The events of Freya's rescue— in which she betrays him and he is captured by Ser Cauthrien, is beaten bloody (at the very least), and has to be rescued or fight his way out of Fort Drakon—have finally pushed him over the edge. When he escapes and returns to Eamon's, Freya gives a half-hearted apology (mostly blaming the Warden for blundering), and then speaks slightingly of his experience. At that moment, I find it impossible to believe that the Warden would ever make common cause with Freya at all, ever. I also find it unbelievable that she would be permitted to go to the Landsmeet and make trouble for them.
Cousland understands that Alistair does not react well to surprises. That is why he briefed Alistair very thoroughly about his ideas and plans before stepping into the Landsmeet Chamber. It took time for Alistair to get over his obsession with killing Loghain, but a good and intelligent friend—with a far stronger will—was able to make him see the situation his way.
As to the succession: if a Warden could be King — and Cousland does not agree with that idea at all, thinking it bad for the country and a terrible precedent — then Cormac Cousland would propose himself, since he has legitimate royal blood and far more experience in the art of ruling. Alistair genuinely did not want to be King, and Cousland agreed that Alistair was not brought up to it. I can see no reason why a Cousland would automatically defer to an illegitimate child with no education in ruling. Since no Cousland (as far as Cormac knows) is still available, he really doesn't care anymore. He's a bitterly angry and alienated young man. If Eamon won't support them unless Alistair agrees to be king, then Eamon, too, is another idiot who doesn't understand the danger they're all in, and Cousland refuses to pander to any of them any more.
I wrote the first draft of this speech before I even began Victory at Ostagar or The Keening Blade, and based it on a playthrough I did as Cormac Cousland, who ultimately marries Freya. However, in fanfiction one can be more precise with one's characters. My written Cormac Cousland believes strongly that no Warden should be king, and furthermore, he would not marry Freya under any circumstances. He's really, really angry with her. He also does not think Freya a good queen nor that she has any claim to the throne at all. Here's a later conversation as the Landsmeet breaks up:
* * *
Truth to Power, continued
Cousland shoved through the crowd of well-wishers, not impressed by their promises. If any of them actually rallied their personal guards and militias, that would be different, but until he saw anything of the sort, it was all so much empty wind.
A tall figure confronted him; the last person with whom he had any desire to speak. Cousland laid his hand on Alistair's shoulder, and gave him a light push toward the door.
"Alistair," he said, "Go on and get the others ready to move out. We can't waste any more time on these people."
"Warden," snarled Loghain. "Where is my daughter?"
Alistair threw the man a filthy look, but obeyed his friend, and walked away, back radiating contempt.
"She's fine," Cormac replied, impatient to leave, and the sooner the better. Arl Eamon was spitting nails, which indicated that they would likely not be welcome at his estate any longer. The Landsmeet had broken up with nothing decided, except that someone had better do something about the darkspawn.
Loghain did not move. "What have you done with her?" He glared at the people passing by, and they hastily moved away, out of earshot, heading for the doors. Bann Ceorlic was gabbling instructions to his wife. Cormac suspected that they would be on a ship to the Free Marches "for their health" in a day or so. They were probably not the only ones. He turned back to Loghain.
"I haven't bloody done anything with her… or to her, for that matter. The last I saw of her, she and her bitch of an Orlesian maid were quite comfortably ensconced in the best guest room at Eamon's estate— where, I might add, she went of her own free will. She's locked in, but the steward can let her out now, for all I care. I'm not going back there."
"You kept her from the Landsmeet!"
"Yes," hissed Cousland. "I did. You speak for her in everything by your assumption of regency. A regency is legally founded on a presumption of incompetence. I can't believe you didn't know that. I can show you the precedents in the law codices. If she's incompetent, she has no business speaking at a Landsmeet."
"My daughter is a strong queen, and more competent than you'll ever be!"
"I beg to differ," Cousland said coldly. "And I'm the one who's been tramping the length and breadth of this country, so I know just how fucked up it is. Now saddle up with me or get out of my way."
Loghain grabbed him by the arm as he tried to pass. Cousland took a deep, furious breath, and lowered his voice.
"LiArvid to me: I bloody risked my life to rescue her when Howe imprisoned her, and she repaid me with betrayal and lies. The only reason I bothered to hunt that shit Howe down is because she appealed to me for help! And the only reason Howe locked her up is because she tried her tricks on him and they didn't work. Then she ran off to Eamon, to see if she could make common cause with him, because she's upset with you. Then, when I escaped Fort Drakon— where I ended up because she lost her nerve and told Ser Cauthrien that she was being kidnapped—she tried to make it all better by offering me an alliance and insulting me by telling me how 'particularly dear' my mother was to her. That was when I'd had enough. If she ever dares to mention my mother to me again, I swear I'll kill her. Go get her, and no doubt she'll make up whatever she thinks you want to hear. I never bloody laid a hand on her, though Maker knows somebody ought to."
He shook his arm free, and then gave his enemy a nasty smile. "And by the way, she proposed marriage to me. Offered to make me her king-consort if I'd help her get rid of you. She's your daughter. I understand that. You might forgive her everything: I don't. You need to know that she'd as soon knife you in the back as she would me."
Loghain's faint, answering smile was bleak. "Freya, " he said. "is a politician, first and foremost."
"She's a bloody wretched politician in this crisis. And the last thing we need now is more politics. Enough of all this woman-talk! You need to get rid of that viper of a maid, who's no doubt funnAstridg intelligence to Celene, keep Freya under guard in the Palace where she can't hatch more plots, and lead what's left of the army south to the falls of the Drakon. I'm going on ahead. The Blight Wound is northwest of Ostagar, and that's where I'm going to scout. The Archdemon's ready to march. I've got some Dalish who can act as couriers."
Loghain glared after him. "And if I don't come?"
Cousland shrugged. "Then you'd better hope I can stop them in the south with what I have. If I don't, then you're all dead, or you'd better find some cushy place abroad for your daughter, because the Archdemon will want her for a Broodmother." Impatiently, he added, "If you really want a pissing contest with me, can you at least wait until the Blight it over? By then, it may not matter, anyway."
"Perhaps not," said Loghain, considering it. "But if both of us are still alive, you and I will face each other."
"If we're both alive." Cousland shrugged, not thinking it likely, and thus not worth worrying about. He strode out of the Landsmeet, into a thin, cold rain that fell like needles. His friends were waiting for him. He smiled. At the moment, they seemed the only people in Thedas worth fighting for.
Out of the shadows of the pillars, Riordan appeared. "My friend," he said, "that did not go at all as I anticipated."
"Too bad," Cousland replied. "You can join us, or you can go home and tell the Orlesians that we're not prepared to lie down and die. What'll it be?"
The older Warden shifted his pack, already prepared, into a more comfortable position. "There is no choice to be made. I shall Join you."
Chapter 10: Dregs in the Vial
Duncan watched his young companion sleeping, her delicate face illuminated by the campfire's embers. In repose, no one could have guessed that she had an extraordinary capacity for violence. She looked more like a be
draggled kitten.
She had claws, though. No doubt about it.
But was she strong enough for the Joining? Pickings had been slim. Duncan had hoped to make a final, desperate sweep for recruits, but there was no time to seek more. He had planned to go north and conscript the younger Cousland; he had expected to pick up a Dalish elf on his way to Ostagar; and above all, he wanted a mage.
It was too late. The nightmares made plain that a massive attack was imminent. He would have barely enough time to reach Ostagar and the King's army… if he was lucky. He would have to make do with this tattered, unpromising little elf, picked up by fatal chance in the Denerim Alienage. Another condemned prisoner, her execution postponed for thirty years... or possibly only a few days.
He had sent the other two recruits south earlier, with the rest of the Wardens. Of Daveth, he had great hopes. The young man reminded him poignantly of another sneak-thief, rootless and aimless, needing purpose to change his life. Being a Warden had made a man of Duncan; Duncan hoped it would do likewise for Daveth, who had tried to snatch his purse in the market.
Ser Jory? An impressive warrior, and deeply respectful of Wardens. It might be enough. He had won the tournament, and the opportunity was his by right. The Wardens needed all the strong arms they could get.
Three. If only all of them would live. If only he could squeeze three new Wardens from that last trembling drop of Archdemon's blood in his vial. If only the contents of the Joining chalice would not be wasted.
The vial, carefully cushioned, was in his belt. It—and another, nearly empty one like it in the secret Denerim cache—contained the last of the Archdemon's blood allotted to the Fereldan Wardens. He had considered taking the vial in the cache, too; but then left it where it was, a final resource in case of absolute disaster.
Gregor had brought a dozen of the little vials from the Anderfels, twenty years before. The First Warden, in his letter, advised Warden-Commander Duncan to use them wisely—and sparingly.
"Nothing remains of the blood of the Archdemons Dumat and Zazikel. Only a few vials remain from the Archdemon Toth, and that must be kept for archival and research purposes only. The supply of the blood of the Archdemon Andoral must be carefully rationed: for once it is gone, the Grey Wardens are finished."
No one had expected four hundred years to pass since the last Blight, since the previous intervals had lasted no more than two ages. The preservation charms on the Archdemon blood, thank the Maker, seem to be holding, or the Joining potion would be ineffective. Duncan had done his best to make the blood last, since it would be madness to recruit a great number of Wardens at any one time. Such a Joining would all go to the same Calling together, leaving no one to carry on the tradition. He had thus, over the years, not recruited a number of people who seemed to him good prospects; the limited, shrinking supply of Archdemon blood his great stumbling block.
Small groups of three or four each year were all he could provide for; and of those groups, not half had survived to serve. The last group had included Alistair, who Duncan hoped would be the leader the Fereldan Grey Wardens needed once Duncan himself took his last journey to the Deep Roads. Who would come after? How would they make Wardens, once the the dregs in the vials were gone?
He had written for more, but had been refused. Weisshaupt was unwilling to release what they had left. Other nations had supplies from the last Blight, though even Astrid was recruiting only a handful a year now. Ferelden had not existed at the time the Fourth Blight ended, and the Wardens in these lands had been exterminated and their fortress destroyed two hundred years ago. Riordan in Jader had promised him what he could spare, as soon as the Orlesian Wardens were cleared to come over the border to their aid.
Despite Riordan's generosity, Weisshaupt's refusal had rankled. There was no doubt that a Blight was coming. Duncan had known it twenty years ago, during that horrific adventure in the Deep Roads with King Maric, when they had faced the foul creature that called itself the Architect. It had abducted Warden-Commander Bregan, wanting the location of the last Old Gods, and Bregan had broken and given him eveything. Warden-Commanders were no longer permitted that vital piece of intelligence, but that was closing the stable door after the horses were gone. Duncan had been on the scene, and he knew the truth.
One Old God lay deep beneath the bed of the Amaranthine Ocean; untouchable by any tunnAstridg of dwarf or darkspawn until the very shape of the world changed. Another was buried in ice, too cold for darkspawn to function effectively. The third...
Ah, Maker help them! The third was under the Korcari Wilds, south of Ferelden. The Architect, seeking, ever seeking an Old God in his schemes to "save" his kind, had no doubt made contact; and in making contact, had Tainted the Old God, transforming it into an Archdemon. Duncan prayed that the Archdemon's first act had been to roast that smug, unnatural monster.
His dreams were chaotic and terrifying, but this he knew: the Archdemon was the Old God Urthemiel. It was always going to be Urthemiel, and Duncan had warned his superiors at Weisshaupt: warned them for years and years, but they were blind and deaf to anything coming from a backwater like Ferelden. Much of it was their foolish vanity, thinking that the Blight must strike somewhere "important," such as their own homelands.
The elf girl stirred in her sleep, and then jerked awake, staring at him wildly before she recognized him. She wiped her nose with her forearm in an uncouth fashion and lay back on her bedroll.
"Is it dawn?"
"Not for hours. Go back to sleep."
"I had a bad dream," she told him, her voice childlike in the stillness. "I suppose you think it's silly to be scared by dreams."
"No," he replied. "I don't."
Chapter 11: A Woman Scorned
"I'll tell you my decision... soon," said Signy Aeducan.
Morrigan shrugged, smug and confident. "'Tis to be hoped you make the sensible one."
The dwarven princess—well, former princess— dawdled down the corridors of Arl Eamon's Redcliffe estate, considering Morrigan's proposal very, very carefully. If she could persuade Alistair to agree to it, Morrigan said that a child, begotten by a Grey Warden on the eve of battle, could absorb the soul of the Archdemon. Instead of the Archdemon and Grey Warden who struck the final blow dying together, a child would be born with the essence of the Old God Urthemiel, now cleansed of the Taint. The dragon form of the Archdemon would perish, but the Grey Warden who slew it would survive. It was tempting, for all sorts of reasons.
Angry as Morrigan's secrecy made her, she was not as angry with the witch as she was with Alistair, her former lover. Forcing him into an intimate encounter with Morrigan, whom he loathed, seemed a pleasant— if petty— piece of revenge.
She had raised armies for him, she had swept his rivals away and given him a throne, she had permitted him his bloody revenge on Loghain—though she had deplored it, since she could think of all sorts of effective uses for the man— and in return, Alistair had publicly spurned her.
She had been quite unprepared for the affront. Alistair, now acclaimed as King, had burst into the dining room at Arl Eamon's Denerim estate, and in front of her friends and allies, had declared it was all over between them.
"I've got to have heirs," he blurted out at the top of his voice, obliviously tattling Grey Warden secrets. "I've got to have a Queen the Landsmeet can accept! And so… it just wouldn't work out between us…" His voice faded under Signy's gelid stare.
"I see," she finally replied. "Very well then. Remove your belongings from my bedchamber." She then turned back to her conversation with Wanda, dismissing Alistair from consideration for the moment. The rest of the dinner was painfully awkward.
First Gorim, and then Alistair. The men in her life had not exactly behaved well to her. Gorim she could forgive: he had been exiled from Orzammar, as she had, and his wounds had made him unable to survive as a warrior. He had married a merchant's daughter to guarantee himself a living. Understandable.
&
nbsp; Alistair's rudeness was neither understandable or forgivable in the least. It was hardly as if she had any intention of marrying a human and producing human children. If he felt it was time to part ways, he could just as easily told her in a courteous and discreet way, allowing her to save face. If he thought she had no pride, he clearly did not know her.
Yes, a marriage between Grey Wardens was unlikely to be fruitful. Yes, the pitiful humans of the Landsmeet were unlikely to accept a dwarven queen. For that matter, the deshyrs of the Assembly would certainly never have accepted Alistair as an appropriate consort had she become Queen of Orzammar. It was not the end of the affair that piqued her: it was Alistair's insupportable discourtesy and lack of respect.
Probably his actions were on the advice of that pompous bore, Arl Eamon of Redcliffe. A useful ally, but one incapable of seeing the Blight in broad terms. He was concerned only with the little kingdom of Ferelden and his power within it. And his wife had been quite arrogant, too— and to an Aeducan!
That brought her back to Morrigan's proposed scheme to save the life of the Grey Warden who slew the Archdemon. While Signy, at the moment, could not care less if Alistair killed himself in glorious battle and deprived the Fereldans of such an unpromising specimen of kingship, there was her own safety to consider. For that matter, there was no guarantee that either she or Alistair would survive the coming struggle. It would be hard-fought and supremely dangerous. Alistair might well be killed long before the final confrontation. Riordan had taken it upon himself to pledge that his hand would be the one to strike down the Archdemon, but there were too many imponderables before that day came.
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