#anti cailan theirin

[niofo]

cailan wanting to invite orlesian soldiers to ferelden again never stops to baffle me, i'm not sure if it was meant to be an intentional character flaw, or just bioware leads being mostly white canadians not entirely understanding the context. my country was occupied for a long time and while i personally don't remember it, it's still a big part of my culture/history. and while i get that some ppl in next generations might not hate the country that occupied them, or think it's a history and ppl living there now are not responsible for their parents' actions - you would still be aware why other ppl would not want them here, you would still understand why this would be a problem, right?? cailan is a king, he might personally think that celene is fine now (conveniently ignoring gaspard), but he should be aware of most fereldens hating orlais, thats kinda in the job description, he needs to balance what he personally think is right with what his ppl are letting him do. like how ignorant he is to talk about orlesians in front of loghain of all ppl. so i just don't know if he was intentionally meant to be so short-sighted, or the writers just didn't understand what a horribly bad idea it was. same with the alienage situation, is cailan a bad king who just missed the fact that his ppl are violently raiding and abusing the elves, or he is a racist who knows it and did nothing, or just the writers forgot about it being quite a big deal.

[laurelsofhighever]

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Fereldan Politics, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels,  Hurt/Comfort Chapter Summary: Eamon faces the consequences of his actions, and Cailan reflects.

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Nineteenth day of Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon

The trial began an hour before noon. The guildhall had been cleared on the order of the king, and the guildmaster had reordered what furniture there was into a more suitable arrangement: the largest, most ornate chair she could find at the far end opposite the doors for Cailan himself, a set of smaller to his left and right for officials and the few nobles in attendance – Alistair, Rosslyn, Ferrenly, Loren, Franderel; and plenty of space remained in the middle of the room for the accused to feel isolated. Rain pattered on the roof as the large double doors groaned open to admit Arl Eamon, not in shackles, but still flanked very closely by the two guards who walked behind him. Such banal duty ought to be beneath Captains Morrence and Mhairi, but Cousland Blue flared next to royal Red all the same, the pair of them having decided that the honour of watching Eamon fall should belong to no one else but them.

Cailan, dressed with utmost formality in red velvet and a trimmed mantle of finely tooled leather, shifted in his seat as Eamon bowed, ignoring the scratch of the scribe in the corner, and cleared his throat. “This judgement is convened today to answer charges against Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, who stands accused of acts amounting to treason. Ser Brantis, if you would read out the specifics.”

The old chamberlain did not rise from his seat. The summer’s campaign had taken its toll on him, leaving his hair thinner than ever and pitching his voice at a faint nasally wheeze that every now and then broke out into a cough. Every one of Cailan’s attempts to ease him into retirement at Redcliffe had been brushed aside with an efficient exasperation perfected over almost three decades of royal service. After all, he had argued, nobody had a finer understanding of the law than him, and he did not need stout legs to exercise it.

“The accusation against Arl Eamon Guerrin is on three counts,” he announced now, the scroll shaking in his hand. “First, that he did in full knowledge of his actions intercept and waylay royal correspondence. Second, that he did lie on multiple occasions to a member of the royal family about the aforementioned interference. And third, that he did withhold information from the Crown pertaining to State affairs in order to promote his own interests. Such acts, should my lord be found guilty, would together constitute an act of treason, with the punishment to be determined by His Majesty, in attendance.”

An uneasy silence descended over the hall, all eyes on the king, all breaths held for his response.

“Well, Arl Eamon, what do you say to this?” His voice, usually so light, fell like a stone into a still pool.

Eamon lifted his chin. “I have a right to know my accusers.”

“You know very well who we are,” Rosslyn snapped from her place on Cailan’s right. “Answer the question.”

“Peace, Your Ladyship. We are waiting, Uncle.”

Glancing at his audience, the old arl rolled his answer over his tongue, his cheeks sucked in sapped bellows beneath the neatly groomed length of his beard. “All I have ever done has been done for the benefit of Ferelden,” he declared. “Whether that be shedding blood in the rebellion that ended the Orlesian occupation of this country, or through the use of diplomatic skill to prevent bloodshed in the first place.”

“Your record on that count is somewhat less than perfect, my lord,” the king answered coldly. “Given the current political climate. Is this a denial?”

Eamon bristled. “Berate me if you must, but I am no traitor.”

Silence again. Someone shifted on their feet, uncomfortable, and still the rain came down upon the roof. Cailan sat in his chair with the cornflower blue of his eyes hardened on the defiance seething in the man before him. The outcome of the trial was more formality than anything; he already knew the story, and the parts of all the players.

“We will hear the evidence, and decide,” he said at last, and turned away. “Ser Brantis, the witnesses, please.”

The chamberlain nodded and called the first name on his scroll, and looked up as Eamon’s valet appeared in the escort of another guard, wringing his hands and refusing to look at his master as he came to stand before the king. Cailan opened his mouth, but the man pre-empted him. Stuttering, he spilled testimony about conferences overheard between Eamon and the king of Orzammar that discussed ‘progress’ with an unnamed venture where the names of both the dwarf princess and the human prince were dropped; he recounted a time he witnessed Alistair put a letter directly into Eamon’s hand for inclusion with the post, only to have the arl tuck it away in a desk drawer once the Prince was out of sight; he even mentioned the keenness with which his master praised His Highness’ decision to take lessons in the Shaperate, and plotted excuses to first meet with him and Valesh Aeducan and then leave them alone together.

“It was not my place to ask,” he wailed. “Bt it was clear he was trying to engineer a match between them. I offer this testimony now to try and repair the damage wrought in part through my ignorance, to a most honourable lady.” He offered a trembling bow to Rosslyn, who gracefully returned the gesture with a nod.

“Tell me what happened on the final morning before your departure,” Cailan ordered.

The man shot a worried glance at Eamon, but despite the twist of his lip, the arl remained stoic and only waited for his judgement.

“The tradition in Orzammar is for a servant to sleep outside their master’s chambers, you understand,” he began. “I was woken early by his Highness storming into my lord’s quarters, but he ignored my protest. I’ve never seen a man in such a fury, and with Warden Commander Duncan behind him – with that way Grey Wardens tend to have about them – all I could do was follow. His Highness demanded to know the whereabouts of the letters from Her Ladyship, and then threatened to have his guard search the place when my lord did not answer. My lord then took two stacks of paper from his desk, and from the look on His Highness’ face, they were what he was looking for.”

“Did His Highness confront Arl Eamon about his possession of these letters?” Cailan asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And?”

“He… he called His Highness selfish and foolish, Your Majesty.” The valet gulped. “And spoke openly about separating His Highness and Her Ladyship in favour of… other matches.”

Alistair glanced at Rosslyn. She had taken hold of his hand during the questioning, heedless of the eyes already upon her, squeezing his fingers so tightly he felt the tendons shifting beneath her skin. Her resolve remained undaunted in the set of her jaw, but the scrutiny of so many interested parties grated on her, the intimacies of their relationship pared away and batted about as evidence to be quarrelled over, like dogs fighting for bones, and then fed into the rumour-mill for the gossips to thread and weave into whatever tapestry they liked. The letters, after all, sat at the heart of the matter. Eamon’s true condemnation lay within their lines, buried among private hopes and despairs that could too easily be turned against them.

“I have the letters,” he declared now, stepping forward out of her reach and missing the grip of her hand. His other held the evidence aloft for the watchers to see. “Her Ladyship’s last, in her own hand sent with Warden Commander Duncan, speaks of having received no correspondence from me for months prior to the letter’s date, when in fact I wrote many, and asked a number of my contingent to see them delivered to the messengers.”

“You may read it out, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn supplied, as the unassuming slip of paper was pressed into Cailan’s hands. “The beginning of the second paragraph deals with the current concern.”

The king’s gaze lingered on her for a moment of sympathy as he unfolded it. “Dated on the ninth of Harvestmere, and it is in Her Ladyship’s hand. The first paragraph recounts the fall of South Reach. The second… This is the last letter I will write. It is clear either you aren’t receiving my letters, or are ignoring them, and time will tell which is the truth. Fortune has allowed me one final chance, and so I am sending this to you with a messenger I can trust, rather than through the usual channels, and he promises to see it safe directly into your hands. This messenger was Warden Commander Duncan?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. His Wardens happened to be passing through the Southron Hills tracking a party of darkspawn and heard what happened at South Reach.”

Cailan refolded the letter. With the scribe’s pen still scratching out the moments, he shifted in his chair so he could lean his chin on his fist, his frown directed at a whorl in one of the floorplanks at his feet.

“The evidence is damning,” he said at last. “However, before I pass judgement, I wish to know the motive. Why would one who supposedly values loyalty to the Crown above all things go to such lengths to undermine its authority?”  His voice rose with every word, outrage matched by incredulity. “What could be gained from making the private affairs of two people the subject of sport? Am I to declare war on King Bhelen in retaliation for meddling in the affairs of Ferelden’s crown? Answer, my lord Eamon. Those were not rhetorical questions.”  

Faced with the king’s true, righteous fury, Eamon at last let his mask of indifference drop. He hung his head, lacking the contrition of a true apology, but enough to admit defeat. “I accept all responsibility for this matter,” he said. “I proposed the matter to King Bhelen, and he took the understanding that Your Majesty endorsed our actions. No reprisal is necessary for his part.”

“In that, at least, you retain your honour,” Cailan allowed, sighing in relief. “But it still doesn’t answer why.”

“I thought the two of them a poor match,” came the slow reply.

Rosslyn advanced. “And what right does an arl have to determine suitability between a teyrna and a prince who bear no relation to him?”

“Your Ladyship –” Cailan warned, but Eamon was already snarling back.

“The right of a king’s advisor with enough experience to foresee and want to avert disaster. Forgive my candour, Your Ladyship, but you have proven yourself to be rash, even brutal in your approach, and such wildness ought not to be left unchecked. His Highness is easily led –”

“Now wait just a –”

“– and when I saw your undue influence over him I sought to stop it, to save him from the bull-headed determination of a child entirely too used to getting her own way in everything, who came into power –”

“Enough!” Teagan was standing. He had stayed silent as the court revealed the evidence against his brother piece by piece, but now the wan surprise had fled in favour of anger as he stared down the man he had toddled after as a young child. “Eamon, you go too far.”

“No,” Rosslyn interrupted in a light voice, as full of promise as the first breath of winter. “It’s good to finally hear the truth. My lord is all concern for the wellbeing of his country and his charge, naturally. I’m sure it’s merely coincidence that had his interference succeeded, he would have benefitted from a very lucrative trade deal with an untapped foreign power, and would have in the same blow regained his usurped place as His Majesty’s closest advisor. How much more difficult it would have been for Prince Alistair to voice his disagreement, trapped under a mountain with a new wife to anchor him there.” She flashed a feral smile. “And of course, there is the threat of an independent Highever, loyal not to the crown but to the teyrna who has shed blood for them, who herself has too much of the Clayne in her to ever submit to any authority but her own. What better way to deal with her than ambush her into a marriage of convenience that would secure power in the north and condemn the actions of a traitor?”

Eamon glared at her.

She folded her arms and shifted her weight onto one hip, an easy stance to betray the sarcasm dripping from her words. “Of course, such considerations never entered my lord’s head. His thoughts are only for Ferelden, after all.”

“As they always will be,” he growled.

As the pair stared each other down, Loren whispered to Franderel behind his hand, and others in the room craned forward, eager to see what would happen next, noting how Alistair moved closer to Rosslyn, as if to shield her from the ire cast in her direction.  

“At this stage, isn’t motive a moot point?” he called across the silence. “Arl Eamon has confessed – to everything.”

Nodding, Cailan sat forward and steepled his fingers, deep lines creased between his eyes. When he began to speak, his voice barely rose above a mumble, as if he had forgotten everyone else around him. “Once, l would have thought my uncle incapable of such manipulation, but this action does have precedent.” His gaze shot to Eamon. “I should have checked you before when I caught your meddling in my affairs, and perhaps we might not have come to this. But it is treason, for all the worst effects have been avoided. The punishment for that is death.” He sighed. “Arl Eamon, if that were the ruling, would you accept it?”

The old man steadied himself. “So long as my wife and son do not share that fate – they had no part in this.”

“Connor is safe in the Storm Giant’s court, and Isolde is not on trial. Ser Brantis?”

“Mitigation relies on intent, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain replied in his reedy voice. “And it is clear there was intent here to unduly influence those outside his guardianship.”

“I am left with a difficult choice, then. A man with decades of loyal service to his name, and an example to make of him.” Cailan sat back. “However, I am not the injured party. Brother, Your Ladyship, what do you have to say?”

Startled at being addressed, the pair glanced at each other, a silent conversation passing between them in the strength of their gazes, and the small, soft curve of a smile for reassurance. Rosslyn touched Alistair’s arm.

“He should be punished according to the law,” she said. “And yet, whatever remains of his life, I would have him spend every day contemplating that whatever his intentions, his actions amounted to nothing. He lied baldfaced to all of us for months, and all he has to show for it is this. I will defer to your Majesty.”

“So will I,” Alistair agreed. “I’ll always hate myself for not doing more to expose what was going on, but now we’re here, and everyone knows.” He turned and took Rosslyn’s hand, raising it to his lips. “I have all I need.”

Such a public display of affection was unexpected. Cailan looked away and rubbed at his lip, and for a moment, silence fell once more.  

Then Teagan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, may I speak?”

“Always, uncle.”

“A wise king shows mercy when it is due, and there has been enough killing. Both His Highness and Her Ladyship have advocated for my brother to live – with his guilt, and the knowledge he has lost your respect.”

“We have nowhere to hold him,” the king pointed out.

Teagan shook his head. “Not imprisonment. Exile.”

“Exile is a legal equivalent of death,” Brantis mused. “Estates and titles are passed as normal to the next of kin, unless the entire line is barred – and Your Majesty has already said that will not be the case here.”

“A death that is not a death,” Cailan repeated slowly. “Very well. Arl Eamon, given the weight of evidence against you, and your own testimony, you are found guilty of all charges. Be assured, your long years of service to my father are the only reason the sentence is not a summary execution.” He stood. “You will be escorted to Redcliffe and there given a month to set your affairs in order, and by Wintersend, you will be beyond the borders of Ferelden, never to return under promise of death. Do you understand?”  

The look Eamon narrowed at him had yet to relinquish its defiance. “You’re more like your mother than I realised,” he offered. “Maric would have acted more impulsively, as he did with everything.”  

“Get him out of my sight.”

As one, the two guard-captains saluted and took an elbow each to haul the disgraced arl from the room. Even before they made it through the door, Cailan was moving, slipping away with surprising quiet for a man so used to being the centre of attention, making the side door before Brantis finished rising from his chair. Alistair watched him go with a frown, wanting to follow but distracted by the hand that settled on his arm, the comforting warmth radiating from it. Rosslyn leaned into him, the concern in her grey eyes revealing that she, too, had noticed the parting glare Eamon had shot his way when he mentioned Maric’s name.

“It’s over,” she breathed, and he couldn’t tell if it was a question.

He tucked an arm around her waist and drew her against his side, pleased when she dropped her head against his shoulder. “It’s over,” he agreed. “You were incredible.”

“I couldn’t let him stand there and insist he did it for the greater good.”

“I should go after Cailan,” he murmured, without moving.

A sigh. “And I still need to organise the preparations for tomorrow. All I want to do is sleep.”

“That does sound tempting.” He chuckled. “We could sneak away…?”

“No,” she replied, in the same amused, drawn out syllable she used when she caught her dog eyeing a plate of food that wasn’t his. “Duty first. Otherwise Eamon would have been right.”

“Ugh, fine, you win.” He pulled back to make sure she could see his pout, and couldn’t help brushing a hand along her cheek. “You make too much sense and I love you too much to argue. But no more hiding.”

She stilled his fingers so she could turn a kiss onto his palm. “None at all. I’ll find you later.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

She threw him a smile over her shoulder as she walked away, and after a moment more watching her, he tore his thoughts guiltily away from the lithe sweep of her legs and went in search of his half-brother. He ignored the chatter in the hall, Franderel’s congratulations and Loren’s platitudes, breathing a relieved sigh when he made it into the deserted side corridor that wormed its way through the recesses of the guildhall.  The vestibule where Cailan had donned his formal clothes was empty of all but his valet, who tutted over the haphazard way the king had scuffed the leather and crumpled the goldwork in his hastily discarded mantle.

The valet bowed. “The king has gone to the yard, Your Highness, if you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you, Villers. Did he, uh, take his greatsword with him?”

“I was otherwise occupied, Your Highness,” came the reply, with a meaningful nod to the mantle.

“Of course, that’s probably –”

“Your Highness!”

He turned to see a young man not much older than him in a plain suit of mail, holding out a waxed paper package.

“The report you asked for, Ser,” the messenger said. “I would’ve had it to you sooner, but the trial –”

“I’ll take it now,” he said, holding out his hand.

And that was how the rest of his day started. Two more messengers found him in his office before he had finished going through the first report, one with a requisition form, and the other with an update from the quartermaster, and he pored over his desk until the fading light forced him to stand and retrieve the glowstone from over the fire. Someone else knocked on his door, but before he could tell whoever it was to go away, the guard turned the handle to admit a servant carrying a tray.

“Teyrna Rosslyn said if you hadn’t eaten, I was to bring you some lunch,” he explained, as Alistair’s stomach rumbled. He spotted bread fresh from the oven, two apples, and a round of the soft goat’s cheese laid down the previous spring. “She also said to say yes, she’s remembered to eat, too. She sends apologies, but there’s been an injury among the archery stands, and her assistance is needed.”

The gesture warmed him more than the pot of herbal tea the servant left with the rest of the fare. He picked at it for the rest of the afternoon, only a little sorry for the crumbs he spilled over the papers, until at last, with Ferrenly’s clockwork striking the fifth hour, his door burst open once again and Cailan wandered over the threshold. Mud still caked his boots, his hair frayed loose from the braids at his temples, and he had stripped down to a plain linen shirt and simple coat to keep out the chill. Eyeing him as he sank into one of the chairs by the hearth, Alistair rose from the desk, shuffled his papers, and called for Lloyd to see them to the right people, before crossing to the dresser in the corner where Ferrenly kept his stash of brandy.

“Ho! Now there’s a good idea.”

“It’s been a long day,” Alistair offered, along with a full glass, and sat down opposite in the opposite armchair.

Cailan snorted. “Truth be told, this whole business has left me rather wrong-footed.”

“I’m sorry it came to this.”

What else could he say? After the revelation that Eamon had been hiding his letters, and the fraught escape from Orzammar, he had spent the hours between fighting demons and organising an army in introspection, where he recounted every slight of his childhood. The new understanding had soured him, leaving little energy to spare to feel anything more than relief. Rosslyn was safe, and he was free.

But Cailan was shaking his head, his eyes lost on the fire. “My problems with my uncle began long before this. If not for him, this war might never have happened.” A wry smile tilted in Alistair’s direction. “Did you never wonder where Loghain got the idea that I would forsake Anora? It’s a little ironic that if not for the commotion he caused, I would never have considered it at all.”

“What will you do now?” Now that Rosslyn turned you down flat, he did not add.  

The fire cracked. Instead of answering, Cailan sighed and took a long pull of the brandy, grimacing at the burn as he swallowed. It felt odd to ask such a casual question at all, given that not even a year ago, Alistair might have been cuffed around the ear for deigning to even sit in the king’s presence. He couldn’t tell if it was the low light or the cold outside, or even just the wear of the day’s events that dulled the edge of formality that always stood between him and the king, but the air felt open, easier to breathe, and Cailan himself cut a sympathetic figure, haggard and drawn and removed of all the trappings of his station. Like he was just another person, like an equal.

Like family, he thought, and dropped his gaze to his drink.

“I don’t know what I will do,” his brother murmured. “Truly. My feelings for Anora are… well. There is love there, of a sort, but our fathers always meant us for each other, and now I cannot help but wonder how much of my affection arose because it was easier to craft those feelings than forge my own path. You can make a man envious of choosing, you know,” he added, with the ghost of a rakish smile that faded quickly. “I have not been the best husband, over the years, but with time and distance…”

Alistair waited and Cailan drained his glass.

“I was not ready to marry when I did. I barely remember any of that month Father died. He wasn’t old. And suddenly there I was with a kingdom and voices in my ears telling me to lay aside my grief to do what they said he would have wanted, and before I knew it, the deed was done and my life was no longer my own. On two fronts.”

“I’m sorry.” An uncomfortable squirm of sympathy stirred in his chest, but he had little else to offer. When Teagan had told him about Maric’s disappearance, the hope that his wrecked ship might still be found and Ferelden’s hero saved, he had been stung by a feeling that wasn’t quite grief but which ached all the same. His distant dreams of one day being acknowledged for his merit had vanished like smoke in the wind, but he had still had the training yard, his duties as a knight, and Teagan’s respect. Nobody had ever had any higher expectations for him.

Cailan swatted away the apology, and regarded him closely. “I wanted better for you, you know,” he confessed. “It’s why I did not simply order you and the Aeducan princess together. When Eamon suggested it, I remained adamant that it must be your choice, freely made. If I had known the steps he would take to engineer such a choice…” A curse escaped his lips. “I am sorry, brother, for everything I’ve done.”

They lapsed into silence. Thoughts swirled in Alistair’s head, each buzzing with their own insistence like flies on a hot day. It had never occurred to him to ask what Maric was like, either as a person or as a father, because until that moment nobody had ever spoken if him as anything less than a figurehead, an idol so remote he could never be truly real. How much of that remoteness had been crafted by Eamon, so that he would never ask for more than the scraps he was given? How much, in the end, had the old arl taken? As a child, the possibility of another life had never occurred to him; he had assumed his lot was that of all bastards, once he was old enough to understand the concept. It was only years later under Teagan’s guidance that that belief began to erode away, but even then he hadn’t wondered how things might have been different if he had been acknowledged from the beginning. He could see parties, galas, grand hunts in his mind’s eye, and hours of lessons in statecraft and history, so readily handed to him he would find them boring. He would have met other noble children, played with them, learned how to rule. He might have gone to Highever, would have met…

“Where would Rosslyn have been in all of this?” The question was rude, but thought of her woke a shade of jealousy in him, something big and dark and prowling that hovered around the image of her like a guard dog by its master’s gate, regardless that she didn’t need it of him. “You said you wouldn’t have made me marry Valesh, but what about her?”

His suspicion must have leaked into his voice, or else the question was just insulting. Cailan gave him a long, flat look.

“I would never have forced her.”

“I wasn’t suggesting –”

“She is happier with you,” his brother snapped, and sagged. “It’s a relief to see her so.” For a moment, his eyes glazed beneath his frown, thoughts far away, and something clicked in Alistair’s mind.

“How bad did it get over the summer?”

“Bad.”

He remembered, from her letters, I must really be low if even His majesty has noticed. Perhaps exile was too light a punishment after all.  

“You really do love her, don’t you?” A note of wonder crept into Cailan’s voice, matched by the speculative, almost wistful tilt of his head.

The words to reply stuck in Alistair’s throat, his muscles tensed without quite knowing why. Shortly, the answer was yes, but such a small word could hardly encompass the way his chest tightened whenever Rosslyn smiled at him, the calm when he touched her, the singing in his blood on their first night back, when he had kissed her neck and drawn that lovely, desperate noise from her tongue…

“I…”

“Good,” Cailan chuffed, as he poured them both another drink. “Because if you only wanted to bed her, I’d have had to send you away to Kirkwall in disgrace.”

“What? I don’t want – I mean –” A glass was pressed into his hand. “Maker’s breath, please tell me we won’t be talking about this.”

His brother only smirked. “So you haven’t made it that far, then?”

“Cailan, you asked her to marry you. Don’t you think it’s a bit inappropriate to talk about – about that?”

He hated how high his voice went, but that spark of anger got lost under the certainty that Rosslyn would not want them discussing the subject – discussing her – in such base terms. After the conversation they had shared in the meadow, he wanted to be worthy of the trust she placed in him, even if it meant losing whatever strange rapport he found himself building with his only living relative. He braced himself for whatever lurked behind the soft pity in Cailan’s eyes, but before he could say anything, the door opened and a clatter of claws signalled Rosslyn’s arrival, with Cuno at her heels.

“There you are!” he cried, rising to greet her. He hoped his blush could be blamed on the alcohol, that she hadn’t been waiting in the hallway and overheard. “Your hands are like ice.”

“Ah, but I’m not drenched today,” she replied. “Which is an improvement. Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“You know the sky won’t split open if you call me by my name.”

“Even so.” A smile touched her features as she watched Alistair chafe her fingers between his own. “I’m not staying – I met Lady Raina in the hall and promised to tell you dinner won’t be long.”

“You should at least warm up a little before you go,” he insisted.

She let herself be pulled closer, smiled at the tender hand settling against her waist.

“There are only two chairs,” she pointed out.

Cailan winked. “Don’t worry, Alistair can sit in my lap if he likes.”

“What?”

Rosslyn laughed. “I’ll spare you both the chivalry, I think. There’s a fire in my room, I’ll be warm enough.”

“You’re sure?”

Amused, her gaze darted to his mouth, a still-cold hand at his jaw. “I’ll see you later. And Your Majesty – you may want to get changed, since I hear Lady Raina has made a special effort for our last night.”

“I am rather dishevelled, aren’t I?” Cailan allowed, glancing down at his bare shirt and muddy boots.

Alistair wished him gone. Between one thing and another, he had barely seen Rosslyn all day, and never then alone. He wanted to kiss her, wanted her fingers laced in his hair as he warmed her up head to toe. He wondered if, without their audience, she could have been coaxed towards the hearth, and down into his lap, to let him lay more of those gentle, open-mouthed kisses against her neck. In the morning, they would push onward into territory controlled by Howe, and after that, only long days of marching and battle awaited, with no time for softer, quiet moments. Everyone sensed the nearing end to the war, but Loghain would never truly be brought to bay until Highever could be retaken to cut off his escape, and she had the scent in her nose like a hound on the hunt, implacable. It was his job to make sure she survived.

“See you at dinner,” he murmured, because there was nothing else to do. Her touch lingered against his skin for a moment, but then she was gone. He only realised he was still stood in the doorway, staring after her, when Cailan grunted and hauled himself up from his seat. The king drained his glass and set it on the desk.

“That’s my signal to move, as well. I’ll see you at dinner, and –” He hesitated as he stepped close, but shook off whatever reservation lurked in his mind and laid a broad hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “This is a strange situation in which we find ourselves, with… one thing and another. I will not pry, but if you ever wish for advice from a married man – even one whose marriage started a war – you will always have my ear.” He offered a brief smile. “We are brothers, after all. I think of you as such.”

“I’ll… Thank you.” Alistair faltered, struck by a sudden wave of affection for the man he had spent most of his life resenting. He wanted to repay the sincerity, but didn’t know what to do with it. “I don’t know about – about marriage. Isn’t that something I should talk to Rosslyn about, first? I don’t even know if she wants…” His mind flashed to an image, hazy and indistinct, of Rosslyn, smiling, with white flowers woven into her hair, and his heart stuttered.

“There is time,” came the steady reply. “We’ve a war to win first, after all. I was, uh, thinking along slightly different lines, actually. To… get things, uh, moving along, if you…”

“Maker’s breath.”

“Well –” Cailan’s face blotched crimson. “It’s not like Teagan would be much help! And there’s ways – not at all like the boasts in the guardhouse – and you… you both should –”

“There’s a book!” Alistair squeaked, if only to make him stop. Please, please let her not be listening outside the door.

“What?”

“It was on the shelves of my room in Orzammar. I was curious.” When he had first found it, he had thought it a mistake, but saying something would have meant admitting he had peeked inside, and by the time that embarrassment had worn off, his squeamishness had given way to a certain kind of fascination. “It’s very thorough and… it has diagrams.”

Understanding dawned on Cailan’s face, delight mixed with no small amount of relief. “You still have it. You stole it!”

“After I found out what was going on, I wanted to be petty,” he admitted. No doubt the book had been placed there to encourage his infatuation in an entirely different direction, and by the point of leaving, he’d had hope again. “It seemed like the best way.”

“Well,” Cailan tried. “Huh. And here I thought you got up to no mischief at all. Has she seen it?”

“She – she doesn’t know about it. Yet. I haven’t mentioned it. I don’t know what she’d say.” I always thought people were exaggerating, she had told him, like it was a game and I was the only one who didn’t know the rules.

“As much as they like to make us think otherwise, women cannot read our minds. Talk to her, let her know what you’re thinking, so you can both be happy.”

There was so much fraught behind that simple advice, subjects that weren’t Cailan’s business, despite the sincerity in his eyes. Alistair had no plans to confess his conversation with Rosslyn in the meadow, or the interrupted one in her room when they had stood so close and she had leaned closer into him still, but overlaid with that sweetness was the shadow of fear that his wanting would go too far.

“What if I ruin everything?”

“Brother…” Cailan sighed. “She loves you. There’s no better place to start than that.”

[jewish-gay-elves]

Oh, Calamity

“I don’t believe in the Maker,” he says, breaking the silence that followed your coupling.

A soulmate/reincarnation au fic where I play around with the idea of soulmates without identifying marks or timers that have to find each other every lifetime!

Words: 4803, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of the Stephan Cousland: There's Never Much of a Choice for You

Fandoms: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Alistair (Dragon Age), Male Cousland, Goldanna, Cailan Theirin, Anora Mac Tir Relationships: Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Male Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Cousland, Alistair/Male Cousland Additional Tags: ok just wanted to cover all my bases on the ship tags lol, also goldanna/cailan/anora's presences in the fic are v limited, like a sentence each p much, Songfic, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Reincarnation, please let me know if there should be more tags!, also please ask if you have questions!

“I don’t believe in the Maker,” he says, breaking the silence that followed your coupling. You lift your head and rest your chin on his chest, mulling over his words. Morrigan is always scolding you for saying the first thing to come to mind, and this feels like it requires a more thoughtful approach.

“Okay,” you say, and it is. Truly, it is okay. His belief or lack thereof in the Maker has no impact on how much you both care about each other. Your own faith in in the Maker hasn’t been the most unshakeable, who are you to decide whether or not he’s wrong? You can feel the tension in the arm he has around your waist lessen until his grip is as gentle as it was before. He was never really one to go in the Chantry and it makes sense to you now why not. You thought he just wasn’t really one for all the anti-magic shtick that they preach.

“One of my tutors, he came from Rivain,” he begins, offering an explanation. “While we still had Aldous, my parents wanted Fergus and me to have a more rounded education. He kept his lessons mostly academic, but I enjoyed his company so much I often stayed after and he told me of Rivain and their beliefs,”

You rest your cheek against his chest again, still listening but curling closer to him. He waited a minute, just listening to you breathe before continuing.

“He said that everything in Thedas and beyond were made of energy. Humans, elves, dwarves, qunari, and all the other beings. That energy exists in a cycle. Once the energy in a being has been exhausted in say, an old man, it would go then to a newborn. This continues the cycle, with the same energy and souls from before, just reborn. He said the stress of childbirth erased the memories from the past life, making it harder to remember things from before,” he explained.

“Have you ever remembered anything from one of your past lives?” you asked, wondering if stray dreams may have influenced his belief in the Rivaini.

“No, and I doubt I will remember anything from before. This is a fairly new line of thinking in Ferelden and if it’s true I doubt that any of my past lives believed in it. I think that increases the chance of never remembering those lives, just thinking that nothing came before solidifies the experiences in this time. As sad as it sounds I’m not even sure I’d like to remember those lives,” he said, puzzling you.

“Well, why not?” you ask, lifting your head to look at him again.

“I can’t know if those lives were as lucky as this one to have been able to find you,” he says, lifting a hand to your cheek as you two look at each other. You both lean in for a kiss and you think to yourself that it’s hard to imagine never meeting him in any kind of life.

When I was younger I was certain I’d be fine without a Queen Just a king inside his castle, with an ocean in between Now all I do is sit and count the miles from you to me Oh, Calamity!

You sit on your throne, looking out at the crowd gathered in light of festivities. Teagan stands by your side, Maker bless him. Eamon and young Connor are back in Redcliffe, Isolde caught fever and Connor insisted Eamon stay with them until she recovered. The other nobles are all drinking heavily, well into their cups and you are painfully aware of the missing Arl of Amaranthine. You know he passed on the title back to the Howes and Nathaniel years ago before he even began his search for a cure but, he should be here.

You can see Fergus from your throne speaking to the nobles around him, some minor lordlings from South Reach looks like. They must be discussing politics for you can see Fergus’ top lip twitching. His brother had the same twitch that tells when either of them are about to seal a good deal. Probably speaking of possible marriage arrangements for Fergus’ boy.

You wonder if he thinks about his first son often but as the lordlings turn to retrieve more drinks you see a wave of grief pass over his face before the mask is back in place. You were able to return Highever to the Couslands but in the years since you’ve wondered if they even wanted it back. Nothing either of them said to you indicated otherwise but whenever you visit and they are both there they get certain looks on their faces. As if they were forced to eat Orleisian cheeses.

He must have noticed your eyes on him because Fergus turns to look up to where you sit. The grief is still in his eyes as he gives you a nod before returning to the festivities. You always wondered if he blamed you for having to remarry and raise heirs, knowing that his brother was otherwise occupied as Warden Commander and would never have given Highever heirs of his own willingly.

Seeing as you won’t be making heirs either and that the throne was mostly going to one of his sons you doubted that he could hate you forever. You make a mental note to later write to Fergus about the idea. Provided that you spoke to your fellow Warden about it as well. As soon as he returned of course. Because he would return, he’s the Hero of Fereldan for Maker’s sake, and also because you have had a cold spot in your bed for far too long. Teagan leans over and makes to whisper in your ear.

“Stop thinking about the Prince-Consort, you have the most unwelcoming look on your face,” he says before leaning back. You shoot him a grin upon seeing his sly smile.

“I’m that transparent am I?” you ask rhetorically, straightening your back with only two or three pops compared to the normal five or six. The chair (Eamon says you must refer to it as the throne but in all honesty, it’s just a chair) is far too uncomfortable and you wish said Prince-Consort was here to complain to but that will have to wait for another day.

We get older by the hour, watch the changes from afar. Keep forgetting to remember, where we’ve been is who we are. Now all I do is wonder why we ever set the scene Oh, Calamity

You lean against your shovel, looking up at the sky. Your eye is drawn to where they say the Breach once tore the heavens asunder. You think back to the stories the older servants tell of being children while the world was thrown into chaos by the Archdemon.

They say that among the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes the Inquisitor arose as the Herald of Andraste with a hand sparkling green with ancient Elvhen magics. That they had been touched by Fen’Harel himself. Your knowledge of the Elvhen Parthenon is limited, but the savior of Thedas being touched by the Dread Wolf seemed a bit ironic to you.

It had been almost a century since the sky was closed by the might of the Inquisition and while it still had power, Ferelden no longer felt torn. Struggling to choose between the Inquisition and the throne. While the Inquisition started in Ferelden it had no power over country affairs. King Alistair and his Prince-Consort, may they rest at the Maker’s side, supported the Inquisition in that it would close the Breach was sure to remind them that true power in Ferelden laid with the crown.

To be honest you preferred the late monarchs of Ferelden, may they rest at the Maker’s side, to the Inquisition. The two surviving Grey Wardens of the Battle at Ostagar, saved by a Witch of the Wilds to unite Ferelden and prevent civil war in order to fight the darkspawn.

No one quite knows when or how the two Wardens got involved after ending the Fifth Blight, or whether or not they weren’t together before slaying the Archdemon. But they stood together against the nobles at the Landsmeet, declaring King Alistair the rightful heir and their engagement to each other. You always thought it was very romantic, the last two Grey Wardens standing together against nobles and darkspawn alike.

“What a lazy arse you are Marc!” a voice you recognize as Quint’s called from behind you. You turned to see him walking down the hill towards you, his hands dirty from where he was likely gardening in front of the main house all day, an equally dirty spade tucked between his belt and trousers. You gave him a smile as he approached, knowing that the work day was likely over and he was coming to collect you for dinner.

“I happen to know that you like my arse, whether it’s lazy or not,” you said back to him. Your mind’s eye flickered as he smirked at you, a delicate golden circlet with lavish jewels appearing on his head, the spade at his side now a decorated sword. You frowned, shaking your head to clear the vision. As he reached you he slid his arms around your waist.

“You alright, love?” he asked cautiously. You smiled for him, returning the gesture and wrapping your arms around him as well. You wondered if Quint had ever had a moment like that. As if a memory placed itself over the current view you had. Doubtful, Quint was likely more focused on his next meal.

“Fine, I’m fine. Just tired I guess,” you said blinking the strange vision out of your eyes. “Let’s go see what Cookie’s whipped up for tonight shall we?”

“Hey I heard that the Lord has a visitor from Rivain staying for a while,” He starts telling you earnestly, already coming up with all sorts of wild tales.

It’s such a shame that we play strangers No act to change what we’ve become Damn it’s such a shame that we built a wreck out of me Oh, Calamity.

“It’s not the first time I’ve had one of these visions Neil! There has to be some meaning behind them I just can’t figure out what!” you exclaim, curling your hands into fists against your temples. Neil sits on the cot a foot or so away from where you are curled in on yourself.

“Okay, okay, Wil I believe you,” he says extending his hands out in a placating manner. You peer at him, lifting your head from where you pushed it against your knees. He’s looking at you earnestly with his wide honest eyes and you find your initial fear of him ridiculing you disappearing.

“Just start from the beginning, when did they begin?” He asks you patiently. You take a deep breath and lower your arms to wrap around your calves. You collect your thoughts and decide to be honest.

“I think I’ve always had them, but I could never remember them until after I met you,” you start out. “It’s like I’m living another person’s life, but it just overlaps my own. I’ll see my papa start walking towards me but then his face isn’t his but instead its some Rivaini dressed in the Grey Warden uniform from before the Fifth Blight. My mother gets replaced by someone in servants clothing patting my cheek. And you, you have five different faces. All of them look like they lived centuries ago. There is maybe a century between each of them, with the oldest one from before the Breach.”

“Lived before the Breach? Wil that was back in what, 9:34 Dragon?” Neil says concern clear on his face.

“The Breach opened in 9:41 Dragon,” you correct him.

You’re scared to tell him that he doesn’t take on the face of just anyone from before the Fifth Blight but the face of the Warden who defeated that Blight. You’re scared to tell him that sometimes you look in the mirror and it’s not your face that greets you. That you have five different faces as well. And the oldest face that you see is one drawn in countless history books from the royal portrait archives to your classroom textbook. King Alistair, the last of the Theirins to sit on the throne before he gave it to his Prince-Consort’s nephews, he looks at you in the mirror. He’s always much younger than in the portraits but you know it’s him.

You’re scared that if you tell Neil he will remember the history lessons that covered King Alistair and his Grey Warden Prince-Consort. That they would only be known as the first two men to rule Ferelden as a couple together if they hadn’t also defeated a Blight. You’re scared because this is too new with Neil, you aren’t even sure if you like like him that way and what if he doesn’t like like you like that either? He’s been your only friend since you moved to Lothering a year ago. You refuse to lose a friend like him for something- something like this!

Neil is just as quiet as you, now that you’ve finished your tale. A moment passes before he scoots nearer to you on the bed and slings an arm around your shoulders and drawing you closer to him.

“We’re going to figure this out, ok Wil? I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but we'll figure it out,” he says and it disturbingly sounds like a promise falling from his lips and you look at him in surprise. He has a soft smile on your face, and a little twitch in his upper lip and you’re almost overcome with another déjà vu vision but you tamper it down and stay in this moment where there is just you and Neil.

You find yourself nodding with a grin spreading across your face. His good mood and attitude becoming infectious as you sit on the little cot.

“C’mon, let’s go downstairs, I remember Ma said there was a visitor from Rivain who checked in yesterday,” Neil invited you, standing up and offering you a hand up. You gladly take it and you both head downstairs together.

I’ll remember nights alone, waking up to dial tone Always found my greatest moments in the sound of your hello. Now I struggle to recall the reasons you would come to leave. Oh, Calamity

You didn’t want to call Elijah, you didn’t want to call Elijah, but you wanted to call Elijah. Damn it, you thought to yourself, picking up your telephone. You impatiently pushed the rotary around waiting until it finally put you through. Thankfully, it wasn’t either of Elijah’s, frankly lovely if not a tad overbearing, parents who answered the phone.

“Hello, this is the Philips?” he said, sounding a bit confused by the late call.

“Elijah, it’s me. Benjamin,” you replied. This was a bad idea, you can already tell. You both don’t really know each other how can you be sure it’s him? Your parents always said it took a little while to know if someone was your soulmate. They told you it took time before you could be sure that the overlapping faces were truly the person you were meant to be with. That sometimes, if you rushed it, it wouldn’t be right. But you’re scared, scared it’ll never be right and if you never say anything you’ll never know what you missed.

“Oh hey, Ben. What’s up? Did you forget something at my house?” He asks, not picking up on your nerves at all. You can’t tell if he’s just dense or extremely considerate. Either option is endearing to you and makes the lump in your throat that much harder to speak around. Should you even tell him?

“Uhh no, no I’ve got everything, I just, wanted to call?” it comes out as a question and you want to hang up and then beat yourself over the head with the receiver. You can hear him pause and huff out a laugh of sorts. You want to smile because you’ve seen that laugh in person and can imagine him doing it in your head but it was at your expense and you are so nervous.

“Well, so you’ve called me. Are you feeling okay Ben?” he asks and you almost panic because he can tell, he can tell can’t he, that you don’t know why you called and you want it to be more than what it probably is but you are propelled by fear and nerves and find yourself confessing.

“Eli have you ever met someone and felt like you know them? Like you meet them and something clicks and it feels like you’ve known them all along?” you ask nervously, your voice cracks in the middle but you power through because you are not going to let your sixteen year old voicebox ruin this for you. You listen to Eli suck in a breath of surprise and pause before cautiously picking out his words.

“Ben, I uh. I have felt that way about someone before,” he says to you and you can feel your heart slowly crawl its way out of your stomach and into your throat. You want to ask who, and whether or not it is you. Whether or not he knows what you’ve been going through. However it seems as though you let your indecision carry on too long because Eli is speaking again.

“I’ve felt that way about you Ben, and I don’t know if you ever would feel that way around me but, the dreams stopped after I met you Ben. I don’t see my soulmate in the Fade anymore and I’m scared about what that means but I think I caught a flash of him on your face the other night when you smiled at me and I. I don’t know what this means but I, I would very much like to find out.” he rambles, his voice barely louder than a whisper, almost too quiet for you to hear over the blood rushing in your ears.

“Elijah, oh Elijah, I want to find out too. I want to find out so very badly,” you say twisting the cord between your fingers, nervous about what you’re about to ask him. “Do you maybe, want to go to the fair with me tomorrow then? And come over afterward?” you have the cord wrapped so tightly around your finger that you think it’s starting to cut off circulation but you’re too busy waiting for a response to answer.

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it was the only way to respond “Yes, I’d love to go to the fair with you Ben,”

It’s such a shame that we play strangers No act to change what we’ve become Damn, it’s such a shame that we built a wreck out of me. Oh, Calamity

          You always dreamed of a man when you were younger. A man who was as gentle as the breeze and as strong as the oaks in your backyard and he was the right kind of funny. A man who was sharper than knives and had a tongue to match his quick wit. He didn’t always look the same, his hair would change color and length, he’d get short and then tall and then short again. His eyes however, no matter what color they were, always looked at you with the gentlest expression.

You’re five years old and you only see him when you sleep, wrapped in the Fade together. You both play tag chasing each other round floating bookcases and sheer cliffs.

In time you realized that this was what your parents called “nature’s way of showing you your other half”. There were more technical terms for it now but you weren’t really interested in that. You were excited about this other half business. As a child you wondered if he liked playing with toy cars too, or if he was one of those boys who’d rather build towns only to wreck later, pretending to be great archdemons from old.

You’re twelve years old and your mother finally sits down and talks to you about how sometimes it doesn’t happen. That you aren’t always guaranteed a happy ending due to location and distance.

Your teachers explained that as you grew older, your soul began to recognize that it was missing something. Missing your soulmate, to try and amend this, your body produced dreams and visions of previous lives and people who your soul had found time and time again. Your body doesn’t know what your soulmate looks like this cycle so you can’t see who it is now, but you can dream, and remember. That’s why you see the boy in your dreams.

You’re nineteen years old and lonely and tired of searching and tired of disappointment. Despite this, no matter who or when someone offers a night to alleviate the pain a bit, you decline and dream of your boy who smiles at you with the same sad look in his eyes that you’ve started carrying in your own.

You wake up the morning before your birthday alone in your apartment when your brother calls to tell you that he’s found his soulmate. He invites you to dinner to meet the girl and you accept it, happy to share this moment with your brother. You get there and are reminded that in this lifetime happiness is for the man once called Cailan who died before he even knew he had a brother. Happiness is for the woman once called Anora who watched her father get executed in front of her. Happiness is not for you.

You’re fifty-four years old and playing with your nephews despite your angry knees and their arthritis. Your only niece sits with her mother because the mud just wasn’t her cup of tea and you can hear the perceptive little ten year old ask “Momma, why isn’t Uncle married like you and Daddy?”

When the alzheimer’s starts to take you, it gets hard to remember your niece’s name even though she was always your secret favorite. She still visits you but it’s hard on her and you can tell. She reminds you that she’s in college for her Master’s degree but you still don’t know what the degree is. You are forgetting a lot of things these days, but when you close your eyes the same familiar face greets you every time and you feel young again.

You’re eighty-seven years old and that is the best description of you. Old.

If I catch you on the corner will you even know it’s me? Will I look familiar to you? Do you offer me a seat? Can we find a new beginning? Do you turn the other cheek? Oh, Calamity!

Job hunting sucked. End of story, no other options, game over, it sucked and that was it. Thankfully Gwen (you wonder if she remembers yelling at you in that dingy house back in Denerim) said that you only had to do it for a few hours and three hours seemed long enough to you at least. You walked to the closest café, pulling the messenger bag higher on your shoulder as you turned the corner. The day was nice enough; maybe you could stop and sit down at one of the outside tables.      

After ordering (a tea of some sort and a cheesy croissant) you went back outside looking for a table. Sadly other patrons must have had the same idea that you did and most of the tables were already full. A particularly rowdy group of teens had already occupied one corner of the outside arrangements and you’d like to sit as far away from them as possible. You walk over to see if perhaps there are more tables around the side of the building, you’re out of luck but no one’s sitting in such a dense group as at the other tables.

You gaze around and finally you see someone sitting with a laptop and a few papers. You aren’t sure how friendly they are but they seem a better choice than the dodgy old man who glares at anyone who comes near. You walk up to the table with the man and his laptop, not the old guy, and hesitantly get the attention of the man sitting there.

“Oh uh hello, uhm may I sit here? This café is strangely busy and I’d rather not sit by all those teenagers. Not that I have a problem with teenagers but it’s a tad distracting when they scream random memes. Am I rambling? I think I’m rambling, I can find another table somewhere else,” the words fall out of your mouth in a somewhat coherent pattern and you hope he understands what you said.

“No, no you’re alright. Please, sit,” he says with a gentle smile, he even shuffles his papers closer to himself so you can set down your cup. You sling your bag over the back of the chair and sit down across from him. After sitting you smack yourself in the forehead before speaking again.

“Where are my manners today I’m sorry, my name is Van, pleased to meet you,” you say, extending your hand across the table to shake his. He has a strong grip and you’re glad you can return it in kind.

“The pleasure is mine, you can call me Ryan,” he says to you. After a moment, he watches you as you meticulously take apart your cheesy croissant. You flush under his gaze in embarrassment.

“Sorry, I’m just a little curious as to what you’re doing?” he asks looking over your mangled food.

“Oh! Well, you see, they hide the good bits under all this bread in some attempt to even out the flavor. However the truly tasty part is the lovely cheese blend they make here and I think they should just sell that on it’s own but the dear owner disagrees with me. Quite strongly in fact,” you explain to him. He chuckles at your explanation and then adds his own input.

“You know, the last time I met someone so in tune to the finer aspects of good cheese, he was a very strange man who spent time remembering his former life in a monastery where the boys had some fascination with lamp posts,” he says, and your eyes snap open to take in his features anew, yes there’s the twitch of the upper lip. You smirk back at him and take a second to remember a highlight in your relationship.

“Well, have you ever licked a lamp post in winter?” you drawl out hoping that your voice in this lifetime sounds similar to when you first said it back in the ninth age. He full out grins back and stands up to lean over the table and grab your shirt tugging you in.

“Congratulations on coming back to me again, my King,” he retorts, ignoring your question.

“I think you’re the one I should be saying that too Mr. Grey Warden who simply had to push me out of the way so that he could deal the last blow to the archdemon,” you snark back at him, remembering that fateful night. He just rolls his eyes at you and closes the distance, leaving the past memories in favor of making new ones.

It’s such a shame that we play strangers No act to change what we’ve become Damn, it’s such a shame that we play strangers No act to change what we’ve become Damn it’s such a shame that we built a wreck out of me Oh, Calamity

“Almost makes you wish we could just fight another Blight and be done with it?”

“I’d take a Blight over a hundred awkward first dates, maybe not actually. There are too many darkspawn during those. And with our first dates I’m more likely to get laid now,”

“The one thing the movies never have, a shambling horde of shrieks and genlock to ruin our day,”

“The movies do end up with me back at your place more times than not surprisingly, seeing as you were the last one to lick a lamp post in winter between the two of us,”

“Oh we’ll see who’s licking the lamp post this time around Warden,”

“You know I’m not one of those anymore, especially since it’s been what, five centuries since the order died out?”

“Yes but this is probably our twentieth first meeting and it gets confusing if I try to remember all of the names you’ve had,”

“True enough, you royal bastard,”

Oh, Calamity, come back to me.

[irhinoceri]

Not to be overly critical, but....

I’m about 3 hours into The Stolen Throne, and just got to Rowan’s introduction. First thing she does is punch Maric in the face with an armored gauntlet.

Right. I know she’s his eventual queen (and gets weirdly killed off between novels--since I’ve already listened to The Calling) so this introduction made me pause my audiobook and heave a deep, weary sigh.

First off, I do not understand Gaider’s characterization of Maric. I just don’t. I’m trying to remember back to his portrayal in The Calling and the Until We Sleep comic, and I don’t recall him being a buffoon, but this book is like “Maric is a useless clown who is entirely unprepared to be king” and it’s like the most uncharitable interpretation of Alistair only it makes NO SENSE.

Alistair wasn’t a leader because he was a bastard who was raised with no direction -- no one involved in his upbringing had any real idea that he would be in line for the throne because despite living in a brutal medieval fantasy world, no one expected Cailan to die without an heir. (In the game it’s hinted that Alistair is given the beacon lighting task specifically to keep him away from the battle so that if Cailan fell he would still be alive, but that’s 20 years too late to start planning ahead, of you ask me!)

Anyway, it’s understandable that Alistair isn’t “king material” and has to undergo a character journey (pushed along by your warden and others) in order to grow into someone who will take responsibility. (Shut up Dragon Age Inquisition, I see you trying to retcon that and would like to show you my gauntleted fist). It’s understandable because of his backstory. Raised not to be a king or leader of any kind, actually raised by people who didn’t care about him at all, who even were openly hostile towards him and tried to get rid of him. His joking and self-deprecation and unwillingness to step up and be a leader are all ways to hide insecurity and loneliness and the fact that he has never been loved or respected by anyone. I mean, Fuck Eamon and Isolde Guerrin, and fuck Maric too! Fiona entrusted you with her only son and you fucked up Maric, you fucked up!

Anyway.

Why is Maric an Alistair 2.0? Why the fuck is the son of the Rebel Queen so ill-prepared? I haven’t gotten a satisfactory answer and it’s been 3 hours. Like, I would understand if he were a pampered prince archetype who has been too busy enjoying being rich and privileged to put in the work necessary, that’s a good condemnation of monarchy in general, why someone is deemed fit to rule a nation just because of their parentage, etc. etc.

But let’s consider that his entire life up to this point has been one of exile and war. Yes, the novel makes it clear that he had some privilege because there were always people in Ferelden who support the Rebel Queen and give them a place to live. Much like Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen in Game of Thrones. Unlike the Targaryens, though, Maric still has his mother (father?) and grandfather growing up, and unlike the Targaryens, the Theirins are out of power because they were conquered by an invading empire, they were not deposed in a civil war caused by their own cruelty/madness. So even though Viserys and Daenerys didn’t end up making the greatest leaders (fuck you, GoT, never forgive, never forget) that’s not to say that I think it’s a 1:1 correlation and Maric couldn’t have been raised with his future Kingship in mind.

Anyway, I’m rambling, but I’m just so frustrated with how for 3 hours I’ve just been listening to how useless a king Maric is because he was completely unprepared for his mother to die. She was a great woman, a queen who inspired loyalty and led a rebellion, but she didn’t bother to prepare her son to take her place?? He should have been her second in command at this point! Really now.

If this whole thing was a condemnation of monarchal rule I’d be a little less irritated but I don’t feel like it is, I feel like this is all just a character flaw for Maric to give him an arc. And the problem is that I already witnessed and participated in this arc with Alistair. I was already in Loghain’s shoes playing as the Warden. And you know what, it was Better that way.

Side note, I am starting to realize why I’ve seen people who are pro-Loghain and Anora and hate Alistair/klill him/exile him (or at the very least don’t choose to make him king and have him stay a warden) cite The Stolen Throne as reasons why the Theirin line needs to end. When I played Origins I definitely saw Alistair as needing to rise to the occasion etc. etc. etc. but it’s like.... woof buddy... you really do come from a long line of idiots. I am so sorry.

I did like Maric in The Calling, though. I’m struggling to remember why, but I recall him being depressed and suffering from PTSD so that’s probably a big part of it. The Calling was just Maric and Fiona being sad and doing some sad fucking in the Deep Roads and I was like “Yes, Very Sad People Fucking. My Kink.”

(Joking.. sort of... but broken people finding some solace in one another? Chef’s kiss.)

Oh my god I nearly forgot what I originally meant to rant about.

As irritating as it has been to listen to the Maric and Loghain show, the fact that Rowan fucking decks Maric the instant she shows up in the novel pissed me the fuck off.

This is a guy whos mother was brutally murdered in front of him, has been on the run, got blamed for getting Loghain’s father killed even though Gareth was the one insisting on sacrificing his life for the glory of Fereldan Kings, and had to make a deal with a witch just to survive.... and Rowan’s reaction upon seeing him (knowing that his mother is dead) is to.... punch him?

And I’m supposed to go HUR HUR HUR, here’s a Strong Female Character. That’s right, Loghain, get a hard on for this Strong Female Character who just punched a man who was not threatening her at all, in the face, with a METAL fist because... he’s annoying? He talks too much? He DESERVED to get hit by his future wife because..... reasons!

IDK. I can’t stand Loghain, either. His PoV is very anti-elven and anti-mage (shocker) and I’m wondering when we’re going to get to the part that makes people into Loghain stans.

Anyway, I love Dragon Age.