Caged Freedom - Chapter 8
Vigil's Keep, AmaranthineAuria waited, as she had waited so many times since that fateful day atop the rooftop in Denerim. Her life had become a game of waiting. At least during the Blight there'd been some sense of control, however illusionary, as events pushed her along, like a boat racing ahead of a storm. She had been forced to make choices, choices that still made her ache if she let herself open that covered, hidden box inside her, but they had been choices followed by action. Funny how quickly she'd come to count on forging her own path, after all the years of never considering it a possibility. Now she and Eamon sidestepped around one another in some intricate dance of false smiles and never-ending patience, each of them trying to change the tune while forcing the other to stumble. She wasn't sure who had missed a step, to send Alistair out here today.
Rain poured down on her, soaking her skin, but the cold drops felt good. Helped her concentrate. She was aware of the bustle around her, the seneschal making every effort to greet Alistair with a King's welcome, even in the horror Vigil's Keep had become. She was also aware of Anders, standing off to her right, his healing spells like a warm glow that at once comforted and confused.
But it was the misty figure approaching through the rain that drew most of her attention. The more distinct Alistair became the more she drew in energy from the storm, wrapping it like a shield around her. Then he was at the gate, smiling that proud little smile he got every time he rode out at the head of his troops. She willed her heart to slow; it raced like a hunted thing, surging in her chest even as her face remained calm and composed.
He rode Bucket, of course, that fool of a horse he couldn't get enough of. Auria had come to like some horses since leaving the Tower, but not many tolerated her use of blood magic and the electric current that always seemed to shimmer around her. She'd found it hard to foster any deep feelings for one, and couldn't quite understand the attachment. It wasn't like the horse was a mabari, although Alistair seemed to think differently. Stupid horse tried to bite her whenever it thought it had a chance.
The horse shook his head with a snort as if it could hear her thoughts from across the courtyard. Alistair wasn't wearing his helmet, he never did – he complained that it hurt his ears and he couldn't see, but she suspected he just didn't want the helmet hair that inevitably followed. Not that a helmet could've done any worse now, his hair was wet and plastered down around his ears. She tried to read his expression, but for once his boyish, handsome face wasn't giving anything away.
He wore what she considered his "official" armor instead of riding armor, and it gave a great clank as he dismounted. It didn't mean anything, she told herself, there were a number of reasons for him to wear official armor. But even as she thought that, her mind catalogued all the details, trying to add them up into a whole. There was a small army outside the gates, a full number of personal guard flanking him, and not one, but two standard bearers. She could see several supply carts in the distance. Too many? But as she tried to count them, Alistair began striding towards her, and she lost all focus.
She would let him come to her, she told herself. She would not move. Auria shored up the walls around her, determined not to give her position away. But he was smiling, and that familiar cling-clang of his armor cut right through her – without realizing it she found herself rushing to meet him. His armored arms crushed her to him, and for that one singing moment she was sure he'd come to apologize, to agree with everything she'd written him in her letter. To defy Eamon with her.
But his first words whispered in her ear weren't "I love you", or "You're safe", or "I'm sorry".
Instead, his voice suffused tenderness he murmured, "I forgive you."
The words hit her like a slap. His cold, wet armor cut into her cheek - his chest had become a hard immovable object. It almost made her giggle. She wondered if she'd have the outline of his crest imprinted across her face, like a brand. Another part of her mind, the part that suppressed both giggles and tears, repeated his murmured words over and over again, as if repetition could change their meaning. She knew she should've felt anger, but all she felt was weariness, as if the rain and cold had soaked right into her bones.
"Auria?" Alistair asked, looking down at her, his smile as warm and loving as any kiss could be, breaking through the rain like the sun. She forced herself to turn away from that brightness. How could he have read her letter, and come up with "I forgive you"? Forgave her for what? For the letter itself? For wanting him to defy Eamon? For finally telling him all her hopes and fears?
She extracted herself from his arms, taking a step back. "We're not alone," was all she said.
Alistair looked around him, as if taking in the scene for the first time. She knew he couldn't have been completely unaware of the situation, even dead the darkspawn gave off a residual tactile scent, like rancid fish oil on your fingers.
"Yes, I see I'm too late to join in all the fun. Pity, I rather miss the whole darkspawn killing thing." She smiled at that, like he expected her to. "Where are the Orlesian Wardens?" he asked, looking from side to side, as if he thought they must be somewhere in the courtyard.
"Dead or captured," she replied shortly.
"All of them?" Now Alistair's voice really was shocked, a hidden note of pain underscoring the words. She knew he would be thinking of Duncan, and all the Wardens slain at Ostagar. "Captured? Do they even do that?"
"They do now," Oghren said loudly, stumbling into their little circle of two. Everyone else hung back at a distance, as if awed by Alistair's very appearance. "Did she tell you about the talking darkspawn yet? He was THIS big, and uglier than a nug's ****** on a bronco. The Warden had to smite him down," Oghren brought his hand down so hard in a chopping motion that he stumbled a few feet. He wavered. "If they start drinking ale, that's it."
"Oghren?" Alistair shook his head in disbelief before turned back to her, eyes searching her face, "Are you okay? You weren't hurt?"
"No, I'm fine." She reached out to touch his hand, and checked herself. "We have a lot to discuss." Her eyes went to the supply carts in the distance. "How long are you staying?"
"A day or two, at most. I wanted to surprise you, and officially welcome the Orlesians to Ferelden. I guess I'm too late for that." His face looked worried, pensive. She wanted to reach out and smooth the lines in his forehead, but kept her hands at her side. His voice faltered for a moment, "A situation has come up at the border, Eamon and I agreed it would be best settled with a King on the field. So…you know, I guess that's me." He stared at the bodies of dead men. He knew as well as she did that they would have to burn them all, these people wouldn't be allowed to bury their dead. There would be some unholy pyres tonight. "They were talking?" he turned his eyes on her, begging her to deny it. "It's not just… Oghren's drinking?"
"They spoke – No, one of them spoke. He led them, Alistair. And…" She glanced around her, realizing the crowd, though giving them space, could still hear their every word. Plus, they were still standing around in the rain. A peal of lightning lit the sky, followed by a slow rumble of thunder. "We should go inside," she turned to motion for Alistair to proceed her inside, but instead hit the Seneschal's chest. "Oh, I'm sorry, Seneschal. I was just suggesting we adjoin to a less wet location."
But the Seneschal had gone down on one knee, head bowed. "My King," he said, his deep voice ringing out. All over the courtyard people fell to their knees, uncaring of the mud and muck, with murmured words of "My King". Auria looked around. It felt surreal, the whole Keep suddenly dropping to their knees like a forest being logged in unison. She felt a sudden desire to yell "Timber!" which made her unintentionally look at Anders.
Anders had not bowed at all. He caught her looking and gave her a one-shoulder shrug and a lifted eyebrow, before turning back to his patients. She could read the lines of frustration in his shoulders, as every able-bodied man stopped in the middle of transferring the injured inside to bow down. It aggravated her that she could still read him, after all these years. That information should've been wiped from her brain. She looked back to find Alistair following her gaze.
Auria quickly knelt also, inclining her head forward in precise measure. If she'd learned anything from Greagoir and Irving, it was how to maneuver the fine balance of power each greeting brought. Alistair was still watching the mage, a curious expression on his face.
The Seneschal filled them in as they made their way to the main hall. Some of it was news to her, some she had already surmised. His rundown of the situation was quite thorough, but what impressed her even more was the miraculous cleaning of the main hall – blood and bodies had been replaced by welcoming fires and the assembly of a banquet table. Auria studied the grey-haired man. She wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He obviously knew the area and Vigil's Keep very well – so well, in fact, that he must've been here with Howe, which made him suspect. On the other hand, the Wardens seemed to trust him, and she just
liked him, which was rare.
"Your majesty, I have taken the liberty of ordering a banquet in your honor tonight," Seneschal Varel gestured to the long table. "I'm afraid it will pale in comparison to what we would normally offer you, but I hope you find it satisfactory."
"I'm sure I will, thank you very much, Seneschal. It is much more than anyone could expect, in a time such as this," Alistair voice became mournful, "I am very sorry for your losses. I wish we had arrived earlier."
"It was a hard blow." Both men nodded at one another, as if in mutual respect and understanding. This was Varel's home, his men, but by taking the crown Alistair had made them his men as well. He took his duty to the people very seriously, cared for each one, stranger or not. It was just one of the many reasons Auria had supported his claim for the throne.
Now Alistair seemed to war with himself. After a moment of silence, he added, "Will you have any cheese?"
"We will, your majesty," Varel gave a small smile, but kept his manner grave. "I have also taken the liberty of having a few refreshments brought in immediately," he opened a door leading to a large, richly appointed room. The floor was slightly discolored, as if a large rug had been recently removed. Auria supposed it had been, probably bloodied in today's battle. Small plush settees lined with walls, with ominous portraits looking down into the room. A heavy desk took up the far side, and in the center of the room a beautifully carved table sat ringed with ornately upholstered chairs. The table was laden with wine and small plates of food.
"Your majesty," Varel inclined his head, indicating Alistair to the largest and most opulent chair, with intricate wooden arms.
"All this was Howe's? Alistair asked, looking around.
"Yes. We have sold off many of his possessions, to help with the costs of Vigil's Keep – I shall supply you with any information you would like. All sales will, of course, now go through the Warden Commander, as the Arlessa of Amaranthine."
Auria felt a twinge of discomfort at the title. She had declined taking a more political position after the blight, and had immediately regretted her decision, as she and Eamon warred over the unfilled title of Chancellor. This was both a step up, and a step down. It was also, she was sure, completely orchestrated by Eamon to get her out of the castle.
"I am sure you have matters of state to discuss," Varel said, still standing, looking between them. Auria could've laughed at his expression. Well, if no one had heard the rumors of her being the King's mistress before, they all would now, after that show in the courtyard. She glanced at Alistair, who had just wolfed down a hunk of cheese when Varel turned his head to pour the wine.
"Please stay," Auria started to say, but a ringing clash of what sounded like a candelabra crashing to the floor came from outside. Someone swore loudly, and then voices were raised in a shout. The door banged open, followed by the singular distasteful smell of singed hair.
"There you are!" Oghren entered the room. One of his mustached braids was much shorter than the others, and curled black at the ends. "Should've known I'd find you with the food. Don't you have anything besides wine?"
"I'm sorry, your Majesty, Commander, Seneschal," Mhairi ran in after him, bobbing her head to each one of them in turn, "I couldn't stop him." Two guards followed her, one of them with his helmet quite askew.
"Oghren, I told you last night if you caused one more incident…" Varel began in a rumbling tone of command, but Oghren ignored him.
"You're not getting rid of me so easily," Oghren said as both Varel and Mhairi tried to block his path to the table, unsuccessfully.
"It's alright, Varel." Auria pushed a bottle of wine over Oghren's way, not bothering to hand over a glass.
"Me and the Commander, we go way back," Oghren took a swig from the bottle, made a face, and took another swig, "I helped her defeat the blight."
"I find that hard to believe," Mhairi said.
"Hunh, I was fighting monsters when you were no more than a suckling nug. I been through it all, and come out the other side." For a moment his eyes looked haunted, but then he took a long draft from the wine bottle, emptying it. "I came here to join the Grey Wardens," he gave a great belch. "Where's the giant cup? I'll gargle and spit."
"You're not allowed to spit," Alistair said, and Auria gave him a look. He knew quite well what type of response that would get from Oghren.
"That's what I always say," Oghren said, leering at Mhairi, who backed away to the door frame.
Auria cleared her throat. It was a small sound, but it silenced the room. "Before anyone becomes a Grey Warden – gentlemen, can you please leave us, and shut the door? Mhairi, you may stay." The two guards backed their way from the room, bowing themselves out.
Mhairi came forward, excitement shining in her face. She carefully made her way to the opposite side of the table as Oghren.
"Are we to do it now?" she asked, almost breathlessly.
Alistair raised his eyebrow, "I suppose today counts towards the first part. No lack of darkspawn laying about."
"Mhairi, there is still time for you to change your mind. I am sure Alistair…" Auria stopped and corrected herself, "King Alistair, would be happy to let you join his personal guard. You could have a very successful military career. We need people like you."
Mhairi's face was set. "You need people like me
here, Commander. This is what I've dreamed of. I want to do my part for Ferelden. I want to help," her eyes were shining again. "Now, more than ever, you need me. And," she continued, her eyes falling on Oghren, "you can't accept him and not me."
"Oghren knows the consequences of becoming a Warden," Auria fixed him with a look that abruptly shut him up before he could start up again, "so I won't turn him down. I won't turn you down either, I don't have that luxury. Just know this is a very dangerous path."
"I accept that, Commander," Mhairi said, with a sort of salute.
Auria bowed her head for a moment. She would have to get used to this. To putting people's lives on the line without giving them any foreknowledge of the consequences. Duncan had done it, had done it to her, even. That didn't make it any easier. Would she kill a recruit for backing out? Would there be repercussions if she didn't? She had expected to confer with the Orlesian Commander on protocol.
She felt Alistair's gaze on her, and looked up. It had just been the two of them for so long. Both of them stumbling about in their roles, Alistair hardly knowing more than she did. The only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Now here they were, the only two Grey Wardens left, again. Only now Alistair was King and had other duties. He would be leaving in a day. She would have to shoulder this burden alone. Like hot steel being submerged in freezing snow, she hardened herself. She would do what was necessary. She always did.
"Varel," Alistair asked, "do you know if the Orlesian Wardens brought anything with them that they… ah… kept secret?"
Varel gave Oghren a look, "Perhaps a giant cup?"
"Yes, exactly. And other… supplies."
"I do, your majesty. The Orlesians thought it best if someone knew the location of certain… secrets."
Exactly what sort of secrets did the Orlesians entrust to him, Auria wondered. Or maybe it was how much he'd spied out? There was no one here left to say, one way or the other.
"Shall I bring them, now?" he asked.
Auria wanted to say no, to put off the joining for a few days at least. It would cut into the time she had with Alistair and if something happened – her mind shied away from just exactly what the "happened" was – then any time they spent together would be marred. But - it was Oghren. Alistair might want to be there. The selfish part didn't care. After everything she'd seen Oghren pour down his throat, she really couldn't believe that this would harm him. And if Mhairi resisted at the end… she didn't want to see Alistair's face when she drove the hilt home. Still, it was
Oghren.
Auria met Alistair's eyes. They didn't need words for her to ask the question.
"Tomorrow," he said, finally. "We'll do it tomorrow." He reached out and took her hand. "I can stay an extra day."
The touch of his hand kindled her like fire, setting off a flame that burned through her and made her realize just how long it had been since they'd been alone. She felt Alistair notice, the grip of his hand becoming at once more firm and more caressing, as if he would tug her to him right then. That grip woke something feral in her, and for the moment she didn't care why he was there, or why he thought she should be the one apologizing. It was as if the rest of the world blurred, but every detail of Alistair sharpened – the plane of his jaw, the line of his neck as it disappeared into his armor, the quickening of his breath as he looked at her. She slid to the edge of her chair, completely unaware of the sinuous way her body moved with just that small action.
Varel cleared his throat.
"Shhhh," Oghren growled at him, "This is the good part."
Auria looked up, the rest of the room coming into focus again. Mhairi stood transfixed by the door, Varel looked both discomfited and amused, and Oghren… well, Oghren just looked like Oghren.
"Damn, you ruined it," he said. "And she had a headache today, too."
"You did?" Alistair asked, not letting go of her hand. She could hear both anticipation and concern in his voice.
Auria grimaced. She hated everyone knowing her business, but couldn't seem to keep people out of it. The headaches always came after battle, and woke voracious appetites in her. Most her traveling companions had just focused on the one appetite, however. Oghren seemed to find it endlessly amusing.
"Your Majesty, Commander," Varel said in his deep voice, "If you don't need me, I have duties to attend to."
"Yes, of course," Alistair said, standing.
Varel bowed himself out, Mhairi following.
"Don't mind me," Oghren said, testing out a chair. "They make these too sodding high," he grumbled.
Alistair looked pointedly at her, as if to say, you invited him, you get rid of him.
"Oghren," Auria said, and then a little more firmly, "Oghren."
"Ehh, what? Cramping your style? It's nothing I haven't seen or heard before."
"Oh, really?" Auria said, unfastening the side of her armor. "Okay then, just be quiet. No commentary." She removed the breast plate, so she was just in her battle robe. "Here, you might need this. If we break the table, you can use it to block shrapnel," she held out the armored plate to him. "Or if things get too messy," she added, as if as an afterthought, "they have a very nice selection of pickled eel here."
"Uhh, what? Commander, no offense, but sometimes you're sicker than a bronto on lyrium dust." He slid out of the overstuffed chair. "I don't know how you humans drink this ****** you call wine. I'm going to find some real drink."
They were silent a few moments as the door closed, the room seeming to thicken with a tangible stillness. Then Alistair came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist.
"Alistair, we have to talk," she said, even as she leaned back into his arms. She wished he'd taken off the damned armor. "I have to tell you about this darkspawn, and we need to talk about what happened… before."
"We do," he agreed. "Was the headache worse today, or better?"
She sighed, closing her eyes. She really didn't want to talk about this.
The strange vice-like headaches had started in Lothering. They weren't too bad at first. Chalking it up to just another wonderful Grey Warden side effect, she'd dismissed them and the unnatural hunger that inevitably came with them. Especially after Alistair neatly gave her an excuse for devouring three spitted rabbits before they'd even finished cooking. As she'd cracked the last bone and sucked out the marrow, Alistair had clapped, congratulating her on acquiring the famous Grey Warden appetite. He'd also said it was a good thing she was so active, if she remembered rightly. His arm had been bruised for days afterward.
But instead of lessening with time, the headaches had intensified and the voracious appetites they woke in her multiplied. She'd refused to give in, finding a sort of power in denial of the pain, in spurning the needs of her body. Without knowing it, she'd become very much like the freezing cold lance of ice she wielded with such ease.
Wynne, a spirit mage they had traveled with (and who had an opinion on absolutely everything) had declared in no uncertain terms that blood magic was killing her. If not her body, then her spirit. Auria didn't agree. But then, she hadn't agreed with much Wynne said. Alistair, on the other hand, by turns scoffed and worried. He wanted her to get a second opinion, but it wasn't like she could run around telling all the mages she used blood magic, even if she was the Warden Commander, Hero of Ferelden. The only person she could think to ask was Avernus, another blood mage, but she didn't trust him. She wasn't sure if drinking those damned potions of his had been a good idea, and she wasn't sure she wanted him knowing her secrets.
Alistair kissed her neck now, and that pulse of warmth from his lips sent a jolt coursing through her body, as if she were a lightning rod and he the lightning. He'd misinterpreted her control as shyness back then, and had tentatively wooed her. He'd even used the word woo. Just the memory of that made her smile, softening her like butter on a warm day. Not that he'd minded once the effects of her battle-lust headache became known, that is, not once she promised to only slake those lusts with him. The thought pained her now, and she pulled away from his hold. She wished things were still as simple as they had been then.
"The headache was the same," she answered, a trifle too shortly.
"Auria, you have to take them seriously."
"Can we not talk about my headaches?"
Alistair nodded, reluctantly. They fell silent again. Auria hated the distance that seemed to span between them, like they were standing on two separate sides of a deep ravine, the only bridge fraying as they watched.
"I've been thinking about you since you left," Alistair said, taking the first step across that precarious bridge, reaching for her hand. "You've no idea how much I missed you." She looked up at him, and he pulled her into the circle of his arms. "You are still the one bright spot in my life. You know that, don't you?"
She did, but she just didn't know what it meant anymore.
"Eamon…" she started.
His face looked pained. "Can we not talk about Eamon?"
Auria pressed her face against his neck, just above his armor. She could feel his pulse. So many things not to talk about. It felt like they were constantly hurting one another, as if they were standing with both weapons drawn while trying to cling together on that shaky, tattered bridge. Alistair sighed and stroked the tangled mess the storm had made of her hair.
"What are you forgiving me for?" she asked all at once, her face still hidden in his neck. A knot of emotion roiled inside her, waiting for his answer. It was slow to come.
"For the way you left me," he said finally, the words almost cracking. She looked up to see the expression on his face, and her lips came too close to his. He kissed her. The world blurred into nonexistence. There was nothing but this, his lips on hers, his mouth insistent and hungry, as if they hadn't kissed this way for weeks. And really, they hadn't. She growled in frustration as her fingers slipped on the fastening of his armor. She wanted it off him, now.
It took too long to get him free of the metal shell, and by the time his armor lay on the floor, she was far too aware of his clothing. Under the padding for the armor he wasn't wearing simple garments, the kind one would usually wear knowing they would be sweated and stained through by the end of day. He was wearing a fine, intricately embroidered shirt, with matching trousers. They were indeed sweated and stained through, but they were still kingly clothes.
"You weren't wearing those for me?" she asked, but it was more of a statement. "For the Orlesians? I don't think the Wardens would be impressed by the state of your dress, even if they are Orlesian."
Alistair didn't say anything.
"So it wasn't for us," her eyes scanned his face, trying to read denial. There was none. "Who were you expecting to see tonight?" Her words were deceptively soft.
"I had to see you," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek. She held his hand there, pressing it against her, as if its warmth could stop the cold that was now penetrating her.
"Who were you supposed to see?" she insisted.
He hesitated. "A situation has come up."
"You said that earlier," she said, letting his hand drop.
"Yes, well, that doesn't stop it from being true."
"Those aren't battle clothes." They stared at each other. "Or are they? The show of arms, the fancy dress, the supply trains are what, laden with gifts?" She hated the sour ring in her voice.
"Auria, does it matter? I came to see you. I wasn't even supposed to stop here."
"But it was on the way?" she asked, a little too bitterly.
"Out of the way, actually. I thought my idea of greeting the Orlesian Wardens a clever excuse."
"You're making excuses up for Eamon, now?"
"An excuse for you," Alistair said, anger surging in his voice. "You're the one who left like… I didn't know…" he waved his hands around in the air, as if they would help make his point. "I came to see you, find you attacked by darkspawn and all the Wardens dead, and you won't even give me five minutes peace to be thankful you're alive," his voice cracked on the last word, as if anger and tears were far too closely related.
Auria looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time that day. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his face was pale under his tan, tired and exhausted and afraid of what he would find. She wondered how fast and how long he'd ridden to get out here to her.
"You just want five minutes… peace?" she asked, a smile playing about her lips.
"Well, it would be a start. I'm willing to negotiate from there," he smiled back, a little of the tenseness lifting from his face.
"How firm are your negotiations?"
"Come here, and you'll find out," Alistair said, raising an eyebrow at her. She slid into his arms, and he clasped her tight to him. She grasped him back, almost afraid to let go or even move to do anything more. But there was something bothering her. Two things, actually.
"I didn't leave," she said, lips tilting up to his ear so he would hear her.
She felt a tremor run through him as her breath tickled his ear, his body responding to her. His response sent a corresponding shiver through her, a tug that started at her toes and left her gasping.
"I'd say that's very firm," she said breathlessly, her mouth instinctively turning up to meet his. His mouth covered hers, and the world seemed to go up in exquisitely torturous flames, fire licking through her veins until she felt herself tearing at his elegantly embroidered clothes.
One lucid moment later, she thought to ask the second thing that had been bothering her, "Did you read my letter?" But then he had her clothes off as well, his mouth traveling hotly down her skin, and she wasn't aware when he answered, "What letter?"
It was some time later that Auria dimly realized she was on the floor, her arm cramping and her leg asleep. Her neck was stiff, crooked at an angle to pillow her head on Alistair's chest. Something had woken her up. She had been asleep? Andraste's ass! How could they have fallen asleep? She groaned out loud. Way to start her role as Arlessa. She started scrabbling for her clothes when the noise that woke her came again.
"Auria!" someone called her name. There was frantic pounding on the door, then sounds of a scuffle, then more pounding. Finally a panicked voice called out, "Blast it, Auria, open the Maker-forsaken door! Templars! Help!"
All traces of sleep left her. That was Anders. Shaking Alistair awake and wishing she hadn't torn quite so many buttons from his shirt, she scrambled to her feet. She knew that other voice too. Rylock had come to the Keep.
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Double posted!
