Author's Note: A little heavy on the angsty h/c to start, but it evens out in a bit. Maybe. ;)
King without a Castle
By: Syntyche
Three: Baby Did a Bad Thing
"You show me mercy I would not have shown you … "
- Anora to Alistair after the Landsmeet
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They came for him in the night.
He'd been deep within a dream about his interment (as he liked to think of it) within the Chantry - and how odd was that? He almost never thought on those days anymore, preferring instead to push aside the discomfiting memories in favor of focusing on his new life within the Grey Wardens. Even the scars he had garnered during that unhappy time had been crossed over by newer blemishes gained in the war against the Blight.
It may have been Ishmael's conspicuous absence that had triggered the non-darkspawn-related nightmares; he hadn't been able to sense his fellow Warden, so long a constant murmur at the back of his senses, since she'd departed for Amaranthine and he was feeling quite isolated not having her and the rest of their Blight companions nearby.
Yes, he would decide later, when he had relentless hours alone in desolation to reflect on this moment, that's probably what it was. His time at the Chantry had been an endless stream of misery and confinement, of bruises and welts and seclusion. And this particular dream had been about that day …
They woke him before it got to the really bad part, but it was close enough that the gloved hands grabbing roughly at his biceps brought him stumbling to wakefulness in a panic, his arms flailing jerkily against their tight hold.
"Stop!" he gasped, wrenching away feverishly as he struggled to pry his clenched eyelids open to see what was actually happening rather than what his exhausted mind was remembering had already happened not too terribly long ago. His blankets were tangled messily about his hips, restricting his movement and adding to his distress. "Stop it, please!"
"Alistair Therin," a plodding voice intoned dully, seemingly unaffected by his panicked struggles. "Calm yourself and cease resisting."
He wanted to listen, he was trying to listen, but his heart was racing so hard that he couldn't seem to breathe. Suddenly there was an explosion of pain against his cheek and he slumped back against the headrest, not realizing he'd been struck, only trying to comprehend why all at once his vision was dimming and the strength was fleeing rapidly from his weakening body.
His limp arms were locked onto roughly and he was hauled from his bed, shirtless and mussed. They marched him through the darkened hall and down the stairs to the throne room - empty save for the queen - and released him at the foot of the king's chair, stepping back to hover behind him pointedly. He stumbled a bit, still dizzy, aware just enough to feel humiliated at his complete lack of propriety. Thank the Maker he was at least wearing pants.
The queen, fully dressed and perfectly made up, was looking at him regally down her nose, clearly disgusted by his informal appearance but also, he suspected hazily, pleased that it added to her implying she had the upper hand. He hadn't known her long, but it had been enough time to see the frigid soul behind the already cool exterior.
"Alistair," she said imperially, perched ramrod straight on the throne, but twitching enough that even in his rumpled state he noted her unusual agitation, "do you know why you're here?"
His vision was clearing but he still had to squint to see her in the palace's evening lights. He wasn't amused to have been dragged down here at an unfathomable hour, disoriented and half-naked, and perhaps his irritation led to his reply:
"Literally or figuratively?" he questioned dryly. "Because I've been told that babies come from the Fade so that would explain why I'm here but what about dwarven babies since dwarves don't go to the Fade - "
Anora exhaled in an angry rush, and he found himself intrigued that she'd been so easily put off by his offhanded remark. He had only ever seen her exercise iron control, even in captivity at the arl of Denerim's estate; this fidgety, emotional Anora was new to him, and frankly, a little scary.
"You have the same unappreciated sense of humor as my late husband," she murmured stonily, glaring at him.
He hadn't known Cailan personally, had met him only a handful of times, but the disparaging remark against his half-brother still rankled him; the late king had treated Alistair the Grey Warden with kindness and respect - something the ex-Templar had rarely received in his troubled life. Anora's bubbling anger puzzled him with its vehemence, but he had already realized that she was a cold woman; indeed, her first act after he'd executed her father in the Landsmeet was to demand that Alistair relinquish to her all claim to the throne. No sadness, no regret, no anger. She'd simply moved on.
"You stand accused of conspiring with an apostate," she continued icily, as if her prior personal observation had never occurred, no emotion had shone through cracks however minor in her implacable veneer. "I believe you are aware of the ramifications of such a charge."
He was surprised that he didn't feel surprised by her claim; in fact, he probably should have anticipated something like this from her. He wished he'd gone to Amaranthine with Ishmael.
"If you mean Morrigan," he replied drolly, already brushing her allegations off though something warned him that he was in very serious trouble, "the only 'conspiring' we did was to unite the very large and varied army currently assembled under your banner … Your Highness."
She fixed a calculating gaze on him, and he could see her anticipated victory lurking in her eyes. He shivered - it was a look he'd seen before on her father and it did not bode well for him. And to think, he'd once deeply admired Teryn Loghain for his tactical brilliance, before he and Ishmael had learned the quite harsh lesson that "retreat" was included in the teryn's Ostagar strategy.
"It is my understanding, Alistair, that the Grey Warden who slays the Archdemon dies."
A cold trickle of sweat slowly slithered down his back as her words sunk in. She gave him a look that was almost sweetly innocent, but he knew better, was just beginning to see how much trouble he was actually in.
"Was it not you who landed the killing blow, Alistair?"
His mouth was dry. He'd only learned of the true cost a few short weeks ago, and here Anora was already using it to bury him.
"How did you know that?" he asked faintly.
Anora laughed, mocking his shock with her trite tone. "My foolish husband was enthralled with the Grey Wardens, Alistair," she pronounced disdainfully, making sure he understood that it was not a fascination she had shared. From beside her she produced a thin leather-bound journal which she waved at him grimly. "He researched everything he could get his hands on, recorded it meticulously." She leaned back with a disinterested air, but he could still sense her spite. "It was inevitable that he would eventually discover the cost of killing an Archdemon."
From somewhere, he found his voice. "The Grey Wardens guard their secrets closely, Your Highness," he said softly. "Perhaps your husband was not the fool you so callously count him to have been."
She ignored his mild rebuke. "I asked you a question, Alistair: did you not land the final blow?"
He could not - would not - lie. If it hadn't been him, her suspicion would fall on Ishmael. "I did," he answered quietly.
Triumph flared in her burning eyes as she leaned forward eagerly, as ready to destroy him as her father had been the Orlesians thirty years prior. "Then how is it you are standing before me even now, Warden?" she hissed, and Alistair could not quite quell the shiver that persisted in racing under his skin. He hadn't even figured out what he was going to say to the Weisshaupt Wardens when that very same question inevitably arose; he certainly didn't have an answer prepared for his queen after being dragged from his bed in the middle of the night.
"Permit me to recount it for you, then," the queen continued smoothly, words prepared to damn him, rehearsed over and over before this moment, sliding from her lips. "A ritual, perhaps? In the dark of night … blood magic, possibly?"
Anger replaced the chill he felt as his gaze shot up to meet hers firmly, an eyebrow lifted mockingly. "Blood magic, Your Highness?" he questioned archly, the Templar in him rising swiftly and decisively to the fore. "Do you not know who I am?" he asked, calm but deadly serious.
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Anora watched Alistair straighten proudly at her accusation, observed his boyish features ripple and harden into those of a man who had fought many battles and seen much death - and kept his honour throughout. A warrior. A Templar. A Grey Warden.
A hero.
A king.
A rival.
She felt heat pooling in her stomach as she tried not to stare at hard muscles and tanned skin, fine features that resembled her late husband's to a point that was painful, but to look down on him as a ruler delivering his sentence. Anora rose slowly, loathe to give up her throne lest the man before her snatch it from her grasp, and descended the short steps until she stood just above the height of the tall Warden's head. She would not let him defeat her; her father's murderer would not sit on the Ferelden throne while she yet lived.
"Yes," she said lowly, meeting his hazel eyes with her dark glare firmly. "I know who you are, Alistair Theirin: you are the man who consorted with an apostate to preserve your own life and yet become a hero. You are the bastard who wants to be king."
Alistair's bright eyes flashed, his ire finally pushing to the fore. "That's not true - " he interrupted; she placed a slender finger against his lips and he stilled, twitching with anger as she added, shuddering at the contact,
"You are also the lover of the Grey Warden Ishmael - a Cousland, perhaps also with aspirations to the throne … "
"Anora, you're crazy!" Alistair interjected, jerking his face away from her hand. "We have no interest - "
"I'm crazy?" Anora exploded vehemently. "Do you not think I can see how all of the pieces fit? Do you not think I am unable to decipher your intent? I shall not turn the throne over to apostates and murderers!
"Now," she said softly, and he could see the dangerous light burning in her unsteady gaze, "Alistair. Beloved of Ishmael Cousland in far off Amaranthine, surrounded by guards loyal to me; friend of Wynne the mage and Zevran the Antivan - both under my protection, under my roof. Companion of Oghren the dwarf, Leliana the bard, Shale the golem, and the qunari known as Sten, none of whom are out of my reach,
"And so," she prompted quietly, and he clearly read the implied threat in her tone, "you are accused of conspiring with Morrigan the apostate witch in undertaking a dark ritual that would spare your life and yet allow you to slay the Archdemon. Such a thing is forbidden by Chantry law and you are to be sentenced immediately. The question I have for you, Alistair, is … were you acting alone in seeking out the witch, or did you have help from your … friends?"
Whatever else he may have been, Anora could see that Alistair was no fool and he had grasped the promise of retribution for all involved lying within her words. He hung his head, defeated, but said nothing.
"Were you acting alone?" she prompted archly, and he dared to lift his head and look her firmly in the eye.
"Yes, Your Highness," he answered sharply.
Anora nodded regally in satisfaction, the warm rush of victory flooding her body. "So it is done. Alistair Theirin, you are remanded to the jurisdiction and judgment of the grand cleric of the Chantry. I trust she will be able to pronounce a suitable sentence for one who has so blatantly and selfishly turned his back on the very law he once sought to uphold."
Her soul crowed in delight at the wash of paleness that stole across the features so like her husband's, though she turned away as her guards hauled the Warden out, content to simply savor her victory. Anora smiled as they hustled Alistair from the throne room; the Warden was clearly in shock and that was exactly how she'd wanted it. Had he known in advance what she had planned, had he time to prepare a defense, there was a chance that even he would find a way to wriggle out of her snare and she could not allow that. Everything had been planned to last detail. Of course the grand cleric had a suitable punishment for Alistair - she and the queen had already discussed in detail the appropriate sentence. And though she was unable to coax any additional details from the head of the Chantry, Anora had picked up on the fact that bad blood existed between the old woman and Alistair, and the grand cleric seemed almost gleeful at the thought of the one-time Templar being returned to her.
Anora could breathe again. Her primary challenger was gone; her father's murderer would receive the harsh justice he had earned. It had been fate that one of the castle's serving girls had seen Alistair enter the witch's room the night before the battle of Denerim, and it hadn't taken much to decipher what had happened - especially considering the events that had followed and the notes she had uncovered in her husband's journal.
She felt no remorse at threatening Alistair with the lives of his friends if he failed to accept her terms; she was the agent of justice, and justice must be served. And if her rival and the murderer of her father was being sentenced to a life worse than death …
… well, that was simply the icing on the proverbial cake.
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A letter was promptly dispatched from the palace to the Warden Commander at the Vigil, written in an unfamiliar and somewhat unsteady hand as though the sender had been required to dictate quickly:
My dearest Ishmael,
It is with deep regret that I inform you that I have been recalled for a time to Weisshaupt. I shall contact you again once my duties allow it.
Yours in haste, but yours ever,
Alistair
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The candles sunk into the wall recesses had burned low but weren't out yet, which surprised him because it felt like he'd been here for days. Maybe he had; he wasn't entirely certain.
The woman facing him didn't cackle - she wouldn't, of course, because it wasn't proper - but as she stroked his sweat-soaked hair he could sense the satisfaction emanating from her in waves.
"The Maker has returned you to us, Alistair," she said sweetly, her wrinkled fingers tugging the cropped tawny spikes sliding across her palm gently. He shuddered at the touch but couldn't find the energy to raise his head to acknowledge her. "Truly, you have come full circle."
True indeed. He'd even spent much of his time in the Chantry within this very room - though at the time, caning had been their punishment of choice for unruly - or in his case, bored and overly-talkative - students.
"I see you've improved your methods," he bit out wearily, jerking his chin toward the barbed whip curled neatly on a hook nearby, still glistening with his blood in the dim light.
She nodded in acknowledgment at his observation. "We have grown wiser since the … incident … with the Circle Tower - a situation I believe you had a hand in resolving." She circled him slowly, her eyes flicking around the room at the various instruments of persuasion patiently waiting for apostates and maleficar. She herself had chosen a simple routine of punishments for the ex-Templar standing before her, his arms chained high over his head; they did not need him to confess to any wrongdoing - the queen had assured her he had already done that - but that did not mean that she could not take her old and bitter frustrations at Duncan out on the one who had been forcefully Conscripted from her by the late Warden Commander.
She continued, "We have decided that mages need a firmer hand - and that also shall apply to those who tolerate reckless and unapproved behavior from mages, as well."
Alistair snorted disdainfully and Andraste's flaming sword! it hurt past the swelling in his face. Blood dripped from his nose in sticky patters onto his naked chest, adding garishly to the sluggishly congealing red streaks already scoring his skin there.
"A firmer hand?" he questioned stuffily, fully allowing his disgust to color his words. "You've already got the mages and the Templars leashed so tightly it's a wonder they don't unite against you."
Baiting her was not something he should do, but it had always been hard for him not to, especially when he'd once been dreadfully expecting to have the capability for independent thought eventually stripped from him and replaced with a dependence on lyrium.
She scowled at him so fiercely he thought she would strike him herself, but he knew deep down that she wouldn't; she had templars to do her dirty work for her.
"You have shared our secrets, you have consorted with vile apostates," she announced sharply. There was no pity nor fondness in her demeanor when she added, "You were once one of us, Alistair, destined for a life of meaningful service to the Chantry, yet you threw it all away."
He stared at her then, dumbfounded, squinting through his blurred vision at the pale oval of her face. "And you don't think helping to stop a Blight was a worthwhile endeavor?" he asked dryly.
"Knowing that you sold your soul to an apostate to accomplish it?" she countered pointedly, "Do you?"
He fell silent, ignoring her as he realized there would be no reasoning with her - though he'd pretty much come to that conclusion as soon as he'd been delivered to the Chantry and they'd immediately sent him down here to the punishment quarters. Anora had well and truly screwed him, and he almost had to admire her ruthless attention to detail; she certainly was Loghain's daughter, insanity and all.
He waited uncomfortably while the grand cleric - all the way here just for his benefit, wasn't that lovely? - simply watched him. But his knees were getting excessively tired of holding his weight up; he wasn't exactly a small man even when he wasn't wearing massive armor that weighed more than Oghren.
"Just kill me and get it over with, I'm sure you have better things to do," he sighed impatiently, even as he mourned the loss of his friends and companions, his beloved.
She smiled.
"Death would be too sweet a release for you, Alistair," she said plainly, and she watched with greedy eyes as the templars came for him again as scheduled, as they unhooked the manacles and forced his sagging body into a chair in the darkened corner. She listened as his hoarse screams bounced off the stone walls of the chamber, and the small part of her still capable of compassion mourned that he had not been the first, and he would not be the last: there was too much darkness in the land for the Chant of Light to overcome without a little assistance. Some questioned Chantry methods - the Rite of Annulment, for example - but those who led knew what needed to be done, what sacrifices had to be made.
It infuriated her that Alistair had kept up with his studies even after being Conscripted into the Wardens, somehow mastering the skills of the templars without a dependence on lyrium. If word of that got out, spread somehow to other templars, she suspected she would have her own version of the pathetic Mage's Collective on her hands. The templars must not be allowed to function without a lyrium dependency; there would be no controlling them otherwise.
And the Chantry needed to keep control.
She heard a growl from Alistair that ended in a choked gurgle and wondered if she should feel more than a detached pleasure at his suffering; pity, perhaps? Regret? The queen had promised a very large donation to the Chantry for their assistance in dealing with the troublesome Warden but the grand cleric had been only too happy to receive a lost one back (though she still accepted the donation, of course.)
His cries soon quieted to whimpers and she marveled at his endurance; she wanted to break him, yes, but only enough that he could make the journey to the Aeonar without causing his escort any trouble.
She found herself conflicted and realized that she would need to meditate on the appropriate lines to draw, how far she should go to punish wrongdoers of a non-apostate sort.
For more would surely follow.
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"… can't you ever give a straight answer?"
"I used to be able to, but the Chantry beat it out of me."
- the Warden and Alistair
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Please review! I feel like I'm kind of going out on a limb with this fic but the plot bunny refused to be silenced so here it is.