reality. The man has never wanted to be King, and still doesn't. He has no education in politics or diplomacy or any aspect of governance. He's never taken charge of anything or anyone in his entire life. He is the last person you want on the throne of a country already half-destroyed by war and Blight." He slammed a clenched fist against his thigh. "Alistair is no better fitted to rule than the stable-lad you raised him as, and if you're regretting that now, it's twenty years too late. If you want to keep your influence over the throne, you'd better go to Anora and offer her your services. She needs competent advisors, and if you're very lucky, she might just overlook the fact that you tried to depose her."

"I'm certain Anora has no need of my help," Eamon said coldly. "I'm merely disappointed that Bryce Cousland's son would have so little regard for the blood of Calenhad."

"Are you suggesting my blood is inferior to Calenhad's?" Aedan's voice grew distinctly colder. "I'll have you know, Eamon, that my family – "

"You don't need to tell me, lad. The Cousland history is a long and illustrious one; I know that." Eamon raked his fingers through his beard in frustration. "But you don't – you can't understand what the Theirin name means to those of us who lived through the Occupation. You were born years after the war ended. You can't know what it was like to grow up as a vassal in your own land, while poncy little Orlesians minced around in their silks – "

"Says the man who married an Orlesian."

It was a cheap gibe, but it had its effect. Eamon's expression darkened; his gauntleted hands balled into fists at his side. "Isolde," he said quietly, "gave up all she had because she came to believe in our cause. She spent months as a hostage while her relatives in Orlais bickered over a ransom, and yet she chose to stay with me, knowing she'd never see her family or her country again. If you mean to insult her – "

"I wasn't trying to insult her; merely to make a point."

"As was I, Warden. We fought for decades to put the royal line back on the throne, and now, thanks to you, it's gone – wiped out in a single generation." Eamon shook his head slowly. "Tell me, boy: do you think your father would be proud of what you've done?"

The sudden, unexpected jab struck Aedan like a dagger to the kidneys. He drew a short, jerky breath, almost a gasp of fury. "How dare you bring my father into this!"

"And why not?" Eamon was regarding him levelly. "Because you think he'd approve, or because you think he wouldn't?"

It was a few moments before Aedan could trust himself to speak, or even to move. "My father," he said at last, "was as loyal to the King as any man who ever lived. But even he wasn't fool enough to think that Theirin blood alone is all that's needed to rule Ferelden. If he had lived, then in all likelihood he would be sitting on the throne now. But if the choice were forced on him, I have absolutely no doubt that he would have chosen Anora over Alistair – especially if my mother had anything to say about it."

"And you think they would have approved your marriage to Loghain's daughter? The man was a farmer, for Andraste's sake! Have you no thought for your own bloodline, Warden?"

Pushed beyond endurance, Aedan's irritation crystallised into sudden spite. "My bloodline?" he said softly. "Let me tell you a little about my bloodline, Eamon. The Couslands have been teyrns of Highever since the Black Age; my mother's line is even older. We were the highest lords in the land when Calenhad was nothing but a jumped-up merchant's son." His jaw clenched so hard that he could hardly get out the words. "Tell me, my lord arl. If I don't object to Anora's background, what possible grounds can you have to do so?"

A dark flush slowly suffused Eamon's face. His mouth was set in a grim line, the skin around his lips pinched and white. "None whatsoever… my lord," he said at last, his voice choked with rage. "So be it, then. I apologise if I've caused any offence."

He bowed jerkily and turned away, anger and hurt clearly written across his face; Aedan suspected he'd not be easily forgiven for pulling rank. Privately he knew this was a bad idea, that he'd end up making an enemy out of a crucial ally if he carried on this way. Yet at this moment, he could hardly bring himself to care. Riordan was waiting for him upstairs; he would deal with the fallout from his argument with Eamon later.

He strode away without a backward glance, shoving his way through the heavy oaken door and letting it slam behind him. Maker, this had better be the last piece of nonsense he had to deal with today – or any day, for that matter. He was beginning to think Anora was the only other person in Ferelden with a grain of sense. At least, he thought dryly, that would give them something to bond over – bloodline or no bloodline.

… …

The room was deathly quiet; the silence that followed Riordan's words seemed to last an eternity. "What did you just say, Riordan?"

In contrast to his earlier row with Eamon, he felt curiously calm; it was as if he'd passed to a place somewhere beyond anger, his mind simply unable to process what he was hearing. Seeing his expression, Riordan shifted uncomfortably. "Please know, I assumed you had already been told. Otherwise, I would have told you this when you freed me in Denerim. I am sorry."

Aedan continued to gaze straight at him, drumming his fingers on his thigh. Two seconds passed; three; four. "You are telling me," he said, in a voice as flat and toneless as a Tranquil's, "that it is literally impossible for anyone other than a Grey Warden to kill the archdemon."

"That is correct."

"And amongst the thousands of people at Ostagar, not one single person knew this. Not the King. Not the King's general. Not one solitary soldier in the entire army, which was about to head into battle against the archdemon, had any idea that they had no chance whatsoever of defeating it without the Wardens' help." Beneath the cool exterior, Aedan's heart was pounding so hard that he could hear the rush of blood in his ears. "Our King placed himself on the front lines in that battle, for the sole purpose of being the one to kill the archdemon, and Duncan – knowing that this was completely impossible – just stood there and let him do it. Not once did he even consider that this might, perhaps, be important information for the people planning our strategy against the darkspawn."

Riordan bit his lip. "We keep it secret for the same reason the Joining is kept secret. Who would become a Grey Warden if they knew the end that might await them?"

"You thought what?" Aedan gazed at him in blank disbelief. "That something which happens to one person every few centuries would somehow discourage people from joining the Wardens?" He leaned forward. "Has it ever occurred to you, Riordan, that if Duncan had told anyone these precious Warden secrets, none of this would ever have happened? We might have lost a lot of men in that battle, but at least we'd still have a king! And not even Loghain would be mad enough to try and wipe out every Warden in Ferelden, knowing he was destroying our only chance of beating the darkspawn!

Alistair, who hated hearing his mentor criticised, interrupted hastily. "Look, what's the point of this? What's done is done – we can't go back and change it now. I'm sure Duncan had his reasons for not telling us."

Aedan stood up so quickly that Riordan actually flinched. Days' worth of pent-up fury and frustration roiled inside him – at Eamon's idiocy, the rumour-mongers spreading dissent at the worst possible moment, and the hideous, unfathomable stupidity of the Grey Wardens. He rounded slowly on Alistair, a cascade of vicious rage trembling on his lips, a torrent of expletives that would make Loghain's outburst at the Landsmeet look positively restrained.

And stopped. What possible good would it do? What would it bring him to rant and rave at those two like a madman, apart from a brief, hollow satisfaction on his part and bitter resentment on theirs? There were three people in the whole of Ferelden capable of defeating the archdemon, and all of them were standing in this room. Once that was accomplished, then he could turn his attention to other things – such as tracking down Riordan's Warden chums and stringing them up by the balls from the nearest gibbet.

He turned abruptly to Riordan. "How many new Wardens can we create by tomorrow morning?"

"Only one, I fear." The elder Warden spoke hesitantly, unsure whether the crisis had passed. "We need Archdemon blood, and as I explained, the supplies in our vault were taken by Loghain."

"Right." Aedan ground his teeth audibly. "As soon as we're done here, I'm going to round up the rest of my people and explain the situation. I'll tell them exactly what's involved in becoming a Warden – don't even think about arguing, Riordan – and see if any of them are prepared to volunteer. If not, I'll have to choose one to conscript." He shook his head. "That'll increase our chances by one-third, at least. If they survive the Joining."

"Do not hurry to sacrifice your life," Riordan said soothingly. "In Blights past, when the time came the eldest of the Grey Wardens would decide which amongst them would take that final blow. If possible, it should be mine to make – I am the eldest, and the taint will not spare me much longer."

"I'm in no hurry to sacrifice myself, Riordan, believe me." A hiss of breath escaped Aedan's gritted teeth. "One thing you can be very sure of: if I do manage to survive this battle, there will be a lot of changes to the Grey Warden order in Ferelden. And by 'a lot', I mean 'everything'." He glanced swiftly from Riordan to Alistair. "Are we finished here? Any more crucial Warden secrets those imbeciles at Ostagar didn't bother to tell us?"

"We are finished." Ignoring the sarcasm, Riordan got slowly to his feet. "There will be much to do tomorrow and little enough time to rest before it. I will let you return to your rooms."

Not even bothering to take his leave, Aedan wrenched the chamber door open and stormed out into the corridor. A moment later he heard Alistair hurrying up behind him. "Aedan. Wait!"

"Don't, Alistair. Don't even think about it." He shook his head, still breathing heavily. "If I had your precious Duncan here now – "

"I don't want to talk about Duncan." Alistair's expression turned mulish; then his brow cleared and he sighed. "Look, I hope it never comes to this, but if Riordan doesn't manage to kill the archdemon… let me do it. I'll take the blow."

Aedan stared at him, leaning heavily against the wall as the fire coursing through his body ebbed away. He no longer felt anger, only a bone-deep weariness bordering on despair. Slowly he sank his head into his hands, massaging his aching scalp with the tips of his fingers. "I can't let you do that, Alistair."

"Yes, you can. Look." He stepped forward, his face earnest. "I didn't want to be king, and you got me out of it. But not being a king means that I don't get a king's privileges either. Like living in a palace, and eating from golden plates, and having people sacrifice themselves on my behalf." He hesitated, then grasped Aedan's arm just above the wrist. "Marry Anora. Have lots of cute little scheming babies. Ferelden needs you more than it needs me."

Aedan let his arms fall to his sides. For several moments he gazed silently at the man he'd always dismissed as a naïve young boy, surprised and oddly humbled. King or no, he's a much better person than I'll ever be. And he's also right.

"You're a good man," he said gruffly. "But I still can't promise you anything. Who knows whether either of us will manage to get anywhere near the archdemon? It could be that there's only one of us left to take that final blow… or none."

"I know. All I'm saying is, if it comes down to one or the other of us… I'll do it." Alistair paused, then shrugged. "I'll see you once the army is ready to march, then. I guess this ends soon, one way or another."

"One way or another," Aedan echoed, as his friend retreated towards his own room. His limbs felt so heavy that even putting one foot in front of the other was somehow an effort. Where was that superhuman stamina when he needed it most?

All of a sudden he badly wanted Anora – or any woman, really, but preferably Anora. Wanted to bury his face into her soft skin and hair, and kiss her, and make love to her – properly, this time, as a husband should. Perhaps it would help him to forget, just for a moment, the horrors he was about to face.

They would be marching to Denerim come morning; this could be his last chance. The queen's room was not far from his; he could wait for her there, try to persuade her to share his bed once again. Instead, slowly and painfully, he pushed himself away from the comforting support of the wall and plodded off in search of his companions.