The Aftermath
Part 1 – The Truth Will Set You Free… Or It just Might Kill You
"Of all people, how could you oppose me, Marc?" Celine demanded. "I trusted you. My uncle relied on your counsel. Yet you defy me and come to take my throne? I think not."
"Celine, I would not—"
"Empress," she corrected him. "You have forfeited your right to call me by name, Duke."
"As I was saying, Celine, I would not have opposed you if you had Orlais' interests at heart instead of your personal goals. You've lied to the people and to your court. Your whorish behavior has brought shame on your dynasty, making our great empire the subject of ridicule among the other nations—allies and enemies alike. In this city, where the Divine resides, you dare to mock and deny the Maker, and you encourage others to follow your example.
"You've deceived your allies, and I know of your plan to invade Ferelden even though you are legally wed to her king. I cannot allow your duplicity to continue. Orlais needs a ruler who will act in her best interest, not a selfish child who looks only to her personal desires and lascivious appetites."
"You were not so reluctant to share my bed yourself," she purred, sliding her hand down her thigh in a gesture that appeared tantalizing. "What would your wife say if she knew about us?"
"She knows, and she's forgiven my past weakness. Unlike you, she is a woman of character."
Celine was trained as a bard in her youth, and she kept a dagger hidden beneath her skirt. A ruler couldn't afford to be careless. If Duke Zacherie thought to depose her, he was mistaken. He would die for his treason.
"I wouldn't do that," a female voice said, so close to her ear she could feel the hot breath. The point of a blade pressed against her jugular vein; only a thin layer of delicate flesh between life and death. A hand gripped hers tightly, preventing her from reaching her dagger, then twisted Celine's arm behind her back, jerking upward in a quick and efficient move, dislocating her shoulder. Ignoring the empress' shriek of pain, the shadowy assailant retrieved the dagger from beneath Celine's skirt and tucked it into her own belt. With Celine disarmed and posing no danger, the assailant released her. Celine turned to see Duke Marc's accomplice.
"You," she said, surprised and hurt. "Bard-master! I trusted you, you treacherous bitch! I shared all my secrets with you because I respected you. How could you turn on me so quickly?"
"As a bard, you should have known better than to trust anyone with your secrets. You knew who and what I was. You should have been suspicious of me instead of blindly trusting. Your naïveté worked to my advantage, did it not?"
Celine hissed, "You earned your title well. A spy, a killer, a deceiver, a thief, a traitor… And you dare look down on me?" Her right arm hung limply, painfully, from the shoulder. She couldn't fight them. Not with her injury. But she wasn't without an alternative. Her body convulsed and she dropped to her knees, supporting herself with one arm. The injured shoulder righted itself, and her appearance began to change rapidly before their eyes. When she stood again, she wasn't Celine. She was a desire demon.
"As I suspected," the duke said. He and his accomplice attacked the demon before it had the chance to entice them with seductive words. Desire demons were most powerful when they had a willing victim. These two weren't taken in by her lewd appearance or her false promises of having their fondest wishes fulfilled. She had nothing to offer them. Duke Marc had no prior experience with demons, but his accomplice did. She slashed at the creature, dodging most of weak the fire spells, until she could drive her blade through its heart. It let out a long scream, its head fell back, and it rose off the floor before falling back down with a thump. In death, it transformed back into Celine.
"Sad," Duke Zacherie remarked, without any real sadness. "She was a troubled child; wild in a sense that had a certain appeal to a foolish man like I once was. But I was not aware of when she became possessed. I only assumed she had given in to demons when her actions became too outrageous to ignore."
"The blood mage," the accomplice said. "She likely caused Celine's possession so she could more easily control her."
"Where is the mage? Has she fled the country?"
"She and her lover tried to cross the border but I arranged to have templars waiting for them. They're being transported to the Circle in Starkhaven."
"Excellent work. You've earned your place in my court."
"I will… consider it," she said. "There are other matters of importance that require my attention, your Imperial Majesty."
Marc liked the sound of it. A touch pretentious, perhaps, but what of it? Once the rest of the former empress' supporters were rounded up and killed, the title would be his. After he dealt with King Alistair, that is.
Alistair rode into Orlais to the north of the Imperial Highway, keeping to the brush and shadows as much as possible. A few miles into the country, a group of assassins lay in wait for him. It wasn't the best decision to have come alone without his escort of guards, but there was nothing to do about it now. He'd have to fight his way through.
He heard the sound of horses behind him. Damn it, I'm surrounded, he thought. Stupid move, Alistair. Should have seen this coming.
Instead of attacking him, the horses passed him and the soldiers engaged the assassins. He didn't realize the horsemen were some of the same guards that had escorted him out of Orlais years ago—others were replacements, but all were under Duke Marc's command to safeguard King Alistair at all costs. Alistair drew his sword to join the battle.
Orlesian assassins are better trained than Antivans, he assumed. This particular group surely was. They killed two of the guards with expertly-thrown daggers. The other guards took cover and fired on the assassins with a bow and a crossbow. Alistair took a bow and quiver off a fallen guard and joined the others behind a low wall of boulders.
The assassins, thinking they would make a quick and easy kill, were unprepared for a real fight. One had a shortbow; the others had only daggers. None was anxious to engage in close combat.
"They're trapped," the senior guard said. "We can take them out from here, or we can charge them and cut them down with swords. I leave it up to you, King Alistair. How would you like to deal with this insult?"
Insult? Is that how Orlesians viewed an assassination attempt? "Let's have at them with blades," Alistair answered. "Arrows are too impersonal."
"Have a care, Majesty. These fellows poison their blades."
"Right, I'm aware of their cowardly techniques," Alistair answered. He took his shield in his left hand, sword in his right. "If you have a shield, this is a good time to use it. Let's go."
"As you wish, but you are not to lead, Sire. Duke Zacherie's orders." Alistair was grateful to the duke but he felt a tickle of resentment at being ordered about by a lesser nobleman.
This isn't my country and these aren't my men, he reminded himself. Can't blame them for following orders when those orders are for my protection.
Both guards were primarily sword-and-shield warriors, with little training in archery. This was the kind of fighting they knew best, and they defended the gutsy foreign king per the duke's commands. Of the four remaining assassins, three of them threw a hail of daggers dipped in lethal poison, all of which were deflected by the shields. The fourth assassin ineffectively used his shortbow. Its range was too short and the arrows were cheaply made. One came close to doing harm when it stuck in a guard's shield, but before he could reload another arrow, the guard was upon him and struck him down with a shield-bash to the head followed by a sword thrust to the chest.
Alistair went for the group's leader. The man was frantically issuing orders or instructions—he couldn't make out the Orlesian jabber—so Alistair figured this fellow was in charge. He warded off a dagger with his shield and shoved his sword into the man's shoulder, taking out his ability to fight. With the other three assassins killed, the senior guard pointed his sword at the leader's throat and questioned him in Orlesian.
Alistair waited for an interpretation. The entire conversation was four sentences long, then the guard ran his sword into the man's throat and killed him. He spat on the corpse—an Orlesian habit of showing disdain for an enemy. Rather pointless, Alistair thought, when the man's already dead.
"They were hired by a member of the empress' court," the guard explained. "A powerful noble and a chevalier, well-respected among the people. We should proceed to Val Royeaux as quickly as possible, but I suggest we stay off the main highways and try to remain undetected as long as we can."
"My thoughts exactly," Alistair agreed. He looked forward to meeting this chevalier. He hadn't had a good opponent in a long time. The assassins didn't meet the standard of "good" fighters. His most recent battle was against mindless darkspawn. Before that, his last human opponent with any battle skill had been Loghain. A duel between two warriors was far more satisfying.
The ride to Val Royeaux was slow and it vexed Alistair. His backside was sore from too many days in the saddle. The paths off the highway were made up of small, loose stones, making it necessary to keep his eyes on the route so his horse wouldn't misstep and cause them to fall.
They went west until they came to a place where two rivers met, then north, and finally east toward the capital city. Whoever designed the route was an idiot, he thought. Nothing a couple of well-placed bridges couldn't fix, but they were either too dumb or too afraid of retaliatory invasion to make the road to Val Royeaux easier to travel. For the most part, Orlesians were an arrogant bunch, and a strange race with peculiar customs. The populace wore masks or half-masks with their family or clan crest, and the nobles and chevaliers painted their faces like clownish harlots. What kind of people did that?
The city came into view, and from a distance it looked like nothing was amiss. As they neared it, however, they saw bodies of palace guards, soldiers, nobles, and civilians scattered about. Not as many as one would expect in a full-scale revolution. The loss of civilians was regrettable, but they were armed and evidently took part in the fight, so their deaths were on their own heads.
"Chevaliers," the senior guard whispered, signaling the group to halt and stay in the shadows. "Until we know if they're on our side or part of the empress' army, let's not engage them."
That's a no-brainer if I ever heard one, Alistair thought. His little band of three was outnumbered, and the chevaliers had superior weapons and armor and trained war horses. Each mounted fighter posed a double threat. While they watched, an argument broke out among the fighters. The exchange led to threats and posturing, and finally to blows. From what the group could ascertain, roughly half the chevaliers were on Celine's side and the other half opposed her.
"Wouldn't it be nice if they killed each other off? It would save us the trouble," one guard said.
"You say that like we really have a chance against them," Alistair answered.
Luck or karma or the Maker was on their side. The chevaliers were in the square below the palace. From above them, someone—or a number of 'someones'—threw daggers with the precision of a bard. Alistair thought, This is Orlais, after all—home of the bards. No others I've seen can wield a short blade with that kind of expertise.
One of the horsemen saw his fellows falling. Unable to defend against an enemy he couldn't see, he guided his horse into a covered alcove where the blades couldn't reach him. There he stayed until the rest of the chevaliers lay dead and their horses lightly injured and scattered.
"It's one chevalier alone against the three of us," Alistair said. "How hard can it be to kill one man?"
"He's not a normal man," the senior said. "A chevalier is worth five of us."
"Five of you, maybe. I'm not going to sit here and wait for him to leave. I need to get in the palace and see what's happening." Alistair left the guards behind and rode toward the chevalier.
He was spotted right away, and the Orlesian warrior walked his horse out of the alcove. Even the horse had a smart-ass attitude, high-stepping and rearing. The chevalier said, "What is this? If it isn't the false emperor himself. It will be a pleasure killing you."
"Awfully confident, are you?" Alistair answered. He locked glares with the chevalier, inwardly ridiculing the man for his painted face, like that of a tramp from the Pearl. Neither man was going to back down. That was what Alistair was hoping for. Let the egotistical fop try his luck.
"Confidence I do not need. I am a chevalier!" With his lame war cry echoing in the deserted streets, the chevalier charged at him with his razor-edged sword drawn.
Alistair let him get closer before drawing his own sword. At the warrior's approach, Alistair feigned left. The chevalier took the bait and followed his move, allowing Alistair to pull to the right just in time to swing his blade at the spot between the warrior's helmet and his armor. The warhorse continued to run with its headless rider lolling about, spraying blood like a shower, painting Alistair's gauntlets and armor red, and spattering his face.
"Chevalier, eh? I'm templar and Grey Warden, you pompous arse." The two guards caught up to him, surprised and pleased by his quick victory. "I'm off to the palace, lads. Come or stay behind, whatever your orders dictate."
"Speet on heem," the junior guard said. "Eet ees tradeetion."
"Not my tradition. And I have no desire to chase after the headless horseman. But by all means, feel free to follow him and spit all you like." The guards understood his logic and left the corpse as it was—wherever it was—without the customary spitting.
The palace was a bloody mess. This was where the main battles of the revolution took place. Celine's court lay dead—all of the ones he recognized from years ago, and a few new faces. Or they might have been new ones. Hard to tell with all the gore. He was specifically looking for Duke Marc. Again, the blood and injuries made identification difficult, but he was fairly sure the duke wasn't among the dead in the throne room.
"King Alistair? What are you doing here?"
Alistair recognized the voice as the duke's. He turned to see him, and another familiar person, entering the room from the opposite side by the living quarters. "Leliana," he said, "I would say I'm surprised to see you here, but I'm actually not. I assume it was you throwing those daggers at the chevaliers?"
"Not me, but my bards. Under my orders."
He still didn't care for the woman, but she'd done him a good turn and the least he could do was show some gratitude. "Thanks for that. I wasn't looking forward to taking on that many chevaliers. And their horses."
She giggled—as childlike and frivolous a person as ever despite her admirable skills. "You wouldn't have stood a chance against that many. That's why I had them killed, even the ones who said they were against Celine. With nobles, you never know…"
The duke interrupted their conversation. "I expressly advised you to stay away from Val Royeaux until the takeover was complete, Majesty. You're a hard-headed man."
Alistair shrugged. "I'm Fereldan. What can I say?"
"Very well. Now that you're here, let's discuss terms."
"Terms? What terms? Isn't there already a treaty in effect?"
"Ah, how thoughtless of me! I regret to inform you of the death of your wife, the former Empress Celine. As Orlais lacked a suitable replacement, I've taken it upon myself to assume the throne."
"Convenient for you," Alistair said. "I suppose you expect thanks for killing Celine. I'm not one to revel in death, especially a woman's death. I'd planned to divorce her, but this will have to do."
"Indeed? Then her death is no loss to anyone. You should be made aware of her misdeeds."
"If I must hear them…"
"You must, for your peace of mind. Indulge me a while, Majesty, and I'll answer all the questions I can."
Leliana begged leave before the two rulers began their discussion. "Imperial Majesty, by your leave, I want to go through the palace and its grounds, make sure there are no more enemies about, and then return to my post. The Divine is expecting my report."
"Granted," the new emperor said. "Your help was invaluable. It won't be forgotten." Leliana bowed to the emperor, then to Alistair, before slipping silently from the room.
Over the next hour, Alistair learned in detail what had made Celine progress from a mildly promiscuous teen into a raging tramp. A demon. He should have guessed it. As he suspected, her creepy mage was a blood mage. The apostate had summoned a desire demon along with other demons and abominations to control the court and the empress.
The former empress had no intention of honoring the treaty she'd made. It was her belief that the borders of her empire should extend to the ends of the continent, which would encompass Ferelden. Plans had been discovered in her belongings for an organized invasion to commence in the autumn of the coming year, beginning with Alistair's assassination.
And they say romance is dead.
Additionally, he learned (to his relief and his displeasure) he had been drugged the night Duncan was conceived. His first worry was that the drug might somehow affect his son in the future, but Marc assured him that what he'd overheard suggested nothing of the kind. Both Celine and the mage took precautions to insure his health. He was to be the heir to the Orlesian throne, and was therefore valuable.
"The mage," Alistair said. "Still running loose, I presume."
"She and her mentor have been captured and are on their way to the Starkhaven Circle." Alistair was relieved to hear this news. Apostates couldn't be trusted.
His next question was regarding something almost as worrisome. "Exactly what affect did the potion have, other than to get me to commit an act I found loathsome?"
"You refer to your aggression, I take it? Acting out of character in a frenzy of—"
"Enough! Don't remind me. I'd rather never think on it again."
"Let me set your mind at ease, Alistair. None of your actions that night were of your own volition. You may have answered Celine's summons and come to Val Royeaux with the intent to father an heir, but she knew you didn't want anything to do with her. Celine's ego had grown so large, and her heart so small, that she thought drugging you was the only way to get what she wanted from you. What occurred—and I take it from your expression that it was unpleasant—wasn't your fault. But for all the wrongs she did, you have your heir, do you not?"
"I do, and I consider him fully Fereldan."
"That's another matter we must discuss."
They struck a new treaty. In exchange for Alistair renouncing all claim to the Orlesian throne, and acting on behalf of his son, renouncing Duncan's claim to it as well, there would be peace between their countries. Alistair had a stipulation of his own. The Orlesian city of Jader was well inside Ferelden's northwest boundary, east of the Frostback Mountains. Orlais was to surrender claims to the city and it would become part of Ferelden. The emperor considered it, and agreed to the king's terms. Jader was too distant from the rest of the country to afford it adequate protection. It worked in both countries' favor to relinquish the city to Ferelden.
When their negotiations were complete, the emperor waved an arm at the room. "I would like to offer you my hospitality, Majesty, but the palace is in a mess. My home is not far, if you would do me the honor of staying there until you return to Ferelden."
Alistair would have preferred to leave for home but he was fatigued to the point of collapsing. He accepted the emperor's offer and remained in the grand manor for a few days, until he was well rested and well fed enough to make the return trip home. He longed to see Duncan again, and when he reached Denerim, to tell Eamon that a better treaty had been made with Orlais than the miserable marriage agreement. He wasn't as dumb as people thought.
The emperor's wife—a handsome, unassuming, kindhearted woman—saw to it that he was loaded down with provisions for the trip. Among the items she gave him was a goodly quantity of the one thing he liked about Orlais. They made some of the finest cheese he'd ever tasted.
Satisfied he'd accomplished all he'd intended and more, he began the trip to Rainesfere to reunite with his son, oblivious to the things that had occurred there in his absence. Because he'd ridden his horse so hard on the way to Val Royeaux, he kept a leisurely pace on the way back home, stopping to let the horse rest and graze every few hours (and to give his backside a rest as well), making camp at night, and taking twice as long as normal to reach the Ferelden border.
Part 2 – Grief and Rage
"…Fragments of joy torn apart, a freshly drained heart that beats, disguise themselves through her…" ~ A.F.I. - "On The Arrow" (slightly modified)
I passed the first days following Teagan's death in a mental fog, not fully aware of those around me, automatically acknowledging their sympathies and offers of help with the proper responses. They meant well, I knew. But good intentions aside, no one could do anything.
The estate steward, taking charge of details I wasn't prepared to handle, dispatched a messenger to Mayor Murdock in Redciffe informing him of the arl's death, and telling him the funeral would be held the following afternoon on the grounds of our Rainesfere estate. He added in his message the following: "The arlessa is in mourning and in no position to deal with problems in the city. Please contact me if you need assistance." He wasn't trying to undermine my authority—a burden I didn't want—he was being helpful. If there was something above his station, he would bring it to me. Otherwise, he ran interference, as it were, between me and the arling.
Eamon responded right away to my message. He was unable to come to Rainesfere because the king was away, but he would visit as soon as he could. Like the rest of us, he was heartbroken over Teagan's death. I found it curious, though, that he included with his message an official document—the deed to his Denerim estate, with my name listed as the owner and Jaden as secondary owner. Sure, he wasn't using it much if at all, but it was an unusually generous gift and it came at a strange time.
The stable hands built a funeral pyre the morning after Teagan's body was returned to the estate. The next afternoon, two days after he'd been found and probably four days after his death by Perth's estimation, when the citizens of the arling came to pay their last respects to their beloved arl, Teagan's silk-draped body was burned on the pyre. I stood with the two boys, holding their hands, watching the flames without really seeing them. I'd already wept until I had no tears left to give. My mind was elsewhere. I wore the traditional black widow's clothing for the funeral, but I longed to have it done with and wear my armor again. One year in black dresses? Not for me.
Helplessness was not a condition to which I would succumb. Despair was something I'd dealt with in Starkhaven. I refused to allow it to master me. I couldn't very well go out hunting a dragon, but I couldn't sit about and mourn for the coming year either. In short, I had reverted to the person I was the day I arrived in Ferelden—angry, cold, and reckless. My anger was directed as much toward the uncaring Maker as it was the dragon that killed Teagan.
With the boys, though, I put on a good front. Jaden had just lost his papa. I couldn't be so selfish as to allow my feelings to blind me to his pain. For a child, he accepted the loss with a maturity I should have come to expect. He'd foreseen something—not the details of the events, but he'd had a premonition of disaster when Teagan left for Redcliffe. From now on, I would pay more heed to his warnings, vague as they might be. And with good reason.
Duncan was still frightened of dragons. More than that, he was afraid a dragon would kill his papa as it had killed Jaden's—a possibility I hadn't considered, but it worried me as well. Each night he asked if he could sleep in my suite. I found it too hard to sleep in the room I'd shared with Teagan. The bed where we'd made love, his most prized belongings, and his clothing were in there, and the room still held his scent. The memories were too painful to bear. I took another suite near the boys' room—one with two beds. We slept there with the boys in one bed and me in the other. At least, that's how each night began. I usually woke with two sleeping companions, and I rather liked having the boys near me.
A week after Teagan's death, Aiden came to visit. He came alone, bringing Alfstanna's sympathies and an apology for not coming because her kids kept her too occupied to be of any help. I had a hunch she wasn't ready to teach her youngsters about death, and didn't blame her. Aiden stayed for a couple of days, talking to me at times, and hanging around the boys when I needed to be alone. His presence was a small comfort, but at this time, any comfort was welcome.
Bryant also came to call and pay his respects, bringing well wishes from Garavel and the others. He stood beside the remnants of the funeral pyre and spoke a heartfelt prayer, commending my husband to the Maker's hands. I said nothing, but it seemed to me that if this Maker cared in the first place, Teagan would still be alive. Still, Bryant's meant well, and his friendship was as steadfast as his faith.
The day of the funeral, I combed through the library for tomes on the old gods. Teagan had one volume of particular interest. It listed the names of all seven old gods, and the last name on the list was Lusacan—the very word Jaden had said when he saw Teagan's body. He knew, without fully comprehending his knowledge, that Lusacan had killed Teagan. Flemeth killed him.
Had Lusacan, in her dragon form, returned for that purpose only? It seemed unlikely, given the things Morrigan told me about how they had to keep themselves hidden from darkspawn. None of this made sense. Why would this old god risk revealing its location merely to kill a handful of men who posed no threat to it? There had to be more to this attack.
Then the pieces came together. Flemeth, as Lusacan, showed herself to send a message to Jaden—more accurately, to Urthemiel. Whether it was a call for my son to prepare himself for action in the near future, or revenge for our killing Morrigan—the sixth old god, Razikale—the attack was a means of communication. A particularly brutal, unforgivable one.
Five days after he left Val Royeaux, Alistair crossed the border into Ferelden. He had no desire to return to Orlais, and no reason to do so. The sight and smell of his home gladdened his heart. The border guards bowed to him and he nodded in response.
When they thought he was out of earshot, they continued their conversation. "They're going to have to appoint a new arl. The arlessa isn't Fereldan and I'm not sure the people will accept her even if she were of a mind to rule the arling, you know, with her husband being dead and all."
Alistair stopped. He turned his horse around and approached the guards. "Who are you talking about? Which arl? Who's dead?"
"Sire, beg pardon for speaking out of turn. I assumed you had heard—"
"Just say what you have to say, man! What's this about an arl?"
"The arl of Redcliffe, Sire. He was killed less than a fortnight ago. Some say he and his party were attacked by a dragon."
Alistair had trouble absorbing the impact of such news in a single jolt. Teagan? Dead? By a dragon of all things? Could they have been mistaken? They assured him it was no mistake—the arl of Redcliffe was dead; his funeral was held at his Rainesfere estate. The entire country knew of it by now.
What of Duncan? He'd left his son at the Rainesfere manor. What of the rest of them? Dragons weren't selective; they killed everyone in their path. Maker, don't let me lose my whole family!
He dug his heels into his horse's flanks so hard the animal reared. Alistair kept a tight hold on the horse, urging him to a gallop. He flew along the ground, closing the distance between the border and Rainesfere as quickly as possible, but not quickly enough to keep him from thinking of all sorts of disastrous possibilities. By the time he passed Orzammar he'd worried himself ill with the fear that something might have happened to his son, or to Winter and her son. Grief over Teagan's death would catch up with him; his priority was to see to Duncan.
It was a day and a half of hard riding. His horse became overtired, then sick from the nonstop running. Alistair had to stop in a small village and trade his horse for a fresh one, and damn near ran that one to death as well before Rainesfere came into view. Everywhere he looked, houses and stores were draped with black cloth, ribbons, and wreaths—a bannorn in mourning.
The manor, from a distance, looked like it had been painted black. As he neared it he saw the lower floor windows had been draped in black cloth, the front porch littered with wreaths and handmade symbols of mourning from the arling's citizens. Even small statues of Andraste had been painted or draped in black.
Bloody depressing. Isn't the family suffering enough without the constant reminders of their loss?
He slid off the horse before it came to a full stop, stumbling in the process. He was so anxious to see that Duncan was unharmed he forgot he was covered in dried blood from his one-blow fight with the chevalier.
The steward—Lyle or Larson or something that started with an 'L'—greeted him at the door, bowing low. The man looked like he'd aged years since Alistair last saw him, less than two weeks earlier. He'd been in Teagan's service for more than twenty-five years, since the manor was first built.
"My son," Alistair demanded, sounding harsher than he intended because of his fear for the boy's safety and well-being. "Where?"
"Upstairs with Master Jaden, your Majesty."
Alistair made for the stairs but the steward called after him, "Forgive me, Sire, but I fear the boy might be frightened by your armor… in that condition…"
"Of course," Alistair answered. The last thing he needs is to see me covered in blood. He released the clasps on his breastplate and removed his gauntlets and leather gloves. Better. The steward had left the room and returned with a wet cloth for the king's face. With all the dried blood on it, one might think he'd received a grievous head wound. Alistair took it gratefully, scrubbed at his face and hair. That done, he ran up the stairs.
"Papa!" Duncan cried joyfully. Alistair picked him up and held him tightly.
"Thank the Maker," Alistair breathed in relief at finding his son unharmed. "I missed you, little man."
Duncan planted a few wet kisses on his cheek before drawing back and making a face. "Papa, you need a bath. You're stinky."
Alistair laughed, too long and too loud, finally able to release the anxiety he'd carried for the past thirty-six hours. "Yes, son. That's what Orlais smells like. I'll have a bath as soon as I can." He turned his gaze on Jaden, who'd been sitting on the floor quietly observing the two. His haunted eyes tore at Alistair's heart. "Come here," he gestured to him. He shifted Duncan to one arm and lifted Jaden with the other. The boy wrapped his long arms around his neck, so much like he'd done when he was a toddler. "I'm so sorry about your papa. He was special to me, too."
"I know," Jaden whispered. "Papa is with Aunt Rowan and Cailan now. It's Mum I'm worried about. She's not… herself."
"Where is your mum?" he asked Jaden. "I want to check up on her and see if I can help her. But you understand, don't you, that it will take her some time to get back to 'herself'." He recalled how crushed he was after Ostagar, when Duncan died. He couldn't imagine how one could endure as much loss as Winter had—starting with her parents' murder and now her husband's gruesome death.
"She takes a walk by the lake every day. She said she needs alone time."
He put the boys down. "Are you fellows going to be alright for a while?"
"Sure, we've got lots of things to do," Jaden answered.
"Yeah, like telling stories about dragon hunters," Duncan chimed in.
Satisfied the boys were safe, Alistair went to look for Winter.
Jaden and Duncan were a joy, my only comfort in these difficult times, but in my gut was a growing, insistent anger with no place of release.
When I became a warden I found what I needed, even if I had the misguided notion that I wanted to die. In fighting, the deep-seated resentment found a target—a deserving target—darkspawn. Now I had nothing on which to unleash my fury. Back then, I was angry with Andraste and the whole "bride-of-the-Maker" rubbish. In this most recent adversity, the Maker himself was the target of my ire.
My fear was that I might lose control and the anger would break loose on the boys, on the servants, or on a visitor come to extend their sympathies—the latter of which had become tiresome no matter how good their intent. I wanted to be left alone, not continually reminded of what a good man I'd lost and how they lost a bann, an arl, a dear friend.
Each day I set aside a couple of hours to remove myself from everyone, usually strolling along the lakeside. I needed this time to sort through my thoughts and feelings, and then to make plans for the future. On the last topic I was at a loss. I hated to leave my beloved Rainesfere, but the one who made it so special to me was gone forever. The memories tormented me. Every room, every item held significance. I was becoming overwhelmed with emotions—sorrow, loss, loneliness for the man I'd loved so dearly, but most of all, seething anger at the Maker who let this happen.
"What did I do, or what didn't I do?" I muttered aloud to a Maker who had long since turned his gaze away from his creation. "Was it that Andraste nonsense again that set you off? Because I still don't believe she's in any way divine. Is that why you see fit to punish me in the most callous ways you can devise? You're too sadistic to kill me. Am I to be your toy for my entire life? You give me happiness for a while, and then you snatch it away to see how I'll react, or how much pain you can inflict on me before I turn into a blubbering lunatic. Is that your grand plan? You've picked the wrong person.
"You, Maker, couldn't even defend your own golden city against evil men, you turned your back on the world and the races you created, whether they believed in you or not, until a human woman caught your eye. What kind of Maker are you? Do you lust like a mortal man? Did you desire a mortal woman, one who was already married? Is that the story I'm supposed to believe? And do you expect me to repeat the chant of light—the most boring, repetitive, meaningless prose ever made up, and that by your alleged 'bride'? Every time I hear it in a chantry it makes my skin crawl. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the naïve fools who devote their lives to it and to you. You're a fraud."
The more I talked, the louder and harsher my voice became until I was fairly shouting toward the sky at a being in which I'd lost all faith. Gesturing with my arms, picking up a stick or a rock and throwing it for emphasis, or as my futile, impotent attempt to strike back at an unfeeling, uncaring deity or idol or whatever the Maker was. Assuming he ever existed.
"Are you waiting for me to fall apart and beg forgiveness? I'll never do it. Never! How are you any better than darkspawn, or than the archdemon? At least I could kill those and be done with them. But you… you just won't go away. You toy with humanity, you watch but do nothing while elves are slaughtered or enslaved, and while dwarves retreat underground and put their trust in stone—in stone of all things—and where are you in all this? Sitting in some corrupted black city sipping wine with Andraste and enjoying the show we put on for you? To the void with it all, and to the void with your adulterous prophetess, and to the void with you!"
Brawny arms grabbed me from behind. Hands gripped my wrists and pulled them against my chest, holding me fast. My back was pressed against a powerful body, hard as a wall. I began to struggle with all my strength, but to no avail. I was as trapped as I would have been locked up in the stocks, but I kept up the fight until I could hardly move my muscles.
My assailant bent his head next to mine and said in my ear, "Shh, stop struggling, Winter. It's me. I'm here."
Part 3 – Starting Over
"…He'll say that it's nothing new, and swear this is true: 'For you, I'll swallow the ocean'…"
A.F.I. – "On The Arrow"
He was bone-weary but he couldn't rest until he'd talked with Winter. Once he saw for himself that she was alright, all things considered, he would follow his son's advice and take a bath—Maker knows he needed one; he hadn't bathed since the night before he left Denerim, over two weeks now—and then sleep until he couldn't milk any more sleep from his body.
He rounded the front corner of the house and walked toward the lake that ran behind the manor. So far he saw no sign of her. Once he reached the shore, he looked south. No one was there. Just an empty shore lined with trees in their autumn colors of red, gold, and brown. Rainesfere is the most beautiful spot in Ferelden by far, he thought. A fine place for a family, except when that family is torn apart by tragedy like this one. The thought dampened his spirits considerably.
When he looked northward, he couldn't be sure but he thought he spotted a tiny figure in black, far up the coastline. He walked in that direction. It was quite the hike. She must have walked for an hour or more, unless he was more fatigued than he thought. His footsteps dragged in the sandy ground, tiring his legs quickly. He moved onto the solid ground and kept going.
Gradually he could make out the shape of a person, then a woman, and at last he recognized her, garbed in traditional mourning weeds. She was talking to someone, but whom? There was no one about. As he got closer, he heard her words. She was railing on the Maker. Alistair was no choirboy but some of the things she said made him cringe—if only for her soul's sake. Knowing she was speaking out of pain, he purposed not to try to defend the Maker, Andraste, or in any way upset her further.
When he saw her bend and pick up rocks, throwing them at the air as if she could hit the Maker from this distance, then sticks, then anything she could lift, he grew worried for her. She was acting out, yes, but he recalled Jaden's words: "She's not… herself." By what Alistair was seeing, she definitely wasn't herself.
She was so caught up in her rant that she didn't sense his approach. Her flailing and shouting alarmed him, so he waited for the right moment and seized her wrists, pinned her against him to keep her from doing herself harm or scratching his eyes out, and spoke quietly to her when she'd struggled so much she wore herself out. It took a few repetitions to get through to her. When she realized it was he, she relaxed and it felt like she melted against him—a soft vulnerability that tugged at his heart.
"Alistair," she said, hoarse from yelling. "You're safe. Thank goodness you're safe."
He released her and she whirled about, threw her arms around his neck, and hung onto him. Before he could get a word out, she was weeping against his shoulder and trying to speak, but her words were garbled and interrupted with hard sobs. He held her, consoling her as best he could, stroking her hair and murmuring lame, useless things that he knew couldn't ease her suffering. All he could do was try, just as she had tried to soothe him after Ostagar. The fact that someone cared enough to talk to him about his loss meant a lot back then. He hoped his presence and his earnest sympathy brought her at least a tiny measure of relief from her sorrow.
When her sobbing trailed off to occasional hiccups, she tried speaking to him again. "I'm so glad you're here. I was afraid something might happen to you too, after you told me you might not return."
"I'm sorry I said that. It was stupid of me," he answered. "I never want to make you worry—"
"I can't believe he's gone," she interrupted in a mournful whisper.
"Nor can I. Tell me, what can I do for you and Jaden? Ask anything and I'll do it." Another stupid thing to say. What could he do? Raise the dead from ashes? That's what they needed, and no one could give it to them.
She didn't notice or she let it pass without comment. "You're safe. That's all I could have hoped for. I can't lose anyone else. I have nothing else to lose. This Maker of yours is trying to break me, and he's damn near succeeded."
He let the Maker reference go. She was in no shape for a religious lecture. "Winter, dear, I won't pretend I know how you feel, but it breaks my heart to see you grieve. For what it's worth, know that you have people who care about you. You have Jaden, who thinks the world of you. Duncan is crazy about you, too. And you will always have me."
Very smooth, Alistair, he chided himself. Why not take it all the way to the extreme and tell this brand new widow that you still love her, and maybe when her husband's ashes are cool you two can pick up where you left off? It couldn't sound any worse than saying "you always have me". Idiot.
She backed off to see his face but she kept her arms around his neck. Not that he minded. "I'm grateful for the three of you," she said. "Truly grateful. The boys kept me sane over these past days. Now that I know you're alright, maybe I can gather my wits and stop throwing rocks at a make-believe deity." Her lips curved in a bitter half-smile.
"You're stronger than you know, dear one," he said gently. "Through all of this, you cared for two young boys and shielded them from something too difficult for them to understand. You put others before yourself, as you've done in all the time I've known you. And in spite of what you're going through, you find it in yourself to worry for me. I'm honored."
"You're talking nonsense," she scoffed.
"See? That's what I mean. You are strong, Winter. You're sensible. You're the toughest woman I know, and I mean that as a compliment."
She nodded, making no comment. He felt dumber by the minute, not knowing what to say, never having had to console someone so close to him. Were there any words that would help?
"We should go back to the house," she suggested. "The boys worry if I'm gone too long. Since Jaden told Duncan what happened to Teagan, he's afraid we'll all be eaten by dragons. Jaden worries that I'm losing my mind, I think."
"He is worried for you," Alistair agreed. "But we'll put his fears to rest. And Duncan's." He let her slip out of his embrace but he kept hold of her hand. "Come, let's head back. Tomorrow, when we've all had a night's rest, I'm taking you and the boys back to Denerim with me."
"I don't know…"
"Why not? What's so urgent here that you can't get away?" he pressed. "That steward fellow, Lyle or Larson—"
"Leland."
"Yes, him. He can run the manor and the staff, he's been in charge of the meadery for years, and between him and the castle steward in Redcliffe, the households are well in hand. Murdock can see to Redcliffe in your absence—"
"I can't be the arlessa," she cut in. "Please, appoint someone else. The people need someone who can tend to their needs, and I just… I can't."
"Consider it done," he said. He'd hoped she wouldn't want to stay in Rainesfere or Redcliffe. "Don't give it another thought, alright?"
"Thank you, Alistair. For everything."
"I haven't done anything yet, but I do want to take care of you and Jaden," he said. At her silence, he prompted, "So you haven't answered me yet. What's keeping you here that would prevent you from coming to live in Denerim? The palace is enormous and empty. Besides, Duncan would love the company, as would I."
She thought on it. What was keeping her here? Nothing. No one. "Alright. Yes. We'll come to Denerim. The change will be good for Jaden."
"And for you," he added. She didn't reply, but she didn't disagree either.
He put an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the manor. For a while she leaned against him, drawing comfort from his strength. Eventually she pulled away and walked beside him. Tentatively, he reached for her hand. She responded by lacing her fingers through his.
Slow down, heart. She's a new widow, remember? Widow. Wiiiiidoooooww. And strangely, the word doesn't sound as bad as 'sister'. He suppressed a very poorly-timed smile.
They walked the rest of the way hand in hand, like they'd done so many years ago in Denerim.
The boys were excited about the move to Denerim. Duncan wanted everyone to live in the palace, as Alistair had proposed, but Winter planned to live at the estate near the marketplace.
Alistair wrote a message to Murdock and asked Ser Perth to have it sent to the mayor in Redcliffe. Perth asked if he could be permitted to deliver it personally.
"If you like, of course," Alistair answered.
"Ser Perth, before you go," Winter said, "I'll need a senior knight at my home in Denerim. Do you have family here, or anything that would make you prefer to stay in Rainesfere or Redcliffe?"
"I would be honored to remain in your service, my Lady," he answered. It was settled.
"What home in Denerim? You have a home there? How come I never heard of it? When did you buy a home?" Alistair asked her as Perth walked away.
The knight rode to Redcliffe with all speed. He'd been hoping for a chance to talk to Murdock but his duties to the arlessa prevented him from going to the town. Before his fellow knights were killed, he'd heard rumors of Murdock's disdain for Arl Teagan and Arlessa Winter. Perth wasn't having it.
Murdock was in his usual place—hovering about the palace waiting for someone to answer his demands for more workmen, more trade goods, more construction, more merchants… always more of something. The mayor had big plans for making Redcliffe a city that rivaled Denerim. All he needed was a bit of cooperation. He got none from Arl Eamon or Arl Teagan; he'd surely get no help from the arl's widow. Pondering his goals and how the nobles thwarted him at every turn made him grumpier than usual.
He was sitting on a bench in the palace entrance hall when Perth approached him.
"Mayor Murdock, I have a message from the king," Perth said, handing him the note.
Murdock didn't bother to stand and look the knight in the eye. Perth was nothing more than a tin-plated errand boy. He took the note and read it over. "Hmph," he grunted, "the foreign 'arlessa' is leaving, eh? Good. What we need is a Fereldan arl. One who knows the people, and who knows how to get things done."
"With respect, Ser Mayor," Perth said, "the arlessa you hold in such low esteem is the very one who risked her life and her party to save you and me and this township years ago. Have you forgotten so soon? She is in mourning for her husband, who was one of the finest gentlemen I've had the pleasure to know and serve. Should the arlessa be concerned for your personal agenda, which is hardly worthy of notice?"
Murdock answered, "Well, what a surprise. She managed to charm another stupid Fereldan man by batting those long eyelashes, did she? First Arl Teagan, then Arl Eamon, and now you. The lot of you, falling over this girl like she were Andraste herself. Maker only knows what sort of wiles or witchcraft she uses on the king." He put his hands on his thighs and pushed himself up. "As for you, Ser Perth, didn't you take vows? I know what they say about widows, and I guess you do too. Is that why you're so hot after—"
Perth was a man of impeccable courtesy and impeachable honor. The insinuations Murdock was spewing were so vile, so vindictive, and so utterly without a whit of truth, that his temper got away from him. He balled up his fist and punched the mayor right in his insolent mouth. "May the Maker forgive you, Murdock. I have no use for you." He turned on his heel and left the palace.
Murdock called after him, cursing him and threatening to have him arrested. Perth didn't slow his pace. If Murdock wanted to find him, he wouldn't be in hiding. He rode straight back to the manor to help with preparations for the move. He'd served the arls of Redcliffe his entire adult life, and it had been a privilege. Still, he couldn't see the last of this arling soon enough.
Murdock wasted no time sending guards to find Perth. Alistair, who had heard Perth's version of what happened, met them on the front lawn. They stopped and looked at each other, waiting for one of them to find the courage to address the king.
"I have a message for Murdock," Alistair said before the guards could state their purpose. "He is no longer mayor of Redcliffe. Owen the blacksmith is hereby officially appointed mayor in his stead, until and unless I decide otherwise. Go back to Murdock with this news, and if I hear of him speaking another disrespectful word toward the arlessa, my chancellor, or the late Arl Teagan, I'll have him hauled to Denerim and imprisoned for slandering nobles in my service."
The guards bowed and said a hasty, "Yes your Majesty," scrambling for their horses to get away from the manor before the ill-tempered Murdock got them into trouble too.
Alistair asked, "Who's your senior?"
The eldest guard answered, "I am, Majesty."
"Tell Owen of his new station. Now, all of you, get off the arlessa's property."
With peace restored, Alistair went inside. Recalling Duncan's words that he stunk, the first order of business was a bath. On second thought, dinner then a bath. He was famished.