Author's Note: May contain slight spoilers for The Stolen Throne, concerning the fate of Arl Rendorn Guerrin, Eamon's father. I don't remember if it was mentioned in game or not. Again, all of this belongs to Bioware, I'm just taking it out for a little spin.
Royal Palace, Denerim
It was nearly noon. Eamon paced back and forth, unable to sit still at the ornately carved desk behind him. The carvings were less extravagant than the desk he'd had made for Alistair, but the desk itself was significantly larger. It wasn't a thing people noticed consciously, but the subtle differences worked in his favor, just like the sizing of the chairs. People wanted to be led. They constantly looked for signs to show who to place their trust in, who to defer to. He'd learned over the years that this deference and power came not only from what one said, but also from the way one commanded himself and his environment. Alistair was a good boy with a kind heart, but wasn't ready to be King. He hadn't been trained for it.
In hindsight, it may have been a mistake not to provide some sort of leadership training for the boy. True, that had been the whole point – they hadn't wanted to encourage ambition or any thoughts for the throne. No one had considered Cailan might die without leaving an heir. Which was why they needed an heir now, a child to secure the continuation of the Therin line.
Eamon sighed, running a hand over his beard. He still wasn't used to its shortened length, but he needed the aura of strength and surety now, not one of a wise old man.
Perhaps he should've encouraged the Chantry to give Alistair more responsibilities, put him in charge of some of his peers. Instead he'd seen how miserably unhappy Alistair was and asked the instructors to go easy on him. It had been a blessing from Andraste the day Duncan's message arrived, informing him that Alistair was to be a Grey Warden. Yet that hadn't worked out either. If only… Well. What was done, was done. He had to salvage the situation as best he could. If that meant turning Alistair into a figurehead for a few years, then that's what he would do. It was for the good of the country and the best thing for Alistair, he promised himself.
Staring out at the yard below, Eamon watched solemnly as people went about their daily business. They laughed, they scowled, they cooked, cleaned, gardened. Looking farther out he could see tiny stands in the distance, their bright canopies flapping in the morning breeze. The market. Peasants and profiteers, merchants and beggars, farmers and fishwives – all vying for their small piece of life. These were the people they fought for; the reason they struggled and sacrificed, made decisions no man should have to make in his lifetime. It was all for them, so that their small day-to-day lives could continue – so that Ferelden could continue. His father had died fighting for this freedom.
Eamon rested a hand against the window pane. He hadn't thought of his father in a long time. It still hurt, if he thought about it, made him feel about fifteen again. A son is never prepared to lose his father. Eamon's throat tightened, and he had to turn away from the bright of the sunlight. Even more so, a father is never prepared to lose his son.
Alistair could not be trusted with the Kingship, not yet. Not until he ended his dependence on that woman. No matter what Alistair thought, Eamon knew the truth. Her heart was a black as the Black City itself.
She killed his son, his only son, and left his wife a broken woman. A father should not outlive his child.
"My Lord Chancellor?" There was a swift knock on the door. Eamon blinked rapidly several times, trying to clear his eyes of the water that had unwillingly welled there.
When the colorful tents of the market sharpened into view again, he answered, "You may enter."
The man entering breathed sharply, as if he had just run up all the flights to reach Eamon's study. Perhaps he had.
"Chancellor," the man bowed his head.
Eamon nodded back. That title had been hard won. He had wrung the position from Alistair before his departure, lobbying as soon as that woman had left the city. She may have been indispensable during the blight, but reconstruction held no place for her destructive tactics. She knew nothing of running a country. Let Ferelden see the mess she made of Amaranthine, let them see the folly of giving the mages freedom.
"Yes?" He moved to sit, leaving the man wheezing in front of him.
"We just received word that the King has changed his route, and has turned toward Amaranthine. Did you want to send any reply back?"
Eamon hid his grimace. So, he had turned north after all. "No. No reply. The King is officially welcoming the Orlesian Wardens to Ferelden, as we had discussed. However, you may take these for delivery," Eamon took several scrolls from his desk and handed them to the messenger. He'd been prepared for such an eventuality.
"Immediately," the man bowed, but hesitated before leaving.
"You may go."
After the door closed Eamon leaned back in his chair. It wobbled, as if it sat on uneven planking. She had done this. He knew it. She blocked every move he made, even going so far as to complain of his desk and choice of rooms. When Alistair didn't give in to her, she'd spelled his chair in some way. No one could fix it. And now she drew Alistair to her, even after all his cautioning.
Auria Surana. Her surname wasn't even a family name, just a name given to her when she entered into the care of the Templars. She had been quite the student when she was young, they told him. Pliable and eager to learn. Somewhere along the line she'd become insubordinate and deceitful, trying to spread strange ideas of justice and the rights of mages. A number of templars had confided in him, detailing not only her sexual exploits but that of her release into the Grey Warden's care. It was no wonder she let that murderous blood mage go, setting him free before she bothered to check on the rest of Redcliffe Castle. They had been partners in planning the theft of their phylacteries, and partners in the murdering of his son.
Eamon rested his head in his hands. His son was dead, and he would never have another child, not of his own flesh and blood. A great stone of sorrow sat inside him, one he knew he would carry for all of his days. There would be no lessening of burdens. Teagan had turned against him, and Isolde cried every time he touched her, falling into his arms with incoherent apologies and great hiccupping sobs. She was pale and wan, spending most her time sitting in their son's room, rocking back and forth. She still cried out Connor's name in the middle of the night. He did more harm than good, causing her guilt whenever she saw him. He didn't blame her. It had been Auria's hand that slashed their son's throat with such savage brutality. Even his own guards whispered of the unrecognizable bloody mess she'd left. Turning his Connor into so much meat. She hadn't even bothered to cover up her atrocity, instead reveling in Isolde's despair at the sight of her son's body.
He had known nothing of this when he woke from his poisonous slumber, thanking Auria for her bravery and perilous journey to save his life. Isolde had sobbed on his chest, not saying a word, and he'd thought she'd cried in happiness to have him back. That thought twisted him now. He had never done a harder thing than he did that night, setting aside all his raging emotions to concentrate on Ferelden.
When he'd fallen ill they still had a King and a whole unified country. He awoke to a civil war ripping them apart, a blight rampaging like a wildfire, a dead king, broken family, and only two Wardens left in Ferelden. They were the only hope for a future – the boy who'd been too soft to stand up for himself, and the woman who'd gleefully murdered his son and set a maleficar free.
He'd encouraged and helped them for the good of Ferelden, because he was a Guerrin, and that was what a Guerrin did – but every time he looked into Auria's eyes he saw her smiling as she struck down his son.
Eamon felt the blood surge in his veins, flooding into his chest with a tightness that squeezed at his heart. She would pay for that. He could be patient, but she would pay. Disentangling Alistair from her tentacles was the first step.
Loghain hadn't been far from the truth on the day of the Landsmeet. Auria twisted her will around Alistair like a snake around its prey, convincing him to challenge laws and encouraging breaks in tradition. Death and carnage couldn't satisfy her; she wanted to tear down the foundation of Ferelden brick by brick, remaking it in her own image. Freeing the mages had only been the start. She truly was the puppeteer, and Alistair her puppet. A muscle ticked in Eamon's jaw. What they really needed was an heir, one that he could train up correctly. From the new information he'd acquired, that was the one thing that would voluntarily drive her away.
Eamon ran his fingertips under the top of the desk. There, a tiny indentation. He pressed it while pulling the section forward. With an audible click, a small drawer opened. Eamon took out a folded letter, its wax seal broken, and the book it had been tucked into.
The inscription on the book read, "I believe you will find this as interesting as I did." At the very bottom of the back cover, a string of numbers had been written. He'd interpreted them to mean today, at noon. There was no indication of place, as far as he could find, so he'd stayed in his study. It was a silly and dramatic way to set up a meeting and to deliver a stolen document. Neither Auria nor Alistair were in residence, so why not come straight to him? Unless they had spies in the castle? No. Alistair wouldn't think of it, and no one trusted that elf mage enough to truly be on her side. He knew of her one "spy", and he was a man Eamon had placed himself. No, this person must be extra cautious or a fool. Time would tell.
Eamon flattened the letter open, noting the seal with a new flush of anger. The witch had created her own personal insignia. Strange knotwork entwined the ferocious dog of Ferelden and some type of Elvin tree. He could only assume the knotwork symbolized her magic and how it controlled all of them. This seal in itself was an affront to him and to Ferelden. He calmed himself, smoothing the letter to read again. There could be a secret message within the words, but the words themselves inflamed him so much he could never find it. Maybe his mysterious guest would have better luck.
...
Alistair,
Yes, you must put up with my lack of endearments, but you know they are in my heart just as you are.
I should really be telling you this in person, but whenever I look into your face my tongue rebels and only wants to say sweet things. Here, in this space, I must forge ahead into the territory we both avoid so adroitly.
I am not brave – you will scoff, but I am not. If I were, you would hear this from my lips.
There are subjects we've talked to death, beaten into submission until we both agree. There's no better way to say this – I don't agree with our agreements.
You might wonder which agreements I speak of. I truly hate to put it out here in black and white, instead of talking to you, but I told you I am a coward. I speak of our duty to Ferelden, Eamon and marriage. Yes, I know what you will say, but please keep reading.
One, I believe in Ferelden, but I don't believe our needs should be sacrificed like some offering up to Andraste. We can do good, and you can do your duty to the country without so many sacrifices. There must be a middle ground we can reach.
Two – You love Eamon, and I don't ask that you abandon him. I ask that you to put me, and your love for me, first. Let Eamon come second. We don't have to do something just because he says it. You're the King, not him. I don't ask you to believe in his hatred for me, just believe he'd like me out of your life for good. If I'm gone, it'll be much easier for him to encourage a marriage.
Which brings me to three – I don't want you to marry.
Forget what Eamon says. The country doesn't need a queen, and we can sort out the heir problem somehow. We can be married in our hearts, if not by the Chantry. What we've found together is far too special to ruin, just because someone tells us to.
Should we let what "they" say determine our future? What if we had listened to "them" during the blight? The country would've been overcome. We made our own decisions then and they were good ones. I know we can our own decisions again, and they will be even better.
Please, please, please think about this.
And if I don't say this last part now, I will never say it. If you do marry, I cannot stay.
I'm truly sorry and I don't want this to sound like an ultimatum, but I can't watch you marry someone else, Alistair. I thought I could, but I've been thinking of it since you were crowned, and have finally come to a decision. If you think about it, you know it's the right one.
We said we could make it work, but we were dreaming. Neither one of us can separate emotions like that, and if we could, it would change the people we are. Every day would be like the day after Morrigan's bed. It would be that day for our whole lives, until it turned us into people that didn't care and weren't bothered by it. I don't want to change into that person, and I love you too much to let you change.
Even if you think we could overcome that, it would still divide us. You two would be the King and Queen of Ferelden, and I would be… what?
You have been everything to me these last years and I have never wanted anything so much as I want to spend my life with you, but I can't share you with another woman. She would not only be your wife, but the mother of your children. Neither of us knew a family. I would love more than anything for us to be a family together, but if we can't, then I won't stand between the family you make with someone else.
I'm sorry, Alistair. I know it was a coward's way out to write this instead of talking to you, but I can never get the words out. I'm probably sitting nervously across from you right now, but know I don't expect you to decide anything tonight.
I'll love you whatever your choice. Although I hope your choice will be me.
Auria
Postscript: Eamon tells me you are hunting and won't be back for at least a week. I've delayed my departure for Vigil's Keep as long as I could. I hate leaving this letter for you, but I need you to know before Eamon starts calling the noblewomen in to meet you.
No matter what your decision, please come to me when you can, and know I love you and miss you. –Auria
...
Eamon folded the letter back up and slid it into the book, placing them back into the secret compartment. Alistair would never trust him again if he found this letter in his possession, even if he was even innocent of the theft.
From the information he'd gathered, Auria had been Alistair's first and only woman. The mention of Morrigan concerned him. He'd sent Alistair to meet with the Empress of Orlais. No one, not even Alistair, would be able to resist her charms. He'd expected the infidelity to drive a wedge between Alistair and the mage. Now it seemed there had already been infidelity, and it had been forgiven. Surely Auria wouldn't forgive a second time. He had to make sure Alistair chose duty and Ferelden.
He sighed and stood again, pacing over to the window. The sun was already high overhead. His guest was late. Somewhere out there lay his own estate, but it was hidden now with the new city improvements. He didn't care to return to it. Too many memories haunted its walls. Let Teagan take the place over. Let him be haunted.
A light knock came from the door. Ah, his mysterious guest. Eamon opened the door himself, one hand on the hilt of his knife, just in case. He let go of the weapon at once, bowing.
"Revered Mother," he hesitated. She couldn't be the one he was expecting. A Revered Mother didn't steal letters and conceal them within books. Still, it wouldn't do to offend the Chantry. "Welcome," he said, opening the door wider. She didn't move. "Is there something I may do for you, your reverence?"
Her face had a puckered, sour look, lines creasing into deep wrinkles that she shouldn't have at her age. "Yes, you may recite the Chant of Light with me."
"Now?" Eamon questioned. Was the Chantry testing his piety? He had nothing to hide.
"Yes," she snapped. "Right now. Power is a corrupter, Ser Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe." Eamon held his tongue, unwilling to be goaded. "In order to stave off that corruption, one must leave no place for it to take hold." She pointed her finger at him. "There is only one way to fill those dark crevasses every human holds within – through Andraste's grace and the Chant of Light. Let the Light fill you, and you will be saved. Reject the light, and you will be corrupted beyond all doubt." Her eyes bore into his with these last words. "There are some that are beyond Andraste's light, and walk forever in darkness. I think you will agree."
Eamon paused, wondering if he understood her correctly. His words were slow, ponderous. "I certainly do. There are some who are beyond redemption."
She nodded once. "Then we will recite the Chant to save you from corruption, and pray to Andraste that those of the darkness are plucked from our midst, like the weeds they are." She brushed past him and took the largest seat by the window. Her white hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. It was pulled back excruciatingly tight, not one strand escaping her severe bun. "Sometimes it is the will of Andraste that her servants become her hands," she waved her own hand. "Shut the door and stop standing there before I doubt your intelligence."
The Chantry was not a bedfellow he would've chosen. But, if they had the same goals… Eamon closed the door. Perhaps he didn't need to be quite so patient after all.