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peopleofthedas2011-02-04 10:09 pm
Trouble & Strife: Chapter Forty Three
bellaknoti the Comma Fairy, who kindly tidies up my chapters. Link to the beginning, for anyone joining us for the first time: www.fanfiction.net/s/6144534/1/Trouble_S
Title: Trouble & Strife: Chapter Forty Three
Characters: today we have Alistair, Maddy, Philippe, Zevran, Anders, Teagan, Leliana, Dagna, Oghren, Leonie and a rousing chorus of Orzammarian dwarves and former mages of the Circle.
Rating: T
This chapter: What should a Templar do when a mage is unravelling before his eyes?
-oOo-
Alistair had to ask Dagna to give them a few minutes alone before she took them in to see the mages. In the light of her revelations, Anders was not fit to be seen; he was certainly not fit to interact with other mages. Magic was leaking from him, sparking from his fingers and filling the air around him. The short hairs at Alistair’s nape were lifting with it and the taste of sherbet, destruction magic, fizzled on his tongue.
“They did it. They. Finally. Fucking. Did it.” The dull anger and despair in Anders’ voice was matched by the rolling wave of power that came from him. Alistair waved a very worried-looking Teagan away to safety and stepped into the centre of the little maelstrom. Tears were pouring down Anders’ face, while his cat - held tightly in his arms - appeared twice the size it should due to static charge. The mage hadn’t left his chair, hadn’t moved a muscle since Dagna left; Alistair wasn’t even sure that he was fully aware of his surroundings.
There was only one thing to be done, but carefully. Alarming Anders in this mood would be very, very bad. Alistair squatted next to his chair and closed his eyes. Trying to ignore the undirected power swirling around him, he very gently pushed out with his own power. Only in that moment did he realise how rusty he was, how rarely he practiced Templar disciplines anymore. Compared to the unleashed fury of a mage as strong as Anders, he felt like an amateur, but that might not be a bad thing right now; a strong blast of cleansing could well prompt unbridled hostility that Alistair really didn’t want to face from his friend.
“Anders, let me help.” He kept the words gentle, undemanding, while pushing out a little more power. The charged atmosphere around the mage diminished a shade, but it was Pounce, struggling to be free, who brought Anders back enough to blink away his tears and recognise what was happening. He released the frightened cat and offered his hands to Alistair. When the Templar-trained warrior took them, the mage nodded permission and allowed cleansing energy to flow over him, clearing the air of random energy and dispelling the effects of his loss of control.
Other than smite his friend, which was an absolute last resort, all Alistair could do was continue to gently cleanse, giving the mage time to recover in safety. Anders was clinging to his hands like a lifeline, taking deep breaths and regaining command of himself in slow increments. It was an eye-opener for Alistair; an opportunity to see both why people feared mages, and how much a Templar could help a mage if they trusted each other. The germ of an idea tickled the back of his mind, but he had no spare attention to give to it.
The taste of sherbet faded, as Anders became himself again. His death-grip on Alistair’s fingers loosened and then disengaged. Pounce padded back across the floor to his master and mewed in an enquiring kind of way. The mage drew a shaky breath and picked up his cat; he looked up at Alistair, bloody murder in his eyes, which was significantly better than the alternative.
“We have to go back there; we have to stop this.”
Alistair huffed an exasperated breath. When did I become the sensible one? He marshalled his thoughts before responding, really needing to have all of his team behind him right now. “Anders, if we want to stop this, really stop this, then we are in the correct place right now. You know that; we discussed it, remember?” He couldn’t come straight out and say that their plan hinged on the lyrium trade. The Aeducan estate was Bhelen’s territory, and for all he knew there were people listening to every word. It was bad enough that Bhelen knew about the problems at Kinloch Hold at all.
“But-” Anders cut off his own objection, frustrated but comprehending. He dropped his head into his hands and massaged his scalp, the last crackles of loose energy lifting the hairs as he made a wreck of his neat ponytail. By the time he raised his head he was himself again, his crooked smile faint but visible. He nodded. “Lead on, O Great and Glorious Kingie.”
-oOo-
“You want to do what?” Leliana blinked at her friend, horrified. “Are you insane?”
A mulish look overtook Maddy’s face. “Oh? My husband can go there to die, but I am not to be permitted even to see it? I do not find this acceptable.”
“But- The Deep Roads. It’s… Maddy, you don’t understand - you can’t understand - how dangerous and terrible it is, truly.”
Tears welled up in the Queen’s green eyes. “It is true, I cannot. That is what troubles me the most; Alistair will leave me and go to die and I won’t even be able to picture it, to picture him. I won’t be able to bear it unless I know what it is my husband is going to face. Surely it cannot be worse than my nightmares.”
Leliana enfolded her friend in a fond embrace. “Oh, ma chérie. I’m sorry, but this is not possible. The danger is too great, even if you were not enceinte. Would you risk your children over this?”
Maddy wiped her eyes. “I do not see that I should be in danger. I wish only to go inside; the dwarves set up points of defensive barriers, n'est-ce pas? I would not put one foot past this, je vous assure.”
The bard shook her head. “If it is so simple, why have you not asked Alistair? You know he would not allow it, and you cannot do this in secret. No, Maddy. I love you like a sister and for that reason I won’t help you. This is madness, and I think you know it.”
With Maddy wrapped in an affectionate embrace, her face was hidden in Leliana’s shoulder. The stubborn gleam in the Queen’s eyes, which suggested that she had no intention of letting go of the notion so easily, was hidden also.
-oOo-
“Welcome, Y-your Majesty.”
The mages’ living quarters appeared to have been hastily swept clean in preparation to receive the King. Corners of papers stuck out of overstuffed drawers, tables were still marked with the rings of careless teacups, and shabby, over-worked cushions had been inexpertly fluffed. The three mages currently in residence dropped into nervous bows, while Dagna beamed over their bent shoulders and introduced everyone. There was one man, Kinnon, and two elven women, red-haired Fenella and blond Yvenny.
“Please, I’m not here to stand on ceremony,” Alistair’s warm manner and infectious smile set them all a little more at ease. “May I sit? I’d like very much to hear what’s happened to you all since you arrived here in Orzammar.”
“O-of course.” Kinnon gestured to the most comfortable-looking chair. “Please, sit here.” They all hastily made way for Alistair, before offering Arl Teagan another chair. Anders threw himself down on a sofa as though he lived there, peering with interest at the various accoutrements of war piled in one corner; not only staffs but also bits of adapted dwarven armour.
It was the Warden, in fact, who spoke first, causing all eyes to fly to the King, shocked by this apparent breach in manners. “I heard that six of you got out.” Anders nodded to the dark-haired man who had offered Alistair a seat. “Kinnon, I’m glad to see you here, safe. Looks like you others were Harrowed after my time. Where are the other three?”
“The other two – Torrin and Petra,” replied Dagna, her cheerful face falling. “Mackis died; the darkspawn got him.”
Anders sucked in a breath. “Poor old Mackis, we were apprentices together. I would never have pegged him as someone who would stick one toe in the Deep Roads. Which brings me to my next question.” His bright eyes moved from one mage to another, taking in their appearance. “How many of you are patrolling and, most importantly, why?”
“All of us are, except for Torrin; he’s working with the smiths.” Kinnon cast a nervous glance at Alistair, unsure about talking directly to Anders in his presence, and received a reassuring smile in return. He took a deep breath and continued. “The King… um…. King Bhelen I mean, he wanted to know how we could be useful to Orzammar. Torrin is a runesmith, but the rest of us were told to report to the Aeducan Patrol Commander.”
“But what about the taint?” Alistair’s question made all three mages jump, and it was Dagna who responded.
“We’ve been fighting darkspawn forever; why do you think so few dwarves get tainted? We’re careful.” Her bright, innocent eyes and cheerful smile contrasted oddly with the subject. “Patrol helms are all full-face to protect the mouth, and wounds are washed out immediately if they can’t be healed in battle. It’s fascinating, actually - provided a healing spell is cast quickly, it seems to flush the darkspawn blood out rather than seal it in. I didn’t know until the first mixed patrol came back, and have been working on a theory about it ever since. I wish I still had access to the Circle library, though.”
That helps to explain why none of our Blight companions got sick, thought Alistair. Wynne was fast. He looked at the huddle of worried faces across from him and wondered what he was going to do. Bhelen wouldn’t want to give up his new advantage, and it wasn’t as if he had anywhere else for them to go, right now.
Perhaps Kinnon saw something in the King’s expression, or maybe the subject was at the forefront of all their minds. “Your Majesty? A-are you going to make us go back? To the Circle, I mean.” His face was rigid with tension, and Alistair didn’t blame him; the Circle was no picnic right now.
“No! Not as it is at the moment, no. Later, well, we’ll see.” It made Alistair’s guts churn, to think of what the Chantry had put the mages through. These people were his subjects, and he couldn’t help but feel that he’d failed them. “The question is; what do you want to do in the meantime?”
The looks they gave him were astounded, as though he’d grown a second head. For the first time, one of the elven mages spoke. “Do? What can we do? If we leave here, the Templars will find us.”
Anders chimed in right away, and Alistair heard the eagerness in the Warden’s voice. “The Warden Commander will be here soon; she’ll be happy to consider recruiting anyone with experience fighting darkspawn, I’m sure.”
What a choice they’ve been left with, thought Alistair. Fight darkspawn here, or on the surface. I must succeed, for all their sakes.
-oOo-
“Ancestor’s sweaty cleft!” The roar that sounded across the Commons held a dreadful familiarity that made Zevran wince. “Who let the pointy-eared nancy-boy in?”
He felt Philippe - walking beside him - stiffen in outrage, while on the other side of his prince Leliana gave a little spurt of laughter.
Walking towards them was yet another portion of the past Zevran would have been perfectly happy never to set eyes on again, flanked by a tall woman whose huge silvery armour matched her hair, and a dwarven girl who seemed miniscule even by the standards of that race, her pigtails and bright blue eyes contrasting strangely with a mass of dark tattoos.
Oghren wasted no time in sticking his foot even further in his mouth, turning to Leliana with a lecherous grin, his eyes rolling over Philippe.
“Hey, carrot-top, good to see you got yerself a new shag-piece. It’s about time you stopped pining for surly-chops.”
“Oghren.” Any number of people would, by this point, have been happy to address him in tones of such cold disapproval, but the snapped syllables came from the armour-clad woman. “You will apologise to His Highness, Prince Philippe.” She bowed stiffly to her fellow Orlesian, adding her own apology. “Mille pardons, monseigneur.”
As Philippe rose to the occasion, taking her hand with rare grace and assuring her that her words were unnecessary, Zevran mused upon the possible identity of ‘surly-chops’ while enjoying the unusual sight of Oghren growling a reluctant apology into his beard. Leliana’s fiery blush suggested that a sore spot had been touched; this then must be the Warden she had inadvertently referred to. Most intriguing, to be sure, and worthy of further investigation.
Philippe smoothly moved to introduce Zev to the tall warrior with the marked Orlesian accent; his attempt to bow over Commander Leonie’s hand was forestalled by her taking his for a firm handshake. “I am honoured to meet one who has faced an archdemon, siegneur. I have been informed through letters from Anders that you had rejoined the King, and of the great assistance you have been providing.”
Oh? I wonder exactly how much information our good Warden Anders has been feeding her?
“You are here for the talks, Leonie?” Leliana had regained her composure and addressed the Commander as if she knew her quite well. “We only arrived this morning, so you have missed nothing important.”
“For the talks, yes.” The Commander’s tone was as polite as always, but the reaction of both her Wardens was disproportionate to the mild response. A fierce scowl emerged from behind Oghren’s beard, while beneath the murky mess of tattoos a look almost of longing crossed the female’s face. “Although, King Bhelen’s request that I attend him in Orzammar was… fortuitously timed.”
“Oh?” The bard’s wide blue eyes stared intently into unreadable obsidian ones, but apparently she saw something there she understood. “Oh.”
A tiny tilt of the Commander’s head confirmed Leliana’s monosyllable. The gesture was uniquely Orlesian, reminding Zevran strongly of Philippe. He wondered whether this inscrutable female was also of noble origin; her scrupulous manners certainly suggested it. Too much of this conversation had been hidden from him, but there would be time later to extract more.
-oOo-
Wardens, nobles, royalty and advisors congregated in Bhelen’s banqueting hall for the welcome feast. Unlike in a human hall, where honoured guests would sit at High table with their host, everyone sat at long tables, all set at right angles to Bhelen’s unoccupied throne. He was seated in the centre of one table, with his favoured courtesan, Rica, opposite him. Alistair sat at the centre of the other table, the two Kings facing each other at a distance, with Madeleina opposite her husband. The rest of the seating was an intricate mystery to the humans, although obviously of paramount importance to the dwarven noble families represented at dinner. Certainly it bore no resemblance to the human tradition of ‘above and below the salt’.
The Ferelden King and Queen had been sandwiched between some of Bhelen’s most ardent supporters, which was no real surprise. Lord and Lady Dace, and the ever-present Vartag Gavorn, spent the meal gently pumping their royal guests for useful information. The convoluted nature of dwarven politics being what it was, this included virtually every word that dropped from their lips. Over at the other table, Bhelen appeared to be undertaking a similar verbal fencing match with Leliana; from the sparkle in the bard’s eyes, she was enjoying the challenge. Opposite them, Philippe seemed to be having an easier time of it with Rica, charming her with gentle witticisms, lifting her wrist to smell and compliment her on her new perfume, and bantering with Teagan, who was seated on her other side. The beautiful, and very pregnant, dwarven woman seemed delighted with her company, and her tinkling laugh was heard often over the general chatter.
Across the table from Alistair, Vartag was complimenting Maddy on her fertility, a subject always close to the dwarven heart, and was curious to know how she could be certain she was having twins. The information that a good healing mage could sense them caused a flicker of interest in his black eyes, and there was a somewhat repellent eagerness in his voice as he asked if they could also ascertain the sex of unborn children. Alistair heard the slight falter in Maddy’s voice as she replied that she wasn’t sure; it seemed she’d caught it too.
Alistair was expecting the Daces to introduce the subject of lyrium, but they didn’t do so. Instead they asked him about the royal procession, about the new trade agreements with Orlais, about the disposition of the royal troops and the Crown’s ability to levy additional troops from the nobles. The latter was thrown in so carelessly that Alistair was certain it was of primary importance; presumably Bhelen had shared with them his hopes of winning assistance to regain the thaigs. It seemed curious that they did not mention what was being tabled in trade for this assistance, though.
Alistair swore to himself that once this interminable meal ended he would go over to the Shaperate and spend the rest of the night, if necessary, wading through everything he could find on the lyrium trade. His first meeting with Bhelen was in the morning, before the Proving tournament, and he couldn’t afford to walk in without every tiny piece of information at his fingertips.
Everything hinged on this deal.
Maker help and guide me. So many people’s lives hang upon the thin thread of my abilities as a King.
And I’m afraid.
-oOo-
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But you're right, and it's just what I thought - the Chantry robbed both mages and Templars alike when they set them against each other.
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I feel strongly that the relationship between mages and Templars should be a much gentler thing than it is ingame. The scene between Alistair and Anders just proves it.