Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Summary: A City-Elf/Bann Teagan collection of drabbles and one-shots based on a prompt table from an LJ-community. These will be more or less in chronological order with the faintest traces of added plot here and there. Will vary from drabble length to one-shot.
Author's note: Apparently end of the Landsmeet arc. I actually have this episode done through Assan's point of view. If I manage to make something decent of it, I might post as some sort of omake. Just to end the arc. That said, I think it is enough of emotional disputes after this one~
In this chapter: Two daughters, two reasons to fight, one battle, one conclusion.
029.
Salt and blood. The room reeks of both, fills the atmosphere with acid undertones and the space where fear hasn't become physical. It is so pungent that Anora has to wrinkle her nose in disgust, swearing to herself to burn the beautiful dress she had chosen for the day as soon as this comedy ends. Ceremonies, the older Warden had called it. Ceremony, as if this was anything interesting, anything important. Cailan might have thought this to be important but his wife knows better. This is just a play, a comedy, a little stage to amuse and use those who are foolish enough – unlucky enough – to have to join them.
She cares little about the mage, sweating, gasping in fear. She cares even less about the older Warden or the stony figure by its side. Her eyes are all for her father who awaits outside. Like a foreigner.All she had wanted was her rule back, the one thing that was hers and in which she thrived. Her father had needed a break, time away from all the betrayal, the murders in their society, even from the Blight. Let the Wardens handle it. Didn't they claim to be only who could finish it? Let them fight and let them die. But parents are proud and hers is prouder than any. To listen to her, Maker forbid.
The Wardens already speak as if they are alone and she doesn't matter, as if none will understand them unless they explain. The female has a hand on the dog's head, the dog leans against her leg, the dark liquid swirls from side to side on the Orlesian's hand.
"I was the one to spare him. Don't I have a say in this? "
In the Landsmeet, the girl had been silent. Obviously more interested in keeping herself standing and conscious than listening to her superior speak. But of course, she would not let this pass. Of course, she would be like the other fool, wish her father to be murdered because he chose the wrong side. Of course but perhaps not completely .
"His life, yes. And I don't presume to know why you took that option." Low blow. That is a low blow. The Orlesian has claws underneath the polish. Who would think that considering he was taken out by poison? For a Orlesian, he sounds incredibly gullible. And yet, he keeps going, like a dog with a bone.
"But what else can we both do? It is needed. He can be sent to Orlais after the Blight is over. You will not have to see it. But more than that, you will need another before this ends." The liquid is black, completely black with the oddest red hint to it. Anora stands on the back, behind the mage, gaze jumping from his back to the goblet and back. From her side, from far back, she begins to feel something wrong with all of this. Dangerous, brimming with a touch of forbidden. And the Orlesian's words are the worst. Ominous little bastard.
The elf fidgets in her place, avoiding carefully everyone's eyes. Her arm is still bandaged and her armor was taken to be repaired, all her father's courtesy. The one she uses now is ridiculously weak. Anora cannot believe this sample of a girl beat her father.
"Trust me. It is the best thing to do."
Again, they are not there. The mage cannot breathe right and the woman doesn't care. The dog doesn't move but the elf doesn't spare him a glance. She doesn't even look at Anora, the stranger in their mist. Her hand loses itself in the Mabari's fur, jaw locked and teeth grinding.
"Yes, elf. Trust Orlesians. They do so nicely by Fereldens." Anora is the queen. She is not meant to be ignored, like they obviously were doing. The other woman almost jumps in her place and the goblet shakes, trembles, tries to leave the Orlesian's hands as a slippery snake.
The Wardens don't look at each other. The Orlesian smiles, the elf seems stares at her, almost baring her teeth like a wild animal.
"What is she doing here anyway?"
Nicely done. Before, she had randomly ignored. Now she is purposely ignored. Low class does not change even when covered in proper fabric. The question isn't done to her, preparing for the battle which she knows she shouldn't undertake.
"She is his daughter, sister."
"Didn't know that implied right to witness this. I should have invited my cousin, she'd love it," hangs in a balance, some decision, before holding her hands out and taking the goblet for herself. "There go the so called Wardens' secrets."
"Sister." Admonishment which is disregarded.
"You lack the ears." Enough, she thinks, says with sharp movements as she passes before the mage. "You lack even the authority to be here. What? An Orlesian? In Ferelden's soil, I do not think you carry any right to order us around." Dear Maker, Anora. He is trying to save your father. Her mind knows it and her mouth runs off like she is half her age, a child away from her mother's hand. "And you. You have no right to come here and condemn my father. You are a recruit, a newbie at best, a little girl playing with her father's sword and…"
Anora silences herself, insults veiled but blatant if one knows where to look – tick of her eyebrow, pursed lips. She should distract them. Take her father away, she is the Queen, she can do this. They are not above her – only Alistair is and Alistair wants her father dead, she only has this moment to save him. She can listen to Loghain's voice in the background, harsh, enough Anora! It matters little. She forgets the basic. Never be emotionally invested in an argument, Anora.
The elf makes no comment, this little corner of her lips twisted – amusement, disgust, she cannot be sure – while the content of the goblet swirls and splashes. Will she drink it? Silence, she doesn't attempt to talk and then begins to understand this is just not a ceremony, not even close to theater. That is said by the elf's eyes, bluntly staring into hers.
"Alistair doesn't want this," and her voice doesn't seem to belong to the elf. Not even when she spoke in the Landsmeet, not even when she faced the now King. It sounds like a warden. "And for me, I'd gladly throw your father into the deepest cell in Fort Drakon and forget he exists. They are oddly comfortable."
A sudden move, the elder Warden – Riordan – is about to interrupt. Out of nowhere moves the dog, stepping between him and the goblet, between him and its owner and the elf continues.
"But you see, I hear everyone commenting about the honor of being a Warden." Cailan did, the husband her father didn't save. "Truly? An honor?" Dark amusement, she reads, amusement which is so close to despair. "Wardens live on counted time, fight at most moments, we don't get breaks, we die in battle and if we don't, we are almost despised. I don't think I'll even have the chance to have a child, I don't have a home for more than a year. We both have been chased, tortured, jailed, used. And still expected to keep going nevertheless because we are Grey Wardens. Riordan thinks it is an apt punishment. I agree. If he goes to Orlais after this."
A nod, sure and certain. "The mage?" Sweats and trembles but also nods, listening to what he'll have to do. So he has a backbone? Incredible, Anora thinks for but a moment. A moment only, she doesn't care about the mage.
"Please." Maker, she pleads keeping her attention on the elf, drawing it towards her before practicality takes it away. Maker, save him, don't do this to him, let him go. "You also have a father."
The elf is literally freezing, – trembling – her eyes are colder and even the liquid seem more dangerous. Tactical mistake, Anora realizes.
"Yes. And," she continues, very slowly. "He taught me to always pay my debts. You take, you give, you're gifted, you gift in return. That is the way the world should work. Do you know what happened to him, Queen?"
Anora doesn't want to know.
"Almost sold as a slave. Howe's doing, Loghain's doing."
Her rhetorical skills leave her. Please is all she can say and all she hopes it will work. But the question the elf once did to her – why should I – comes to mind and the reply is just in front of her, in the goblet, dark and poisonous.
Funny, she thinks, so funny. It occurs to her, staring at the other female, that they are not so different. If her ears were pointer, if her eyes were darker, if her hands were blood stained, they would be the same. Just the same. And one day, she might just come after this woman, just like she came after her father, Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. They are the same and the Queen would be right there, with the goblet on her hands if the situation was reversed. Her hatred fights to come to the surface while drowning slowly.
Tasha lowers her head without a word and leaves to, perhaps, kill her father.
Anora mimics her, the answer in the mirror, but doesn't move to stop her.
"Is it that bad?"
Riordan does not answer.
