15: Nation's Son (Part I)
"Non nobis solum nati sumus.
(Not for ourselves alone are we born.)"
~ Cicero
The second husband is definitely not like the first husband, the queen concluded.
The wisteria hung down heavily from the trellised arches over the castle's garden path, showering the ground with a sprinkling of petals. She held the skirt of her gown up daintily to keep the hem from dragging in the damp earth as they wandered down to the south wing's armory.
Her first husband, for instance, would never have so eagerly volunteered to help her with such a mundane task just to escape social obligations like the second husband. Had he wanted to, he could have remained all afternoon comfortably ensconced in a chair munching languidly on finger foods and sipping wine while listening to the musically inclined, but not necessarily talented, Arl and Arlessa Farris of the influential Whitehorn arling sing and play together to the great delight of no one. She reminded him of it, a bit crossly even, as he swatted at the lush vines of wisteria and anything else that vaguely approached his face, while he stubbornly followed her down the pathway.
"I don't see YOU sitting in the parlor all afternoon. Why should I?" the king protested, ducking and trying to whack a flying beetle trying to land on his head.
She did not answer and proceeded walking ahead, her back rigid, her posture impeccably straight. She couldn't blame him. Not at all. Still, he was becoming wiser to her over the past few months and less compliant when it came to her attempts to foist him off on some dreary social event. The truth was she wasn't used to having him around as much as he had been. Since they'd been wed, they had managed to settle into a fairly cordial partnership, which meant they were skilled at staying out of each other's way. From the beginning of their marriage, he was usually away, leading the initiative to rebuild different parts of Ferelden, on missions to fight off lingering pockets of Darkspawn, and, most of all, rallying their people's morale. But when the Grey Wardens began to disappear and they received a message from the Inquisition's spymaster urging them to be cautious and keep Alistair in Denerim, Anora had to, for the first time in ten years really, contend with sharing the castle with her king.
On a day-to-day basis she found he deferred to her on smaller diplomatic, legal, and financial matters. Nevertheless, she found him to be positively rebellious when it came to performing his social duties. She'd hoped to have a quiet supper that evening after meeting with so many dignitaries earlier. She'd just have to invite the Farrises for dinner to make up for her and Alistair's egregious absence, she decided tiredly.
"What are we doing anyway?" Alistair wondered.
"You volunteered so eagerly. I thought for sure you knew..." Anora began, annoyed.
"I would have gladly volunteered to kill the Archedemon to get out of there..." he muttered.
"Oh, so your accompanying me is on par with having to slay the Archdemon?" She feigned a coldness in her tone, knowing well what reaction she was about to unleash.
"What's that? That's not what I was saying!" he cried out. She grinned slyly, facing ahead. "Although now that you are peeved with me, it just might be..."
Further up the path, Thalissa, the Head Matron in the castle, awaited them at the heavy wooden door at the bottom of a desolate structure. A ring of keys rested at the end of a thin silver chain hanging from her belt. Three castle guards stood at the ready as they approached.
"Your Majesties," the Head Matron said, with a deep courtesy and reverent head bow.
Anora raised her light blue eyes at the dilapidated south wing of the palace. It had been severely damaged after the Blight, but other than ensure the castle would not be exposed or weakened in any way, had not authorized any great repairs. Rebuilding the wing had felt wasteful after so much destruction elsewhere and there had been far more urgent repairs to be made throughout the country. Once she and Alistair had been wed, she had hastily used the armory on the lower level, still relatively intact, as a storage space for various items she had collected at the last minute and decided to peruse more thoroughly once she had more time...and disposition. She wondered if she would have bothered returning there that day if it hadn't been for one of the stonemasons informing them of the risk of collapse and the need to either rebuild or properly demolish the structure. She'd been inclined to have Thalissa sort through the old belongings and dispose of them appropriately, but a hint of curiosity—and caution— tugged at her. She barely remembered what she had stashed away in the room at the time, when she was still reeling from so many personal upheavals in her life. Back then she had forced herself to forge through all the uncertainty, the memories still hazy. She wondered what the Anora of ten years ago had stashed away so hurriedly.
Thalissa was speaking to her, but her mind had been wandering.
"They will do the heavy lifting for you, Your Highness," she indicated the guards. "And as requested, we have secured two carts in the courtyard: one bound for the Chantry and the other for Lord Guerrin," she continued dutifully.
"Eamon?" Alistair asked her, puzzled.
Anora surveyed the unkempt cobblestoned patio before the armory door, overgrown with moss and weeds.
"There are some of Cailan's old belongings in there. I thought the Guerrins might like to claim them," she mused, her voice distant, immersed in thought. "Unless," she turned to him, "you might want something of your brother's?"
"Some might say I already have something of my brother's," he remarked, cocking an eyebrow at her.
The soldiers erupted in a volley of well-timed throat clearing and she noticed Thalissa raise a hand to her mouth to discreetly conceal a grin.
She did not acknowledge the remark, but thought in passing that it was for little things like that that the people of Ferelden adored their king. He was candid, spontaneous, without guile― all things that endeared him to their subjects. As she waited for Thalissa to find the right key to the rusty iron lock, she thought her alliance with Alistair had been a very clever coup. The people respected her for her fair judgments and decisions. Anora had the appreciation and support of her people; she had no doubt about that. But Alistair…He was their hero, the one who had helped fight the Archdemon to the death. He was the uncontested favorite son of Ferelden, beloved by all for the gripping tales of his humble upbringing, selfless dedication to service and unassuming and modest manner. She was quite sure she would not have been able to weather all the challenges they had faced in rebuilding the country if it hadn't been for their charismatic king traveling throughout the country and rallying their morale.
"Did you volunteer to be here too, Thalissa?" Alistair asked the woman with his customary familiarity.
"Messere?" she asked, slightly confused.
"I am only here to get away from the Farrises," he told her conspiratorially. "They are performing some...some ghastly dragon mating call in there," he confided. "I suspect we might be under siege from above any moment now." He eyes the sky uneasily, for effect.
Thalissa maintained her polite façade, but Anora could see her eyes glinting with mirth.
"Should that be the case, Messere, we would not be defenseless and the dragon would find itself outmatched," she replied graciously.
"You are alluding to our queen, right? Because she can be quite fierce both in the battlefield and off. I am most definitely hiding behind her, if necessary," he chuckled. "Like in the board game: queen protects the king."
Anora rolled her eyes.
The old hinges were almost completely rusted and opened with so much difficulty, the half rotted door settled crookedly once it was released. A musty, damp odor wafted from the tomb like room, and Anora lifted her handkerchief to her nose with displeasure as two of the guards removed the door from its hinges completely.
"I need light. Fetch me a candelabra," she said to Thalissa after examining the darkness before them. The woman beckoned one of the guards and ordered him off on the errand. The other guards began hauling out the items that were closest to the door.
So much to dispose of! Anora thought, repulsed by the old, molding curtains left for a decade on the ground.
They had once adorned Cailan's quarters before she had the rooms stripped of everything, leaving them bare for Alistair to refurnish and refurbish as he saw fit. He'd ended up asking her for help. She couldn't tell if he just didn't know how to go about such matters or if he just did not care.
"Pick a pattern!" she had ordered him, impatiently.
"I don't know! The…orange one!"
"That's just horrid," she'd grimaced.
"You told me to choose!" he'd stated with exasperation.
She signaled for the guard to toss the stained fabric onto a heap on the ground. Curtains and bedspreads, pillows and bedclothes, among other items that had not survived the room's dampness, were unceremoniously tossed away.
"Look at that! A cozy little hovel fit for Darkspawn," Alistair mused at the sight of the pile of tattered linens on the floor.
"It's a shame, really. They were very fine once," she sighed.
She found several things she felt would be of interest to Alistair.
"King Marric's inkwell and quill…" She took the tarnished silver tray holding two heavy crystal inkewells from one of the guards' hands. "I forgot I had put this in there. Cailan used to have it on his writing desk. Do you want it?" she asked him.
He took it from her and eyed it curiously.
She wondered what thoughts crossed his mind and if it was too much to expect him to cherish the belongings of a man he barely knew.
"It's an elegant piece," she advised. "It would look fetching on your desk."
"Right," Alistair mumbled.
Anora couldn't tell if he was making one of his puns.
"Right right or write write?" she inquired.
"Just… right," he quickly amended.
She sniffed indifferently and crossed her arms, waiting for the next pile of belongings to be brought to her.
"My jokes are certainly wittier than that," he sulked.
He placed the inkwell on the pile of "to keep" already populated with a few rescued treasures: a couple paintings, a vase, a small bust, and a rug.
Once the candelabra arrived, she was able to enter the cavernous room, where a chill hung in the air despite the pleasant warm spring afternoon. Brushing away cobweb strands, she continued to guide the guards in the unearthing of various belongings— debris of a past life, it seemed.
The large portrait of Queen Rowan she and Alistair unanimously agreed would be a lovely and thoughtful gift for Eamon — she had no desire to keep running into such a large likeness of the late mother-in-law she'd never met.
A collection of daggers from around Thedas would go to Arl Teagan.
An old chainmail shirt would be donated to the smith, but Alistair had insisted on trying it on out of curiosity…and perhaps a little vanity, she suspected.
"It doesn't fit!" he announced smugly. "I'm too muscular for it."
"It appears to be straining the most around your midsection," she remarked with calculated casualness just to see his face flush with mild outrage.
It secretly amused her to no end.
She realized she was getting close to being done with Cailan's personal effects when she came across a familiar locked trunk. It sent a chill up her spine.
"Leave that there," she instructed. "It can remain here and be discarded with the rubble once work begins on the building," she explained.
It was a lie. She would have to send her trusted spymaster to properly burn the letters hidden inside later on that day; she wanted no vestiges of Cailan's betrayal against her or Ferelden made public.
Maker knew she had had to deal with enough malicious gossip about Cailan and their marriage.
Let people mourn the unfortunate king and preserve the reputation of the current one intact.
She did not need suspicion cast over them, any suspicion cast over Alistair's loyalties. Especially not when they were being forced by the Inquisition to entertain the possibility of talks with Orlais.
Her jaw tensed anytime Celene was mentioned.
"You will have to handle any forthcoming negotiations," she'd explained to Alistair when the Inquisition's Ambassador had approached them about brokering an agreement between the nations. "I will give you the guidelines, the absolute limit of what we can concede and the minimum we will accept before anything can be formalized."
Alistair had looked absolutely panicked.
"And where will you be, I might ask?"
"Not there," she insisted.
She was fully aware she was a liability at any negotiations involving Orlais. In this matter she could not be counted on to remain level headed and understood the right thing was for her to remove herself. She would not bring herself to sit across from the scheming Orlesian empress with whom Cailan had plotted behind her back. It had been a betrayal― an unexpected one she had never imagined, treachery that had taught her a lesson she had learned well: In the struggle for power, love and friendship are expendable. Trust no one.
When she stripped the royal rooms so thoroughly, she had wanted no reminders of Cailan, the boy around whom she had been forced to shape her life. They had been betrothed at an early age, and in her mind, there had been no question of her playing a role in Ferelden's politics someday. The expectations of the Crown might as well have been her own―she had difficulty distinguishing between the two, anyhow. She had taken to ruling the country with much greater determination and practicality than her first husband. She did not mind the drudgery of the small quibbles and mundane affairs. She understood that minding them was akin to maintaining her fingers ever mindfully over a pulse. She mediated, decreed, oversaw, presided over ceremonies, both mournful and celebratory, passed judgment, and was at the forefront of battle, leading her army, when the nation had needed her the most. Her desire to rule was matched only by her masterful wielding of power. She did what she did well and knew it.
"We are done," she decreed to all, apparently satisfied with the excursion. "Anything in there can remain as is. The door needs to be replaced, in the meantime."
Thalissa sent the guards running in different directions: one was to fetch tools to repair the door, the other was to begin hauling the items to the cart headed to the Chantry and the the last one carried items to the cart bearing heirlooms to the Guerrin estate in downtown Denerim.
She and Alistair found themselves alone as the others carried out their duties. Alistair took the candelabra and examined the room briefly.
"There are still a few things in here," he remarked.
"Nothing of consequence," she said curtly.
"There's something leaning against the wall at the back," he told her. "That stays too?"
What was he talking about? she thought edgily, stepping back into the room once more.
Alistair pointed and Anora seized the candelabra from his hands, wandering closer. At first, in the dimness of the room, she mistook the dark wooden panels for the sides of a dismantled box, or trunk, but as she approached them, she recognized the fine scrollwork carved along the edges, the painted crest of the Theirins on the headboard.
She recoiled and proceeded to exit the room with a steely glare.
"Anora?" Alistair peered back at the empty threshold. He leaned over to take up the candelabra and walked up to the offending item. It took him longer to realize what it was, but as he slid one of the panels aside, he realized what it was.
A crib.
He brushed his hand over the smooth surface, reckoning that it had been Cailan's crib, possibly Maric's, too― and that it had been kept for the much desired heir who never arrived.
He sensed movement behind him and heard Thalissa's voice.
"Your Highness?"
"I'm done here," he told her, turning to her, a suddenly weariness weighing upon him.
"Yes, Messere," she stated respectfully. "I will watch over the repair of the door and lock up when they are done."
She saw him glance about outside as if disoriented.
"Her Majesty passed me on the path in great haste back to the main hall," she told him worriedly.
He gazed down the garden path as if rallying his thoughts. He was not sure what to say to her at that point. The last time he had tried to commiserate with her over the matter, she had rebuked him severely. He had told her he regretted not being able to give her her heart's desire, and she had scoffed, as if he had uttered the most cretinous words.
"I have no heart's desire. I desire only what is best for Ferelden," she had told him coldly.
But he had seen her eyes glisten with tears.
He was not feeling well that day; ever since Adamant he'd been plagued by short recurring bouts of a Taint-based malaise.
It is going to be a long evening, he concluded dourly.
I had originally intended this to be short: a one-shot. But I kept running into all these complexities of their character that I wanted to explore. I find Anora very intriguing- I find her a little frightening, but I definitely don't find her the heartless shrew many people believe her to be. She was raised to be the queen and performed her duty exceedingly well. And yet, despite all her talents and gifts, her husband had been plotting to replace her mostly because of the one thing she could not do: have a child. It all came down to that. So before we all get angry at how utterly underwhelmed she was at marrying Alistair (if you ever chose that option), remember this woman was betrayed by all the men she loved and trusted all her life. Her father doubted her competence and sought to usurp her power, and her husband and childhood friend was going to discard her for an alliance with Orlais. Talk about being objectified.
So we have an angry, scorned Anora on the right side of the ring and the constant, self sacrificing, upright Alistair on the left.
So interesting.
Let the games begin.
Part II up soon!