Work Text:
Life after the Blight is strange. It shouldn’t exist, not for her who ended it. She should have taken in the archdemon’s soul and died on the tower of fort Drakon. And yet she’s alive and doing better than most people in Ferelden. Tawana, donning the title of Hero of Ferelden for almost a year now, has all a woman in her position can wish for: a title, a lover, a life outside the Circle. It doesn’t change the fact that life had been simpler when she was about to be executed, before Duncan had decided to conscript her.
They call her Warden-Commander Surana now. A last name she’s never had before and that the Circle likely pulled out of their ass the moment Ferelden nobility started asking about its existence. After all, it’s almost possible to ignore the new arlessa isn’t human - so long as she covers her ears on most formal occasions - or that she’s a mage with too much power and no templar supervision, but the lack of a family name to her novel nobility will end the world faster than a Blight. She fears the inevitable moment where the Orlesians will want to hear her stories at their court. Even more than the Fereldens, they will want some family line to define her by, even if it is nonexistent.
It is already hard enough to twist the words of the chant so that Tawana still serves man as long as she stays in servitude to the crown and teyrn Fergus Cousland, that her rule over Amaranthine is nothing in the grand scale of Ferelden despite the banns sworn to her and the court she holds. She doesn’t get why Anora was so adamant on giving her this position, unless it is to give off the impression that killing a local governor gives you the right to claim their position. In that case, Jowan could have been first in line for the arling of Redcliffe instead of Teagan, maybe still is after what happened with the arlessa there. Intentional or not, the message comes across just fine to the dissatisfied crowds.
The amount of assassination attempts have been too many too count, and leaving the arling seems a sure way to get her seat taken and her Wardens killed. It’d be a waste after all she’s fought for. The local people trust her more after saving the city of Amaranthine from being overrun by darkspawn, though too many continue to blame her for the darkspawn’s existence in the first place. As if the creatures are drawn to her blood specifically, and not just the unrest and spirits the area is filled with. It is impossible to avoid darkspawn this recent after a Blight. The Deep Roads are plenty in all of Ferelden and too many sealed doors have been broken open by idiot treasure seekers. They will need to be fixed one by one to ensure further safety, while capable dwarves are rare aboveground. By now, she embraces the leftover darkspawn as the best excuse to ignore the larger responsibilities her title as hero and commander bring. She’s avoided the First Warden’s invitation to Weisshaupt ever since the archdemon fell, wary of the months outside Ferelden, the only home she’s known. She cannot avoid it much longer - the darkspawn on the surface so diminished any novice can take them on - even though she will try. Letters to Weisshaupt will do just fine for now. She need not fear the First Warden shall come himself, stuck in power over the Anderfelds, just like she is in Amaranthine.
More Wardens have made it to Amaranthine by now, replacements for those she lost to the Architect, thinking their assistance will be of most value now that the final traces of the Blight are gone. Or maybe the First Warden thinks she cannot handle herself without at least a few more experienced men. Just to be sure, just to test her. Most of them are Orlesian, sent only temporarily to help grow their numbers, along with the few Fereldens that patrolled elsewhere when The Battle of Ostagar took place and could not return home until now. Those are the worst ones, men and women who care not for the authority of someone twenty years their junior. . It is supposed to be Duncan standing here, watching over the warriors and pulling the strings. They would respect him, or any of the other Wardens that fell at Ostagar for that matter. And yet, it’s Tawana that Anora and her court put in power, only because she killed the Archdemon and survived and thus deserves to be responsible for anything the Wardens do next. It’s harder for the people to judge a hero, although they will still do so.
No one told her the position of Warden-Commander is a lonely one. Those she called her friends during the Blight have their own lives, far away from the darkspawn-filled nightmares and taint. Good for them. The ones that didn’t disappear, stay in contact with a letter or two. Wynne stopped by, using Amaranthine as a rest stop before traveling north to Tevinter, but no one else showed their face in the past year, despite the many warm wishes to see her again. Even Bodahn and Sandal, back to traveling around with their merchandise, have not set up store in the city for months. They likely won’t ever return. A part of her almost wonders if Zevran would even pass by, if he’d still care enough to send her a message, and if she’d care enough to search him out in response. She doubts she’s that desperate for his company however, and there’s an equal level of bad conversation in the local tavern. It’s only a weird sense of nostalgia she can easily suppress. He is not the only one she’s keeping at bay. Back in Orzamar Oghren is drinking himself to death as he cries over a lost opportunity of becoming a Warden, though Tawana wouldn’t be surprised if he’d try his luck again in a different part of Thedas, just so he can quench his curiosity for the goblet. The Orlesian can have him for all she cares.
She still has friends among her Wardens, although her allies are sparse. Alistair is off fighting the leftover groups of Darkspawn around the kingdom, and she’s glad to finally clear her schedule enough to meet up with him while he patrols the Hinterlands, if only for two weeks. She wishes he’d be in Amaranthine more often. At least he knows more of the older Wardens by name, having spent more time with Duncan to take in some stories about the Orlesian faction. But she’s promised him a life outside of politics related to the crown, and so he cannot stay as she sits with her local banns and has to ignore the itch under her skin that begs her to go and set something on fire when the discussion get out of hand.
Of those she had at her side against the Achitect, Velanna is presumed dead the mess of Vigil’s keep or perhaps she fled away from her Warden’s calling. No body has ever been found in the keep’s ruin and the elf’s joining had never been completed. Sigrun is more in the Deep Roads than the keep to stay true to her oath to the Legion Of The Dead and Justice who just rots more every day. The flesh of his cheeks has disappeared, its jaw hanging on only by a swath of bandages. They hide most of the body under an extra layer of clothing: a cloak, gloves, anything keep the body parts together one more day. And then there’s Anders, the only one who carries his duty as a Warden in the same way she does, a way out of templar hands. Anders who wants to talk with her tonight.
Tawana sits in her quarters towering over the city walls, from where she can oversee the harbor and sea. It’s the first space of her own, after the Circle dormitories and the camp from the Blight: grey stone walls and wide windows with windowsills deep enough to sit in, and too much space for her belongings. A few banners of the Grey Wardens and Amaranthine and tapestries hang on the walls in an attempt to liven to place up. The furniture is simple: a desk, a bed and wardrobe, and a small seating area in front of the fire place. Essentials.. The room has a better view than the castle of Vigil’s keep. It is more comfortable as well. She prefers the city over the secluded keep anyways. The keep’s surroundings don’t call to her, she prefers the presence of water despite her inability to swim. Most of all, Vigil’s Keep was once Rendon’s Howe’s. The memory of him and Loghain, their scheming… What a place the both of them created.
Nothing good comes from a fortress with an open tunnel to the Deep Roads, which is likely the reason the keep got beaten up as badly as it did. The dwarven doors could only do so much, some Darkspawn must have dug around them somehow, as they tend to do. Tawana will have the keep be rebuild of course, she is no idiot who leaves her central lands defenseless. Nor she expects the townspeople to gladly house more Wardens than have already settled between the walls. For now, she’s given up her personal mansion to house her own men, banners of the Wardens hanging over those of Amaranthine at the gate to her courtyard. A sign that she is a Warden above nobility. Eventually, they will all move permanently to Vigil’s Keep, but for now Tawana commissions dwarves to rebuild her city and keep stone by stone. There are no Avvar to tell them how they had built it once before, she doubts they’ll come if she asks. There is too much to fix and too little men and resources to do it with. At least it could have been worse, had she not had her soldiers in silver armor and the farmlands enforced. She has time to be patient. That much at least, she has won in her battles.
There is a knock at her door that stops her thoughts from spiraling. Anders walks in before she can tell him to enter. Her door has always been open to him, a fellow mage who hates the Circle, though she never reached his level of determination to get out. He’s a welcome presence amongst her troops as a healer and an even better: a friend. It still surprises her that despite the both of them living in the same tower for decades, she’d never heard his name. Perhaps because the apprentice mages didn’t talk to those who passed the Harrowing, and surely not the ones that would prove to be bad influence later on. He had heard of her of course, it was hard to ignore the elf that had been left at the tower as an infant and waited awfully long for her Harrowing. Longer than they’d let a human, otherwise Jowan and Tawana herself would have felt more fear she would be made tranquil. She was twenty-three then. She hadn’t been afraid of the challenge the templars had given her, but she’d hated the caged feeling that accompanied it. They had tried to so hard to make her an example, a perfect mage and elf at call and beckoning of the templars. How that experiment had failed. The Maker has no doubt cast His eyes away from her a long time ago.
Anders is different. A man with a past outside the circle, outside Ferelden, despite him never wanting to talk about it. It’s a time of hardship and cruelty that makes him laugh away the dangers he faces now and toy with horrors like they can’t be worse than a templar after midnight. Perhaps they aren’t. They both know that a templar is more unpredictable than a demon, for a demon can be resisted.
His demeanor has changed since they took down the Architect. Tawana would be blind if she didn’t notice. In the last few weeks, his mood has turned foul. Who she knew to be a witty and overall funny man, has turned snappy. He has dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days. She doubts is the usual nightmares, considering hers are surprisingly calm these days. She might not be the best reference after experiencing the Blight, but she knows Anders well enough to notice his tells. Things are bothering him. Badly.
There’s as meow from underneath his coat and she notices the small orange head of Ser Pounce-A-Lot poking out. He’s held tightly in Anders’ arms, the softest and safest space for him. Another meow comes when the cat is placed gently on the floor. The protest is only met by Anders’ smile before the cat realizes that Tawana’s ottoman just as comfortable and climbs on. He settles in the same spot as every time the cat camps in her quarters when Anders is on patrol without her. Orange fur is a permanent fixture on the blue fabric by now, impossible to clean forever.
“Sit.” Tawana says, and motions to the place on the ottoman that is not yet taken. “You wanted to talk?”
Anders hesitates a second but sits down and places a hand in Ser Pounce-A-Lot’s fur. The cat purrs in response, louder than Tawana would imagine possible for such a small creature. She sits down in the seat beside the ottoman, closer to the fireplace and where her Fluffy has been sleeping the past hour at its feet. The dog opens an eye at her presence, the white rolling and glistening in the light and closes it with no desire to truly wake. She had left him with Alistair for a bit to keep him active against the darkspawn in the Hinterlands, only now taking him back for a few weeks to get him used to his new home.
Anders leans forwards just a little and looks at her with his awfully empty eyes, “I will need to leave Ferelden. Not yet, not now, but soon. You will have to transfer me to a different region and when that time comes… I need you to take Ser Pounce-A-Lot from me.”
His words strike as if nailing Tawana to her seat. She will be alone again, stuck in the wait until Justice falls apart alongside all she had built. It will be her and the Orlesians and sometimes, just sometimes Alistar by her side. Perhaps she should have let Oghren stay after all, just to have one more familiar face around.
She tries not to let the hurt, the confusion show on her face. She just looks at Anders in a blank expression and says, “It’s unlike you to leave him behind, considering he’s gone on patrol as often as any of us.”
“They say he’s a weakness. They’re probably right.” Anders mutters, his voice monotone.
“Ser Pounce-A-Lot, the cat given to you by the Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey… makes you weak?” She frowns, “I don’t know what those Orlesians are on, but this cat is probably less of a softie than Fluffy and no one complains about him being here.”
The mabari at her feet doesn’t even bark in argument. Especially not when Tawana leans down and scratches him behind the ears, just the right spot to make his stumped tail wag faster than it should be able to. She and Alistair have spoiled the dog rotten to the point where Tawana is easier convinced the cat can kill a Hurlock than Fluffy could.
“I wouldn’t listen to them anyways. They tried to tell me what to wear to look more like a true Grey Warden, but I don’t think a darkspawn ever cared whether an enemy was wearing the white-blue banner or not.” She jokes, but it barely lands. So the situation is serious then. At least in the Deep Roads, he’d spare her the tiniest grin.
“It doesn’t matter what the Orlesians say, I do not care.” He shrugs, his eyes empty as he stares forward, his hands petting Ser Pounce-A-Lot automatically “I just wasn’t planning on staying here long anymore. I have… business elsewhere that I need to get to. Soon.”
“And the cat will drag you down?”
“Free Marches is no place for a cat.”
She nods, but how is she to know what Free Marches is like? Maker, she’s barely been out of the Circle for two years now and there’s still a lot to see in Ferelden that she hasn’t had the chance to appreciate in her hurried run around the place when the Blight was going on. All she knows, is that it used to be a slaver’s paradise up there. She’s happy not to go near it. She doesn’t get why Anders ever would.
“Is it a place for you?” She asks.
He shakes his head, “No, but I need to be there. I need to be there for Karl.” He looks at her, sees the she has no idea who he is talking about, sighs and continues explaining, “He… we…used to be a thing in the Tower, maybe still are. He’s been in Kirkwall for years. We recently got back in contact, in writing, with me not being wanted any longer. Something is off there. I need to get him out and into safety. If I’m stationed in Kirkwall as a Warden, I can be close to him, protect him in our Order should things go wrong. You get that, right?”
She does. To fight for another mage is a death sentence in itself. A sword above the neck that only a few wish to carry. Tawana has been carrying one since the moment Arl Eamon recovered from his poisoning. Jowan is back at the Circle, watched carefully by templars and mages safe he attempts blood magic again. They leave him alive for now, only because Tawana has sworn her own life for his, along with safely strung lies about Uldred’s misplaced influence over Jowan. They buy it, but only because any blood ritual Jowan performed was finished before the Circle was restored with Tawana’s help. But now, one misstep is all it will take for the both of them receive the execution they were spared two years ago. Despite all Tawana has done, despite all is capable of, it’s the best arrangement she could make and the only one Jowan has accepted for now. She hasn’t gone to visit him since his return to the tower, only sent a letter to the First Enchanter with her warm regards. She does not wish to stay frequently informed. Jowan would hate to know she meddles with his affairs, and it will not help the rumors if she keeps assisting him even now. Besides, Tawana would prefer to live in ignorance should the templars break their word. Last she saw of him was his assistance in the battle of Denerim alongside the other Circle mages, and so far as she knows, he had survived the fight. That is knowledge she holds on to and chooses to keep.
To think all this were to happen to a lover, not just a friend… If something were to happen to Alistair, she’d make the world bleed for it. She’d almost done so before. It had been her hands that had made Loghain’s blood literally boil in his veins when he challenged the both of them at the Landsmeet and it had been her hands holding the sword that cut his head off cleanly. She had done all that, and Alistair isn’t even a mage.
“I cannot make him join us just for you, Anders. And I doubt the commander in Free Marches will be any more lenient. Wardens have the right of conscription, sure. But that includes princes, criminals, lowlifes and whoever else we see fit to be taken out of society, especially in a Blight. We have free choice, except when it comes to mages. I’m lucky as Warden-Commander to have first pick, especially when I convinced knight-commander Greagoir not to count me as the Ferelden choice anymore. Right now, it’s you who holds the title of Warden mage of Ferelden, and unless another archdemon crawls up from the depths, you’ll be the only one I’m allowed. But if I catch word of my best friend being on the shortlist for tranquility or execution, I’m conscripting him.”
She doesn’t tell him why exactly Jowan is considered for tranquility, why he his security is so much stricter than a mage who escaped so frequently. She knows Anders despises maleficarum, clueless she’s one herself. What beloved Circle icon and hero of an entire nation would ever sell her soul - not even her soul, a child’s soul - so cheaply after all. Perhaps its better that he’s leaving, before the inevitable truth tears their friendship apart. He already isn’t the biggest fan of the necromancy and entropy she’s mastered. Too close to a dark force, too close to the truth. She tries not to raise the dead too often around him.
“Seems like a long wait for someone you call your best friend. You don’t think he deserves to be free?” He says, his voice harsh and filled with judgement.
She huffs, “Did you forget about the part where only a fragment of recruits survives their joining? Or did ser Mhairi leave such little impression on you? I’d rather keep the few friends I have alive, but if it’s death or tranquility, I know what we all prefer. For my friend, I think he’s alright in the Circle, he sees it as atonement for the wrong he did in his escape. If he escapes again, they have has phylactery this time. They’ll hang him before he gets the chance to defend himself and come for me right after. We’re not all as lucky to be as likeable as you Anders.”
She sighs and leans her head back against her chair, “Maybe it’s why I prefer to keep you here. If anything happens to you, I could talk our way out of it. But I wouldn’t send you away if you didn’t want to. You can’t escape either way. The taint won’t go away, it marks us until it overtakes us. For a mage it’s the question whether it’s the magic or the taint that gets us first, and I’d rather take the chance with the taint.”
“I cannot help anyone else by being a Warden, especially not here.” Anders says.
“But you also cannot quit. Wardens only have each other to trust. If you transfer to Kirkwall and anything happens, know that Ser Pounce-A-Lot and I will come for you. No matter what. We Wardens are a family, especially the free mages.”
She speaks the last words careful, one by one so he understands the severity. The cat meows in Anders’ lap, adding his own confirmation.
She doesn’t like it, but it can’t be helped. She’ll be the last person to tell Anders he can’t go where he wants, that he cannot enjoy his makeshift freedom. It’s what they bonded so strongly over.
“What shall I ever do without my favorite healer around?” She asks once his silence suffocates her.
“Probably triple the amount of Wardens with burn scars, considering you refuse to learn how to even mend a paper cut.” He grins. She laughs, and he joins her. For a moment, it’s all normal again. Two mages who act like old friends, despite knowing each other for only a few months. And with air cleared, it’s the least they can in the comfort of her personal chambers. Free mages, or as free as they get to be with the queen’s and chantry’s approval. It’s the freedom Grey Wardens sacrifice everything for. To Tawana, the expeditions into the Deep Roads are worth it all.
“Just don’t leave yet, alright? I’ll personally send you off to Kirkwall once I’m back.” She says, and means it. She’ll leave Ferelden if it is to ensure Anders arrives safely, is accepted and liked in the way he is with her own Wardens. She can set him off and finally take that invitation to the First Warden, maybe can even convince Alistair to come along. He’s as much a hero as she is after all.
“Deal.” He promises and in that moment, everything seems just fine.
Two weeks later Anders is gone. Tawana leaves Amaranthine for the first time and Anders is just… gone. Justice is gone too, but that one had been expected. She had said goodbyes to the spirit before her trip to Redcliffe, knowing the foul smell of decay would not linger in the hallways after her return. The body would finally have given out by then, and Justice had no other place to go. It had wanted her to leave, so it could walk by its own to Kristoff’s doorstep to die a second time. It wanted to do it on its own and she’s let it.
Ser Pounce-A-Lot is still there, although only by pure chance. One of the new Wardens is about to put the cat back on the streets right as she returns to her mansion. She nearly releases her magics on the man, feels the fire at her fingertips ignite with the wish to burn him to a crisp. She only sends Fluffy after him instead, the bark of the dog enough to let the cat be dropped, a bite more than sufficient to ensure that man doesn’t dare to the same again.
Eventually, once she’s stalled her horse, she recalls Fluffy, turns on her heel and heads inside, following the cat back to Anders’ room, certain to find Anders there. They’ll laugh about her outburst, have a drink and spoil their pets while Tawana shares the awkward details of her visit to Redcliffe.
She finds Anders’ room untouched, but him missing. His feathered coat hangs before the open window. It’s been aired for too long and Ser-Pounce plays with the feathers that have fallen to the ground. It’s unlike Anders to leave his things like this, he hates the Warden blues too much to let his yellow and black robes go to waste like this. Blue isn’t his thing, she’s been told so often on patrol and wondered after a while if he’d meant both the robes and the Wardens at some point.
Someone approaches from behind. Armored steps that tell her it cannot be Anders. She turns to see Michel, one of the Orlesians, a few years older than her but with more years since his Joining ahead of her, in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost. He’s one of the group of templars that decided Andraste commanded them to leave their order and serve the Wardens instead. Or so is the official story, they’re still lyrium addicted and since Tawana does not provide them, their lack of insanity can only mean the Chantry still sponsors them in some way. To keep an eye on Tawana and her singular mage, no doubt. At least she isn’t as dependent on her blood magic anymore as she was during the Blight, or the templars would have long struck her down, no matter what title she holds.
“We didn’t get rid of it out just yet.” Michel states.
“Why would you?” She takes a second, but she knows exactly what it means. Anders didn’t leave in a hurry, nor planned. He would not leave his room this pristine, his cat without a care. “Did he get attacked on patrol?” He shouldn’t have been on patrol, she’d kept him off so he could prepare his inevitable departure. And even if he did, the nearby surface roads have been safe for weeks. He shouldn’t be missing, couldn’t possibly be dead. And yet all signs point at the fact that he’s gone with no plan or possibility to return.
“He changed one night,” Michel states casually, like Tawana isn’t down a Warden who should be right here, “we made the decision we couldn’t harbor an abomination.”
She frowns. “I don’t remember making such a decision.” She cannot even think of Anders as an abomination, never him.
“You weren’t here, the choice fell on the rest of us. He killed Rolan, bit out his throat like a mad dog.” And she understands that they kicked him out. Surely, the Circle would expect it of her, there’s still some rules a mage lives by. She’d likely have taken action, had this not been her friend they talked about.
She knows Rolan and Anders never saw eye-to-eye. Tawana never did either. There was something about the man’s templar background, the way he hated following orders from a mage, the times he thought he was above them and not on equal level. He was the worst of the group, always wanting to be around Anders on patrols, always keeping an eye out waiting for a slip-up, anything. Still, she doesn’t think Anders would kill the man without a reason. Being accused of becoming an abomination would be one to do it, but not to rip out his throat. That isn’t Anders, it’s barely Tawana.
“What happened? It doesn’t sound like Anders to go mad.”
Michel shrugs. “What happens to any mage eventually. He let a demon in and went crazy. I was lucky enough to run before he started spouting shit about justice and oppression.”
“I see.” Except that it doesn’t make sense. Anders knows better than to take in a demon, has so much control over his power that only the worst situation could make him turn that desperate. But the templars wouldn’t come for him, the chantry and Anora know not to send out forces to apprehend a Warden, especially not one of hers. Even Rolan shouldn’t have been that stupid, and if he were, Anders would have killed him with Tawana’s permission before any demon could creep in.
“Is he alive still?”
“He might be. Even if we injured him, he’s a healer.” Michel shrugs, “I wouldn’t try to follow him. He might look the same, but that isn’t a Warden anymore. Let the templars deal with him when he eventually walks into them.”
“I will be the one to decide that.” She snarls and storms out. Ser Pounce-A-Lot stays in the room, but Tawana isn’t afraid anyone else will try to throw him out this time. They know better than to fight with her or her mabari, or risk a month of solo-expedition in the Deep Roads, perhaps reclaim the underground route from Amaranthine to Gwaren that has been lost since king Maric disappeared.
She goes to the only place she might get more answers. Her improvised throne room, located at the side of the mansion is no more than a refurbished dining hall, the biggest room of her mansion. It is too small to comfortably hold court in, but Tawana’s own quarters can’t be used for audiences and Vigil’s Keep is still in too much of a sorry state. It’s not like she needs the hall for her Wardens, their numbers are small enough that they have taken to eating out in the courtyard, or around the kitchen, although the kitchenhands will kick them out should they linger too long.
Varel is exactly where she expects him, beside her empty throne. It’s a beautiful piece and the only thing she had managed to restore from the ravaged throne room of the Vigil. It had been given to her by arl Eamon upon receiving her titles. A silver throne with the emblem of the Grey Wardens worked into its backseat. The two gryphons and the cup, daintily raised in the metal. The throne isn’t comfortable, but power rarely comes without a stiff back. Today, she’s glad the throne is only hers to sit on. She’s too tired from her travels and too angry at the mess created in her absence for her legs to not give out from under her now.
She sits down, Varel turning to her She can trust her seneschal to keep things in order when she’s gone, one of the few perks of combining her job as arlessa with that of Warden-Commander. He is no Warden himself, the only person she knows lucky enough to share the secrets without their grim condition. As such, he’s the one all problems have been addressed to and who must sign off on all and any decisions in her absence.
“Was anyone going to tell me Anders went crazy? Or was I to pick up the clues when I saw his cat about to be thrown out.” She asks, trying to keep her voice calm. She thinks she’s doing well.
“It was first on my list, Commander. Along wit the rest of events of this week.” He speaks calmly, not surprised by her anger. He must have known of the situation and have been debating how to tell her without risking setting all of Amaranthine on fire. He holds out the stack of papers in his hands to her. She refuses to take them.
“I don’t care.” Tawana groans. It’s not true, she always wants to be on top of the situations at hand, be it darkspawn, another rebellion, a noble who spread posters around town with an exaggerated drawing of her elven ears and darkspawn looking claws. But that can wait.
He tucks the papers away and folds his hands behind his back.
“Anders and Justice went into town together twelve days ago as a final goodbye. But when Anders did not make it back to the mansion at nightfall, Rolan and Michel came to find him. You know Rolan, he would always trail after Anders as if he were a guard dog.” Varel sighs, “They found Anders in the woods, alone. Apparently he was raving about injustice and his eyes were glowing an awful blue. It seemed he had gotten possessed while arranging Justice’s final rites, left himself prone to the demons that haunted him. Without you there, they came to the conclusion Anders had become an abomination. Michel went to get more Wardens as back-up and Rolan called the Amaranthine templars to the place. By the time Miche returned, both Rolan and five templars were dead.”
“You sent no message on this, why? The ride from here to Redcliffe would take you a few days with a swift raven and I wasn’t hard to find.”
He looks at her and must be able to read the sunken expression on her face with ease. “I do not think you could have changed anything. Rolan would still have brought the templars upon Anders, and news would have reached you too late. It was decided to inform you after your mission.”
“But I could have had a head start on Anders, talked to him.”
“Do you think he would have wanted you to find him? He thinks the Wardens sent templars after him, whether it was your decision or not. If he wanted your protection, he could have gone to Redcliffe as well, but it seems he did not.”
He’s right, he usually is. If Anders fled so early on, he could have reached her before the Templars would have been set off. She would have protected him, but he had not wanted to or had not thought of it. Either way is too late now.
“What did they do with Rolan’s body?” She asks.
“It was burned the day we found him, as per his wishes. The ashes were then buried at the edge of city.” Varel tells her, “If I’d known you’d wanted to inspect the body, I could have tried to hold them off, though there wasn’t that much left and two weeks is a long time to keep a body.”
“Michel told me Anders tore him to shreds like a dog.”
“A dog may have been kinder to him. Poor guy was both frozen and mauled to death, and definitely no longer complete.” A pause falls, only broken a bit later when Varel asks her, “I kept Anders room the way it is for now, but he will not be returning here. Do you want it to be emptied?”
“Leave it be.” She tells him, “It’s my mansion, there’s enough rooms for everyone else. I’ll get to cleaning his room when I want to.”
“I always thought the apostate to be a good man, you know. It’s a pity he had to fall back to such savagery.”
She thought Anders to be a good man too, still does. And yet he still gets called an apostate by Tawana’s closest men, those that claim to like him. Like the position of Warden doesn’t clear the term altogether. As if every mage in their ranks is a danger, as if she herself is a danger. In the end, Varel cares most about the Warden ranks, about the few men they keep or lose. Two in a week gone, despite not a single darkspawn attack is the worst that could happen.
She sends Varel away, wants to be left alone. But the hall is suffocating, unfitting to her while the sun is still above the city walls. She heads to her room, changes her Warden uniform for the vestments she wore during the Blight. She pulls her thickest fur cloak over her shoulders, although it all does little to hide her features, pulls its hot, stuffy hood over her face. There’s only so many elves in the city, and none with the same tattoos. At the very least, it makes that she can leave the estate without trouble.
She prefers to walk the city of Amaranthine on her own. It was easy when she just came here, she could talk to the merchants and barkeepers, joke like she had done all throughout Ferelden during the Blight. Now, she can barely turn a corner without someone trying to get something out of her. More money needed in the farmlands, patrols against bandits… and then there’s the whole of Ferelden to deal with when it comes to Darkspawn. She can barely keep it all together, waiting to have it all make sense. It did for a long time, but here she is, realizing how easy it can still fall apart when Darkspawn aren’t the worst thing to fear. It’s her own men, and templars, always the templars.
She turns a corner and faces a caravan being made ready for travel. Another house going empty, another family leaving the city in discontent. There is little she can do about it. She has done her best efforts to rehome those that lost their houses and establish the trade routes as fast as possible. The farmlands aren’t blighted, but it does not mean harvest will come any sooner than in any other year.
She inches closer to see the family, even her anger cannot stop her curiosity. She knows the woman that walks between the movers. Kristoff’s wife, she realizes. Her name is Aura, she remembers, a beautiful woman. She loads up a cart outside her home. Tawana must have walked straight to her without thinking. She must have been to the house only once before, yet memorized its location. It was not like Justice would visit it.
She approaches, sees how the men avoid her path when the notice her. Tawana greet Aura with a raise of hand and throws off her furred hood.
“I see you are leaving Amaranthine?” She asks pointing at the cart.
It takes a second for the woman to recognize her. Then Aura bows slowly, her short blonde hair falling in front of her eyes. “I am, commander. I have been reunited with my Kristoff at last, so there is no reason for me to stay in Ferelden. I’m heading back to Orlais with him.”
She points to the urn set beside her door, silver with the gryphon’s imagery. Her husband’s ashes. Tawana is glad that to Aura she is only the commander of her husband, or what was left of his body in all these months.
Tawana keeps her gaze affixed on the urn, on the last beauty a Warden fallen in battle can gain. It’s better than a party in Orzammar and a cruel slaughter, but that is what they all sign up for. In death, sacrifice. “Can I ask how he went? I did not know Kristoff himself, but he died under my command either way. The spirit that borrowed his body, however, was a dear friend. It used to share memories of the body. I shall miss him.”
Aura nods. “Kristoff came walking to the door almost twelve days ago, then collapsed without life. I asked the Warden who escorted him if it was okay, if the spirit in his body was done with his mission. He said that he found a new host to continue with, then left in a hurry. He seemed frightened
“He may have been.” Tawana sighs. So Anders had indeed brought Kristoff home, like Varel had told her. Then he had rushed off, before he could lose control within in the city walls. He had been ambushed not that deep into the woods, he had not made it far.
“Can you tell me, my lady, whether the darkspawn responsible are all gone? Did the spirit finish its task?” Aura asks. It’s the only reason she’d let Justice keep the body so long, a vengeance.
She nods, “Your husband’s death was avenged, he can be at peace with you now.”
The woman smiles, a sad yet content smile. She’d been waiting months for this moment, the time to tie it all together and finally, truly grief. Tawana simply wishes her well travels, a better life back in Orlais before she moves on again. She does not wish to linger, doesn’t need to stick around a family so glad to be mourning after months of waiting for the inevitable. And yet, she cannot think without puzzling the last bits together. There is no use to travel outside of Amaranthine, not now. Traces of Anders’ outburst will be long gone in the near two weeks since she’d been gone.
She goes to the only place she can think, where she’ll be left alone long enough. She can be a mourner, act like the Warden that cares deeply for her people. She heads to the graveyard, the barren land outside the walls, in the shadow of the Chantry that towers above it. There are six fresh mounts of dirt, the latest additions after the hundreds that died in the siege. They lay in a row at the side, the neatest graves the place has seen in a while. Rolan’s name is added with a makeshift wooden marker at the furthest edge. She hopes his family is only waiting for the ground to settle before they’ll erect a proper stone, if his family is still alive to know about the circumstances. She’d never paid too much attention to his life before his local chantry burned down. She doesn’t even know if a stone is custom, or if the silver urn buried below the dirt is the only courtesy allowed. They never got to burn all those fallen at Ostagar and lost all bodies from the Vigil to the architect. Too many die to be remembered, and Tawana can only assume she, Alistair and all others shall go as nameless ashes someday as well.
Next to Rolan’s plot are the names of the five templars, each also awaiting a stone, but the dirt has been decorated with heaps of flowers sent by the Chantry. The six of them together are the only addition on this field in weeks. It should be a good sign, it means her city hasn’t fallen to the next disaster she might have overlooked. It doesn’t put her mind at ease. Nothing about this mess makes sense, and yet her mind puts the parts together in an awfully logical way.
Rolan was an idiot for lashing out the way he had. Had they not followed Anders, nothing might have changed, that much Tawana is certain of. Anders had gone with Justice to deliver the body, had known Justice wouldn’t leave this world and could find a new host. It could’ve been a long thought through decision, explaining the weeks without sleep and the secrecy around Justice’s upcoming death. The way the both of them had pushed her to still go see Alistair, knowing they’d have free range if she weren’t around. They must have not expected the… joining? possession? to go wrong, for something to snap in Anders that had him go mad. She should have been there, should have kept her men and citizens away as spirit and man found middle ground. But she’d been in Redcliffe, sharing a bed with her lover and forgetting the world for a few dreamless nights.
She sits in front of the fresh mount, alone, thinks, curses and keeps her head steady. There’s no use in getting emotional, mourning the loss of two allies who left on their own accord, who do not wish to be found. She doubts Anders had meant to kill a Warden, that the witch hunt started in her absence was not what he’d planned on and now continued to fear a hoard of templars was hunting him. It’s an act of desperation, one of the many times he’s not thinking straight. And yet, she knows Anders better than to follow him. To chase him further will only make him more scared, she cannot do it to him. He knows where she lives, he knows to write her if he wants.
She returns to her mansion when the darkness of evening sets in, ignoring any that try to interrupt her. Court be damned, her Wardens be damned, just for tonight she wants to be Tawana. No Warden-Commander, no arlessa Surana. She picks Ser Pounce-A-Lot up from Anders’ room, heads to her own , and sits in her windowsill to overlook the ships that come and go as the cat settles in her lap.
“I hope wherever you ended up that you’re happy Anders. That you and Justice made the choice that serves the both of you.” She says, to no one but herself. At the very least, she hopes they’re both alive. “I’ll keep your spot. Ser-Pounce shall keep your bed warm, until I hear from either of you again.”
She strokes the cat’s back. It’s a decent promise, she assumes. It’s what Anders might have wanted, and all she can do to keep him safe in her own way.