Chapter Text
The wind lifted her hair – wild curls untamed by unforgiving braids or chignon. Instead they were loose, still damp from a thorough bath as she stood on one of the parapets of Vigil’s Keep.
She had done her duty; defeated both the Architect and Mother. There was part of her – a small, irritatingly persistent part – that grieved for them both; the Architect’s intelligence, his aims, were genuine, were not evil, and the Mother had been driven mad by forces beyond her control. But that part was silenced by relief, by gratitude, and by a certain grim satisfaction.
Ferelden – perhaps Thedas, too – was saved.
It was time, then, to go. By some miracle, she’d managed to save both Amaranthine and the Keep. She’d already sent notice to Weisshaupt of her intentions. They could send someone from Orlais, or the Marches, or anywhere to lead the Wardens of Ferelden – but she was done. Her friends were scattered to the wind; her lover – former lover – the King, had policy to learn and babies to make. Without her.
But there were the Marches; there was Nevarra, Antiva, Rivain – and beyond, really. Tevinter, perhaps even Par Vollen; the world was her oyster, she supposed, and she had much to learn if she was to survive. With the Blight over and the darkspawn receding (finally), she could focus on learning more of the Calling – of the Old Gods – of what started Blights to begin with.
It was as good a use of her time as any – better, in fact. She was ill-suited to playing the noble. Something wild in her had always lingered, and that small, irritatingly persistent part of her noted that perhaps she might find her mother’s clan, spend time among aravels and halla and expand on the knowledge Velanna had already begun to share with her.
In this, the good sense that reminded her that despite the sort of “roughing it” that had been required since she’d become a Warden, the appreciation of a softer, more convenient sort of life she’d developed at Kinloch had not faded.
But she had choices – and a number of open invitations.
There was lingering bitterness toward Alistair.
Well, lingering wasn’t really the word. It flooded her; she tasted it in the back of her throat. She received invitation after invitation to the palace, to balls, to advise, to… who knew what? She ignored them, even though she knew the appropriate thing to do would be to attend, or at the very least, politely decline. That little irritant in her head whispered that it wasn’t his fault, not truly, but the larger part shouted that shite logic down. He was the King. He had choices. He could do what he wanted. He could marry her.
Never mind that she wasn’t sure she wanted to be married, or have babies; never mind that she wanted to find her mother’s clan, bring her mother back to it, that she wanted to research blood magic more thoroughly and see what its links were to the Blight, if any, to the taint, if any, to the Grey Warden joining ritual, if any. That she wanted to know the world better, to see everything she’d been locked away from in the tower.
The little irritant also pointed out that it had been she who’d put him on the throne – an act she regarded now in retrospect as perhaps stupid, though ultimately what was best for Ferelden.
But what had Ferelden done for her?
Locked her away, reviled her people, used her to end their Blight, and in the end, would have had her or Alistair’s life without a thought.
It had taken her love.
And there was Zevran, of course – Zevran, who had never seemed to want love, who had made her choose. Choosing had seemed the thing to do – a girl was meant to choose one boy, wasn’t she? Or one girl, she supposed.
And so, as Zevran did not offer love, but Alistair did, she had chosen Alistair.
A fine choice.
She sighed audibly, a truncated, frustrated sound, shaking out her curls and pulling her cloak more tightly around her.
It was often in moments like these – these moments of bitter reflection – that she thought of Cullen. Her blood felt icy, winter through her veins. If she wasn’t quite able to lay the blame of her heartbreak at Alistair’s feet, she certainly wasn’t capable of detaching herself entirely from blame for Cullen’s fate.
There was no excuse – no excuse for his brutality, for the lives he’d taken. Her jaw was so tight it ached, tears pricking the backs of her eyes.
What was the old saying? Hurt people hurt people?
Two years ago, she would have denied it. Disbelieved.
But it wasn’t two years ago.
That irritating little part of her relished telling her she could have gone to see him. She could have tried. Sent a letter. Offered a kind word.
But she’d had her own battles to fight, and she’d been gutted by too many boys she’d trusted, and there had been so much else to drown in. And all that squeezed between fighting the living proof of man’s monstrosity and living with that monstrosity inside her.
Excuses, to be sure. Excuses that may have cost three innocents their lives.
Perhaps four. Cullen was gone, now. Who knew where? Not she.
She swallowed, shaking her head again, rubbing her arms, wishing – wishing –
She didn’t know what she wished, but she knew it wasn’t within her reach.
It was then that her beloved Dog (Ser Bartholomew Maximillian Eastwick-Smythe of the Wilds, affectionately Bujuju, because that was what his name translated to in baby dog talk) head-butted her thigh, whining up at her.
“Well, you’re one boy I can always believe in, aren’t you, Bujuj?” she said, kneeling down next to him to scratch vigorously behind his ears. His stubby tail thumped with great speed and enthusiasm.
Soon, her mother would arrive from Denerim. Then, they would take ship to the Free Marches, where clan Mahariel had taken up residence.
And when that was done, the world awaited.