Chapter Text
Her parents had named her Eleanor Cousland; a gift suggested by her father after the lengthy labour her mother endured. A name only ever used when she was in trouble or on the day of her wedding when her legal name was a procedural banality.
That’s the only time Alistair has ever called her “Eleanor”, come to think of it.
There had been discussion on whether “Queen Ellie” was “dignified” enough for one of Ferelden’s monarchs. Led by Arl Eamon, of course - the man managed to mask his irritation that she had married Al and, thus, blunted his own influence well, but not well enough that she was unaware of it. It had been Teagan who put a stop to the discussion, indicating that if “Ellie Cousland, Hero of Ferelden” was good enough for the Grey Wardens, “Queen Ellie Cousland-Theirin” was good enough for Ferelden.
It’s been an interesting two decades - a few years of relative quiet, allowing them to focus on recovery efforts, and then she was away for two years searching for a cure, finding, not a cure but a means to blunt the sting of the corruption in her and Alistair’s veins, theoretically halting the Calling that was a looming presence in their minds.
Not soon enough to make a child possible. Every month they’ve been together, she and Al have tried and every month her moon blood comes, so reliable she could set her pocket watch to it. She’s 40 years old now and she’s accepted that Al will be the last Theirin on the throne. Mostly.
A rap on her office door pulls her from her thoughts. Carefully, she checks the single, long blonde braid securing her hair and straightens both her white blouse and brown, ankle length skirt. At this late hour in the day she expected to find her lady’s maid or perhaps Al, clad in a loose tunic and breeches that sit a hair too low on his hips.
Unexpected is to see Al in a blood red velvet doublet and matching breeches, with a simple golden crown atop his head. In his hand is a matching crown, smaller and adorned with rubies on the points of the headpiece - once worn by Queen Rowan. “Morrigan and Inquisitor Lavellan have arrived and demanded an urgent audience,” he says and she stiffens, irritation blooming at the intrusion.
Inquisitor Lavellan. Inquisitor bloody Lavellan. Once, she had a measure of gratitude for the woman who took responsibility for the breach; a gratitude that evaporated when the woman continued to allow her forces to squat in a Fereldan keep! The Inquisition became an unbearable risk to Ferelden’s sovereignty and Al trusted Teagan to advocate Ferelden’s interests at the Exalted Council - an event that rapidly went south when it was discovered that Inquisition corruption risked the entirety of Southern Thedas when qunari spies plotted to blow up key buildings as part of their invasion plan.
She’d been newly home at the time and pondered sending the Arishok a stern letter off the record, only to recall his words about how he hopes he does not ever find her on the other side of a battlefield.
These events were inevitable but the Inquisition's incompetence simply brought them about sooner. That Inquisitor Lavellan disbanded the Inquisition and seemingly disappeared was a relief, until a rumour hit her ears that she had been dallying with the man purported to want to bring down the veil: the Dread Wolf.
“I will not meet with the inquisitor in my loungewear,” she says, unbuttoning her blouse while she walks over to her closet, where she pulls out a long, grass green velvet gown. “Button me up?” she asks as she steps into the gown and pulls it up her body. Dutifully, Al buttons up her dress, though runs his finger down her spine as he does, making her shiver.
“I’ve still got it,” Al says with a hint of smugness and she smiles to herself.
“We are liable to have some steam to blow off following this meeting. Why is Morrigan with the Inquisitor?”
“Boredom? Some sort of… wood witch ritual?” Al chuckles but before she can chide him says, “they looked harried. Something is the matter and my guess is it relates to that wolf elf that’s been causing trouble with his cultists up North. Also, Morrigan is wearing a crown! When did she start doing that?”
Beats her. Her dress done up, she places the crown on her head while looking at herself in the floor length mirror in the corner of their bedroom. Satisfied that she is appropriately made up for a formal meeting, she heads for the door, stopping to slip her feet into a pair of leather shoes crafted by Wade, who spent weeks fretting over the colour of the stitching, to the exasperation of Herren, who sent her repeated letters of apology.
Together, the two of them head to the throne room where she comes face to face with Inquisitor Lavellan for the very first time. The woman has shoulder length white hair, wears bright red lipstick that contrasts sharply with her pale skin and she’s nearly half a head shorter than Morrigan, who stands a touch taller than her own average height. Lavellan is dressed in a brown coat that falls to her mid-calves and hilted on her back is a short staff crafted out of gold topped by a carved dragon holding a glowing purple gem in its mouth. Tevene craftsmanship, as she can recall; some of the slavers in the Denerim alienage wielded these short staves instead of the longer ones seen in Ferelden and Orlais.
Both Morrigan and the Inquisitor curtsy, a gesture she and Al acknowledge with a nod of their heads before sitting down on the wooden thrones that sit side-by-side against the back wall of the room. Beside Al’s larger throne sits a life sized portrait of his father, a man he only ever met briefly as an adult when it turned out he had been taken captive because of the dragon blood running through his veins.
Years, Maric had suffered before Al granted him peace in death.
“What news, Morrigan?” Al says, his tone the formal voice he uses during political negotiations and not the warmer voice used when amongst friends.
“The Dread Wolf’s ritual was successfully interrupted and he was pulled into his own prison in the Fade,” Morrigan says and she leans forward, waiting for the inevitable ‘but’. “However, interrupting such rituals has repercussions. Namely, the escape of the final two remaining Elven gods: Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain.”
“Hardly worse news than the god that was running amok before this,” she says with a wave of her hand. Inquisitor Lavellan’s mouth sets in a firm line but she says nothing, unwilling to take the bait on her hook. Years outside politics have not entirely dimmed her understanding of the social mores of court, then.
“I would wager ‘tis a fair bit worse,” Morrigan says, not missing a beat. “In their hunt for a tool to defeat the Dread Wolf, they used the blight and got corrupted themselves.”
Inquisitor Lavellan chimes in. “We’ve seen evidence that the Evanuris,” she frowns - what does that Elven word mean?, “are moving quickly. Areas affected by the blight in the past will see a rapid resurgence of the infection. You must evacuate Denerim immediately.”
“Without evidence, our people would not abandon their homes, nor could we ask them to,” Al points out. “If we are on the cusp of a blight, it is the Grey Wardens you should seek. Our own abilities are… muted; the Calling silenced for good, so says a Warden healer who examined Queen Ellie and I. Our relationship with the order extends only to the exasperated letters my wife exchanges with the First Warden as well as the continued communication with our few friends who remain.”
“The entire world is threatened,” Inquisitor Lavellan says sharply, suggesting that perhaps her negotiating skills have blunted with disuse, “and our only hope for survival is for every nation in Southern Thedas to band together and send soldiers to the front lines.”
“I do not take orders from a woman who consorts with the man responsible for this mess,” she says, matching Lavellan’s sharp tone.
Scowling, Lavellan says, “if you’re to call me Solas’ whore, speak plainly. Do not hide it behind pleasantries.”
Morrigan steps forward and turns, looking first at her and Al and then at the Inquisitor. “Inquisitor Lavellan has not conversed with the Dread Wolf in eight years,” she says calmly, with an air of peacekeeping she’s never before seen in the woman. “Further, the agent who stopped his ritual works - indirectly, for her. ‘Tis not the Inquisitor who is your adversary but the blighted Evanuris.”
“What is your plan?” she asks the inquisitor.
“This is my plan - leveraging what little power my title still has to rally troops to fight the tyrants Solas imprisoned thousands of years ago before they have a chance to blight the entire world. After this meeting, I plan to travel to Orlais, which is experiencing challenges of its own.”
Spies tell her and Al that the Venatori are propping up a rogue political faction of nobility who are angered that Empress Celene has taken an Elven woman as a lover and granted her a formal title that gives her power over the Dales. Given the chaos up North, it stands to reason that this faction will attack - if they haven’t already.
“I can call for our Orlesian political expert to advise you,” Al offers, a kind gesture but the inquisitor merely frowns.
“The Free Marches are in disarray - especially Kirkwall, which,” Lavellan’s voice breaks, “lost its viscount, who died in his attempt to stop Solas’ ritual. Acting Viscount Aveline Vallen will serve admirably but its proximity to Tevinter represents a significant risk.”
A Fereldan on the throne in Kirkwall? That’s… potentially a boon for Ferelden.
“We will watch the situation but promise no more and certainly will not evacuate Denerim on the advice of the former inquisitor,” Al says with finality before turning to Morrigan. “You will keep us apprised of the situation?”
“I shall.”
“Your son,” she says, careful not to look at Al for fear of seeing the wince on his face; the quiet sorrow for a relationship he was never allowed to have with his son, “is he safe? Does he need sanctuary within the walls of this castle?”
Once, Al met Kieran at a function in Orlais while Morrigan had been working for Empress Celene. He told her it was bittersweet - Kieran did not know who he was to him, nor was it likely the boy ever would, given that he was the spitting image of his mother. “I might have contributed a freckle on his nose,” Al had told her wryly, a shield masking his true grief.
She cannot give her husband the child they desperately want and the child he has does not know a thing about his father, save that he’s a Grey Warden and a good man.
“Kieran grew up with the winding paths of the Crossroads and so offers himself as a scout and guide to those making use of them - both spirit and flesh. He is as safe as can be.”
“A mage?”
Morrigan shakes her head. “A swordsman, favouring a short sword and shield. He received training with an Orlesian Chevalier who was a member of the Inquisition. Ser Michel de Chevin.”
Like his father.
“Strange that he did not inherit your abilities,” she says, her true words left unsaid.
“‘T’was never a guarantee,” is all Morrigan says. “His skills serve him well, though I expect he would prefer to be on the front line. That he listened to my plea that he serve as he is was a great relief.”
“He’ll be fine,” Inquisitor Lavellan says to Morrigan.
“The Dread Wolf will remain imprisoned?” This, she asks directly to Inquisitor Lavellan.
“Given that his prison is in the Fade, I would expect so,” she says coolly.
After the inquisitor and Morrigan depart, presumably for Orlesian territory, she turns to Al and says, “she was sent into the Fade, was she not? A by-product of whatever the mark was that allowed her to seal the Fade rifts throughout Southern Thedas?”
“She wears a prosthetic. It’s subtle but I did notice she was not using her left arm. I would assume that magic is no more, rendering her unable to do what you are worried about. Poor taste in men is hardly a crime, Ellie,” Al adds lightly.
“I do not trust her. Not one bit. There’s ’poor taste in men’ and then there’s ’sleeping with an ancient god who destroyed his civilization once and plans to do so again’. The only place that man belongs is at the end of a hangman’s rope.”
“Write the First Warden and see what he has to say about this business. Morrigan is not prone to hysterics which lends credence to their warnings. Not enough to evacuate the city, but we should be mindful of the warning.”
Of course - never was she going to dismiss the warning entirely, but she also cannot be seen bowing to a woman who still uses the title given to her by an organization that threatened Fereldan sovereignty.
***
Swiftly, carrying a scroll tied around its ankle, the raven flies west, heading to Weisshaupt in search of the First Warden. Jowin Glastrum was appointed First Warden about 16 years ago, cutting his teeth on the Mage-Templar War; a conflict he refused to allow Wardens to take a stance on. Only once has she met the man, finding him very much a politician, rather than a Warden, though recognizes she cannot judge him as such, because is she not the same? Has she not mostly washed her hands of her duties as a Warden in favour of serving her country by Al’s side?
Rumour has it he approved Warden-Commander Clarel’s foolish partnership with the Venatori that resulted in the Grey Wardens’ expulsion from Orlais - a tactical error by Inquisitor Lavellan that likely represents a threat to the South now.
Over the last few years, news out of Weisshaupt has been minimal, and even she’s only heard what Nate Howe can scribble in the letters he smuggles out. Tonight, once Al is asleep, she tosses on a robe and sneaks over to her office, where she goes through years of correspondence, searching for any information that might be useful, given what she learned earlier.
My friend,
Matters at Weisshaupt are dire. Shaken by the false Calling, there continues to be discussion about how to contend with the archdemons. The First Warden has condemned Inquisitor Lavellan’s decision to expel the Grey Wardens from Orlais and has implied he will not intervene should darkspawn congregate in the nation, even if innocents are threatened.
That is not the cause I agreed to serve. Recognizing that you are Warden-Commander of Ferelden in name only, still I ask for your approval to intervene as necessary to protect the people of Thedas from the blight. All people in Thedas.
There are others who quietly agree with me - Warden Carver Hawke, for one.
All we can do is hope that the blight remains quiet.
N H
It was a whole year before she read his letter, having been on her mission in search of a cure at the time but she had written to him, giving him leave to do what his conscience told him was best.
My friend,
There was a scuffle in the meal hall today that resulted in a summary execution. Supposedly an assassination attempt. I won’t say who the target was in case this letter falls into the wrong hands.
Morale is low. The condemned man had many friends. A newer recruit, a former Inquisition member named Rainier, is telling stories of his time at the Grand Tourney to try to raise spirits and I’ve told a few of my own.
Our mutual mage friend is here with his wife but I get the impression they’ll be taking their leave soon as rumour has it there are rumblings about whether his presence at Weisshaupt threatens relations with the Southern Chantry.
We’re managing for now but I don’t expect the turmoil to ease anytime soon.
N H
Anders is a mystery to her and she’s very carefully kept it that way. What she knows is that he is unlikely to be anywhere in Southern Thedas or the Anderfels, if he remains alive at all. She has her doubts - Wynne had been the subject of a similar possession and ultimately died after a number of years.
Wynne had been dealt a fatal blow. Anders, to her understanding, was whole in body when he and Justice merged. Perhaps that makes circumstances different.
Going through the letters, the best she finds is insight into Warden politics. How the First Warden maintained hold on leadership by making alliances with senior, influential wardens, trading attractive postings for their support. Those who denounced him found themselves stuck patrolling a distant corner of the Deep Roads - and that’s only if they were smart enough to keep their objections diplomatic. Any who attempted to overthrow the First Warden by force were made an example of.
Most unpleasant is that she doesn’t necessarily disagree with the man’s tactics - the direction he’s taken the Wardens is poor but his politicking was not.
It’s always been odd to her that the First Warden never approached her about a formal alliance - she is the queen of a Thedosian nation, however, but what if he feared the respect she has amongst the Wardens? What if he was afraid she would usurp him? Viewed under that sort of lens, the man’s distance makes perfect sense.
There’s an arrogance to that line of thinking, however; the assumption that the power offered as First Warden is more attractive than the title and status she has in Ferelden. In truth, it’s not power that attracts her, but service, and she can do more for her country as its Queen than she can as Warden-Commander, or even as First Warden.
Ferelden means more to her than combatting the blight and it always will.