Alistair Theirin
King of Ferelden
Canon Character
Noble
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 123
[Bloomingtide 11, 33 Dragon; late morning; The Royal Palace]
Alistair eased the door closed in his wake, and stood in silence for a long moment, waiting for the hammering of his heart to settle. Visiting Eamon was not an easy thing, but it was an obligation that he had refused to ignore or delegate. He had loved the man like a father, hated him with an abandoned son's bitter fury and felt every conceivable emotion in between, but Eamon Guerrin had always loomed larger than life in his mind, despite his advancing age: canny and at home in the murky waters of politics, where Alistair still frequently felt that he was navigating with poorly drawn charts.
The stroke had nearly killed him, and it might have been kinder if it had done so outright. He could no longer walk, no longer speak, could not even manage to lift a spoon to his lips. He was lifted, fed, changed like an infant when he soiled himself, and yet his mind was clear, trapped in the ruin of his body. It showed in his eyes, bright with anguish, frustration or humiliation whenever he tried to speak, to feed himself and failed in such simple tasks. He had largely stopped trying, and now frequently displayed a child's petulance with his caregivers, and anger with Alistair when he visited. They had established a rough form of communication, with a single tap of Eamon's index finger indicating 'yes' to a question, and two taps meaning 'no', but when the Arl became agitated – as had just happened – even that minimal control deserted him.
Which, of course made Isolde angry, not that it was much of a change from her usual attitude toward Alistair. She blamed him for Eamon's stroke, for 'flitting off' and leaving the weight of the kingdom on his aging shoulders, for being such a poor excuse for a King that Eamon had been required to do the bulk of his job.
He could have enlightened her, but what would be gained by it? Her devotion to her husband had been beyond exemplary. She had fought to bring him back from the brink of death once; it had been her tenacious belief that had set them on the trail that had ended with Andraste's ashes. She had broached that possibility early on this time, and he had sent a discreet missive to Brother Genitivi, but the Chantry maintained strict control on access to the reliquary now, and had ruled that the ashes of the Maker's bride could not be handed out as a sovereign specific, regardless of the rank of the applicant.
Which Alistair figured would last right up to the point that the Divine fell deathly ill in Val Royeaux, but he had to agree that giving access to some, but not others, would generate a conflict that could very well turn bloody. Isolde had accepted the ruling of the Chantry, but it hadn't made her attitude toward him any warmer. Let her hate him, then. It wasn't as though he had to marry her. She and her husband would be maintained here at the palace, where Eamon could be given the best possible care for as long as he required it. Alistair owed him that much.
Even if what he really wanted to do at the moment was beat the man until he talked.
He glanced down at the balled up scrap of parchment in his fist. He didn't need to uncrumple it; the few lines written there had burned themselves into his mind since he had found it among some of Eamon's other papers while he was looking for the original proposal of the trade agreement with the Free Marches.
The items have been moved to Jader. Someone in Orlais will surely find a use for them, and with the owner dead, they bear no markings to tie them to their point of origin. I repeat my warning that the safest course would be for them to disappear completely, and am willing to discuss terms, should you change your mind.
No names, no dates, but it had been with papers that were dated just before he had left on his abortive attempt to travel the kingdom, just before Eamon's stroke. Right around the time that Eamon had told him that there had been no news of Goldanna or her children. The note was vague enough to be safe, incriminating no one, confirming nothing, but it had still made his stomach churn.
It could be nothing. It could be just some random piece of trash that Eamon had picked up. It could have nothing to do with his sister; maybe the Arl of Redcliffe had a profitable side business fencing stolen goods in Orlais.
He would have preferred that to what his gut was telling him was true.
...with the owner dead...
Goldanna was dead. His sister was dead. In the Blight, or at Eamon's command? As much as he wanted to believe that the latter could never be true, it had become obvious soon after his coronation that, for all the Arl's outrage about Loghain's perfidy, it had not been his actions that had been the cause for objection, but rather, those at whom they had been directed. One man's traitor was another man's patriot, and it was the ends that were important; any means could be justified in the name of king and country.
His name. It made him want to vomit.
There had to be limits, boundaries that could not be crossed, regardless of the cause. Killing innocents – children - was one of those that seemed obvious, but the writer of the note obviously did not feel so constrained. Items. Things to be gotten out of the way, disposed of before they became inconvenient. Had he – or she – managed to change Eamon's mind?
Alistair had asked him today, and the reaction he'd gotten had erased the half-formed hope that he was spooking at shadows. As soon as he'd seen the note, Eamon's eyes had gone wide and he'd begun to struggle, trying to vocalize. Nothing that Alistair had said had been enough to calm him sufficiently to be able to obtain simple yes-no answers. And then Isolde had arrived and begun berating him for upsetting her husband.
He could have told her that her husband had likely committed an act that he would be within his rights to punish by execution, and that even if he recovered, he would no longer be an adviser to the crown. There had been a time in his life when shutting off her ceaseless carpings had been one of his cherished daydreams, but now that he had the ability, he felt only a weary sympathy. She had known nothing of what Eamon was doing; he was sure of that. The Arl had been as old-fashioned in his views toward women as he had in so many other areas. His pretty Orlesian wife was there to warm his bed, bear his children, be gracious to his guests and inspire envy in his peers. It would never have occurred to him to share such plans with her; nor, in Isolde's case, would it have been prudent to do so.
“Is everything all right, Your Majesty?” one of the maids asked worriedly.
“Yes,” he lied smoothly. He was getting better at it; he still wouldn't be able to fool, say, Zevran or Leliana, but he could at least put the palace staff at ease, even when he was ready to climb the walls. “The Arl is just having a bad day of it.” What was he thinking now? Was he afraid? Angry? Alistair wasn't overly surprised to discover that he didn't really care. He had clashed with Eamon and made peace more times than he could count, but this...
Alistair could not view it as anything but a betrayal, and while he was content for now to let the man's crippled body serve as his prison, if Goldanna's death was revealed to be of his devising, or if her children were anything but safe, the king might rethink that leniency.
Unaware of his bleak thoughts, the maid clucked sympathetically. “The poor man. It's a terrible thing, to be in such a state.”
He nodded, managing a noncommittal reply as he walked away. Maker, but he wished he could talk to Mal! The Arl of Denerim had come to be one of the few that Alistair trusted unequivocally, but he had returned to Edgewater for his sister's wedding and wasn't due back for a few more days yet.
Aedan ... had enough troubles of his own at the moment. Alistair was expecting a letter from Wiesshaupt any day now, requesting his aid in delivering Aedan up, and had been trying to devise a diplomatic way to tell the First Warden to go fuck himself. He might not agree with Aedan's decision, but it had meant not losing his best friend and brother. These other Wardens hadn't been there, hadn't even arrived until the Blight was long over with, leaving the two of them to muddle through it on their own, which as far as Alistair was concerned gave them zero rights to question how it had been done. He would deal with that letter when it came. If it came. Right now, he had a letter of his own to write.
Alistair eased the door closed in his wake, and stood in silence for a long moment, waiting for the hammering of his heart to settle. Visiting Eamon was not an easy thing, but it was an obligation that he had refused to ignore or delegate. He had loved the man like a father, hated him with an abandoned son's bitter fury and felt every conceivable emotion in between, but Eamon Guerrin had always loomed larger than life in his mind, despite his advancing age: canny and at home in the murky waters of politics, where Alistair still frequently felt that he was navigating with poorly drawn charts.
The stroke had nearly killed him, and it might have been kinder if it had done so outright. He could no longer walk, no longer speak, could not even manage to lift a spoon to his lips. He was lifted, fed, changed like an infant when he soiled himself, and yet his mind was clear, trapped in the ruin of his body. It showed in his eyes, bright with anguish, frustration or humiliation whenever he tried to speak, to feed himself and failed in such simple tasks. He had largely stopped trying, and now frequently displayed a child's petulance with his caregivers, and anger with Alistair when he visited. They had established a rough form of communication, with a single tap of Eamon's index finger indicating 'yes' to a question, and two taps meaning 'no', but when the Arl became agitated – as had just happened – even that minimal control deserted him.
Which, of course made Isolde angry, not that it was much of a change from her usual attitude toward Alistair. She blamed him for Eamon's stroke, for 'flitting off' and leaving the weight of the kingdom on his aging shoulders, for being such a poor excuse for a King that Eamon had been required to do the bulk of his job.
He could have enlightened her, but what would be gained by it? Her devotion to her husband had been beyond exemplary. She had fought to bring him back from the brink of death once; it had been her tenacious belief that had set them on the trail that had ended with Andraste's ashes. She had broached that possibility early on this time, and he had sent a discreet missive to Brother Genitivi, but the Chantry maintained strict control on access to the reliquary now, and had ruled that the ashes of the Maker's bride could not be handed out as a sovereign specific, regardless of the rank of the applicant.
Which Alistair figured would last right up to the point that the Divine fell deathly ill in Val Royeaux, but he had to agree that giving access to some, but not others, would generate a conflict that could very well turn bloody. Isolde had accepted the ruling of the Chantry, but it hadn't made her attitude toward him any warmer. Let her hate him, then. It wasn't as though he had to marry her. She and her husband would be maintained here at the palace, where Eamon could be given the best possible care for as long as he required it. Alistair owed him that much.
Even if what he really wanted to do at the moment was beat the man until he talked.
He glanced down at the balled up scrap of parchment in his fist. He didn't need to uncrumple it; the few lines written there had burned themselves into his mind since he had found it among some of Eamon's other papers while he was looking for the original proposal of the trade agreement with the Free Marches.
The items have been moved to Jader. Someone in Orlais will surely find a use for them, and with the owner dead, they bear no markings to tie them to their point of origin. I repeat my warning that the safest course would be for them to disappear completely, and am willing to discuss terms, should you change your mind.
No names, no dates, but it had been with papers that were dated just before he had left on his abortive attempt to travel the kingdom, just before Eamon's stroke. Right around the time that Eamon had told him that there had been no news of Goldanna or her children. The note was vague enough to be safe, incriminating no one, confirming nothing, but it had still made his stomach churn.
It could be nothing. It could be just some random piece of trash that Eamon had picked up. It could have nothing to do with his sister; maybe the Arl of Redcliffe had a profitable side business fencing stolen goods in Orlais.
He would have preferred that to what his gut was telling him was true.
...with the owner dead...
Goldanna was dead. His sister was dead. In the Blight, or at Eamon's command? As much as he wanted to believe that the latter could never be true, it had become obvious soon after his coronation that, for all the Arl's outrage about Loghain's perfidy, it had not been his actions that had been the cause for objection, but rather, those at whom they had been directed. One man's traitor was another man's patriot, and it was the ends that were important; any means could be justified in the name of king and country.
His name. It made him want to vomit.
There had to be limits, boundaries that could not be crossed, regardless of the cause. Killing innocents – children - was one of those that seemed obvious, but the writer of the note obviously did not feel so constrained. Items. Things to be gotten out of the way, disposed of before they became inconvenient. Had he – or she – managed to change Eamon's mind?
Alistair had asked him today, and the reaction he'd gotten had erased the half-formed hope that he was spooking at shadows. As soon as he'd seen the note, Eamon's eyes had gone wide and he'd begun to struggle, trying to vocalize. Nothing that Alistair had said had been enough to calm him sufficiently to be able to obtain simple yes-no answers. And then Isolde had arrived and begun berating him for upsetting her husband.
He could have told her that her husband had likely committed an act that he would be within his rights to punish by execution, and that even if he recovered, he would no longer be an adviser to the crown. There had been a time in his life when shutting off her ceaseless carpings had been one of his cherished daydreams, but now that he had the ability, he felt only a weary sympathy. She had known nothing of what Eamon was doing; he was sure of that. The Arl had been as old-fashioned in his views toward women as he had in so many other areas. His pretty Orlesian wife was there to warm his bed, bear his children, be gracious to his guests and inspire envy in his peers. It would never have occurred to him to share such plans with her; nor, in Isolde's case, would it have been prudent to do so.
“Is everything all right, Your Majesty?” one of the maids asked worriedly.
“Yes,” he lied smoothly. He was getting better at it; he still wouldn't be able to fool, say, Zevran or Leliana, but he could at least put the palace staff at ease, even when he was ready to climb the walls. “The Arl is just having a bad day of it.” What was he thinking now? Was he afraid? Angry? Alistair wasn't overly surprised to discover that he didn't really care. He had clashed with Eamon and made peace more times than he could count, but this...
Alistair could not view it as anything but a betrayal, and while he was content for now to let the man's crippled body serve as his prison, if Goldanna's death was revealed to be of his devising, or if her children were anything but safe, the king might rethink that leniency.
Unaware of his bleak thoughts, the maid clucked sympathetically. “The poor man. It's a terrible thing, to be in such a state.”
He nodded, managing a noncommittal reply as he walked away. Maker, but he wished he could talk to Mal! The Arl of Denerim had come to be one of the few that Alistair trusted unequivocally, but he had returned to Edgewater for his sister's wedding and wasn't due back for a few more days yet.
Aedan ... had enough troubles of his own at the moment. Alistair was expecting a letter from Wiesshaupt any day now, requesting his aid in delivering Aedan up, and had been trying to devise a diplomatic way to tell the First Warden to go fuck himself. He might not agree with Aedan's decision, but it had meant not losing his best friend and brother. These other Wardens hadn't been there, hadn't even arrived until the Blight was long over with, leaving the two of them to muddle through it on their own, which as far as Alistair was concerned gave them zero rights to question how it had been done. He would deal with that letter when it came. If it came. Right now, he had a letter of his own to write.
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