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A Warden’s Celebration, Chapter 69: Of Noble Birth

Dragon Age: Origins Rated: Mature Characters: Elissa, Eamon, Kalya, Morrigan, Leliana, Zevran, Alistair, Loghain, Howe, Cauthrien, Erlina Words: 8,817 (Chapter 69 of ?)

Read this chapter on AO3 OR Read from the beginning here!

Elissa’s braid was still wet from her early-morning dip in Lake Calenhad. It was entirely ill advised this time of year, but she’d been taking ill-advised cold swims since she was a girl. The discomfort was palpable, especially those first moments where her body was submerging, tightening, urging her to stop. But the invigoration it jolted through her veins was worth it. Conquering her discomfort. Reclaiming control. The silence underwater while her blood rushed in her ears… There was nothing quite like it.

She brushed her hair behind her shoulder, taking care not to drip on the map she and Eamon were poring over.

When the group first strode through Redcliffe Castle’s gates, Eamon had been as shocked as anyone to learn Alistair had finally taken up leadership. The man’s uncle kept his emotions muted into stiff pride, nodding earnestly as Alistair recounted the... circumstances surrounding his decision. The Arl never made eye contact with Elissa throughout it all, which had set a rare ball of concern tightening in her stomach. She’d had half a mind to abandon the group altogether to slit Howe’s throat and take on the archdemon alone, had it not been for Eamon’s promise.

Highever was left in a power vacuum. With slain parents, Fergus’ disappearance, and her own ineligibility to become Teyrna as a Grey Warden, Elissa’s task from the moment she’d met Eamon was to protect, advise, and lead Alistair’s path to the throne. In exchange, Eamon had promised to untangle the politics keeping her ancestral home from her grasp.

It was only when he and Elissa were alone that he finally acknowledged her anger. Nobility through and through, Eamon listened to her version of events with maddening calm, as if hearing a complaint from a commoner at court. At the end, he acquiesced her point -- support was support, be it werewolf or elven. But the shift in power was necessary, he reminded her, for their shared goal of securing Alistair on the throne. The other nobles at the Landsmeet would be able to sniff out a faked or forced leadership, so Alistair coming into his own naturally worked to their advantage.

Any sniping at Kalya’s character was quieted with a dismissive hand, which somehow made Elissa feel furious and childish all at once. At her seething silence, he’d promised in due time to investigate the elf’s “threat” -- the last word punctuated with raised eyebrows. And that promise had been three nights ago.

Now, Eamon stood before her, considering the map. Different colored stones rolled around his papery hands, each one representing a noble who was like to back either Alistair or Loghain, and those undecided. A fire popped and cracked behind them.

She supposed she should have felt honored. After her very public demotion, she was still the one invited to Eamon’s private study to brainstorm diplomacy. But was it prestige or necessity? Who else was going to strategize it if not her? Alistair?

The silence was slowly roiling Elissa’s blood. When her hand slipped and a stone clacked onto Denerim, right where the Alienage stood, she took it as a sign.

She cleared her throat. “Eamon, if I could... You said we could discuss the elf. Can we finally put the issue to rest?”

“Yes.” Eamon stroked his beard. “I’d wanted to see how she fared as a Warden with my own eyes. The woman’s obviously capable. She’d have to be, to survive everything she’s been through.”

Elissa’s lips flattened into a line. “Well, it’s not the elf’s proficiency we’re discussing. Her temper has become a liability.”

The Arl walked to the window, tipping one wooden shutter open with the back of his hand. Muffled conversation could be heard from the training in the courtyard below.

“It is a good test for Alistair.” He squinted out at the greenery behind Redcliffe Castle. “He’ll be challenged, sometimes by beautiful women, sometimes ones who believe their cause is just. He will learn to rise above the occasion, to not be swayed. In that respect, she’s a valuable tool. Harmless for now.”

“He was going to fight me.” Heat flushed Elissa’s cheeks. “In the Brecilian Forest. His sword was drawn to defend her. If he’d attacked in front of the wolves, do you think they’d still have joined our ranks?”

Eamon spun to face her. “But he didn’t. You’re more than capable of holding your own, Zathrian destroyed his own clan, and you got us ravenous wolves to fight by our side. What has changed?”

Quiet settled between them. She felt as if she were getting lectured by Father, though those lessons were buttressed with much more warmth. The thought of him always sapped 10 years from her age, and she fought to keep the pout from her lip. “So I’m just supposed to put up with her?”

Eamon smiled, cocking his head. For the first time, she felt a careful appraisal from his sidelong gaze. As if wondering if she were truly up to the task of advising his difficult nephew. Both men were maddening.

“If you have a problem with her personally,” he said, “I’m afraid I won’t be much help there. Leadership requires pragmatism, as I’m sure you know.”

“I know well about ruling,” Elissa spat. “I learned much from my father and... his advisors. I also know what happens when poisonous influences go unchecked.“

Eamon nodded sagely, ignoring the last sentence completely. “I imagine it must be difficult saying his name after what you’ve been through.”

He shuttered the window once again, then strode across the room to refill his mug with the dark steaming liquid boiling over the fire. “Did you know that, ages ago, when Rendon Howe was wounded at the Battle of White River, he recuperated at a freehold here in Redcliffe, alongside your father and the other survivors?”

Heat flushed Elissa’s face with such force, she was sure he could hear her heart pounding.

“All due respect, Eamon...” She clenched the colored rocks in her fist. “You noticed I had a hard time speaking his name, and yet you think a heartwarming tale about his friendship with my father is a welcome topic?”

A wisp of steam curled out of the mug Eamon sat in front of her. “There’s a point, child, and I’ll make it quickly. One of the other survivors was a farmer from South Reach, and his opinions about the battle were tiresome after such a humiliating and painful defeat. I have it on good authority that the moment Rendon gained his strength back, he… forced the farmer to abandon the group.”

Elissa blinked at him evenly, like a cat. “Is that a subtle way of saying he had him killed?”

“Fortunately for the farmer, it was only fisticuffs. Rendon caught him outside the tavern one night. Tricked him into throwing the first punch where onlookers could see, then beat him bloody. Terribly embarrassing for the farmer.”

Every mention of his name sent goosebumps up Elissa’s flesh, a physiological response that never failed to piss her off. “That’s less subtle than the man’s usual M.O. Wouldn’t it have been easier to simply send him away?”

“What, and give Bryce a chance to convince the farmer to stay?”

Her heart clutched. That’s exactly what father would have done. Fucking Howe had known how to play him for years.

Eamon laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Your father was a good man, Elissa. We all mourn his passing.”

Being on the road had made it so easy to forget he was truly gone. Every time Eamon spoke of him in the past tense, it was as if she were hearing about someone else.

“And he raised a strong leader,” he continued. “I trust you will do what’s right.”

Elissa looked up at him, blinking away glossy eyes. “What… would Father have done? About all this?”

The man let out a great sigh. “Your father was nobility epitomized. When someone under his command needed to be removed, he was able to convince them that leaving was the decent thing to do.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t inherit his finesse.” Elissa exhaled slowly, smoothing out a corner of the map. “And I haven’t exactly been subtle. If I haven’t driven her to abandon us yet, I’m not sure what more could convince her.”

A spark jumped from the cracking fire, reflecting a gleam in Eamon’s eye. “If her temper’s as you say, you could always convince her to attack you again once you’re within Denerim’s city limits.”

Elissa’s blood ran cold. Convincing Kalya of anything was out of the question. So her choice was to allow Kalya to continue threatening her recovery of Highever or adopt Howe’s sick tactics?

“Elissa.” Eamon’s singsong drawl pulled her out of her reverie. “I’m sure Denerim’s guards wouldn’t approve of an attack on the future advisor to the king.”

A pit twisted in Kalya’s stomach. The scene was far too similar.

It had been less than a week since they’d arrived in Denerim, and already Eamon had deigned to throw a “small” fete to kick off their upcoming political events.

The music was lively, as it had been before. Nobles were dancing the same practiced steps. Even red damned flowers adorned the stone tables, just as they had in the Great Hall back at Castle Redcliffe all those months ago.

Often, Kalya had considered that night -- the night after they’d returned with the Urn of the Sacred Ashes that had healed Eamon -- as the beginning of the end in her shameful descent into addiction. But she wasn’t fooling herself. At no point in her life was her relationship with alcohol what anyone would call appropriate.

One small solace, one pinprick of relief in all this, was the number of friends who now joined her in sobriety. She certainly hadn’t asked it of them, but their support meant the world to her. And it made parties like this bearable.

In a similar back corner of the hall sat an overstuffed couch and a small library, an oasis for those who preferred to avoid mingling altogether.

Among their small group, only Leliana was dressed for the occasion. She wore a flowy pale dress that spilled onto Kalya’s leathers when she joined the elf on the couch, eager to fill in backstories on every noble out of earshot, of which there were many. Morrigan wore her usual robes and her usual poorly concealed glares at the revellers as she thumbed lazily through the large books in the library.

Of course, not everyone was in the exclusive Circle of Sobriety. Elissa and Alistair -- the guests of honor -- mingled with overexcited nobles while holding ornate chalices in hand. Kalya had no idea how Alistair stomached being so near her, but Eamon was… certainly a convincing politician. As much as Alistair had come into his own, standing up to his uncle was a bridge yet to be crossed.

Oghren, too, was a lost cause, howling bawdy tavern songs with the arls of the lowlands. Kalya tried not to look in his direction -- out of jealousy or contempt, she couldn’t be sure.

After learning entirely too much about the Battle of the River Dane from Leliana, Kalya looked up to see Zevran sashaying through the crowds with four ceramic mugs in tow. He distributed them among the women before taking a seat at Kalya’s side.

She took a wary sniff, squinting into the cloudy substance. “Doesn’t look like water.”

“Mia cara, how many mugs of Dawn Lotus Juice must I serve you before you sing the praises it deserves?”

Silverware clinking on glass brought a hush amongst the partygoers, who all raised their goblets in a toast.

“To the Wardens,” Eamon proclaimed, taking care not to search the crowd for Kalya.

Her eyes rolled. More politics disguised as gratitude.

Zev raised his Dawn Lotus Juice to Kalya with a cheeky salute, and she nudged into him.

Elissa curtseyed, looking positively itchy in her blue velvet dress. Next to her, Alistair bowed low before draining his chalice to cheering nobles. His russet cheeks were already getting rosier.

Leliana shook her head. “I must remind him what bad luck it is to drink after someone toasts you.”

“One has to drown her out somehow.” Zev jerked his chin towards the two Wardens. “Look, she thinks she can still lecture him.”

Elissa tugged on Alistair’s doublet as the music kicked back up, pulling his ear to her mouth. After a moment, Alistair leaned his head back, shaking his head with an incredulous laugh at whatever ridiculous lecture she’d deigned to impose on him.

It was a sight to behold indeed. Kalya guessed she’d attempted to admonish his actions or correct some faux pas, which he’d swatted away admirably. But the moment Elissa turned to fake-laugh at some nearby noble’s joke, Alistair ran a hand over his face, digging his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. He nodded to a passing servant to refill his chalice. The heavily clapped hand on the servant’s shoulder that nearly spilled the rest of the pitcher told Kalya everything she needed to know about the plummeting state of his sobriety.

The entire exchange made Kalya thirsty. She sipped from her mug, licking the frothy excess from her lips.

“Hey.” Zevran nudged her shoulder. “We don’t have to be here. There are plenty of other rooms in this bloated estate.”

Kalya scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s good for me to be here. Isn’t it? Test out temptation?”

Leliana put her hand on Kalya’s leg. “You’ve been doing such great work. No one would begrudge you leaving.”

“No one would notice me leaving.” Kalya snorted. “I’m all right. Besides, it’s fun watching Elissa be a hypocrite.”

Elissa’s pale cheeks were also becoming ruddy, as she called back the startled servant who had apparently not filled her chalice to the brim. For every chance she took at calling Kalya a lush, she certainly wasn’t imbibing in moderation.

But, no. Kalya closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Elissa drinking or abstaining didn’t change the fact that Kalya had been a lush. It wasn’t hypocrisy for someone without an addiction. Was it?

Regardless, Kalya felt warm with gratitude. She was grateful for her own strides, grateful for the support of her friends, and grateful Elissa would likely have a raging headache during tomorrow’s morning training.

As they took in the nobles’ merriment, another serving elf made her way to their quiet corner with a pitcher and tray of breads and cheeses. Mild confusion that there weren’t any plates to clear away turned to horror when the elf realized she was the first to offer them food tonight.

Honestly, Kalya was surprised anyone had come over at all. A quiet corner containing two elves and two strange-looking women matched the profile of castle staff more than party guests. As if in apology, the elf set down the tray for them, then hovered quietly near their low table, looking around for some way to be helpful.

Zevran eyed the delicious spread in front of them. “Ah, what better way to summon Alistair away from his hostly duties?”

The three on the couch looked up to watch poor Alistair bowing and backing up, bowing and backing up, trying and failing to extricate himself from a conversation.

Kalya picked up her drink from the stone table, drawing it to her lips again. Something about its tangy aroma stilled her arm. When she realized what it was, her stomach pistoned into her gut and she dropped the mug, spilling watery crimson all over the fine rugs.

“I didn’t… I don't know how…”

Leliana wiped away maroon drips on Kalya’s leather pant leg.

Zevran lifted another of their mugs from the table and inhaled deeply. “It’s wine, mi amore.” He jerked a chin to the serving elf walking back to the crowd with her pitcher. “There’s our would-be sobriety assassin.”

“We know you wouldn’t, Kalya. It’s all right.” Leliana scoffed towards the servant. “I want to say she didn’t know any better... but I can still be secretly mad at her.”

Zev just shook his head. “And I’ll be mad at myself for turning my back on our drinks. I’ve been away from Antiva far too long.”

Kalya fought to calm her jittery nerves. Hot embarrassment flushed her cheeks.

Tucking a finger under her chin, Zevran leaned to meet Kalya’s downturned gaze. “Can I get you another Dawn Lotus? Good for relaxation.”

“No. Thank you.” She felt like an idiot, both at how close she’d come to resetting her sobriety and how an inanimate mug had the power to disquiet her.

“Kalya, your hard work is no accident.” Leliana draped an arm around her. “But that would have been an innocent one. Give yourself a little grace, hm?”

As Kalya attempted to slow her breathing, the hall’s great wooden doors suddenly clanked open. The music ceased and all heads jerked to the entrance.

A man with jet-black hair stormed in wearing full armor, clanking as he walked with an air of angry confidence. He was flanked by a man and a woman -- one regal and one military -- as a trail of Eamon’s guards stumbled in after them, properly horrified and ashamed at their inability to stop the intrusion. Quite the “security” the arl had provided.

The revelers froze like wild prey. A strange memory wafted into Kalya’s mind -- of how Teagan’s spotless armor had gleamed when they had fought against the army of the undead outside Redcliffe. Nobles knew nothing of actual battle. This was as close to bodily harm as most of them were like to get. And their skittishness would surely cause more collateral damage than was necessary if these intruders drew their weapons.

Kalya searched the crowd for Alistair and found him physically restraining Elissa with as much nonchalance as he could muster in polite company. His heavy hand tipped her shoulder down. It was odd. She didn’t seem to be deep enough in her cups to induce such beet-faced rage.

Leliana leaned close to Kalya’s ear. “There’s your man,” she whispered. “Loghain Mac Tir. I don’t know the woman, though. His lieutenant, perhaps?”

Kalya’s hands went to her daggers.

“The other man is Rendon Howe. They say he killed the Couslands.”

The fire in Highever. The stampeding soldiers. The night Duncan was supposed to emerge from the castle and find Kalya worthy of joining the Wardens. She rose to her feet, and Zevran was instantly at her side.

Kalya scanned for Eamon and found him frozen in fear. Coward. Alistair had now positioned himself in front of Elissa and whispered something over his shoulder that simmered her rage down to mere heavy breathing.

“Loghain... “ Eamon stammered, clearing his throat. He widened his arms with stiff grace, as if welcoming the guest of honor. “What a pleasure that the regent would have time to greet me personally.”

Kalya’s own rage was burbling up inside, though not just from what Loghain had done to the Wardens. The night Riordan died, he’d had an audience with Loghain. He was a monster.

Her stomach churned when the disgusting man spoke.

“How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every lord in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at our land?”

“Indeed. The Blight is why I'm here.” Eamon’s head quirked almost imperceptibly. “With Cailan dead, Ferelden must have a king to lead it against the darkspawn.”

“Ferelden has a strong leader. It’s the queen, and I lead her armies.”

“Enough of this. When does the Landsmeet begin?” All eyes turned to face Elissa.

“Ah, the Grey Warden recruit.” He smiled as if amused at the sight of Elissa. The sneering rogue Howe rolled his eyes, but Loghain had the audacity to bow his head. “You have my sympathies for what happened to your order. It’s unfortunate they chose to turn against Ferelden.”

That was a laugh. Elissa took a step forward, but Alistair barred her with his arm.

Loghain turned back to Eamon, uncowed. “Our people are frightened. You divide our nation and weaken our efforts against the Blight with your selfish ambitions to the throne.”

“Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline,” Eamon spat. “Alistair will be the one to lead us to victory in this Blight.”

Kalya watched Alistair carefully, searching for any movement that would signal killing these bastards. But of the lot of them, Alistair seemed the most calm. His arm stretched across Elissa’s body, while she remained primed as a tiger waiting to pounce.

With a huff, the greasy-haired Loghain turned to address the revelers, as would a gladiator before a hungry crowd. “The emperor of Orlais also thought I could not bring him down. Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is nothing I would not do for my homeland.”

Elissa wiped away angry tears with the back of her hand. This wasn’t like her. This was weak. She paced back and forth in her freezing quarters that reminded her too damn much of home, stumbling a bit on the uneven stone. Fucking Denerim. Fucking Eamon.

A knock spun her on her heel, and she found Alistair standing in the doorway, chest held high. For a moment, restraint won over. But it only lasted an instant. The distance between the two of them was as close as she had been to Rendon fucking Howe.

Blood pulsed at the edges of her vision, and she launched herself at the warrior.

He caught her by the arms, squeezing his great hands around them too tight. The fucking coward.

“I had him. I had him!”

It was the wine. That was why Alistair had been able to hold her in place. Only the wine and Alistair’s... gutlessness.

“I’ll ready myself for your thanks tomorrow then?” His tongue sounded too thick in his mouth. Fire alighted in her veins when she noted heavy-lidded eyes and loose shake of his head. His drunkenness reminded her of Kalya, which fueled her rage even further.

She slackened her arms as a feint, and when he fell for it, she jerked one hand back to slap him. But his iron grip caught it in the air. “Elissa!”

Suddenly dizzy, she stutter-stepped back. His unexpected bark sapped her strength. The room was undulating as if she were aboard some fucking ship.

With a heavy-headed glance over his shoulder, Alistair shut her door behind him.

“I had him,” she said quietly, over-enunciating each syllable. “Howe was here, and he still lives.” She resumed pacing around her quarters. “How many nights have I dreamt of what I’d do, and -- and you let him waltz out of here!”

To his credit, it looked like whatever thought was rolling around in that head of his was paining him to spit out. She wanted to slap it out of him, but his grip on her arm had been… stronger than she expected.

“Do you really think it’s wise to kill someone at my uncle’s party?” he sighed.

Elissa jabbed a finger towards the Great Hall. “ They don’t know what he did. If they --”

“If they did, they’d still think it was awfully convenient to murder one of my political rivals right before a Landsmeet.”

“Don’t act as if you suddenly want this Landsmeet to succeed,” she hissed. She needed to lay down. Alistair was making her fucking head spin.

She waited a beat for his retort, and receiving none, Elissa scoffed and spun away towards her bathing suite.

“I want what’s right for Ferelden,” Alistair growled. The conviction in his voice froze her in place. “We’ll kill Rendon, all right? On our…. On my terms.”

Alistair looked Elissa up and down, finally shaking his head. “I’m getting you some water before...”

A mix of shame and rage curdled the contents of her stomach. “Before what?” she spat.

Alistair glared at her. “Before you start a fucking war.”

On his way past her to the bathing suite, another knock on the door froze both of them where they stood. Eamon’s voice called out. He knocked once more before strolling in with… what appeared to be a party guest in tow.

“Ah, Elissa,” Eamon said. “After the evening’s unpleasantness, I trust you've made yourself comfortable.”

“Yes, Eamon, thank you.” Elissa waved her hand dismissively and shuffled towards her trunk.

“Good,” he nodded towards Alistair, “because tonight’s likely to be the last rest for the both of you. This is Erlina. She's --”

“I am Queen Anora's handmaiden. She sent me here to ask for your help.”

Bent over her trunk, Elissa closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Of course Anora would show up before the Landsmeet. Of course.

If she were a lesser person -- if she were not a Cousland -- she might have simply wished Alistair the best at dealing with whatever the fuck this was. Teach him a lesson for keeping her leashed. But Highever was at stake, and Alistair was too much of an oaf to ascend to the throne without her, especially with whatever Anora was plotting.

Elissa closed the trunk with a small snap, before rising and turning towards them with a wan smile.

Putting on her best at-court voice, she said, “How can I help?”

The silks lining Zevran’s guest room reminded him of home. No doubt Teagan’s doing. Zev smiled and made a note to thank the man when he saw him next.

After so many cold, lonely months spent in tents, he truly regretted giving away all his belongings before taking on the Warden contract… Then again, he didn’t think he’d be needing them. What a fool he’d been then, and so many times since.

The delicate designs flowing around the room’s perimeter brought calm after the evening’s excitement.

At his bedside, he found the filled pitcher he’d requested, along with a basin and a small mug. The great thing about servants was that they never pried into the reasons for such requests -- and this assortment was so boring, it wouldn’t even have made servant-quarters gossip.

Zevran had made a show of bidding the others a good evening, prattling on about how tired he was. Anyone paying attention might have noticed that he had been retiring earlier and earlier than aligned with his usual fireside insomnia. In truth, it was to keep the others from stumbling in on him. Leliana did love to stop by for evening gossip, and Morrigan occasionally visited to discuss herbalism inventories.

But night time was the only time he had to practice. Early on, after that secret meeting with Anders in the Brecilian Forest, while Morrigan and Kalya walked on ahead, he’d misunderstood the mage’s advice and begun his “honing of skills” in the early mornings, before even Kalya was up for her training.

Trying and failing to control himself had left him an overheated, heart-racing mess for the better part of the day. Much easier to come down from the experience while everyone slept, even though it ruined his own, as his pulse hammered away until nearly dawn. At least he was being honest when he said he was tired, night after night.

In quiet ritual, he filled his mug, then the basin, submerging a soft rag. He didn’t trust his shaky muscles to fill them properly afterwards. Then Zevran strolled across the room to engage the brass lock on the door.

On his way back to the bed, he grabbed his least-favorite belt off the floor. It was still unclear to him how all this would work, but still best not to risk one of the finer ones.

Zevran kicked off his boots, then climbed on his bed.

He fixed the belt in place. He took a deep breath. And he slammed his fists down on his legs as hard as he could.

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