Alistair sat in the royal box that had been built at the top of the scaffolding erected in the main courtyard of the palace. Ostensibly he was there to watch the tournament being held in celebration of the end of the blight and overall he was, but not as enthusiastically as he had the previous year. He'd still been eager to put on a good face, be the thing he was expected to be. Lately he was far less willing to simply play his role obediently. More and more of his true feelings were leaking out over the last several months and this occasion brought them streaming to the fore. Beyond the fact that the end of the blight also marked the death of Solona – something he'd never fully gotten beyond the guilt of – there was simply no joy in these proceedings for him. In the box with him the various Arls, Arlessas, Banns, and the single Teyrn in attendance were jolly making enough to more than make up for his own dour mood. For him, it was a day of mourning, a day for solemnity, a day that lived in Alistair's mind as the time when the last of his boyishness was stripped away from him. He'd carried Solona's body down through Fort Drakon and laid her on a stretcher in a cart that he never strayed far from the rest of that day, even as Eamon tried to pull him away to begin the process of installing him as king.
Looking down now at the young men bashing at each other in the ring with their swords and shields, eager to prove themselves and never having actually used their tools outside of a training ring, showing off for the crowd and for him personally, his mind was very far off. For most of Ferelden a marvelous battle at the top of Fort Drakon was the key image of the blight, utterly imagined though that retelling had become. For Alistair, when he thought of the blight what he immediately saw was Zevran, kneeling at Solona's side and wiping the blood and soot from her face with a cloth. Movements intensely gentle as if he was avoiding waking her, eyes full of tenderness. The continued fighting, the remnants of the horde being swept out of the city, physicians and mages attempting to heal the wounded in the chaos all faded to the background while he watched them. He would never stop knowing the intense failure he felt in that moment. He should have taken the final blow and Solona should have been in Zevran's arms alive and warm. He'd failed them both by allowing her to convince him that he was the one who should live.
A sharp elbow to his ribs pulled him from his solemnity and reminded him that he had an audience. Standing, Alistair called out to congratulate the winner, panting, dripping with sweat, but with an undeniable blush of achievement and pride on his face. He looked impossibly young, though he had an imposing build, even accounting for the plate armor he wore. Once the cheers had died down, Alistair couldn't stop himself from asking the youth, "And what would you do now that you've proven yourself in this tournament, young man?"
"I would like nothing more than to the join the Gray Wardens, your Majesty, so that I might protect Ferelden against the evils of the blight as you once did."
Alistair managed to keep his face neutral as a raucous cheer went up from the crowd at that, but only just. Another young man who knew nothing about the world beyond the stories he'd heard told, willing to run off into sure death. Warden Commander Caron would be pleased – the boy's declaration would surely help fill up the recruitment lines with his fellows unwilling to be left out of the glory to be had. In truth, the man he couldn't help but think of as a child was likely no more than a year or two younger than Alistair. But he felt like such an old man. Alistair gave a low bow to the man and his challenger and thankfully sank back down into his chair where the crowd could not completely see him and he could cover his face. A new round of challengers were being announced and Alistair was sure that the sky should open up and rain down floods to match his mood but the damnable thing remained cloudless and bright. It was going to be a very very long afternoon for the king.
…..
Very late that evening, after what felt like endless rounds of young fighters, archers, horsemen, dancers, tumblers, singers, and a frankly ridiculously huge feast laid out in the primary courtyard to allow the people of Denerim to partake (the single point Alistair had been, each year, able to argue for), Alistair found himself finally and blissfully alone. A single taper burned in a dish on his desk as he stripped off his various layers of finery down to just his shift and trousers and unceremoniously opened a rather fine bottle of whiskey that had been presented to him with ridiculous pomp and that he'd promised to keep for some special occasion. Finally being allowed away from the crowds who only wanted to laud him was special enough just now. The whiskey had been distilled from the grains gathered the year before the blight, the last of the abundant crop that had been available before the land was made rotten. In his maudlin state it was easy to imbue it with all sorts of imagined qualities – innocence, purity of purpose, friendship, faith. All those things that had been stripped from him so shortly after this mash had been distilled and bottled.
Physically shaking himself, Alistair forced himself to sit down at his desk and paw through his correspondence. He had no focus for it, but he certainly couldn't allow himself to continue to feel sorry for himself. His own tolerance for whining had been stripped away that year as well and it had never been allowed to grow back – especially when the whining was his own. He read through the letters from the Circle, having been kept well apprised of the situation there since entering into the plot to break away from the Chantry. They'd done it quietly, without official notice given to Orlais and the Divine. Greagoir had selected a group of Templars he knew would be loyal to the concept and the cause they were undertaking and began systematically re-assigning all the others to far flung locations in Ferelden. Some of the men raised protests at suddenly being shoved out into the world and away from what was, to them, their true calling and their home, but on the whole those who were being reassigned were thankful to be away from the tower. None of them had been through the great turmoil there during the blight, but they all were wary of it and their faith in the Chantry had mad the majority of them intensely strident in their work.
Against all odds the experiment was working out nicely. The mages certainly hadn't minded the transition and all but the oldest – and therefore most addicted – of the Templars had begun weening themselves off of the lyrium, extending their on-hand stores greatly. It had been an unpleasant shock for Greagoir to realize that, not only did Alistair know quite a lot about the Templar dependency on Lyrium, but that he didn't even need it to continue to employ his Templar trained talents. Finding out that your entire life's work had been based in large part on an utter lie and a completely unnecessary addiction to a substance that had a degenerative effect would likely put anyone off a bit. But Greagoir had, at least outwardly, handled it well. He was adamant that the younger Templars begin the process of ridding themselves of that dependency. He was convinced that that alone would be enough of a shackle to the Chantry for many of them. A few of the newest recruits were already going completely without it and most of the others were down to a few grains, diluted into potions once or twice a week.
Wynne had become a rehabilitation nurse at the circle more than anything else – measuring doses, chasing down the various ills that came with withdrawal, mothering these soldiers into healthfulness. It was a relationship that, from what he'd been told, had made the supposedly opposite sides far closer. They were eating together, having conversations without fear, and some of the Templars had even taken to staying in street clothes when they were not actively on duty.
But for all the relaxation, they all knew that at any moment the hammer could fall and the Chantry could become aware of exactly what they were up do. It was a time of both relief and fear in equal measures. Greagoir and Irving had developed an amazing report, better than they'd ever had from what Wynne shared with him. It was rather astonishing what the removal of fear could do for a group of people. They were both training up their replacements, men who would never know the iron fist of the Chantry in their daily lives, who must know what their predecessors had faced and stand vigilant against it. The more they'd shared of how they'd been dealing with planning for the future the more it all sounded like the Grey Wardens to Alistair. Not a pleasant thought, really, given how backward the Wardens could be in how they dealt with the realities of living beyond their cause. But perhaps it was necessary. No one could really say just now, when it was all in its infancy. A circle without the Chantry had never existed. Alistair found himself proud of that one thing, that one small thing that he could be sure he'd helped with. It would never be enough to balance the scales between himself and Solona – but it was a start.
Among the other letters, he found himself nearly dropping his glass to discover one from Hawke. A personal letter, not one of the progress requests from her office – impersonal, clearly not written in her hand, marked with the seal of her office – He'd been through the heart thumping and then disappointment every time he'd opened one of those in the last three months. Maker – three months since he'd heard from her. He'd nearly given up, truthfully. Alistair had decided that Hawke had evolved beyond the need for him, that his advice was trite and useless. He was no longer dealing with the same woman she'd been and she'd obviously decided to cease their relationship.
But here it was – her personal seal etched into the wax, her tight script that had written out his name. Gulping down the rest of his drink, he breathed out the fire it left in his throat and tried to steady his suddenly racing heart. Months without a letter and he still reacted this way. It made him feel vaguely sick with himself. Was he truly this eager? A puppy begging for whatever scraps of attention she was willing to part with? But that was bitterness she didn't deserve speaking. That was old hurt mixed with the blight, the memories of a person long since gone from him – long since reordered in his mind from potential… something… to friend. Hawke was not ... her. Hawke had never been anything but as honest as she could be, as honest as she could stand to be. And he'd known her weak and strong in equal measures and found both just as true.
He had to goad himself to break the seal, open the letter, find out what she had to say. It took long minutes of staring, running his fingertips across his own name etched there in ink as if he could sense her mood, her demeanor, the pressure of her fingers on the quill as she wrote. But eventually, taking a deep breath like one would before pulling an arrow free of your flesh, he broke the wax and read what she had to say.
…
Alistair –
I've obviously been remiss in not writing to you sooner. Frankly, I had no idea what to say. There are no words that can make sense of how your last letter impacted me. Not only was your advice sound and practical and helpful, but the simple fact that you took the time to lend me your strength was nearly overwhelming. And I've learned to redefine the word "overwhelming" in the last few years, as I'm sure your own definition has changed.
First – I have to ask that you forgive me for not being in touch sooner. Anything likely would have been better than silence for both of us but I've found that I need to place everything in little boxes in order to get through a week, through a day. The box for Kirkwall, the box for the Chantry and the mages and the Templars, the box for the Free Marches, the box for the whole of Thedas… so many little compartments I've carved out simply to stop myself from fleeing in the face of it all. Out of all of them, the box in which I have sequestered anything for myself is woefully small, as it has always been. It's easier to ignore that way, you see. It's easier to give it less importance and decide that all I really need is to focus on what needs to be done. But I know that's not true, no matter how much easier it would make everything. I should have just forced myself to get back in touch sooner – it's the very least you deserved.
Things here have been… well, they've been awful. We've begun the process of moving the citizens back into Hightown. Slowly, though, as many of the buildings are still completely uninhabitable. Those who cannot safely be allowed to take back their homes have had escorts of guards go with them to gather whatever they can. We've even offered some of them discounted purchases of previously uninhabited homes that had reverted in ownership to the city, though you'd think that was some kind of insult with the way they've reacted. The nobility regrets every day that they've voted me in as their leader. You should hear the things I'm called. At least when I was just Champion the epithets were whispered – now they hurl invective at me every time I so much as show my face. It's as if I personally ran around to all of their homes and blew enormous holes in them. Perhaps that's what they think after all. In the end, it doesn't matter.
I've learned that, as much as my existence here has always been a thankless one, I've only seemed to attain greater and great levels of being reviled as I've attained notoriety and rank. It's oddly comfortable for me. I'm sure that, if anyone were to be thankful for what I've tried to do, I'd have a clear sign that I'm doing something wrong.
The Chantry has finally reared its head in the form of an envoy of the Divine who has come to investigate and, though she didn't explicitly state it, find me in contempt of some law or writ or something. Her and her men are being housed in one of the few warehouses that still have room in them, something I'm sure I'll hear about in the morning. She only just arrived today, but made it clear enough what her goal here is. I'm going to be blamed for some or all of it. It's convenient enough, I suppose and I can't really begrudge anyone looking for the easy way out – Maker knows I'd love to find one. I already know what my crimes will be. I gave the bomb materials to Orsino instead of Meredith – an untrustworthy mage instead of the beacon of light that surely the Knight-Commander is even now being painted as. I've refused to rebuild the circle – the Gallows can sit there and rot for all I care – not a single worker will stir its dust while I hold this office. Let the earth take it back. Let the trees reclaim it. A pointless ruin would be a far better use than anything it's ever been before. It's tainted ground as far as I'm concerned. And the Chantry itself… I'm sure it will be rebuilt, it's simply not my priority. The few remaining mothers have been holding services out in the open near the Lowtown market. It's actually really nice hearing the Chant float up above the crowd. Plenty of people who never stepped food in that austere, intimidating building are hearing the Chant for the first time in years. I hope it brings them some level of peace. I hope it makes the Chantry sisters feel … useful.
My mind is horribly scattered as I try to write this and I apologize. It feels like I go days without speaking lately. I nod, I gesture, and minute hand movements that are interpreted and acted upon instantly are what my time is filled with. No one wants to hear what I have to say anyway. And when they think they do they're often disappointed by what leaves my mouth.
I snuck out tonight, finally without guards, down to Lowtown and to Varric. He had something to talk to me about and instead of waiting for him to come find me in the Keep where I've still been living, I decided to get some air instead. I don't think the experience was good for me, exactly… but perhaps it was necessary. It's funny how some places can stay exactly the same while you change instead. But that's what the Hanged Man has done. Frozen in time, that place is. And Varric as well. I'm not sure what it would take to truly change or evolve his nature, but we certainly haven't encountered it yet. Perhaps he's been changing all along though and I've failed to notice. It wouldn't be the first thing.
Anyway, he wanted to see me and so I went, finding him, as usual, in his room at the Hanged Man. Isabela seemed to have sense enough to leave when I got there – she'd obviously already found out what he had to tell me. I knew it would be bad just by the way she patted my shoulder as she left. Apparently Anders contacted Varric. I'm not sure what Varric meant to accomplish by telling me this, however, since he followed the news by letting me know he wouldn't tell me where Anders was or what he wanted. He did share the fact that Anders was not in the best place mentally from what he could tell. Not that Anders has been a shining example of mental fortitude and well being in the past several years to begin with, but from what Varric said, it was somehow worse. Whether guilt or anger or simply having to exist again without a network of supporters and protectors I can't say.
The fact that Varric would go out of his way to share this news and then make it clear I wasn't trustworthy enough to know more is something of a slap in the face. I suppose it's my position. The little bit that Varric has shared with me recently has carried a sharp tone of reproach and distrust. I'm "the establishment", I've put the well-being of a city above the well-being of this small group of people. He told me that I'm not the same person I was and then just eyeballed me, waiting for a reaction. I told him the only thing I could – that I've been so many different people in the last several years that it's impossible for me to say which one he thinks I'm supposed to be. That effectively ended the conversation.
I think that, out of everything I might have expected of being in this position, it's the loneliness that's struck me the most. Far from Varric's implication that I've abandonded my friends, I'm sure it's quite the other way around. Aveline hasn't stopped looking at me with eyes full of "this isn't how I'd do it" screaming at me. It's like every moment where my mother disapproved of me is being re-lived when she glances my way. She doesn't like a single thing I've done in the last several months, nor the way that I've done it. Apparently Aveline has been a Viscountess in her own mind for years and knows exactly how my job should be handled. Varric doesn't trust me, obviously. I wonder how his stories about me are shaping up now – if I've finally become the villain instead of the heroine. It was bound to happen, I'm sure.
Isabela is just as constant as the sea, however. She's the same as she's always been and always will be. And Fenris, he still looks at me the same as he always did. The title and the wardrobe and the circlet haven't changed an ounce of his feelings or thoughts about me. But he's careful in a way he's never been before. Suddenly our roles are reversed and he's watching me as if I might shatter when it's always been me tiptoeing around and straining to make him comfortable.
Sebastian left nearly a month ago. Finally gone to reclaim his homeland. A long hug and whispered encouragement was all I was able to send him off with, outside of a pretty large coin purse. I wish I'd been able to send troops, an army… something. But I can't even go myself, let alone split our meager defenses between that fight and our own. And, Maker, am I tired of fighting.
I've never in my life felt that I was owed anything. And now I do. I'm owed peace. I'm owed comfort. I'm owed just a tiny measure of a life that's my own. I want things that I cannot possibly have and want them desperately, in ways so deep I can't figure out how to express them without simply splitting open and never putting myself back together. I want a family and a home and laughter that isn't tinged with desperation and bravado. I want to smile without knowing what a lie it is.
I hate that wanting these things makes me feel petty just as much as I hate the circumstances that have put such simple desires outside of my reach. In short, I want so many things that I'm not truly destined to have. I've been honed into a weapon and weapons are for war. My mother insisted when she died that I was brave and strong. And every day that I get up praying for the day to be over with swiftly just to scratch off one more day of having done my duty I feel like she couldn't have been more wrong. I'm not brave, not even a little. I'm just getting by, hanging on, angry and defiant.
Reading your letter made me feel understood, Alistair. And it made me miss you so much. The thing is nearly in tatters now, I've read it so often, kept it tucked against my skin under my clothes as I worked; Some kind of talisman against despair. Sometimes it even works.
I will make the time to write again soon. And I swear it will not be this maudlin. If I have to hire a damned court jester, I'll force myself to find a real smile – perhaps it will help.
Yours –
-Marian
….
Alistair began idly tracing her name with his finger. Marian – his. His Marian.
It all came crashing down on him all at once – everything he'd avoided, every ounce of feeling he'd put off as childishness or loneliness. He was madly in love with her. There was no more avoiding it. He no longer wanted to, no longer needed to. After all what had he been doing all this time? Nearly two years since he'd met her and he'd been lying to himself the whole time. Deferring his feelings for no reason. He'd allowed them both to just languish in situations that were slowly killing them, her far more than him, certainly. But his bed and his home were cold and he'd imagined her there so many times, so many ways. Some nights he could hardly sleep for strangling visions of her here in his home, haunting the halls.
Is this what Solona had forced him to survive for? This existence that was living in only the most clinical sense?
His plans began churning immediately. He'd get some things in order, but he would leave and find her. He had a good chance that he was right – that she might feel the same way. He couldn't know. But for the first time in weeks .. maybe longer… Alistair felt alive. His heart was thumping, his hands sweating. It was like a fog had lifted suddenly. The confession was good for his soul and even better for his mind. He felt amazingly awake, excited.
Pacing suddenly with the buzzing in his veins he began to lay out his course. He'd get a ship, he'd take a crew, he'd get to Kirkwall, and he'd at the very least get to hold her. If he was very lucky, he'd get to hold her forever.
….
Shorter Chapter to keep things moving. There will be more in the next few days and then a faster pace once I get back to all the things I had already written months ago when I began posting. My advice to others: don't completely change your plot mid-story. It's a PAAAAIN.
