Third: On the third wheel
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The Other Woman
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Anora remembers the first time she saw the Grey Warden.
The Warden had stood in the door way, wearing a blood-stained suit of mail. Her face betrayed both confusion at the sight of Anora in armor (that was never a good idea) and relief at the queen's well-being. Her hair clung to her cheeks, unkempt because of the fighting and sticky with blood and sweat. She was armed, of course, and followed by an uncharactaristically odd group (A mage, an elf, and a dog? Or was it a dwarf? Anora ponders. She cannot remember anymore.) The Warden grinned with ease, despite the fact that she had just cleared out the arl's entire palace, and she had let out a joking quip about Anora's "battledress." As if that was the proper time!
She is also shorter that Anora expects. In the time she spent locked away in Howe's castle, Anora tried to envision her savior, though all she knew about the Warden was that she was female. She was faintly envious of this mysterious Warden; Loghain's scouts told reports of a dazzling and fiercely strong woman burning her way through Fereldan, set on murdering the regent. Anora pictured a tall and graceful warrior who cut down her enemies with grace, a stealthy rogue who dashed out of the shadows with blades pointed at necks and hearts, or perhaps a mage-enchantress who turned even the toughest Ogre into solid ice. She wanted legions of silver-armored soldiers at the Warden's call, men and women enraptured by the her cunning and leadership. Anora pictured (wished for) a woman that mirrored herself, a counterpart of sorts or a sister of even skill.
Anora cannot decide if she was disappointed or not. At first she was grateful and considered herself lucky that the Warden would even talk to her, despite Anora's small betrayal during the confrontation with Ser Cauthrien (That was the Warden's fault, she justifies it later on. She shouldn't have outed me so.).
She remembers the Warden's entrance into Eamon's office later on. Four of them had been in there for a day and a half, planning and arguing over what should be done for their captured comrade. Alistair had been furious, trying to piece out how exactly the Warden had been captured and how exactly had Anora contributed to the current predicament. Eamon debated whether to send a small force or an entire legion to rescue her, as Riordan tried to persaude them to use the other party fellows for the job (That elf, Zevran, could do the job nicely, he added.) Anora was ready to pull her hair out and go send the rescue party herself when the door creaked open. Eamon barked angrily, thinking it was a foolish servant or a whiny noble needling for attention. Instead the Warden ambled in, trailing blood and a faceless maid behind her (The blood! The stains, milady!).
This is the second time Anora has seen the Warden covered in blood.
The four had immediately gone silent. They watched as the Warden limped towards them, smiling weakly. One of her hands gripped an arm, which was crimson with both dried and fresh blood from a slash. Anora remembers clearly staring at that graping wound (How does someone endure that and walk on?). Her eyes were dark and baggy, one even blacked, accented by the flush on her cheeks. Her eyebrows furrowed, betraying the cool facade she had wanted. The Warden's once long hair had been hacked, leaving a terrifying mop on her head, exposed by the lack of a helm. Alistair was the first to react, rushing towards her (his beloved) and greeting her with a careful embrace and a chance to examine her wounds. At this point, the Warden's legs had given and had leaned her weight onto Alistair. Riordan rushed out to find, clamoring for a healer, only to find the maid and an elderly mage (Winifred? Wynne?) pushing past him. Both Eamon and Anora stared.
Eamon stared silently at the Warden's wounds, more of which were revealed as Alistair gingerly removed the Warden's armor. He stared at the blood that was to seep into the floor, a stain of their indecision and failure to their comrade. He stared at the mage as she worked her magic over the Warden's form. Anora simply stared at the Warden herself. She watched the Warden, who let Alistair recline her unkempt form to the floor while as he whispered wisps of joy and love. She watched the Warden close her eyes as she was stripped of her metals and soaked robes. She watched the woman who cleaned the Fort Drakon and Ferelden of its horrors skinned of her pride in full view of everyone.
And the same scene played again, when the Landsmeet cheered on upon the Warden's proclamation of Alistair and Anora's union.
And again, as the Grand Cleric presented the new King and Queen. Anora remembers scanning the crowd as they took their bow; there was the Warden in the front, sans the armor, the weapons, and the blood-soaked everything, smiling even as her love married another.
Anora had expected to find a twin in the Warden but she decides that that would have never been. There is no mirror within her, no easy reflection to admire. The Warden had given too much, shed too much, and taken too little from the world around her. Anora wonders how the Warden had survived; why she did not collapse under her world of responsibilities; how she pulled an entire nation together; why the Warden did not simply take the throne beside Alistair (It would have been so easy, even with her background). She had been weaker and stronger than Anora expected, a single paragon of both extremes she hated and desired. How does someone give herself so willingly? How does one endure so much? How does she still hold so much power?
At the end of it all, the Queen knows she could never rival the Warden.