Marika Haliwell - *blinks innocently* I really don't know what you mean... Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional... *coughs* ;) Thank you so very much for your review. I am glad you enjoy reading. And like Mrs. Couldry. She's a special old lady, haha.
You know, that moment when I stood there in the throne hall and listened to my own voice sounding so dispatched from myself, so alien, announcing my engagement to Lady Jane Wulff of the Western Hills, the only thing I really longed to do was take Rori's hand and run. During my speech, during the whole welcome scene, even when Eamon put Jane's hand in mine as I failed to take it, I couldn't take my eyes off Rori. Misery was written all over her face, her eyes red and swollen from all the tears she shed. She mirrored what I wasn't allowed to display. I was screaming inside, crumbling. All the color that had returned to my life was drained from it again that moment I cast Rori out. I wished to wrap her in my arms and never let go; I wanted to leave all this trouble behind and for always and forever be with her.
But then I thought of Franderel and his gang. I recalled them spewing hatred whenever they opened their mouths. I had failed to pay attention to their verbal diarrhea. One, because I was mourning like the whole country did after the Blight that had cost us so much and all I wanted to do was lick my wounds. I wanted everything to be good and right and whole again like a little child. Two, because I couldn't imagine they really meant it or if they did, that anybody would take them seriously. Their contempt for elves knew no limits. They despised mages, foreigners, women. Sten would have agreed with many of the things they said, but the Qunari were cool and calculating in their strange logic—bereft of all sentiments. Their society is—as far as I understand, and when it comes to Qunari I hardly understand anything at all—a well-ordered construct that regards every member as a tiny cog in a huge clockwork. Franderel and his followers, however, were full of hateful venom. It seeped from their every pore. They didn't want any sort of order—even of the strange variety. They wanted nothing but chaos and they wanted it for their own benefit.
Funny thing is, I had provoked this eruption with my decisions. After the Blight when we all had fought together, united by the threat, I had thought it well-mannered to show some gratitude. Stupid, I know. All the elves and mages, commoners and peasants dying on the battlefield for Ferelden, for the sake of men—rich men mostly—that's what was expected of them. They were expendable and nobody missed them when they were gone. So, to declare the Circle free, give land to the Dalish, hand Amaranthine over to the Grey Wardens, strive to improve the lives of human citizens... it wasn't necessary in the eyes of the nobility that now followed and answered Franderel's cries. More than that, it obviously insulted those on top of the foodchain so much they found themselves threatened, misunderstood, insulted, abused...
You really don't have to understand all that. I don't understand it either.
Anyway, I just couldn't leave Ferelden to them without a fight. What I had in mind for this country, it wasn't exactly brilliant. A greater and wiser man could have done better for sure. But I was the only one available stepping up against what, in my opinion, was downright evil. I gave up my life for my kingdom—a kingdom I had never wanted—and I was pretty sure nobody would ever thank me for my sacrifice. I was the last man standing and it very much felt like being stranded in Flemeth's hut again. Minus Suri, of course. Even Morrigan as an ally suddenly sounded like something I'd welcome. Yeah, right, that was pure desperation talking. Her knowledge of fifteen different types of poisons could have come in handy. But she wasn't here. I was all alone.
So, I stayed where I was, dying inside while I put forth a pretty picture of the strong-willed monarch. I knew Rori stayed for the very same reason. We had come to a silent agreement that we had to make this sacrifice for Ferelden.
My future wife was as silent, shy, and mousy as she had been ever since I had first met her. I can't say I was in any way thrilled, but better her than Habren Bryland. I was probably quite rude to Jane when our engagement was declared. I just didn't care about her and she certainly didn't deserve that. It wasn't her fault. It was a political decision made for the sake of the kingdom. I didn't care to find out if she was happy with the arrangement. That moment I was so wrapped up in myself that all I could think about was Rori and the agony of losing her. Even Levi Dryden fainting when confronted with his new job as teyrn of Gwaren didn't disturb me. I was truly walking in the shadow of the valley of death.
As the nobles were already gathering at West Hill, I was glad when I could leave Denerim right after everything that needed settling was settled. I didn't get a chance to talk to Rori and really, what would I have said? I was feeling so down and devastated I doubt I would have had the strength to resist her. Sure, we had agreed on breaking up, but I felt drawn to her like a moth to a flame. I had to stay away from her. It was the only way. And it was killing me. Maker have mercy! I was so damn tired of this life.
So, first stop, Vigil's Keep: formerly the ancestral home of the Howe family, now the new headquarters of the Grey Wardens.
I still had a kingdom to rule no matter how much my personal life sucked. And I better make damn sure it didn't get overrun by darkspawn again. I sat on my horse, shoulders slumped, head hung low, taciturnly replying to Ser Rylock's endless rants. Just my luck. Of course I ran into the templar and her companions. Why wouldn't that happen? She was hunting down some runaway mage called Anders and her fellow templars had sent note they held him at Vigil's Keep, waiting for reinforcement. Lady luck smiles upon Alistair yet again. Her main complaint was how I handled the affairs with the Circle of Magi. Maker forbid! I really dared to treat them as human beings. Shame on me! I felt the urge to punch Rylock in the face but didn't have the energy. Confronted with so much hatred and heartlessness, there was nothing left for me but resignation. At least we got to kill some darkspawn and save a village on the way. The villagers' gratitude lasted for about ten seconds.
"What good does your rescue do us? We have nothing to eat. What good is surviving against the darkspawn if we're now sentenced to starving to death? Why don't the high and mighty help us? You sit in your palace and become fat, you don't care a lick about us," the major complained loudly.
Oh fun! A male Goldanna! Oh happy day!
Well... there had been this plan to import supplies since the harvest had been destroyed by war and the Blight but... there's always a but in politics, you see. You come up with an idea and you think: Now, that one is for the benefit of all people. Really nobody can argue against it. Haha. Silly Alistair. One can argue against anything. Like allocating funds to save people from starving. All the nobles usually get hopping mad when the king intermeddles with their business—unless, of course, it's about paying for something. Then very suddenly the king is financially liable for, well, anything. Long story short: The nobles of Ferelden didn't care much for some starving peasants and didn't care to waste their money on them. Instead, they blamed me for those suffering and dying because I had no money left to spend. Thanks a lot, Loghain!
Try explaining that to a bunch of angry peasants. They were fed up with the nobles telling them it was not their fault. They needed a scapegoat. Men like Franderel unscrupulously directed the anger and frustration of the people to turn against the elves, so I shouldn't have been surprised to find a family of elves strung up from a tree at the border of the village. The woman's skirt was torn and soaked in blood. I closed my eyes, muttering a silent prayer while I kept my teeth clenched. Anger, despair, frustration, regret, sorrow—a maelstrom of emotions surged through me. I couldn't let them erupt or I would have lost control...
Maker preserve me!
When asked about the elves' crime, the one they were hanged for, I was told they had stolen children to cook them. More likely the children had been kidnapped by the darkspawn, but again, there wouldn't see reason. And Maker, did I try! All I got for a response was obduracy—and a whole lot of the worst conspiracy theories I've ever heard. I don't know why people believe such nonsense. Everybody with at least a grain's worth of common sense should be able to see through it. I suspect they didn't want the truth; they just wanted someone to blame.
I was shocked and appalled by the cruelty, but nobody wanted to admit they murdered the elves and I couldn't possibly punish the whole village. I could have harmed someone innocent.
"Are you intending to leave them hanging there?" I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose, hoping beyond hope it would ease my splitting headache. The crows were already feasting on the dead. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't right. "Someone should at least bury them."
"It's a warning," the major grunted, defiantly crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Them knife-ears, they won't dare come for our children again."
"Oh for the love of Lady Andraste!" I muttered. "Someone hand me a shovel!" I could have left it that way. What did I care for some elves? They were dead already. But I thought of Suri, of Slim and Mrs. Couldry, of Shani and her lot having fought at our sides during the siege of Denerim—and I felt a pang of guilt. So, the king of Ferelden personally dug a grave and cut the dead off the tree. My guards hurried to help me—solely because that's what soldiers do when their king rolls up his sleeves—while Rylock sat on her horse and lectured me about my un-kingliness and inappropriate sympathy for the elves. "You know, I remember countless services at the monastery and the Revered Mother saying we are all equal in the eyes of the Maker," I snapped at her. "My mistake—I thought she was talking about every living creature. I didn't think humans had the market cornered on basic rights and decency."
Rylock's expression was one of stone, her lips pressed to a thin line as she stirred her horse away. 'As you sow, so you shall reap' her expression said. Right. West Hill could very well become as disastrous for me as it had been for my father.
Huh? What's so special about West Hill? Don't they teach you anything about history anymore these days? Betrayal had awaited Maric at West Hill and what should have been a glorious victory had almost become the end of the rebellion against the Orlesian usurper. West Hill ever since has become a synonym for a devastating defeat.
Anyway...
I left half of our supplies to the hungry and by now hopping mad villagers. The result of my good deed: My soldiers almost revolted because now they had less to eat and the villagers complained about the meager aims—not to mention my interference in their affairs.
"Oh, piss and spittle!" I cursed under my breath. Once more I wished Suri had made Anora queen. Ruling this country was like guarding a bag full of fleas without a free hand to scratch oneself.
Afterwards things got even better. We encountered more darkspawn—the best aggression-release therapy ever—more angry villagers, still more darkspawn... At least I can't complain about the journey being boring. And Rylock kept her mouth shut during the fights. And then finally, at the break of dawn, we arrived at Vigil's Keep. Corpses of darkspawn and men on the fields everywhere, gates wide open, corpses in the castle yard... Yep, Caron had everything under control. No need to worry. Ran like a well-oiled machine.
Okay, here we go, the King Alistair show!
"It looks like I arrived a bit too late. Too bad, I rather miss the whole darkspawn-killing thing." I droned in my unmatched kingliness as I strode through the broken gates. My little encounters with the brute were nothing worth mentioning compared to what happened here. At least Caron was alive and still kicking. So was Zevran. And... wait! Oghren! Ha! You know you're really desperate when you're glad to have Oghren aboard. "I wanted to come to give the Wardens a formal welcome." Translation: I wanted to make sure you haven't completely fucked up yet. "I certainly wasn't expecting this." Translation: You have completely fucked up. "What's the situation?" Translation: Do I even want to know?
"What darkspawn remained have fled, your Majesty. The Grey Wardens who have arrived from Orlais appear to be either dead or... missing," a grey-haired man replied.
Doom!
DOOM!
I was tempted to imitate the Chasind Suri and I had run into in front of the Lothering Chantry. 'The legions of evil have arrived on our doorsteps! They will feed on our hearts!' etc., etc. Blast! Why did everything have to be a sodding disaster? Okay, keep cool, Alistair. Act as if this was no big deal. All Grey Wardens from Orlais dead but Caron and his crew of losers. Been there, done that. What could possibly go wrong this time?
Well, things started to go wrong when I pissed off Rylock by allowing Caron to recruit the mage Anders, the one Rylock was to return to the tower—dead or alive. Afterwards she left in a huff, so maybe it wasn't that bad after all. Before I left, I forced Caron to accept Oghren as his second in command. Needless to say, he disapproved.
"Listen, I neither have the patience nor the time to argue with you. Oghren is a hero of the Fifth Blight and as it is, you are short of Wardens. They are all gone, your whole reinforcement. You're on your own and you'll have to make the best of it. I'll be back as soon as possible."
Or never.
More likely Amaranthine would become someone else's problem as things stood.
Next stop: West Hill!
Mrs. Couldry had chosen Jane Wulff for a reason. The gathering took place in my soon-to-be father-in-law's place, so calling him an ally certainly was an advantage on my side. My future wife greeted me with an armada of chaperones in tow, as if I couldn't control myself when left alone with a woman.
"Oh, hi," I muttered, hardly listening to what Jane had to say as I was busy ogling Rori at the far side of the court. Her brother and her uncle, Bann Angus Mac Eanraig, a hairy giant in a kilt and with a peg leg, were with her. I only cared to take notice of him because his huge form kept blocking Rori from my yearning glances. Her curly hair was tousled by the wind, her cheeks flushed prettily. She radiated a fierce determination and wore her defiance like the strongest armor. Only when she caught sight of me and our eyes met across the distance did her sadness and misery break through. She reigned it in quickly by breaking eye contact just like I should have done. Only when Lady Jane tugged my sleeve did I notice she had been talking to me.
"Um... sorry, I... I was distracted," I muttered.
"Undoubtedly," Jane answered sadly, casting her eyes down. "It has to be a huge sacrifice for you to marry me."
Oh blast!
"Err... well..." Lie, Alistair, lie. Say something nice and sweet and... "... it could be worse..." WHAT!? Fool! Maker! Why did I always have to put my foot in my mouth? "... Um... I mean... it could be Habren, right? And it's not... it's you and you aren't... like Habren... and... err... you are... nice..." The word 'nice' when said to a woman falls into the same category as the word 'cute' when said to a man. Kinda. It certainly isn't what a woman wants to hear when she is supposed to marry you. You gotta do better than 'nice' to impress her.
"It is a political marriage," Jane confirmed in her dreary voice. Oh, we were going to have so much fun together. "Come now, your Majesty, the nobles are already awaiting you."
They were all gathered in Wulff's great hall at two long tables at the opposite sides of the room. Considering the emotionally charged atmosphere, I doubted there was enough room there to ensure a peaceful meeting. And to make things even better they had dragged the Grand Cleric along as a neutral judge, the very same woman who had tried to prevent me from joining the Grey Wardens. Oh, she loved me. She held me and my abilities in such high esteem...
DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
"Your Majesty," she greeted me coolly. I just stared at her in horror, mouth agape. "I have to admit you exceeded all my expectations."
"I did even worse than you thought? Wow. Now that certainly is a record-breaking performance."
To my utter surprise the Grand Cleric shook her head—and smiled! Creeeeeepy. I had never seen her smile before. She must have suffered quite a muscle ache afterwards. "I have to admit, Duncan might have been right about you after all. Your fate didn't lie with the templars. The Maker had different plans for you."
"Err... what?" I wiggled my finger in my ear.
"You understood me quite well, your Majesty. I do not approve of all your decisions, but you at least seem to seriously try to be a good monarch. That's more than one could ever say about you being a templar."
"There's so much at stake," I muttered, blushing violently. I felt like a ten-year-old again. Whoa! I had done something right in the eyes of the Grand Cleric.
"Nothing you could get done right," a nasty voice sneered from behind. I turned and found myself face to face with pudding man. "You are fake. A wimp like you cannot be Maric's son."
"We are here to investigate his heritage, Bann Franderel. I ask you now, will you accept my judgment at the end of this investigation?" the Grand Cleric cut Franderel short.
"Of course—when this fake king pays for his crimes and his head is cut off his shoulders like he murdered the Hero of the River Dane," Franderel droned.
"Err... and when I stay king then you won't?" I laughed without any amusement. "But that means there could be a civil war! We are here to prevent such a war. When you don't accept the outcome of the investigation that was your idea, what are we doing here at all? We could skip past this farce and go straight to bashing our heads in..."
"WARMONGERER!" Franderel screeched, spittle showering my face.
"But you just said you wouldn't..." I protested uselessly as Franderel's buddies had already joined in and made such a ruckus they drowned my voice in their hateful chant. Their opponents shouted back and before long the first mugs flew across the room, followed by boots, helmets and whatever else was in reach—and then Rori's cousin James Mac Eanraig climbed the table, lifted his kilt, and wagged his naked butt at the Franderels. "Talk to my ass, butt faces!" he roared.
The Blight had exsanguinated the noble houses of Ferelden. The young and strong, the sons and daughters, had died on the battlefield. What was left was an assembly of mostly old men and women. That, however, didn't stop them from starting a blasted brawl. Some hadn't fought with as much vigor when riding against the archdemon and the darkspawn horde. I dodged out of their way, finding myself pressed with my back against the wall. At the opposite wall, Franderel was caught in the very same position, too much a coward to enter the fray. That, however, didn't stop him from riling up his followers even more while I tried to restore order as unsuccessfully as the hopping mad and cornered Grand Cleric, threatening to bell, book, and candle everybody and their dogs.
Just when things became really nasty, the doors burst open and Wulff's mabaris came charging in, led by Rori and Jane. Like sheepdogs they separated the wranglers, forcing them to return behind the tables. The investigation was adjourned of course. And well, that was day one.
The next few days I was left speechless more often than I can count. And I can count pretty high. I banged my forehead against the table repeatedly so often I swear it got calloused. It is incredible what I got accused of. I mean, I thought I'd heard it all. That I killed Cailan to become king, that I am an Orlesian puppet, that I'm not Maric's son - all the nonsense already used against me during the Blight. But Franderel and his lot proved to be incredibly creative when it came to accusing me of things I had never done.
One of the highlights was when Franderel introduced a guy who claimed I wasn't a man, but rather an Orlesian woman called Alice who got magically turned into a man... Yeah, you laugh! I didn't feel much like laughing anymore. When the truth no longer matters and people start to believe any lies just because they fit into their world picture then there's nothing you can do about it. Whatever you say, they will call you a liar and a manipulator while they dance on the strings of their own chosen puppeteer to his symphony of lies.
Pretty soon, this wasn't solely about my heritage anymore. Everything about me was wrong. I couldn't even breathe without Franderel accusing me of stealing the air of the orderly citizens of Ferelden. Thanks to Mrs. Couldry, I knew Franderel had enough skeletons in his closet to run a tunnel of horror. But whenever I pointed out things like him not having paid any taxes to the crown for two decades, he was extremely quick to point out this wasn't about him but about me and the obvious fact that Maric wasn't my father.
At one point I really lost it. It was too much. I had fought to save this nation. I had lost Suri. I had given up Rori. I did the best I could for this country and this fat douchebag who had never cared about anybody but himself kept marking me as the scapegoat for things that hadn't even happened. "Oh bloddy blast it! I wish he wasn't my father! Then I wouldn't have to deal with you throatcutting sons of bitches and could happily slay darkspawn!"
"There! He admits he isn't Maric's son!" Franderel screeched.
"Fuck you!" I roared back. Not very kingly, I know. And certainly not wise. But I'd had about enough. I was in desperate need of a break—and a drink.
"Where are you going?" Franderel cried, his chins wobbling like jelly, when I just got up and left.
"I am going to get drunk," I informed him and walked out without looking back. I dumped all my kingly trappings, got my horse, and headed off towards the nearest pub in town. It smelled of cabbage, shale ale and sweat, a place reeking of despair and hoplessness. Perfect. I went straight to the bar, ignoring the greasy looks of both the barman and the glasses, ordered two shots of whiskey and downed them one after another, ordering the next round before I set the glass back down again.
"It's never as bad as it seems, lad," a familiar voice croaked next to me.
"Nope," I agreed gloomily. "It's worse. And what are you doing here anyway?"
"I am waiting for someone, but that someone isn't you," Mrs. Couldry answered secretively.
I was too busy whining to care, though. "They are picking me apart. It's nothing but lies. Big fat lies so absurd I never would have thought anybody could possibly believe them! But they do! Even the Grand Cleric!"
"Franderel bribed her," Mrs. Couldry said as if she was making a remark about the weather.
"WHAT!?" I spat my drink right across the bar. "But... why?... how? This is a catastrophe!"
"The final chapter has not yet been written," Mrs. Couldry chuckled. "You worry too much, son."
"Yeah? You can talk! It's not your blood they bay for," I complained sullenly. Maybe this was the right time after all to get Rori and do the Orlesian leave.
"Franderel owns the Tears of Andraste. He had them stolen from the Chantry some time ago for his own private collection."
I groaned loudly and ordered a whole dozen shots, arranging them all in a neat line. "Let me guess, he will return them for a favor." I growled.
"That's his plan. Too bad it won't work," Mrs. Couldry chortled. She started to pour out my drinks, I started to pour them down. In the end it was 8:4 for Mrs. Couldry.
"Hey!"
"The demon alcohol will be your death, son!"
"It has to wait in line," I pouted. "There are so many wanting me dead I doubt the demon alcohol will get anywhere close to completing its mission."
BANG! BANG! Mrs. Couldry's wooden ladle went down on my head. "Stop being so pessimistic," Mrs. Couldry lectured me. "It's about time to take off the velvet gloves and fight fire with fire."
"Huh? Sorry, I'm somewhat lost..."
And that's when Rori appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Alright, she just walked into the pub, but when you have your head down over your booze you don't see much more than your own misery staring back at you.
"Ro-rori...," I breathed. "Err... What are you doing here?" I smiled sheepishly at her, staggering towards her. Only Mrs. Couldry's ladle blocking my way like a toll bar stopped me from doing something stupid like embracing and kissing her. Rori ran into the very same barrier. So close and yet unattainable... "Wait! You're meeting with Mrs. Couldry! Whoa! I won't like this, will I?"
I didn't like it. Not at all.
During the Blight, Slim got hold of plans of Franderel's estate in Denerim and the whereabouts of the tears. He never got the chance to break in, though, with all the darkspawn everywhere. After the defeat of the archdemon, his priorities lay elsewhere. But now was the time for using Slim's knowledge post mortem. Mrs. Couldry planned to break into Franderel's house and steal the tears—and guess who was to be on her team.
"No!" I growled.
"Yes," Mrs. Couldry and Rori insisted.
"It's the only chance we still have," Rori insisted and I hated to admit it, but she was right.
"Don't you have someone else to go with you?" I complained, my voice croaked with the effort of suppressed panic. I didn't want Rori anywhere in the front lines where I couldn't protect her. Maker, Alistair, who are you trying to fool? You couldn't protect her anyway. And still I stubbornly tried. I just had to.
"Someone trustworthy?" Mrs. Couldry shot back.
"Maker help me!" I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
"The Maker helps those who help themselves," Mrs. Couldry retorted.