Chapter 2: The Mage/The Landsmeet

[morwen_eledhwen]

Title: Unbound, Chapter 2
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: The Mage makes an unexpected choice with fateful consequences.

Disclaimer: This chapter contains dialogue lifted from the post-Landsmeet scene in Dragon Age: Origins.

2 -The Mage/The Landsmeet

Not that there were many living who had, after all.

Occasionally in their travels, the Mage and her companions had been ambushed by stealthed Rogues or overwhelmed by enemies too great in number to contain. Some of these had actually gotten close enough to pierce the Mage's defense spells and inflict damage on her with their weapons, if not actually to touch her. None had survived the contact for long. Outside of combat, the Mage projected an untouchable aura even amongst those who counted themselves as her allies or even her friends. Her companions could be jostled in crowds or pushed deliberately by thugs looking to start a fight; their hands could be shaken or shoulders clapped by thankful villagers or patrons in Tapster's Tavern -but only words were directed at the Mage, and those at a respectful distance. She knew the reason for it: they were afraid of her. The duel with Loghain was not the first occasion that she had used fear as a weapon. She was well aware –as was he, and had attempted to use his own terrible aspect and fearsome reputation to cow her even before the contest began—the advantage in battle that is gained if one's enemy is terrified. Her own legend, though not of as long a duration as Mac Tir's, had spread throughout Ferelden and had already begun to work on her behalf.

If recognized and addressed as such, she had never denied that she was a Grey Warden; however, because of her outlaw status, she had tried to travel incognito as much as possible as she and her companions went about their task of gathering an army to replace the one that was lost. Nearly everyone outside the Circle to whom she had given her name had died at Ostagar, and she had revealed her origin and purpose only when necessary. In addition, several of her companions had as good reason as she to prefer anonymity, so no other name was put forward as a figurehead for the party. However, the exploits of her band of outlaws over the past few months had been passed around and discussed, enlarged and embellished, in taverns and village squares, fields and hills and caves and hovels in every corner of the map. Even without knowing her name, Ferelden knew her.

Those who did not know her as the Grey Warden had invented their own names for the pale Mage with the red tattoos on her face who was clearly the leader of this nameless band. Zevran had developed a habit of sneaking out of camp at night and, cloaked in Stealth, insinuating himself amongst the locals to hear fresh tales of himself and his friends. He took particular pleasure in relaying any new titles the Mage may have acquired. In the hills, he found, she was known as the Daughter of the Storm; in the plains and farmlands, the Sickle of the Moon; amongst the Dwarves, she was the Diamond Warrior, or the Death Mask; amongst the Elves, she was the Lightning Spear, or more recently Fen'Harel's Child. The Qunari that could occasionally be found in Ferelden –mercenaries, most of them—had evidently heard Sten call her his kadan, as they had named her the Warrior's Heart, and seemed reluctant to attempt to kill a human who had earned such respect from one of their own. In Denerim and larger towns such as Redcliffe, however, she was simply the White Demon.

Even the Darkspawn seemed to know her. Of course, the sight (and smell) of a Grey Warden always excited an especially aggressive response, compared to that of their untainted enemies. Over time, however, the Darkspawn's reaction to the Mage in particular grew more and more frenzied, until simply her appearance on the horizon, and the stab of light from her upraised staff that preceded the casting of her first spell, was enough to cause a riot amongst the hordes. The Alphas and Emissaries, and the Shrieks and Ogres of all ranks, forgot everything else and beat a path to take her down -which was often their demise, as her companions were free to hack away at them unchecked. The grunts and lower-ranked Genlocks and Hurlocks, on the other hand, were thrown into a panic and ran screeching in mindless circles until they were hunted down by the Wardens' party or trampled by the stronger of their own kind. They did not seem to have a language the way she and her companions understood it, nor were they known to write or draw or leave any record of that nature; somehow, though, the legend -the warning- was being passed: Beware the lightning that strikes underground, that flashes from the hillside instead of the sky. That's her, the one that kills us, the one that drives us mad, the one that finds us in our deepest lairs where none but we have dared to pass. You'll know her when you see her: First the flash, then the terror, then the storm.

---

No stranger to legend and rumor and the varying degrees of truth that these can represent, Loghain Mac Tir had been less than terrified at the prospect of facing the Mage in battle. Nor had he been intimidated by her somewhat unearthly appearance –the pale, almost translucent skin of her face and her bare arms; the huge baleful aquamarine eyes set in a bloody mask of facial tattoos and cosmetic paint; the unsmiling mouth taking its cue from the stark red cap of hair that she kept shorn as close as a penitent novice's in some particularly ascetic cloister. Most people found this combination in her appearance of the childlike, the wise, the sacred, and the demonic extremely unnerving, especially in a Mage. The Hero of River Dane obviously knew a good costume when he saw one, and had waited to see this Mage's performance before he formed an opinion. His expression as he rose to his feet before her in the Landsmeet chamber was now not merely one of respect. He seemed actually to be satisfied, even relieved, that she who now had him at her mercy had proven herself worthy of such an honor.

"I yield," he said.

As she had before the duel began, the Mage once again felt the piercing intelligence of his gaze, but the eyes had lost their scalding contempt. She was relieved as well, and not just for having prevailed in the contest. Thank the Maker, she thought, he would not have to die. In accepting his defeat at her hands, the Hero of River Dane freely offered up to her his life; with a nod, the Grey Warden gratefully gave it back.

Noise and confusion erupted from outside the place where they stood. The Mage's focus began to reopen and her senses to register her full surroundings again. She became aware of footsteps approaching her from behind, and a man's voice shouting.

". . .going to let him live? After everything he's done? Kill him, already!"

It was Alistair. He had charged into the middle of the chamber and was now poised between the Mage and Loghain, his hand on the hilt of his sword. She now fully recalled where she was and the context of what had just happened. She had accomplished her mission and triumphed in the Landsmeet. The Regent of Ferelden, along with the Queen, the Banns, and the rest of the assembly, awaited her judgment. Though she knew she could not kill Loghain Mac Tir, Alistair's seething incredulity brought home the question for which she had never prepared an answer: If she would not kill him, what in Ferelden was she going to do with him?

"Wait. There is another option."

The Orlesian Warden, Riordan, had quietly insinuated himself between the Mage and Loghain on the other side, opposite Alistair. Loghain, no doubt reacting to the man's accent as well as his words, spared Riordan a sideways glance and a single scowling eyebrow before facing forward again. Riordan had been waylaid by the teyrn's men and imprisoned in Arl Howe's Denerim estate, until the Mage and her companions had set him free. The Mage was sure that Loghain knew of Riordan's existence and his identity, but wondered if they had ever actually met. Riordan certainly did not seem to regard the former Regent with any particular hostility. If anything, his words were calm, even soothing, as though Alistair was a half-wild Mabari bent on mauling a guest in the Landsmeet chamber. Alistair's brows also twisted at Riordan's interruption, but he stayed the hand on his sword-hilt and waited.

Riordan nodded to Alistair, then turned to the victor of the contest. "The teyrn is a warrior and a general of renown. Let him be of use," he said. "Let him go through the Joining."

In her shock, the Mage turned her gaze from Loghain's and did something she realized she hadn't done in what seemed like several hours: she blinked.

Riordan smiled at her. She was struck again by how calm he always seemed, as though imprisonment, torture, public dueling and civil war were all part of a normal day in politics. Then again, from what she had heard of Orlesian politics, that may be the case as far as he was concerned. Orlesians were also supposed to be experts at hiding their true feelings and intentions under a mask of politeness. Could there be something behind Riordan's smooth and reasonable tones?

"You want to make him a Warden?" The Mage wished that she had brought her own Orlesian, Leliana, with her; or even Zevran would be better than she at detecting deceit beneath that placid countenance. There was nothing for it, though, but to ask a direct question and hope for a direct answer. "Why?"

"There are three of us in all of Fereldan. And there are. . .compelling reasons to have as many Wardens on hand as possible to deal with the Archdemon."

Before she could try to decipher the possible meaning of compelling reasons, the Mage and Riordan were interrupted by Queen Anora, who now stepped directly between the still-glaring Alistair and Loghain. "The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not?" she queried. Delicate pale hands constantly shaping, folding the space in front of her. "If he survives, you gain a general; if not, you have your revenge. Doesn't that satisfy you?"

The beaten Champion, his life forfeit, never once looked at his daughter, his Queen. Anora, for her part, addressed the Grey Wardens with one smooth shoulder blade turned toward her father. The Mage, regarding them both, felt a chill at the back of her neck. How much of Anora's detachment was due to her father's recent behavior, and how much of it was just Anora? Had Loghain Mac Tir deliberately raised such a daughter? Did he even now approve of the way Anora calculated his fate into her concerns? She is Ferelden's queen, thought the Warden. Anyone who actually believed that Cailan ruled this country was a fool.

In regards to Riordan's proposal, of course, Anora had a point. Loghain Mac Tir was not just a general, but a highly successful and respected general with decades of experience. The Mage and Alistair had never even been soldiers. Yet, they were attempting to raise an army against the Archdemon that she was expected to command. She may have gotten the hang of managing a band of outlaws -though with one outlaw already having deserted her, even that presumption was debatable- but the Mage had seen just enough of military life to know how little she understood of it. She would feel more confident, she thought, for having a competent advisor. There was a possibility, of course, that Loghain might try to command rather than advise -but after all, he had taken orders from Cailan when Cailan would not take his general's advice, and Loghain had clearly thought little of Cailan's choices at Ostagar. If he tried to kill the Wardens or their companions, he would die. Even if he were to succeed and kill them all, what would he do then? The Queen and all the nobles of Ferelden would have renounced him and handed him over to the Wardens; if he came back to Denerim without them, his life would be forfeit again. He would have accomplished nothing other than to take away Ferelden's last remaining hope. Would Loghain let personal desire for revenge ruin his country's chances of ending the Blight? The Mage thought not.

Speaking of revenge, however: If Loghain was forced to join the "secret club" for which he had such contempt, and to take orders from that club's two most junior members after having failed for the final time to harm them in any way, he might well consider that a far crueler punishment than death. Surely Alistair, if he must see Loghain further punished, could be made to see this. He could be satisfied, and the Champion would not have to die. Once Loghain had joined their company and proved himself, Alistair would calm down. It had happened already when they spared Zevran's life and accepted his assistance; or when they freed the Qunari and the Golem, both murderers, and invited them into their company; or when they welcomed the apostate Witch and her questionable practices. Each time, Alistair had objected, but reason had prevailed. As far as the Mage was concerned, Riordan's solution was a brilliant one. She thanked the Maker that a more experienced Warden had been sent to her, as neither she nor Alistair knew exactly how to perform a Joining. Though where the Darkspawn blood was to come from, she could only guess; the Mage had been around a lot of it lately but had not exactly been collecting the stuff. Still, these were mere details. She cocked a conspiratorial eye at Alistair. They both knew this game by now; he would protest, but then do as he was told.

"Absolutely not!" Alistair waved off both Riordan and the Mage, fuming. "Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers, and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals! He tortured you!" Loghain looked blandly at Alistair and then faced forward again. Alistair's voice was rising in his rage and frustration. "How could we simply forget that?" he pleaded.

"Riordan has a point," argued the Mage. "We should put him through the Joining."

"Joining the Wardens is an honor, not a punishment! Name him as a Warden and you cheapen us all. I will not stand next to him as a brother! I won't!"

The Mage remembered Daveth, the petty thief who had cut Duncan's purse in Denerim and been conscripted into the Grey Wardens as "punishment". She also recalled how she herself came to join the Wardens, and some of the things she had had to do since. She shook her head sadly. "Not all of us have spotless honor, you know," she said. Think of us, Alistair, she thought. Think of what we are -of all the people we killed or robbed or bullied, just because they had something we wanted or stood in our way.

Alistair shook his head back at her as they tried to see each other across the gulf of their understanding. "Some things can't be undone, or forgiven. This goes way beyond having spotless honor. We aren't talking about having a minor hiccup in his past. . ." he urged. He shook his head again as the Mage still stared at him. His shoulders slumped.

"I didn't want to be king," he sighed. "I still don't." Then suddenly, his jaw clenched and he turned on his heel to face Anora. "But," he sneered, "if that's what it takes to see Loghain get justice, then I'll do it! I'll take the crown!"

Anora directed her expression of shock at the Mage. "Listen to this!" she exclaimed. "Can you see how disastrous a king he'd be? Putting his own selfish desires above the needs of his country? You can't seriously support him."

The Mage did not doubt that Anora was surprised at Alistair's declaration, but she had a suspicion that the Queen was also privately delighted. An upstart bastard who had expressed no interest in ruling until just that moment was no threat to Anora; on the other hand, he had just given her a perfect opportunity to make him look unreliable and strengthen her own position. The Mage's shock was genuine, however. She had never expected Alistair to put himself forward as Ferelden's king, and would never have supported him if he had. A shrug, a bewildered shake of the head, and a palm pressed outwards in denial was all she could manage to convey that she had nothing to do with this mad idea. Anora looked satisfied, but Alistair rounded on the Mage in fury.

"You're siding with her? How could you do this to me? You, of all people?"

"I'm trying to do what's best for Ferelden." The Mage ground her teeth in annoyance. This was no time for Alistair to stage one of his tantrums. If she just had an opportunity to explain to him what he should have figured out for himself by now, he would see the wisdom of this decision –or at least grow weary of the decision-making process and submit to her will. As much as she preferred not to have to pull rank –a rank he had gladly conceded to her when she was barely out of her Joining—she could do it if necessary.

"What's wrong with you?" Alistair was still baffled. "He's repeatedly tried to kill us both! And you side with him over me?"

"That's not true," she said, trying to assume Riordan's soothing, placating tones. Of course, she thought –to Alistair, it was still a question of Loghain or the Wardens. He hadn't been in the Fade with her, hadn't participated in the trial that had brought her to this understanding. He couldn't see yet that he and Loghain, free of political ties, were now independent beings, not opposites, and could therefore coexist. She waited for Alistair to finish speaking –he was still stamping about and waving his arms about something—so that she could plant this new thought in his head and watch it grow into reason.

Alistair did not stop talking for some time, however. After a while the Mage was stunned to realize that he was actually preparing to leave the company right then and there, in front of the entire assembly. Her face flushed with anger and mortification. She glanced at Loghain, who remained facing stoically forward, though she thought she could detect a slight roll of his eyes and an almost imperceptible smirk. Evidently, Maric's other son was proving himself worthy of his half-brother. Maker preserve us, she thought.

Alistair wasn't just threatening to leave like a petulant child, either; he actually seemed to be going through with it. He gave the dog (who whined, as though he couldn't understand what was happening either) a farewell pat on the head, and began taking his share of their company's looted items from his pack and tossing them at Shale, who watched them land at her feet with arch disgust but made no move to pick them up. His performance was halted by Anora's voice, calling to him across the chamber.

"I'm afraid it's not so simple as that, Alistair." Always cool, that voice, and seemingly clear and artless. It was so easy to believe that it meant only what it said.

Alistair strode back up the chamber to face her. Again, no glance in his daughter's direction from Loghain, though he was listening intently. If his eyes flickered, it was in the Mage's direction, as though assuring himself that she was paying attention as well.

"What?" Alistair snarled at Anora. "You got what you wanted. Your murdering father gets a place amongst the Grey Wardens. What else could you want from me?"

Anora's smirk was a beautiful imitation of her father's. "Your life, unfortunately," she said. "So long as you live, rebellions can be raised in your name. Our land cannot endure another civil war. I must call for your execution."

The Mage gasped, glancing around the chamber, expecting to see startlement or horror on the faces of the audience, their allies. Instead of rising in protest, however, the assembled nobles merely looked on, some nodding, some shrugging. She struggled to believe what was happening. She herself thought that Alistair could do with a couple of jolts of lightning to the head; but to accept his help, deny his wishes and then lead him off to his death? This was just like Orzammar all over again. Did every major decision in Fereldan politics have to be formalized by an execution? "No!" she shouted. Anora turned to her. "You owe me a boon," she urged. How much, thought the Mage, could she trust Anora to remember the help that she received from the Wardens in maintaining her crown? Or the reward she had promised them if their plans had succeeded? "Let him go, Anora."

Anora's eyes narrowed. "This is what you would ask?" Her contempt for the Mage's soft-heartedness was plain. She sighed. "Very well –though I think it a mistake." She turned to Alistair and pronounced her judgment. "You may leave on condition that you swear before this Landsmeet that you renounce your claim to the throne, for yourself and all your heirs."

Looking at Alistair, the Mage wondered where Anora thought his heirs might possibly come from. Surely he at least must know that the Grey Wardens were all the family he was likely to have?

"That's what it'll take, huh? Fine," he spat. "I don't want anything to do with this place or any of you people, EVER! I swear it!" Then, he faced the Mage for the last time. "Time for me to go," he said.

"You don't have to leave." Hold the choice in front of him, let him see its brightness, let him see that he is free to take it. Give him wisdom, and hope. This is your family, Alistair. Who ever gets to choose their family? It's the same for everyone, everywhere you go.

Alistair, his face dark, his voice bitter, turned away. "Have fun ending the Blight. . .or whatever." He picked up his lightened pack and slung it over his shoulders. "I guess you made your decision, right? So goodbye."

He set his back to the assembly and strode out of the hall. Various nobles stirred, stretched, began to group and gossip with their friends as they prepared to leave. Riordan approached Loghain who, escorted by armed guards, followed the Orlesian out a side door. The Warden's Mabari plunked his rear end on the floor of the hall and made a mournful song to the arched ceiling. After this victory, all the Mage wanted was to get her company together and leave this blasted city –or possibly to have a bath first. She recalled wryly how happy she had been when Duncan had explained to her that the Grey Wardens never meddled in politics. An image had begun to appear in her head, when she thought of the machinations of society and government, that she could not shake: that of a shambles, a river of people in an endless march, with those in the middle of the herd trudging mindlessly towards the knacker's or the butcher's knife, while those on the perimeter fought constantly with each other for the right to sit on the fence and wield the prods.