Teagan and Jowan
He wasn't sure what he'd expected the poisoner to look like. Someone thuggish perhaps, an uncaring brute, or some weaselly little man who looked like someone you should never trust behind your back with a knife. What he saw, when he made his way down to the dungeon while the Warden's party went upstairs to check on his nephew Connor and come to some sort of agreement about how to handle the boy, was... nothing he'd expected. A skinny, frightened, pale-skinned young man, barely out of his teens, dressed in filthy robes and smelling of the dungeon. He looked more than half-starved, and flinched away in fright, huddling into the far corner of the cell as Teagan raised his lantern higher outside the bars, his pale grey eyes filled with a terrible fear.
"Are you... Jowan?" Teagan asked, remembering the name his sister-in-law had used in connection to the mage who, she said, had poisoned her husband and unleashed abominations on the castle.
"Y-yes," the man stuttered. "Please don't hurt me, I s-swear I didn't do it... I only did what I was told, and put the p-potion in the Arl's wine, nothing else, I swear..." he broke off, biting at his own hand to silence himself, eyes watering – from the light, or from tears, Teagan wasn't sure.
"So you admit you poisoned my brother?" Teagan asked softly, surprised at the man's easy confession.
"Yes! But I didn't do anything else, I didn't! I don't know where the damned abominations came from... please, please don't hurt me any more," he cried.
Teagan swallowed uneasily. He'd never seen a man so terrified before. Though he supposed it couldn't have been easy, being locked up down here in the darkness with the undead passing by; Alistair and the Warden had spoken of having to fight their way in past the undead, and the evidence was all over the place that such fighting had occurred here as well – tumbles of bones with partially mummified, rotting shreds of flesh yet clinging to them. He hadn't looked at any of the remains too closely, not wanting to chance recognizing any of them from his past visits to his brother's domain.
"I have no intention of hurting you," he said, soothingly. "I just want to hear – need to hear – for myself, what you're doing here. Why you betrayed Isolde's trust in you, and poisoned my brother..."
It was easy to get the man talking; the words poured out of him in a torrent, along with copious amounts of tears, sometimes overwhelming him to the point he couldn't talk at all, but just shook and cried. What he described... Teagan could almost feel sorry for the wretch. Fleeing from the only home he'd ever known in fear for his life, wandering lost and alone in a world he didn't understand, caught by templars, then taken to Denerim where he was certainly going to have been either made tranquil or killed outright. Captured a second time, witness to the brutal death of the templars who'd had him, and then blackmailed by their murderer to come here and work as Connor's tutor. Which meant, Teagan realized, that Isolde's machinations to protect the secret of Connor's mage-born power had been wasted effort all along; someone had clearly known.
And then Jowan slipped Arl Eamon the potion that Howe had supplied, and a short time later the very Fade had seemingly come to Redcliffe. "S-she didn't believe that I had nothing to do with it," Jowan moaned, curled up tightly in a ball, lank black hair falling loose around his face, rocking back and forth in his distress. "S-she kept coming here, with g-guards, and trying to make me confess... but I swear, I never did it!" he exclaimed, half-hysterical. "She made them h-hurt me, and keep hurting me, saying if I didn't undo it she'd see me killed an inch at a time, but there was nothing I could do! It wasn't me!"
Teagan felt ill. He knew Isolde had a strong will, and if she'd refused to believe that it was Connor's actions that had caused this, that her own actions might well have contributed to it as well... had instead blamed this mage for it all... yes. He could all too easily picture her treating someone brutally in defence of her family. True, some might argue the mage deserved such treatment for his poisoning of Eamon in the first place, but... he was obviously little more than a tool, a lost soul, naive enough to believe the lies of Howe and Loghain. He had little doubt that, had the man managed to escape this mess alive and approached either of them again, he'd have ended up with a cut throat as his only thanks; a dead tongue told no inconvenient tales.
"I'll send someone with some food for you," he said quietly, and turned away, wondering what could be done with the man now.
When, later that night, after Isolde had paid for her earlier foolishness by redeeming her son's life with her own, when the Warden asked for Jowan to be turned over to him... it was an easy choice for Teagan to make. He doubted his brother, should he ever recover, would agree with the choice he'd made, in turning the mage over to Arren and Alistair, but it was his choice to make. And perhaps something might yet be salvaged out of this terrible mess, some good come of it, if the mage's efforts helped end the blight, or saved even one life that might otherwise have been lost, as so many had already been so senselessly lost here.
Morrigan/Arren, Morrigan gets injured
He ducked the sweep of the massive sword, then before the troll had finished it's stroke he leapt up, over the swinging arm. His feet hit its chest hard, knocking it off balance, his leather-clad toes digging for purchase against the harness that criss-crossed its chest, propelling him further upward. The troll went over backwards, and a moment later he sunk his massive sword into its throat and ripped it to one side, all but severing the creature's head.
It was only when he rose to his feet and turned away to leap down off of it that he saw that its sword had connected with someone after all; Morrigan was sitting on the ground, one hand clasped around her upper arm, blood oozing out between tight-clenched fingers. "Damnation," she said, and looked up at him, attempting a smile. "I'd expected you to block again. Not to duck the blow. I was too close."
He swore and dropped to one knee beside her, reaching for her arm, wanting to see how bad it was.
"No," she said, sharply. "I've already healed the worst of it. But it will need a thorough cleaning, and then a poultice and a bandaging."
He nodded, looked at his blood-smeared hands, and grimaced, then went in search of clean water.
It was only a small wound; or at least only a small wound was left after Morrigan's healing of it. But as they settled down for the night some hours later in a small dead-end side cave, Arren found himself clinging tightly to her, shaking as he remembered how he'd felt when he'd first realized that she'd been hurt. Not just shock or fear, but stomach-clenching terror.
He had only then realized how much she had come to mean to him. He didn't want to lose her; he didn't want to ever lose her.
Morrigan/Arren, Arren gets injured
"Does it still hurt?" Morrigan asked, settling down to sit on the ground beside Arren, frowning at the layers of bandages wrapped around his ribs, badly cracked after an encounter in which not one, but two ogres had decided to pick him up and wave him around like an overexcited child with a new toy.
"Only when I breath," he said, and smiled slightly. "Remind me again why we didn't bring Wynne along for this?"
She snorted, then smiled slightly. "I believe you had concerns over her ability to keep up with us in the Deep Roads. Though personally, given as much as she reminds me at times of my mother, I fully expect she'd be the sort of old woman who'd still be full of energy and ready to travel further at the end of the day when everyone else was exhausted and feeling more than ready to stop."
That drew a short laugh – more a pained huff of air than anything else – from Arren. "Ow. Please don't make me laugh," he pleaded.
She smiled down at him. "All right," she said, then held up the plate of food in her hand. "Open up," she said. "It would be best if you move as little as possible while those ribs are healing, so I'm going to feed you."
He smiled, but obediently opened his mouth so she could convey a bit of stewed meat into it. He chewed and swallowed, making a bit of a face. "Deep stalker. Ugh! I'll be glad to get back out of here and never have to eat that again."
"It could be worse," she pointed out. "It could be bronto again."
"Or deep mushrooms."
"Don't remind me," she said, and shuddered. "The only thing that can be said in their favour is that they're not poisonous. Though the taste would certainly lead one to believe them lethal."
Arren smiled, and opened his mouth for another morsel of food. Morrigan followed it up by leaning down, dish of food held precariously out to one side, and kissing him.
"You had me worried," she said softly, to his enquiring look. "Do try not to become a ogre's rattle in future."
"I'll try," he agreed.
Alistair/Jowan, love letters
Mail was rare in the tower. Few were the parents who had the will or the skill to write to their mage-born children, and most were easily dissuaded from doing so. And few of the adult mages knew anyone outside of their own Circle, save other mages, and they knew the danger that showing attachment to anyone could be.
But Jowan received a letter almost every single day. Sometimes just brief notes, saying things like "I miss you," sometimes longer missives describing what Alistair had been up to that day, or what progress was being made in prying Jowan back out of the Circle's grip.
If he wished to, Jowan knew, he could have easily escaped; a stone tower could not hold someone who had learned shape-changer's powers. He could have flown away, back to his Alistair, at any time. But it was, he knew, better to wait. There would, in time, be permission granted, the permits written, so that he could leave the tower and walk again at Alistair's side, and remain with him, in his care and custody.
He kept the letters, every one of them, and waited.
Anora from Arren and co.? Anything and any time.
Gemma had changed, Anora could see right away. The scar that crossed her face from temple to corner of mouth, twisting it awry, was likely one of the least of the wounds she bore from that dark night when her parents, sister-in-law and nephew had been slaughtered by Howe's orders, Anora suspected. Though it was certainly the most visible. Her hair – hacked off short, a ragged mess that gave her a boyish look – the sling on her arm and the careful way she was standing all told their own stories as well. Injuries, ones more recently gained than the massacre at Highever could account for, and a need for disguise.
"What happened?" she asked.
And Gemma told her, as the two of them walked together, an arm around each other's waist, pacing slowly along the twisting path that circled through the small garden in back of Bann Teagan's townhouse. Much of it was ugly, and more than once Gemma fell silent for a while, struggling with painful memories before she was able to continue. Anora talked as well, of events here in Denerim, her father's growing madness, her own incarceration by Howe. His death.
"Good," Gemma said, fiercely. "I'd heard he was dead – Teagan told me. I wish it could have been by my own hand, but just knowing he's gone is enough."
Anora nodded. "What will you do now?" she asked, and led the way to a nearby marble bench, where the two sat down side-by-side, knees pressed together and hands clasped, heads bent close, as they had so often sat in their lives.
"I don't know," Gemma said, and smiled crookedly. "Fergus will have to remarry, beget a new heir. But I'm his heir until he does. I... don't know how easy he'll find it to marry again. He and Oriana were very much a love match, and... well, I don't know if he really believes yet that they're gone. Not emotionally."
She looked away for a moment, then drew a deep breath. "I might have to be the one to carry on the line, if he can't bring himself to it. Though I think he will – out of duty, even if not out of love."
"Duty," Anora said, and smiled crookedly. "We're all ridden by it, aren't we. You, me, Fergus... the wardens... even my father, I suppose."
"Yes," Gemma said quietly. "Perhaps especially your father. I remember my father once saying..." she stopped, her eyes closing for a moment, and had to pause and regain her composure before she could speak again. "My father once said that he admired Teryn Loghain greatly, because of how highly your father valued duty and honour, and how much of himself he'd given up to meet the former, thereby earning him the latter."
Anora laughed, softly and bitterly. "Unfortunately I think he is currently so caught up in duty that he is forgetting honour. He would save Ferelden no matter what the cost. I... believe some costs are too high to pay."
Gemma nodded. They fell silent again.
"You will remain Queen," Gemma said after a while.
"Yes. Unless I die in this coming war against the darkspawn."
"You will need a King. You do not plan to marry the Theirin boy?"
Anora smiled slightly. "No. It would make things easier in some ways, if I did – Arl Eamon has been pushing for it – but he is too much like Cailan. And I..." this time it was she that broke off, unable to continue.
"You loved him," Gemma said, smiling sadly.
"Yes."
"You have very few good choices remaining; likely even fewer once this war is over," Gemma pointed out, frowning. "And unless you have a clear heir, whatever gains you make in your life may well be wasted in succession wars afterwards. A heir of your body would be good. And – forgive me for saying it, my dear – one with noble blood that ties them into the line of Calenhad would be best. Which makes the pool of eligible men rather small."
"Yes," Anora agreed, and waited, sure Gemma had more to say. She had learned politics at the knee of Teryna Eleanor Cousland, and even Teryn Bryce had deferred to his wife in political matters.
Gemma drew a deep breath. "The descendants of Calenhad are few now, especially after the losses at Ostagar. Of those that remain, most are too old, and already married. Or too young to do you any good as consort for years yet. Of those of the proper age and marital state..." She paused, and began folding down fingers. "Fergus. Oswyn. Nate, if he still lives..."
"I will not marry a Howe," Anora said firmly.
Gemma nodded, clearly expecting the response. "Eamon is old, but widowed. Teagan. A handful of the other banns have the requisite blood thanks to an ancestor from one of the right lines of descent – I'd have to consult the chantry archives to say which, with any certainty."
Anora nodded, slowly, beginning to see where Gemma was going with this. "Most of the ones you named are the only possible heir to their arling or bannorn."
"Yes. Of those that have ready alternatives, there is only Fergus and the Guerrin brothers."
Anora grimaced. "Not Arl Eamon."
That drew a smile from Gemma "Being overbearing as always, is he?"
"Rather," Anora agreed, dryly, then looked suddenly at Gemma. "What do you think of Bann Teagan?"
Gemma looked away. "I like him well enough. He is kind, honourable, follows his duty..."
"Handsome?" Anora asked, eyes twinkling, and laughed softly, seeing the faint blush that coloured her friend's cheeks. She put one arm around Gemma, hugged her warmly. "I like him too, but not enough to wish to marry him."
She fell silent, lost in thought for a moment. "I will have to marry one of them," she said after a while. "But worrying about it can wait until after the archdemon is dead. At which point I may wish you to do that digging in the chantry archives you mentioned. We'll see."
Gemma nodded.
"So... do you know if he returns your interest?" Anora asked, and laughed as Gemma blushed again.
Nathaniel/Cauthrien
"Next!" Nathaniel called out, loudly. There was a brief pause, then the door to the room he'd been loaned for the day opened, and the next applicant entered.
A woman, was his first thought. Then she looked up, and though it had been years since he'd last seen her face, he recognized her immediately. How could he not, when his younger self had harboured such a deep crush on Teryn Loghain's oh-so-capable assistant, back before his father had shuffled him off to fosterage as a squire in the Free Marches.
"Ser Cauthrien…!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet.
She shook her head. "Just Cauthrien. The Ser was revoked along with my place in Ferelden's army," she said, voice remarkably calm given her words, just the faintest tremor audible in it.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, frowning. "Please, have a seat," he added, gesturing to the lone chair across the desk from his.
She nodded, and sat, as he resumed his own seat. "You were discharged?" he asked, still shocked by the news and wanting to be certain he hadn't misheard.
"Yes," she said. "Queen Anora was less than pleased that I let the Warden through into the Landsmeet without a fight. She saw it as a betrayal of her father. Even though she betrayed him first," she added, bitterly. "She said she would have no officers she couldn't trust in her army. So…" she shrugged, fell silent.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "So you've decided to try becoming a Grey Warden?"
Cauthrien nodded. "Yes. They at least have honour, as your commander has so amply demonstrated. And I would rather be a warden than turn mercenary, which is my only other real option."
Nathaniel smiled at her. "I do believe the commander would agree with me when I say that we'll be very pleased to have you," he said. "Arren spoke well of you, when recounting the tale of the Landsmeet. I don't believe I need to interview you any further; I'm well aware of your reputation and skills. We'll be departing for Vigil's Keep tomorrow morning - be in the courtyard by an hour after dawn, we're setting out early. Bring whatever belongings you want; be aware that it may be a while before you have any chance to return for anything left behind. Anything you need in the way of armour or weapon will be supplied after you've formally joined at the Keep."
"Thank you," she said, nodding her head, then rose and left. He smiled, and found himself hoping rather fervently that she passed her joining.
"Next!" he called out, after adding her name to the abysmally short list before him on the desk.