My policy on this site is to not write little notes and things because of the formatting (I only add notes to stories on AO3), but I figured I should explain the fact that this chapter is both Greed and Fear. See, the demons in Dragon Age follow the pattern of the Seven Deadly Sins EXCEPT for Greed. There is no Greed demon. It's replaced by Fear. So I decided to combine Greed and Fear into one. Like... being afraid of one's own greed pretty much.
There she was again. The Vice Principal's daughter, strutting around the halls like a princess who believed she was already queen.
Maybe it was the way she tilted her head when she was challenged, eyes flitting over the offending person as if taking their measurements for a custom coffin. Maybe it was the way she smiled, delicate, knowing, her diplomacy a thin veil for the unspoken threat of blackmail should she ever be crossed. Or maybe it was the way she talked, slowing her voice and annunciating every word like she expected her audience was not intelligent enough to understand her without the effort.
Whatever the reason, Anora Mac Tir was an irritation beyond words. She was the personification of undeserved entitlement: someone whose social status was not only given to her by her father rather than earned, but flaunted her "power" on top of that.
But the worst part was not her lavish clothes or extravagant hairstyles. The worst part was that somewhere, deep down, Alistair wanted to be able to stalk the halls as she did, to speak as if the Maker's own words were coming from his lips and to have people listen with the devotion of Andraste herself.
It was not a desire that weighed heavily on his mind. It crouched in the corner, covered in dust, forgotten for the most part. But when he watched her flip her hair over her shoulder, it crept out from its recess. When he overheard her laughing instead of studying in the library, it slithered into his heart. When she clung to Cailan's arm, giggling and fluttering her eyelashes, it seized up in his chest because when she was with her boyfriend, she glowed with genuine happiness.
He wanted that life. He wanted her power. He wanted her joy. He wanted it so badly that he shrank from it. He avoided her, and kept his head down when he absolutely had to pass by her between classes or in the cafeteria.
He knew that if he bothered to examine the ache, his quiet yearning would morph into anger. That was what covered him in goose bumps, what made his skin crawl and hair stand on end; for he did not fear her, he feared that he was right. He feared that he truly did deserve better and he feared what he would do to achieve it.
She was kneeling over her father's headless corpse, shoulders shaking, teardrops flecking the ground like bloodstains. She looked up at him but despite her glassy eyes, her face was empty. He followed her vacant stare and realized his sword was red. The sight caused the strength to leave his fingers and it clattered to the floor, but red dripped from his hands accusingly.
He jumped, head whirling around to confirm his surroundings. It was only math class but the daydream colored his vision still. He blinked it away and tried to focus on the equation in front of him.
He could have had her life if his birth had not been a mistake, if his father had valued family over rumors, or even if Uncle Eamon had cared about him more than a new wife. But he could never allow himself to wish for such things. The monster that lay dormant within him was too terrifying to unleash.