(M rating again)

Chapter Thirty-Four
Memory of the Coldhearted

9:38 Dragon

Winter in Denerim was cold. It wrapped itself around your bones, chilling you, chattering your teeth, and stubbornly refused to let go. Every breath you took was labored as the cold found another way to get you, even if you only stood in a doorway. If you ran, well, that was another story, another painful story. The frosty hands of winter left your exposed hair sparkling. It was beautiful, until you went inside and it melted all over you. You just couldn't get warm because the moment you became dry, you had to go out again. That was how cold a Denerim winter could get. Yet for all that, Tristan's heart was colder.

Antiva City was lost to his memory. He'd made the journey back to Denerim alone, slipping away in the night. He didn't want to get anyone else involved in what he was going to do. Truthfully, he didn't really know what he was going to do. The queen sent the assassins against him. How did one take revenge against a queen?

For three days he stood at the foot of a frozen fountain, wrapped in a heavy cloak, his face lost in the shadows of a hood, and watched. He watched her.

Every evening she took to the streets with her handmaiden at her heels and no one else. She walked swiftly, hiding her face beneath a heavy woolen scarf. She was on a personal mission, stopping for no one, wishing to remain anonymous. But he knew her. He knew her haughty walk, which she could not hide under the guise of a peasant, however hard she tried to. Always, he followed her, and every time she ended up at the same place – at the foot of the statue of her father – Teyrn Loghain.

It was a lonely statue. The stern face of Loghain watched the Orlesian embassy like a hawk. Pigeons hunkered down onto his head, warming each other, cooing, and defecating onto the stone likeness of the once great teyrn. Nobody bothered to clean it. Even she did not try to, for the cold was too much a bother to do anything. Tristan wondered why Alistair even let her erect such a monument. A monument for a traitor. Alistair was too soft. Too forgiving.

And I… I am none of those things, he thought, watching Anora bow at her father's feet. Erlina stood respectfully to the side, a roving eye studying their surroundings. The handmaiden's eyes found Tristan's on the first day, for only a second before the handmaiden shrugged him off as nothing to worry about.

And so he watched the queen from afar. He watched as she bowed her head in sorrow, as she placed a wilted half-dead flower in the snow at the statue's foot, and as she wiped the bottom of her eyes of the tears that welled up before she left as swiftly as she had come.

On the third day, he followed her back to the palace. His heart was not softened by the display of emotion the queen put on at her father's statue. He was not grieved by the fact that he was the cause of that sorrow. Loghain had made his own bed. Brenna, on the other hand, had been the innocent victim of a queen's revenge. He arrived moments after she did, the guards recognizing him at once as a friend to the king, and ushering him in to the palace.

"Hero," she acknowledged in surprise, concealing little of her disdain for him in her mocking tone. "The servants will fetch the king at once."

He reached for her arm. Her eyes fell to his hand on her person. The handmaiden gasped in outrage.

"That won't be necessary. I am here to see you."

"Me?" Anora wrenched her arm away from him. "And what would an ex-Grey Warden want with the Queen of Ferelden?"

He ignored her barb, her hidden insult of cowardice. "May we speak in privacy?"

Anora studied him for a moment, before sharing a look with Erlina. "Can this wait?"

"No, it cannot."

She hesitated a little longer. Tristan's expression remained neutral, unreadable. Inside, however, he seethed with a fury he didn't know he possessed. It was hard to tell what would come of it. The only certainty was that it would be nothing good.

"Very well, then." She turned to her handmaiden. "Erlina, prepare my antechamber for our guest while I freshen up."

…

Tristan waited in the antechamber. The silence enveloped him and a strange calm washed over his senses. Whatever happened that night would be right. Anora drifted into the room and sat on a cushy armchair, holding her head high and proud. Yet she would not look him in the eye. And he would not look anywhere but at her.

Eventually, he sensed that she grew uncomfortable under his gaze. She shifted in her chair and spoke up, "Where have you been all these years, Hero?"

He let the silence drag on for another moment, let his cold gaze linger on her. She met his gaze, though her eyes shifted around the room nervously. He assumed she searched for her handmaiden, who'd all but disappeared for the time being.

"I recently travelled to Antiva City," Tristan finally replied.

Anora shifted in her seat, so subtly most would not notice, but Tristan watched her with a keen gaze and he missed nothing, not the way she clutched so hard at the arm rest of the chair that the whites of her knuckles were visible, nor the way she crossed and uncrossed her feet.

"I have heard of your great misfortune." Anora lifted her eyes to his. "You have my sympathies for your loss."

Tristan felt the rumble before hearing the laughter burst through his mouth. He couldn't believe the woman's gall, offering him condolences for something she was responsible for. And her eyes, they were the eyes of a scheming liar. Anora again searched the room, for help, for a way out. She knew that he knew. And she knew that he would not let her get away with it.

"What is so funny?" she asked.

He stopped his laughter. Relative quiet overtook the room, the only noise being the flicker and crackling of the fireplace. He stood up from his seat and walked over to the fireplace. He picked up the poker, held it up in the firelight, in Anora's gaze. He hadn't brought his sword, hadn't been allowed by the guards. He caught the way her hand brushed against her hair, like she was trying to appear calm in the face of the hidden threat. But her eyes told a different story. She was caught in a trap and trying to figure out how to flee. Tristan used the poker to turn around the logs in the fire. He set it down and walked back to Anora, pacing in front of where she sat.

"I finally caught up to them," he said. "The ones who killed her. They are dead now."

"Why are you telling me this?" Anora asked. He noticed the way her hands had finally relaxed. She was able to look at him, thinking that the danger to herself had passed, in the declaration that the assassins were dead. "We have never been close. Wouldn't you rather speak to Alistair about this?"

"Only one had been long dead."

"Why should this matter to me?" She couldn't stop the quiver in her voice.

He ignored her questions. "The other met his end at my hands, but not before I got everything I needed from him. Torture, you must agree, has its uses?"

A look of affront overcame Anora. She stood up to meet Tristan. "I don't know what you are getting at, Warden, but if you continue to persist in this manner, I would ask that you leave…"

He pushed her back into the chair. A little mew of objection erupted from her mouth, quickly silenced when Tristan leaned in close enough to see the imperfections on her skin. "Do you know what he said?"

"Why should I know?"

He laughed in her face. "Because you were the mastermind."

She attempted a laugh of her own, but it was half-hearted, stunted by the fear running through her.

"You want me dead," Tristan said. She ceased her pitiful laugh and attempted to push him away to stand up, but he held her in her seat. "Instead you killed an innocent woman."

"I did no such thing." He let her push him away. He let her stand up. "I think it is time you leave. Erlina…"

He lunged toward her, placing a hand over her mouth. "We are not finished here. If you so much as call for your handmaiden again, or for your guards, I will not hesitate to cast."

Her eyes looked fearfully down at the hand covering her mouth. She managed a nod of agreement. Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth. As soon as it was clear, she backed as far away from him as she could. It brought him great joy to see her fear, to see her cornered and helpless.

"We made a deal, long ago. I gave you Alistair. I let you keep your crown. In return, you spoke against your father at the Landsmeet. You knew what was at stake, Anora. You were a smart woman. You knew Ferelden needed to be united against the Blight and you knew your father stood in the way." He walked over to Anora, who backed herself into a corner. He leaned in closely at her side and lowered his voice. "You knew what could happen to him. You yourself are to blame for your father's death…"

"You killed my father!" She hauled herself toward him in a rage, attempting to push her way out from the corner. He caught her by the arms and did not let go. "Do you really think I was going to let that go?"

"So what, we're even now?"

"I wanted your life, not hers. I had to be careful. I am loved by the people, as are you. If it was found out I had a hand in your death, even if you were already presumed dead…"

"You knew all along I was alive. Your spies are good, I'll give you that."

"I would have loved nothing more than for the assassins to tell you who it was that sent death to your door."

He tightened his grip on her arms. Her eyes watered in pain but she did not cry out. "But you would have lost the love of the people. You would have lost Alistair. You would have lost your precious crown. You would have lost everything. Your father knew what he was doing when he fought me in a duel. He knew what was at stake."

"You didn't have to kill him. You could have exiled him."

"Do you really think Loghain would have been merciful to me and my company if it had gone the other way? He would have killed Alistair right after slitting my throat. He was not right in the head and you know it."

"He was the only family I had… he was protecting me."

"You have no honor Anora. It was a fair fight. Your father accepted it, even in his madness. Why couldn't you? Why did you send knives at my back?" He shook her. She fought back with closed fists thumping his chest. "You're nothing but a fool. A bitch trying to be an alpha male."

She slapped him in the face, so hard it stung. "You asshole," she hissed. "Let go of me. I will yell for the guards."

"Go right ahead." He threw her to the floor in disgust, and then, to remind her of his earlier warning, he flashed some magic from his palms.

She dragged herself up from the ground, brushing off her dress. She turned to him with absolute venom in her eyes and in her voice. She was no longer the terrified damsel, but a vengeful witch. "I could have you sent back to the Circle where you belong apostate."

He rushed toward her. He no longer knew what he was doing. She turned away, tried to run away, but he pinned her against the wall, her back to him. His eyes fell to her neck, bare because her hair was piled elaborately on top of her head. He brushed a finger against it. He felt her tremble beneath his touch.

"Such a slender neck," he remarked.

He might not have had his sword, but he had brought something else with him; a small blade the guards did not notice. He pulled out the small knife, twisted Anora around so that she faced him, and let the knife hover in her line of sight. She gulped down in fear.

"Not as pretty as Brenna's," he said, locking his eyes just beyond the knife to her neck, "but I'm sure it would bleed just as much were I to run this blade against it."

"You wouldn't dare," she said. Her breath came fast.

"Wouldn't I? I've nothing to lose. I've all but faded from the people's memory. And I don't very much care for fame, only vengeance."

He ran the flat of the blade against her neck. It would be so easy, to turn it on its side and cut through the skin and watch her bleed for her crime. He wanted to do it. He was desperate to do it, to fulfill his promise to Brenna that her murder would be avenged.

"As do I. Vengeance for my father's murder by your hands."

Anora took him unawares, shoving him back and knocking away the knife from his hand. She ran scrambling into her bedroom. Tristan laughed, feeling a madness clutching his mind, unwilling to let go. He followed her calmly after retrieving the knife from the floor. She had slammed the door loudly, most likely in the hopes that it would alarm the guards. He didn't care anymore. She could call for the guards. He would kill them all if they got in his way. He kicked the door open. He knew he was making too much noise. A small, still rational part of his mind told him to stop, but he didn't listen. He saw Anora before him, rushing to get away. In her panicked haste, she tripped and fell onto her bed.

"It seems there can't be any winners here," he said.

"Come any closer mage and I will scream for the guards. For Alistair. He won't like this at all."

"And he won't like what you did."

Anora sucked in her breath. She knew he was right. Alistair would never forgive her for sending an assassin against the Hero of Ferelden, a man who was friend to him, comrade in arms. Tristan closed the distance between them, stopping at the edge of the bed, looming over her like a wraith from another world. She reached under her pillow and pulled out a small dagger, aiming for him, but he grabbed her wrist and twisted it. He wished he was twisting her neck. She dropped the dagger, a symbol of her wickedness, for who slept with a dagger beneath pillow but those who feared repercussion for their evil deeds? She slapped him once more. He laughed, madly.

"Aren't you going to yell for help?" he dared her.

He wrapped his hands around her neck. He squeezed. And squeezed. Harder and harder. He imagined he could feel the life seeping out of her. She clawed at his hands, writhed underneath him, fervently at first, and then weakly. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Her skin turned blue. He saw his reflection in her terror filled eyes. And he realized that it wasn't justice. The Queen of Ferelden, the wife of his friend, lay beneath him. He was a monster. He let her go, shoved her away, and turned his back on her as she choked and gasped for air.

He half expected her to stab him in the back then and there. Rather than give her that chance, and without offering healing aid, he got up and left the queen's chambers, only later noticing that his knife was gone.

…

"I would have preferred a knife in the back then," Tristan recalled. "It would have saved me a lot of misery."

"So the attempt on her life is true. What of the other charges?" Melisende asked from beside him. She had been riveted to his story. Now, he suddenly didn't feel like talking about it anymore. He wasn't in the least proud of what he had done, all of it – the torture of Arn, the confrontation with Anora. It hadn't been like him to do those things. He would see the terrible story to the end though, he owed his friend that much.

"Rape?" Tristan shook his head. "The treachery of those two women… Anora must have gotten Erlina to punch her. I never did, though she did not have to fake the neck wound, or the welts around her wrists and arms. They ripped her dress, yelled for the guards, for Alistair, and screamed rape. What was he to believe?"

"He should have believed you." Melisende placed a hand on his shoulder.

"He didn't know the whole story. He didn't know why I went to see Anora."

"Why did you never tell this to Alistair?"

"He never came to see me. All those months they held me in Fort Drakon, all through the trial, he never came to see me."

Melisende sighed. "I wish somebody would have sent for me then."

"None of it matters now."

"Why didn't you defend yourself during the trial?" Melisende asked, unable to hide the deep curiousity from her face.

Tristan had never stated why he went after Anora. He had told himself it was for the good of Ferelden to keep quiet about the queen's treachery. But truthfully, he had been just as sickened by his actions then as he now was. His torture of Arn, his near killing of the queen – Brenna would be horrified by all the blood on his hands. If there was an afterlife, if he did get to see her again, he didn't know if she would want to see him again. And so he had stood quiet throughout his farce of a trial. He shrugged in response to Melisende's query.

"They had my knife, proving my presence in her chambers. They had Erlina's fake testimony, telling everyone she witnessed everything that supposedly happened and everything that was allegedly said. They had Ser Conall's claims of seeing me fleeing the palace that night. And Anora… she claimed that I was jealous of Alistair, wanted his power for myself. Why or how could I defend myself when everything was set against me before the trial even started? It was a farce from start to end. The only one who refused to see me as a monster was Sam…"

"Sammy…" Melisende repeated wistfully.

"I should never have let him free me. I am sorry, Melisende."

She placed her hands over his, bringing calm to their shaking. He hadn't noticed how they had been shaking. His rage remained with him, but it was no longer directed at others, but at himself.

"I will help the both of you," Melisende declared. "You will walk free from here."

"You would only be wasting your time." My evil deeds course through me, feeding the monster I am becoming. It is too late to be saved… "If you have to save anyone, save Sam."

"I will not let your name, I will not let the Grey Wardens' reputation be dragged through the mud yet again." She squeezed his hand. "Were I in your shoes, I would have killed Anora for the things she has done. But you are not me. Time and again you show mercy when it is not deserved. The world is a better place for having you in it, and I would not have you or Sammy leave it anytime soon."

Tristan raised a brow in Melisende's direction. He remembered how hard she struggled with her need for vengeance. He knew how she felt after she killed Rendon Howe – the same as before. Her family was gone forever, and nothing could change that. He knew how much of a betrayal it was when he let Nathaniel Howe live, and he knew that had been forgiven long ago. He couldn't understand why she thought so highly of him after all he had done. He removed his hands from underneath hers and stretched them out as far as he could, stressing the chains connecting his shackles.

"As the Orlesians like to say, quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire. When the wine is drawn, one must drink it. There's no going back now."