Chapter Text
Ferelden was cold and smelt of dogs.
Of course, that’s what everyone said about it, but they said it because it was true.
Fiona did not mind either.
She hated the rocky road that made her bounce hard into the air every time the carriage hit a bump.
And she hated that she was the only elf in the carriage with the Orlesian enclave. Mostly because the other people in the carriage, the ambassador, Comte something-or-another, who wanted to curry favor with the Emperor, an agent of the Divine, barely masked their hostility to her.
But she liked being back in Ferelden again.
She rested her head against the wall of the carriage and rested her eyes now. She hadn’t slept well the night before, or any night in the twenty-two days since she began on the trip from Orlais. A carriage full of Orlesian noblemen, most of whom had likely known the man who owned her, at least in passing, made her feel unsafe. But one had to sleep at some point. Or rest at least. And so she was now.
“Why don’t mages create a spell to make it possible to travel more quickly?” the Comte asked her, snapping her out of her near sleep state. He had a high, whiny voice that grated on one the longer one spoke to him.
She tried to hide her annoyance with him with a smile as she opened her eyes but was uncertain how successful she was at it.
“It breaks one of the cardinal rules of magic.”
“Since when do mages care about breaking rules?”
“It’s not one of those kind of rules.”
“What kind of a rule is it then?” The condescension in the Comte’s voice was audible, and the agent of the Divine, a young woman with dark, waist length hair and an upturned nose, and the Ambassador, a grey-haired man with a waxed mustache and a goatee both let out a small laugh.
“It’s a rule like the laws of gravity are rules. It’s a set of boundaries in which magic can work.” She paused, biting her lip. “There are rumors that once, elves had magic mirrors that allowed them to travel great distances in less than a minute, but I don’t know how true they are.”
“Elves?” The Comte spoke again, letting out a snort. “Elves created this?”
“Yes. The books call them Eluvians. They were-”
“You believe this? You, Warden, believe ancient elves had this technology even though humans do not?”
Fiona bit the inside of her cheek to keep from punching the man in the jaw. “I don’t know what I believe, your lordship. I am only telling you what I know from the books I have read.”
He let out a laugh again, exchanging amused looks with the two other shemlen. She closed her eyes again.
“It thinks its people were able to make magic mirrors,” the Ambassador said with a laugh. He spoke in Tevene, the language of the well educated, apparently expecting her to be unable to understand.
“If you could please be quiet so I may sleep, I would appreciate it, Ser,” Fiona said back in Tevene, not even opening her eyes. The small gasp someone, Fiona wasn’t certain who, probably the agent of the Divine, let out made her smile slightly.
The shemlen of Orlais, minus those within the Wardens, still treated her poorly, despite her position. She was still an elf, no matter her status as Warden-Constable, no matter her rank And she was still a mage. And conversations like this just proved that.
She was a free woman, she was a Grey Warden, she had more power than almost any other elf in Orlais, but she was still just an elf, still, in the eyes of men like the Comte, nothing but an elven whore who rose above her station and needed to be brought down a few pegs. But, as elves always have, she would resist.
It was night when Fiona woke again. The three others in the carriage were asleep. It was a beautiful night, with more stars showing in the night sky than there probably were people in Thedas. The moon was large and hung high, making the night less dark than it could have been. And in the distance, she could see a large castle on a hill.
She knew, without any signs telling her such, it was Redcliffe. That it was the village where her son lived.
What would her son, what would Alistair, be doing right now?
Would his governess be putting him to bed?
Did he have a governess? Or did the Arl and Arlessa care for him?
She wasn’t sure. Nearly every time she got a letter from Maric about Alistair, she couldn’t bring herself to open it. She had given him up, she had cleaved herself from his life. No matter how curious she was about him, it wasn’t her place to know.
If the Maker existed in His heaven, He knew. And He would watch over Alistair. She just hoped He’d watch out for her son better than He watched out for her.
He’d be nearly three.
Tears started to fill her eyes, unbidden, as she thought about how her son would look now. Would he still have blond hair or if it changed color? And if those big, blue eyes of his were still blue, or if they had gotten darker. Would he have freckles in the sun, like the freckles Maric had on certain parts of his skin? If she met him in a crowd, would she be able to tell, just from looking at him, that he was her son?
She forced herself to take a deep shuddering breath, willing the tears away. The choice to give him up was her’s. She had no right to miss him. She had chosen this. She had made this choice. She had no right to miss him.
He had a right to a happy life with a family who loved him. Not doomed to be the elf-blooded bastard of the king of Ferelden and an elven mage slave. No. She wasn’t a slave. She was free now. She needed to remember that.
But she couldn’t get the thoughts of Alistair out of her head. She hoped someone was tucking him in. That someone was telling him stories of griffons, and dragons and kings who always saved the princesses, and princesses who always saved themselves.
–
Maric’s bedroom was always warm. He may have been Ferelden, and his skin may have been thick enough to survive the harsh winters, but that didn’t mean he liked them. The fire in his fireplace burned hot for hours, and the red velvet curtains that lined the walls kept the heat inside the room. In the dim candlelight the red curtains, and the yellow pine of the floorboards made Maric feel like he was inside the flame of an oil lamp, which was not a sensation he disliked.
He sat across from Loghain at the sturdy oak table in one of the corners of the room. Loghain was wearing something other than that Orlesian chevalier armor he’d taken to wearing oh so many years for ago for what felt like the first time in months. Instead, he wore a simple white tunic and a pair of brown trousers that had probably been Maric’s at some point, based on the fact that they were about an inch too short in the legs for him. His face looked sharper and even more angular in the candlelight.
“The Orlesians are coming tomorrow,” Loghain reminded Maric irritably as he poured both of them a glass of honeywine. The golden color of it was changed to a greenish black in the clear blue glasses. Loghain pushed one of the glasses to Maric, who took it gratefully and took a sip. It was thicker than most honeywines, and sweeter on the King’s tongue. He put the glass back down on the table, and stared down into it, as though the wine was suddenly very interesting to him.
“Fiona is going to be with them,” he said. “She sent me a letter before she left Orlais. The Wardens sent her to be their representative.”
“That’s…The boy’s mother?”
The right side of Maric’s mouth twitched up for a moment, but his eyes made it clear it wasn’t a happy thought, not really. “She is. Yes.”
“I could arrange for someone to keep her away from you, if that’s what you want.”
“No…No, that’t not…That’s not what I want. I’ve missed her. It will be good to see her again.”
Loghain picked up his own glass of honeywine, and he held it at about his shoulder for a moment. “You’re in love with her,” he said, before taking a sip. His voice was that of someone entirely exasperated with his best friend’s taste in people.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. You have that look. That cow-eyed look you’d get back when….” He paused, not finishing his sentence the way he wanted to, that is, with ‘back when you were in love with Katriel’. Even now, neither of them spoke of the Elven bard who had won Maric’s heart. Who the King had slayed at Loghain’s urging. The one who’s death had helped to cause rifts in their friendship. “Back during the rebellion when someone caught your eye,” he finished weakly.
“I don’t look cow-eyed,” Maric protested.
“You always look cow-eyed when you’re in love. Like a love-sick Mabari.”
He smiled a little now, like Loghain hoped he would. “Dogs have cow eyes now?”
Loghain smiled back, letting his teeth show as he did. “When they’re in love them do.” He took another deep sip of his honeywine, a long, deep one that lasted until he cleared the glass. “Do you think she misses you?”
Maric’s mouth twitched, and he looked back at his drink before looking at Loghain again. “I can’t tell, with the letters she sends me. They’re short. Crisp. Businesslike. She asks me how I am, but never tells me how she is. She asks about Alistair, but she doesn’t say she misses him. It’s like she’s scared of putting any emotions in them.” He lifted his glass and took another sip, cherishing the way the alcohol burned slightly. “Actually, they remind me of the letters you would send me and Rowan back before she died. Back when we were barely speaking. Only more neatly written,” he added as a tease.
“I’d say she misses you then. As a friend if nothing else.”
Maric felt a pressure behind his eyes, like something urging him to cry, even though he had no idea why he would, or should. He swallowed hard in an attempt to make the sensation go away. “You’d like her, Loghain.”
“I quite doubt that.”
“No, I mean it, I’m sure of it. You’d like her. She’s…Actually, she’s a lot like you.” He let out a small breath of a laugh at his friend.
“Should I take that as an advance on your part? Saying the woman you are clearly in love with is a lot like me?”
“You could,” Maric said with a smirk, “Though that wasn’t how I originally intended it.”
Loghain let out a small laugh, much like the one Maric had, still smiling, and took another sip of his drink. “I don’t believe Celia would approve.”
That made Maric let out a genuine laugh. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol making him giddy, or if it was actually funny, but he laughed no matter which it was.
The subject changed then, away from Fiona, to other business, but she was still on Maric’s mind. He still felt butterflies in his stomach quivering at the thought of her arrival.
–
Cailan didn’t sleep well. He hadn’t since his mother’s death. He’d sleep for a few hours, and then wake again, still feeling exhausted, but unable to go back to bed. On nights like that, he wandered the darkened halls of the castle, finding things to busy himself with. Tonight, he had taken his oil lamp up to one of the higher levels of the castle, where there was a window that allowed him a view of the city below.
Denerim never truly fell asleep. There were always enough burning lamps and candles that even in the dead of night it was bright enough to see the shapes of the buildings, to see the people in the street walking around; the city guards and those who were up to no good. The palace district held the castle, and the estates of many higher levels of nobility. It was where the Couslands had their city home, and where, if he ever chose to use it, Loghain would live. The Howes had a city home here too, and some of the other, more wealthy, nobles.
It was fascinating to watch their homes and see servants come in and out of the house.
“You should be in bed,” a voice behind Cailan chided. He knew, without even turning around, that it was Anora’s voice. She and her father often spent the night at the castle. Loghain was his father’s oldest friend, and some nights the two of them would stay up all night talking, which meant Anora could not go home and sleep in her own bed.
“Shouldn’t you?” Cailan asked, still not turning around.
“I heard someone walking around out here. I reasoned I should make certain it wasn’t a kidnapper or a burglar.” The blonde girl walked up to the window where he stood, and began to stare down at the city as well. Cailan glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. Her hair had been rolled into strips of cloth, meant to make it curl, and she wore a thick white flannel shift much like the one he wore. She was barefoot like him as well.
“What would you do if it was?” Cailan asked, returning his eyes to the city below. One of the city guards was talking to one of Arl Howe’s guards now. “You don’t know how to fight.”
“Do so! Papa taught me.”
Cailan snorted in a manner completely unfit for a future king. “You do not.”
“I do so! I’ll fight you right now.”
“No! It’s the middle of the night. I’m not fighting you, Anora. Your father would skin me alive if I hurt you.”
“You’re just a coward,” Anora said crisply, but she allowed the subject to drop. For a few minutes the two just stared out at the city they would one day rule together.
Then Cailan looked away, back at her. “There’s a Grey Warden coming tomorrow,” he informed Anora.
“Duncan comes often, doesn’t he? I don’t see why that is important.”
“It’s not Duncan. It’s a woman. And,” he spoke in a stage whisper now, “She’s a mage.”
“I’m still uncertain why you’re acting like this is important news.” Anora glanced away from the window now and sat down on the floor in front of Cailan, letting her head rest on one of her fists as she stared up at him. Cailan quickly dropped to sitting as well, tucking his legs under him, and gave her an exasperated sigh. “Have you ever met a mage before?”
Anora thought for a second. “The Aldebrant’s son Florian is a mage. I met him before he was sent to the Circle.”
“That doesn’t count. I mean a mage mage. Not a mage who isn’t a mage yet.”
“You’re not making sense Cailan.”
“I am so.”
“No, you’re not. Try explaining it again.”
“A mage who’s…A mage who’s been trained. A real mage. Not a mage who doesn’t know he has magic yet.”
“No.”
Cailan beamed now, watching as the oil lamp now sitting on the ledge lent a yellowish glow to Anora’s face, along with brown shadows. “See? We’ll get to meet a mage tomorrow.”
Anora made a face, though she said nothing. For a few minutes, the two children just looked at one another, blue eyes staring into blue eyes, until finally Cailan looked away.
“You should go back to bed,” he commented, pulling himself back up from the ground.
“You should too.”
“I’ll go to bed eventually.”
“I’ll stay with you until you do,” Anora told him. It wasn’t an offer, it was a statement. And Cailan smirked down at her, nodding.
“Okay then. You can stay. Just be quiet. I don’t want to wake the servants.”