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The Mirror in the Man [Complete]

Constance Theirin

Queen of Ferelden
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#1
((OOC: Drakonis 9:33 - The Trestlebridge Estate, Gwaren - @Quinton Yorath))

One year.

A little over one year Constance had been wed to Thomas Howe when he died. One year and a month she had been married to Roderick. Now, like Thomas, he was gone. The nobility of Ferelden stood about what was nothing more than a ceremonial pyre. There was no body to commit to the flames. Roderick had been lost at sea; all those on his vessel presumed dead.

Many came to pay their respects but Constance was no fool as to believe there was any actual respect meant within their words. They bowed their heads. They offered their condolences. They lied each and every one of them. Roderick would not be missed, not by any really but herself, Peter and his Aunt Elaine.

Roderick was the first father her son every truly known. He doted upon Peter, reading books to him each night. He took him on hunts with that insufferable hawk of his. Peter took the news particularly rough, crying himself to sleep that night. Constance allowed him his grief that evening and into the next day. If he was to be Teyrn someday, though, he could not wear his emotions so openly. She did not wish to raise a Fergus Cousland; a man she had no doubt was coddled as a youth. The lesson was a hard one for Peter to learn, but like all things the boy was challenged with, he stood to the challenge. Stoic, he stood at his mother’s side during the services.

Roderick was the first husband Constance had truly known. Theirs was not a love match and to admit even such love came to form in time filled Constance with more anger than affection. Roderick made her weak. He made her feel things she swore to never feel, to keep tamped down in a place where only her lessers resided. But she had loved him, more than perhaps he deserved. And she was quite sure, in his way, he loved her as well.

None of that mattered now as she milled about the wake the Trestlebridges insisted on hosting for Roderick. If there were two in all of Gwaren Constance was sure was dancing upon Roderick’s watery grave, the Trestlebridges were them. Still, she could not refuse the offer and allowed them to hold what one spy in their household had already reported they called a ‘grand celebration’.
 

Quinton Yorath

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#2
Life was not, in Quinton's opinion, terribly generous in doling out good fortune. But in this, it had made an exception.

Roderick Yorath--the man with whom he shared a "father" and little else--was dead. The news was sent throughout Gwaren, and it arrived on his desk as Quinton was trying to account for the full extent of his dear uncle's debts. Roderick's death was a surprise, to say the least, though certainly not an unpleasant one. It did leave him with a great deal to consider, though.

If Braden had done one thing right in his regrettably long, useless life, it had been to instill a healthy dose of respect in Quinton for the fact that he was not wanted. So much so that should he ever announce his parentage, he would undoubtedly be killed. Even after Braden's death, he'd accepted his due as bann under his mother's name, becoming Bann Quinton Aldane.

And perhaps had Roderick died of something reasonable like a sword through the gut or a healthy dose of poison, he might have remained as such. He would do better than his predecessors and gain recognition for how he governed Misthaven rather than his thin ties to the Yorath name. But Roderick Yorath was felled by the sea, of all things, and if that was not providence, Quinton was unsure what was.

So when he received the news, he made plans. Firm in intent, but tentative in execution. He must always know his "place," after all, and feign harmlessness just as he'd done with Braden. He would present himself as the dutiful new bann who only wished to aid the newly-widowed teyrna. And in doing so, he would see if his resemblance to Roderick was as striking as had been claimed.

He traveled to Gwaren by carriage, dressed in the finest clothing and furs Misthaven had an offer. All were dyed dark colors to openly express the tragedy he was meant to recognize. His mood, too, was suitably somber, and while he didn't avert his gaze while en route to the Trestlebridge Estate, Quinton did not make a spectacle of himself. Judging from the fact that a servant dropped a tray of drinks after seeing him, he imagined he would make quite enough of a spectacle without even trying.

The wake itself was held in a large, open room lit by an absurd amount of candles that illuminated the dark silks draped over the walls. It was excessive in a way that reeked of incompetence. The kind of thing Braden would have done, surely, to prove to everyone that he was very, very rich and should not be questioned. Except in Braden's case, his "wealth" rested with his lenders. Quinton idly wondered if the same was true of the hosts, but they were not his primary reason for attending.

No, the reason was standing near her dead husband's farce of a pyre. He'd heard Constance Yorath described now and again. Braden had gone on a drunken tear once about women who thought they were "too good to acknowledge where they came from." Oh to see the world with such a limited understanding of how things worked.

Constance was, in fact, too good to acknowledge where she'd come from if she so chose. In very little time she'd gone from controlling a small bannorn to becoming a teyrna who actively engaged in the last Landsmeet. Quinton was as of yet unsure what to make of the woman, but he knew this endeavor must start with her, and so he joined the other nobles offering their condolences--real or otherwise.

When he saw an opening, he approached, offering a proper bow. "Your Grace. I know we have not yet had the chance to meet, but I am truly sorry for your loss. More than most, I imagine."

If she had been going through the motions, accepting well wishes with the same pleasant response time and again, it was Quinton's hope that such a statement would catch her attention. From there, he imagined his face would do the rest--if the resemblance was truly as striking as he'd been told.
 
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Constance Theirin

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#3
A servant, a tray covered in goblets presumably filled with wine, walked by Constance. She stopped the elf, helping herself to one of the overly jeweled goblets. The Trestlebridges always had enjoying flaunting their status. A corner of her mouth tugged upwards very faintly. Hard to say which of the Trestlebridges were overcompensating for some deficiency on their part. Both had so many flaws.

She swallowed down a measure of the wine. Passable enough for now. Later, once home and away from nosing eyes, Constance considered she might get drunk. Roderick prided himself on his whiskey cellar and she had done well to sample many of the cellar’s offerings since his disappearance.

The respite she enjoyed from the many well-wishers proved brief. A voice she did no recognize saying from behind her, "Your Grace. I know we have not yet had the chance to meet, but I am truly sorry for your loss. More than most, I imagine."

Constance turned ready thank the stranger for his condolences much as she had many others already this afternoon. But what she saw as she turned around was nothing she could possibly had been prepared for. Delicate fingers tightened in their grip of the wine chalice and her eyes widened in surprise she was unable to control.

Roderick?

But no. It could not be. The voice was different as was the coloring of the hair. But the eyes, the sharp line of the nose, the cut of his jaw, there was no mistaking the resemblance. But how?

She swallowed down her shock with another small sip of her drink before dipping her head in a faint but cordial greeting. The veil she donned the majority of the afternoon slipped back into place almost as quickly as her calm was lost. Constance offered, No, I do not believe we have had the chance to meet.”

Constance did not need to consider for long why she had not met this man before. She knew her deceased husband well enough to know what he would have done to someone that resembled him so.

“Whom might I address to thank for such condolences?” she asked.
 
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Quinton Yorath

Teyrn-Regent of Gwaren
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#4
Constance's most immediate reaction was equal parts satisfying and disappointing. Satisfying in that he'd rather hoped there would be some reaction from this woman who Braden had joked was born to rule the Frozen Seas for reasons that had nothing to do with lineage or marriage. Disappointing in that he'd expected more from her than raw shock, no matter how tightly controlled.

Perhaps he'd built her up too much in his mind. Perhaps her swift climb through the rungs of the social ladder was mere happenstance, not cunning as he'd guessed. Perhaps she was just a woman who married well.

Quinton was somewhat swayed from that line of thinking when she very quickly and gracefully schooled her features, donning nothing more and nothing less than the face of a grieving widow.

“No, I do not believe we have had the chance to meet," she said with a level of grace he'd expected. “Whom might I address to thank for such condolences?”

"Quinton Aldane, Your Grace," he answered, dipping his head in deference.

The smile on his lips was subdued for the occasion, but he still imagined it made him look relatively harmless and possibly oblivious to the strange situation he found himself in. If Constance knew anything at all about the dearly departed, she would know that was laughably untrue. Quinton would not be alive right now were he oblivious.

But where Braden had been loud and forceful, throwing his weight around to get what he wanted, Quinton preferred more subtle tactics.

"I am the newly appointed bann of Misthaven, a small bannorn near the edge of the Brecilian. And I... share a father with the late teyrn."

For all that getting a random woman with child made anyone a father. And certainly there'd been no sharing between he and Roderick. His brother in blood alone was groomed to become a powerful man. Quinton was groomed to serve powerful men. Alas, only one of them had ended up on the bottom of the ocean.

"I have not come here to ask anything of you or to make some ludicrous claim," he said truthfully before adding a distortion of that truth, "I suppose I merely wished to have one connection to a man I will never have the opportunity to meet."
 

Constance Theirin

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#5
"Quinton Aldane, Your Grace.”

The name was familiar to one but only vaguely. Something scrawled on a piece of paper she read recently, a newly appointed...

"I am the newly appointed bann of Misthaven, a small bannorn near the edge of the Brecilian.” That had been it. The old Bann had died and Quinton was his replacement. What came next, she should have suspected. "And I... share a father with the late teyrn."

A bastard then, and a very lucky one at that. If Roderick had known of this Quinton’s existence, Constance had no doubt Quinton would have been waiting for his brother in the after life. She also had no doubt Roderick would not have seen this gingered doppelgänger as his brother. The unfortunate product of Reginald’s lack of self-control did not a sibling make.

That he revealed himself now as Reginald’s offspring on the heels of his half-brother’s funeral was a curious thing. Did he wish to make some claim upon the Yorath holdings? Constance had other plans for both the bann and the estate in Gwaren. She imagined the idea of Grey Wardens setting up home within the halls of the Yorath estate might make Roderick scream from the Void. He deserved so much more for leaving Constance as he did.

"I have not come here to ask anything of you or to make some ludicrous claim,”
Quinton admitted, perhaps sensing Constance’s train of thoughts, "I suppose I merely wished to have one connection to a man I will never have the opportunity to meet.”

How does one connect with a ghost when there is no memory to provide the tether? Constance swallowed down another small sip of the wine, keen eyes taking in the whole of Quinton’s face. Such connections would be impossible for her to avoid in his presence. The resemblance was… Reginald’s seed appeared to be strong in more ways than one.

“Then I will arrange for you to meet him,”
Constance said as she placed her not yet emptied goblet atop a nearby table. She did wait to see if Quinton followed. He would or he would not. If he did seek a claim, he would follow. If he wished this connection, he would follow.

She walked the short distance across the room toward a portrait set atop a gilded wooden stand. The portrait of Roderick had been delivered earlier the day from Gwaren Castle. Roderick had it painted shortly after he was announced Teyrn. He hired a tailor from Orlais, a secret Constance would keep for him even now, to make the garments he wore the day he posed for the portrait. In the background, tucked away in his cage, was that insufferable bird, Fawkes.

Constance looked to Quinton who did indeed trail behind her. “May I introduce you to Roderick Yorath.”
 

Quinton Yorath

Teyrn-Regent of Gwaren
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#6
Constance's keen gaze traced his features even as she sipped her wine with the grace of one befitting her station. Were Quinton a man lacking in intellect and even common sense, he might have confused the slow perusal as interest on her part. But it was more than her status as a widow that informed him otherwise. Whatever interest existed was purely related to the nature of his existence, and the reason for his arrival at so opportune a time.

She would have been well within her right to ask him to leave--perhaps even to demand it quite publicly. Quinton would have no qualms with that. Recognition was what he sought, and he would surely get it if an outburst ensued. Not a soul within the estate would be unaware of him come morning. That was not, however, what he expected from her, and Constance did not disappoint.

“Then I will arrange for you to meet him,” she said simply, as though the notion of introducing him to a deceased man was not a strange one at all.

Quinton did feel some unease as he watched her walk away, but he followed just the same. His men informed him that Roderick's body had not been recovered. The fool of a man was likely at the bottom of the ocean by now, finally making himself useful as a bloated feast for the surrounding fauna. And indeed, what Constance led him to was not a body, but an obnoxiously large painting.

“May I introduce you to Roderick Yorath.”

The oil work was masterful, and the subject appeared to him as though he were staring into a mirror. It was a curious thing that he'd never sought out his brother's likeness in the past. If he had, he would have been confronted with the fact that they did indeed look very similar. The high cheekbones, the sharp line of the jaw, the set of the lips, the intensity of the gaze. Quinton's skin was lighter and dusted with freckles, and his hair was a rather unsubtle shade of red, but the rest of it was astonishingly similar.

"Indeed," Quinton said, allowing just a hint of that surprise to bleed through. If he could strike the right balance of earnest when it came to Roderick, then he would do it, even if it meant betraying some aspects of his true feelings. "I... had been told the resemblance was striking, but I did not anticipate such a likeness."

He turned to face Constance, casting himself at an angle that would allow any onlookers to observe the similarities, as well. It was a move in stark contrast with the words he actually spoke on the matter, or the way his brows drew into a repentant expression. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I realize now that my presence may be upsetting to you. I can leave, if you wish. I have expressed my condolences, and any business of Misthaven can wait until you have had time to grieve."
 

Constance Theirin

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#7
The similarities between Roderick and his bastard half-brother were never so striking as when Quinton stood in front of the painting. Keen eyes watched Quinton, watching for any nuance in his expression she might glean. Would he see the mirror image slightly askew that Constance saw?

"Indeed," Quinton agreed, a modicum of surprise evident. "I... had been told the resemblance was striking, but I did not anticipate such a likeness."

Nothing Constance saw implied Quinton did not tell the truth. Either he was a truly gifted liar, making him even more like Roderick than she thought, or he was being sincere. One would be far more intriguing than the other.

Quinton looked away from the painting to look to Constance once more. An apology touched his lips and furrowed the line of his brow. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I realize now that my presence may be upsetting to you. I can leave, if you wish. I have expressed my condolences, and any business of Misthaven can wait until you have had time to grieve.” He positioned himself in such a way to highlight the similarities between Roderick and himself might have gone unnoticed by someone else given the condolences spoken. The manner in which he turned was not lost to her.

A gifted liar it is then.

Constance was faced with a decision. She could turn him away to grieve or…

This whole affair had been a torturous one in a way. Watching the Trestlebridges prance around to show off their wealth in the shadow of Roderick’s death had not been how Constance would have preferred to spend an afternoon. She did as much because it was expected of her and she was not one to discount the importance of the long play. The Trestlebridges made adequate tools to use on occasion. Even the most blunt of tools needed attention now and again lest they become unusable.

Quinton was the first interesting person to cross her path that day and he might yet prove himself a more than adequate in the future. The mention of Misthaven business implied there was something he wished from her, another purpose behind his visit this day beyond the obvious.

She was now Teyrna in her own name, no longer tethered to a partnership born in marriage. Someday the Teyrnir would be Peter’s and she intended to see Gwaren stronger than Highever by then.

“There is no need for you to leave.” Quinton’s prolonged stay not only provided Constance with someone more intriguing to speak with, but also gave those gathered something else to speak about in hushed whispers. That would infuriate the Trestlebridges, she had no doubt. Double wins for her. "Duty does not wait on death,” she replied with a whisper of a smile. “What is it you wished to discuss?"
 

Quinton Yorath

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#8
Quinton had given her the choice because it was the accepted and proper thing to do. It was terribly crass to do otherwise. Naturally, he had his own ideal vision of how this evening should proceed, but it was little more than an ideal. Useless to him aside from giving him something to strive for. The rest of his mind--the far more pragmatic side--was already considering a second encounter.

The teyrna, however, did not dismiss him. At least not immediately.

“There is no need for you to leave," she said, and Quinton's expression showed slight surprise--some of which was genuine. "Duty does not wait on death. What is it you wished to discuss?"

He very nearly laughed aloud at that remark. Instead amusement merely sparked in his eyes before it was replaced with the proper sentiment required of such an encounter. There was no doubt in his mind, however, that his dear brother would have also appreciated the comment. Perhaps more so, were it not directed at him.

"I suppose it does not, Your Grace," he said with a dip of his head, "but if we do need to discuss this another time, I certainly understand. Please don't let me just blather on."

He smiled, all the while suspecting she would not concede to discuss this at another time. The fact that she was willing to do it now--directly after her husband's wake--made her intentions very obvious. She was using him for some purpose. A perfect arrangement, frankly, because Quinton wished the same of her.

"Shall we walk the room, perhaps?" He offered his arm. "I confess I have grown a bit restless, and I imagine you must tire of playing the bereaved statue everyone here seems to expect." A hint of his true nature rising to the forefront, though not unintentionally. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I have spoken out of turn."

Quinton's thoughts were already well-composed, but he waited a moment to continue. "I suppose I am about to make myself as much of a hypocrite, speaking of business at such an event. But I believe Gwaren could benefit from a new trade agreement, perhaps now more than ever." People would, after all, see the death of a teyrn as a fine time to abandon the teyrnir. Even without the involvement of treason. "I would like to assist you with brokering such agreements, in any way you will allow. I know this is incredibly forward of me, but I have done a great deal for Misthaven in a very short time. It is not hubris--not entirely hubris, at least," he said with a small smile, "as my bannorn speaks for itself currently."
 

Constance Theirin

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#9
"I suppose it does not, Your Grace,” Quinton offered, dipping his chin acknowledgment, "but if we do need to discuss this another time, I certainly understand. Please don't let me just blather on."

That smile was…disconcerting but Constance supposed much as his specific word choice - a man such as Quinton did not bather - was quite intentional.

"Shall we walk the room, perhaps?” She took his offered arm, hooking hers as if it was something she had done many times in the past. "I confess I have grown a bit restless, and I imagine you must tire of playing the bereaved statue everyone here seems to expect.” A smile dusted his lips, faint but telling all the same. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I have spoken out of turn."

Constance could have admonished him for such presumptions but so no advantage in doing so and did not. “You have not. I invite the candor, my lord.” Truthful though his words may have been; something else, some other motive, filled the space between them.

Such motives, or at least those he was willing to openly reveal, came to light soon after they began their promenade about the room. "I suppose I am about to make myself as much of a hypocrite, speaking of business at such an event,” he confessed. "But I believe Gwaren could benefit from a new trade agreement, perhaps now more than ever. I would like to assist you with brokering such agreements, in any way you will allow. I know this is incredibly forward of me, but I have done a great deal for Misthaven in a very short time. It is not hubris--not entirely hubris, at least as my bannorn speaks for itself currently.”

Quinton wished to be her Knight in shining armor? To swoop in rescue her and the teyrnir from those that would wish both harm? No, such gallantry was not his motive even if such was the guise he might hide behind. Helping her, very much helped himself. But could the same not be said for her? In helping Quinton, she might also gain advantage.

“It does,” she agreed. Misthaven had seen improvements under his ruling if the reports she read were to be believed. Having met the man now, she saw no reason to doubt the intelligence’s validity. There were some that would seek to take advantage of Roderick’s death either through underestimating Constance or by staking claims within the chaos or reorganization. She could allow neither and that would require making new alliances and strengthening old.

“And what type of trade agreement do you envision for Gwaren?” she asked. If he wished to interview for a position, then she would allow him to prove his case and convince her of the merits. Better that than listen to another set of false condolences.
 

Quinton Yorath

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#10
Constance did not dismiss the economical impact he'd had on Misthaven, and could potentially have on Gwaren as a whole. She was no fool, then. Not that he expected her to be, but pride was often at the heart of many a Fereldan's downfall, and she had reason to feel prideful; above him. She'd risen swiftly, obviously inhabiting the role of teyrna with grace rather than the befuddled ignorance some nobles seemed to aspire to.

Quinton took a moment to glance about the room as they walked. Doubtful anyone here had any real affection for Roderick. From what he'd heard, the man was particularly adept at creating enemies--both the outspoken types, and the quietly scheming ones. They were here for the scraps left behind, then, but Quinton was not interested in scraps. What he proposed would allow for a gluttonous feast, if all went well.

And considering his success thus far, he had no doubts it would.

“And what type of trade agreement do you envision for Gwaren?”

While it was not tacit permission to proceed, she had opened a door. It would be rude of him not to step through. "Lumber, for one. Misthaven's sawmill is quite efficient. Since the inclusion of a loading carriage, I've had to rely far less on workers to produce nearly twice as much lumber as before. The same process has been useful for producing flour and textiles. Misthaven has prospered so because this process has permitted me the opportunity to sell refined materials at a lower cost, attracting more artisans who wish to turn a profit. They spend their coin in my bannorn, our economy grows, and the cycle continues."

As much as he'd been wary of pride mere moments before, there was a measure of it in his voice. Quinton had been incredibly wide-read as a boy. Isolation gave him the opportunity for it. He'd gravitated to books on business and industry, learning about processes Braden always claimed were beneath him.

Running a successful bannorn required more than the knowledge of how to destroy competition, however. The people were the key, and they needed jobs and trade goods and ways to feel independent enough that they felt comfortable contributing to the success of their home. He very much suspected the same was true of an entire arling, or a teyrnir.

"I believe the same could happen in Gwaren. I would be willing to take a loss on refined materials, having them sent to Gwaren on a bi-monthly basis. Lumber, flour, leather, furs, and yarn. In return, I ask that my artisans be permitted to make the trip with the goods, should they wish to, and that they are allowed space to sell for no more than three days."

It was a gamble, and certainly an investment. There was no direct benefit for Misthaven, only for its artisans. But he had faith that their work was of exceptional quality, and would draw crowds over time. The more people in possession of those items, the more demand. Because supply was limited, those wishing to commission an item would have to travel to Misthaven and put money in the bannorn's expanding pockets.

"My hope is that in time, you might visit Misthaven to see the systems at work." Quinton stopped briefly and smiled at her in an unassuming fashion. "And should you decide you wish the same efficiencies in Gwaren, I will gladly assist."
 

Constance Theirin

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#11
Quinton made his proposal. Two sides of one profitable coin. Constance expected nothing less. In the brief time she conversed with him, she did not believe him so foolish as to be an altruist. Best to leave such idiocy to people such as Fergus Cousland.

"My hope is that in time, you might visit Misthaven to see the systems at work.” Quinton stopped just sufficient enough to smile; a smile that was becoming both increasing irritating and intriguing. "And should you decide you wish the same efficiencies in Gwaren, I will gladly assist.”

Of that, Constance had no doubt.

Regardless of Quinton’s intentions, a trip to Misthaven was advised. Roderick and she never visited the area. Their focus has been elsewhere; something entirely by Quinton’s design it would appear. He did not wish to meet his half-brother.

“I would be honored to visit Misthaven,” Constance replied, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile unbefitting a grieving widow. Joy had no place at such festivities. Yet, this conversation did make her happy.

Happy for the distraction of some thought other than the betrayal she felt at Roderick’s passing. Happy for the candor Quinton spoke with that so many others seemed incapable of. Happy for the prospect of what the future brought. Teyrna Constance Yorath, shackled to no man and Teyrna in her own right.
 
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