It was strange to see his brother again after so long. As they marched into the Assembly, Bhelen was quick to argue with the deshyrs, and openly slandered both Faeron and the Grey Wardens for their involvement.
Then the Grey Wardens placed a crown atop Bhelen Aeducan's head and his opinion of them changed entirely.
Faeron stayed silent. Silent under his brother's accusations, silent under the coronation, silent as guards seized Pyral Harrowmont. He walked forward, gripped the older man's shoulders and kissed his cheek, but Faeron knew enough to not intervene as they hauled Harrowmont off to be executed.
What was done was done. Certain allowances had to be made to garner certain favors.
"Wardens," Bhelen said. "You have my gratitude." And then he excused himself. Faeron wondered if he too, was included in Bhelen's invitation back to the Royal Palace.
The deshyrs milled about the Assembly like phantom memories in the back of his brain. That crown was too big for Bhelen's head. Faeron could remember him as a child, too short to reach the shelf of sweets in the palace pantry. Faeron always offered to retrieve them for him, but Bhelen always insisted on climbing the shelves, himself.
Faeron could hear noblewomen gossiping and could smell the oil used to buff the stone carvings on the wall. So normal, so like it had always been. It was a cruel trick, the ebb and flow of everyday life that was accompanied by that aching gnaw of loneliness. He half expected to feel a hand on his shoulder and to turn around and find his father standing there.
It was just Frannie Brosca.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"It had to be done," he replied.
"Aye." Her eyes followed his every movement closely. "But are you okay?"
He nodded and forced a smile. It felt foreign on his mouth. "Yes. Yes, I'm okay."
"Does that mean you're really okay or you're just saying okay because that's what's expected of you?"
That got a chuckle out of him, but he found it difficult to look at her. "What do you want me to say? Everyone I care about is either dead or the cause of it."
"Well..." Her gaze darted from him to her boots. Frannie wore a small smile. "Not everybody. You're a father, now."
"Hmm." The babe with the dark brown eyes. The boy had faced him down with pouty lips and a single raised eyebrow. Faeron didn't like the ache in his chest at the thought. "In name."
"I guess so." Her smile tightened. "In that case, I'm okay, too."
When it had first happened, and he and Gorim stumbled across Trian's cold form in the old Aeducan Thaig, Faeron had been overcome by rage. It coiled, frozen inside his guts and stilled his tongue and flung him into furious inaction. He stayed awake many a night, wondering if it had been Bhelen to deliver the killing blow or if he had merely ordered it. Then he would stay up even later trying to decide which fate was worse: death by your kin's hand or the paid blade of an underling. Faeron would fantasize about how he would force the truth from Bhelen and then their father would be able to look Faeron in the eye, again.
The idle fancies of a man who didn't exist anymore.
Faeron clapped a hand on Frannie's shoulder. "Are you ready to go to the Royal Palace?"
She nodded. "Aye."
As they walked out, they collected the stragglers of their group. Silfee was picking a fresh scab on her leg almost obsessively and Shale was discussing something with the Shaper. Nema had already started an argument with one of the dead caste by the time it took Faeron to leave the Assembly.
"You would better serve on the surface," she was saying.
The legionnaire appeared to be just as obstinate as she. "How would we better serve Orzammar by leaving her bare assed and waiting for the darkspawn to traipse in? I've told you already, The Legion of the Dead ensures that surfacers only know of darkspawn through the occasional Blight, because we stay in the Deep Roads where the threat is constant."
"Thank you," Faeron told him. Nema stared daggers at him and he met her glare impassively. "We need to speak to the king in the Royal Palace. Unless you're not finished disrespecting this man?"
"I think we're done," she said. There was a flatness to her expression. "I only hope Kardol will acknowledge that the blood of all the countless lives lost will be on his hands due to his refusal to aid us."
"You should have trained your warriors in battle as much as you honed the barb on your tongue," Kardol replied.
"Enough, Nema." Faeron nodded to Kardol. "Is the Legion gathered in Aeducan Thaig?"
"Farther," Kardol said. "Past the old Ortan Thaig."
"Very good." Faeron walked on down the streets of the Diamond Quarter and toward the palace.
Still heavily guarded, the mood of the Royal Palace had shifted drastically. There was a king in Orzammar again, and the opponent would be slain very shortly. They were a united nation once more. When Faeron offered his longsword to the guards, they allowed him to keep it, but he could feel their eyes on him as he walked toward the throne room.
Frannie's sister dashed up to her and tugged on her arm. Cut from the same rock, certainly, but Rica was more elegant, more refined. Whereas Bhelen had found the more beautiful sister, Faeron liked to think that he found the better sister. Frannie was more compact and less curvaceous than Rica, but Faeron had never seen Rica slurping from a wineskin next to a campfire and laughing that deep, unladylike belly laugh that Frannie was so fond of.
Perhaps Rica had those traits, as well. Faeron preferred to think she did not.
The women ran off together, down the hall toward the living quarters. It would make sense that the nursery would be there, now. They had to fill his old room, and Trian's old room, somehow.
Wynne and Leliana were waiting outside the throne room patiently. Alistair looked a bit befuddled, his finger trailing after the direction Frannie had disappeared. Zevran sighed and tsked while Silfee still played with the scratch on her leg. Shale was nowhere to be found. Faeron hoped that the golem was still with the Shaper and hadn't been hauled off for the greater good of Orzammar.
Nema still hadn't forgiven him.
The massive metal doors to the throne room swung open, and his brother greeted them from his seat. It always used to be that Trian was the one everyone wanted to punch. As everyone filed in, Faeron kept to the back.
Silfee strode up and gave the new king a curtsey. In typical Nema fashion, the elf marched in front of everyone and disregarded etiquette.
"You made a promise," she said.
Bhelen smiled in a way that would have made their father proud. "You've proven yourself and more, Warden," he said. "Without your aid, I would not have taken this throne so smoothly or so soon."
"You promised troops for the Blight," Nema said.
"I'm certain by the time you send for us, I will have amassed an army for you," Bhelen replied with a sigh. "Now, I have much to do, if there is nothing else...?"
Nema was already heading toward the exit. Silfee shot the king an apologetic look and murmured, "Lovely palace," before she too, hurried off.
Faeron watched as everyone, one by one, exited the throne room. Only Alistair hesitated, he glanced at Faeron and opened his mouth, but then shrugged instead of speaking and left.
When the room was empty save for Bhelen and himself, Faeron studied the wide berth between them. The long carpeted trail to issue grievances to the king.
"I never thought my long lost big brother, back from the dead, would be the one to help me," Bhelen said, finally.
"I never thought I would come back and help you," Faeron replied. "Things have changed."
"Yes, they have." Bhelen nodded. "I was wrong about you and you've proven that. Let me make it up to you."
That made Faeron laugh. "How?"
"From this day forward, you are pardoned from your punishment," Bhelen said. "You will retain your title of prince and once again be a member of the noble class."
He could feel a heaviness, a tightness building in his chest. "I don't want that."
"Faeron, take it."
He spun around and saw Frannie at the door. Her sister stood at her side with a toddler propped against her hip. Faeron saw Bhelen's eyes go wild at the sight of his defenseless son so close to his estranged brother. That was the paranoia that got a man crowned? Only with that look could Faeron know just how precarious his position was.
"You never told me you had a nephew," Rica said to Bhelen. She stood her son down on the ground and he took off in a staggering toddle towards his father, laughing and babbling as he did so.
"Faeron, what's going on?" Bhelen pushed himself out of his throne to scoop his son up. Once the boy was safe in his arms, he began to calm.
"I am content to carry the weight of my punishment," Faeron said. "I know that even with my titles and caste, I will never be welcome back in Orzammar."
"Faeron." Frannie reached for his arm and he brushed her away.
"But you have a nephew," he continued. "My son is currently casteless due to my crimes. I will not have him die in the Deep Roads."
"It sounds like you've already decided on a solution, brother," Bhelen said. "What do you propose?"
"Take my child." Faeron breathed and tried to still the pounding of his heart, to slow his speech. "If he is anything like me, he'll be a skilled warrior and loyal to a fault."
"Little Endrin will need a second," Rica said quietly. Bhelen shot her a look and she met his gaze without flinching.
"In exchange for this, I will continue to serve Orzammar." Faeron dropped to one knee. "I know I can't be within the city, that will raise too many questions. I will seek out Kardol and the Legion of the Dead in the Deep Roads. Being a Grey Warden means I can sense the darkspawn and know their numbers. By your order, we will take back Bownammar and any other thaig you deem worthy."
"You wish to cast aside your life in order to serve the Legion?" Bhelen asked.
Faeron smiled. "I died more than a year ago when I was condemned to walk the Deep Roads. At least this way, my body will be of some use."
"Faeron, you can't do that." At his side, Frannie was trying to pull him to his feet. "We've got the Blight, we've got a duty-"
"Can't I?"
Her eyes were large and round and the brows that framed them couldn't decide if they'd arch up in shock or swoop down in worry. "No! Don't you pull some honor bound suicide. You have your whole life in front of you, you owe the rest of the Grey Wardens to stop feeling sorry for yourself and get off your arse and go face down that Archdemon."
"If I'm going to die at the hands of darkspawn," Faeron stood, "I would prefer for it to be on my terms. I'd rather die surrounded by stone than in some foreign land."
"Faeron-"
"It's the way it should be, Frannie," he said. He looked over at his brother; their father's namesake was tugging at Bhelen's beard. "I'll be closer to my child this way. Maybe I'll be able to steal a glance of him every so often when I relay messages from the Legion back to our king."
Frannie's shoulders slumped. "What am I supposed to tell the others?"
"That it was my choice," Faeron said.
"I was just starting to get used to you being around, too." She forced out a laugh followed by a sniffle.
He rested his hands on her shoulders. "I'll be fine. You're the one chasing after an Archdemon."
"I also have a group of people trained for this purpose."
"So will I."
There was that manic laughter, again. Frannie was back to inspecting the leather of her boots.
"I promise not to die," he said.
"How can you even try to promise that-"
"Not right away, anyhow." Faeron smiled. "I give you my word that I'll last for at least a year or until we take back Bownammar, whichever happens first. Any longer is a blessing I'll gladly accept."
She nodded. "You better." Frannie let him squeeze her shoulders, before she headed over to Rica for a final hug. She muttered something low and unintelligible for Bhelen's ears only and then trotted back over to Faeron and threw her arms around him.
"Sod the Assembly," Frannie whispered. "You're my king, Faeron Aeducan. I'll be your arm on the surface."
"I feel bad for the surface, then," he said. "Go."
She was warm and solid in her embrace and then she was gone. Faeron watched her leave. There was still that apprehension, that fear, but he felt lighter.
It would seem Bhelen was still climbing, just as he had as a child. Father had been furious. Just as Bhelen reached the highest shelf, his weight toppled them all over on top of him, on top of Faeron, on top of Gorim. Gorim had broken his arm and even though it had healed with time, a trained eye could see that his right arm hung slightly more crooked than his left. Bhelen was unharmed, a sweet roll clutched in one victorious hand.
Faeron was the one reprimanded. He was older, he should have known better. Perhaps that had always been his problem. He stood back and didn't interfere, because people should be allowed to learn from their own folly. Unfortunately, when you were on top, you crushed others beneath you as you fell.
He should have known better. He should have realized. Maybe then, Gorim would still be there, maybe Trian would still be alive.
"Does your son have a name?" Bhelen asked.
"I was thinking Trian," Faeron said.
Bhelen snorted. "How did I know?"
Faeron raised an eyebrow. "You'd rather I name him after a kinslayer?"
"No," Bhelen laughed, "I suppose not. Trian. It's a good name."
"Aye," Faeron said. "It is."