#like... he was probably right to pull out from ostagar but literally everything before and after the game is a blatant power grab

[anakinh]

lasted approximately 2 hours into a new playthrough of Dragon Age: Origins before I downloaded a mod. god those mage cowls are ugly af

[bxtgrl]

they put a noose around my neck and dared me to speak

the defining moments of the landsmeet. | ao3

//part of raindrops on the tongue, blood under the nails. some dialogue taken from game.

(First, I hesitate)

The night air is cool on her face, the sun having just set. The stars are shining and she can see the lights of Denerim in the distance. They’ll reach it by tomorrow and she tries to force down the lump that comes to her throat at the thought. In an effort to ease herself, she glances behind her to where she can see the flicker of their camp flame between some trees. The anxiety doesn’t release her, though, if anything its grip is tightened further and she lets out a shaky breath before she can stop herself.

She can feel Leliana’s gaze snap to her from where she sits next to her on the grassy hill. In an effort to avoid the other girl’s worry, she turns her focus back to the flower crown in her hands, putting in the final touches before adding it to the small pile between her and Leliana. Oriana had been the one to first teach her the craft, a way of wanting to bond, no doubt, with her new sister-in-law. It had worked, not taking long for Namera to consider the woman a sister in every way that counted. Now, she’s been teaching it to Leliana, a surprisingly quick learner. She likes to think Oriana would approve, that she would’ve quite liked Leliana and her quirky nature.

“You are troubled” Leliana speaks softly and Namera gives a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She wants to deny it, insist that they focus on something else of greater importance as she usually does. Her worries have been weighing on her, though, adding to the burdens she already carries. Besides, Leliana is one of those she has grown closest to within the group, the girl more a sister than a friend at this point. And if anyone would understand, or at least attempt to, it would be her.

“Eamon is determined to make Alistair king” she speaks hesitantly, not sure how to voice everything she’s feeling and everything she’s thinking.

Leliana’s brow furrows. “You disagree?”

She shakes her head, quickly, adamantly. “No, I think he could be a great king.” She can’t help the fondness that slips into her voice. “When he puts his mind to something, when he knows he’s doing right, that’s when he’s at his best. It’s just-” She pauses, bites her lip. It’s an entirely selfish thought. There’s so much more at stake than her own feelings. Things that are so much more important to this world than her relationship, but- “Where does that leave me?” She’d only just begun to find her place, plant her feet somewhere she could live with. The outcome of this Landsmeet threatens whatever shaky foundation she’d managed to lay down.

Leliana looks at her, head tilting and face soft. “I believe it will leave you wherever you want.”

She gives a soft, humorless laugh. “I don’t think it works that way.”

“And why not? You have gotten us this far, no? I doubt Ferelden politics will be your undoing.” Leliana gives her a sly look. “Besides, have you forgotten you promised to travel the world with me? You and Alistair can write. He takes too much of your time already, leaving barely any for me.”

Namera’s smile is more genuine this time, along with her quiet laugh. A comfortable silence falls upon them then. Eventually, she sighs, adjusting the crown of flowers on her head. “We should probably get back to camp. We’ve a long day ahead.” She hesitates, though, not quite wanting to leave this quiet, peaceful moment on the hill. “But first…” She fidgets with her hands, though she knows the request won’t be turned down. She’s made it multiple times, after all. “Can you tell me the story of Avelina again? Please?”

“Of course!” Leliana smiles, adjusts her own flower crown, and begins.

 (Then I open my mouth)

She’s frozen, has been since she heard the footfalls and turned to see who was approaching. Her hands are shaking and she’s nauseous. She’s going to be sick, she’s sure of it. She’s going to vomit out everything she is and everything she wants and everything she’ll ever be right onto the floor. She’ll lay it right there, at Howe’s feet, and then she’ll decapitate the bastard, right here and right now.

“Loghain, this is… an honor. That the regent would find time to greet me personally…” Eamon is polite as always and Namera wonders if he knows that she’s on fire, being torn inside and out. Alistair must, because she barely notices him send her a concerned look.  She can’t do anything to reassure him, though, because the man who slaughtered her family is standing right in front of her, mere feet away, within striking distance of her sword. She could eviscerate him right here and now, but she can’t because she shouldn’t. She knows politics well, so she certainly knows that murdering Loghain’s right hand man would not benefit them, or their cause, or Ferelden. It would only benefit her and that is simply not worth it.

Loghain and Eamon bicker, in the way politicians do with thinly veiled despise. She needs to speak, she knows. She keeps her eyes rooted to Loghain, hasn’t looked to Howe since he entered the room.

“If Anora rules, let her speak for herself.” Her voice comes out with more shake than she would like and she swallows, trying to clear her throat of the emotions constricting it.

Loghain’s attention snaps to her and she’s not surprised to find he doesn’t remember her from Ostagar—or perhaps, he pretends not to. They hadn’t interacted, she’d observed from the background. Still, under his sharp gaze, she finds her back straightening defiantly. “And who is this, Eamon? A new stray you picked up on the road? And here I thought it was only royal bastards you played the nursemaid to.”

She tilts her chin up, gaze defiant as she barely even hears Alistair’s grumble from behind her. For a moment, she’s unsure how to address herself. Before, she had always been Namera Cousland of Highever, daughter to the teyrn. That is not her identity any longer, though, and she hasn’t quite had the time to figure out a new one, but perhaps she had simply missed what’d been right in front of her. “I am Namera, of the Grey Wardens.”

Loghain leaves soon after, Eamon speaking as soon as the man and his party are gone. Eamon is barely finished with his sentence, though, when Namera speaks: “Howe killed my family. I can’t let him get away with it.”

And she won’t. She’ll kill him the very next day and she’ll stand straight with his blood splattered on her shield and drying on her amor. That weight is lifted while it’s replaced by another: who will she be, without that sole purpose of killing Howe?

 (And let out a scream)

“Why not simply marry Alistair? The best of both worlds.” The words are out before she can stop them and if she can reach and catch them from the air to take them back, she would. They’d been quick, blunt, a defense mechanism against all the sense that Anora is making. Maker, her parents had commented a few times on the Queen, how charming she was, how intelligent. She’d always respected her vicariously, through the assessments of her parents, but being in the same room with her and holding a conversation with such a vital disagreement between them is making her head throb with all the doubts being slammed into it.

She watches in quiet horror as Anora rolls the idea around, seeing the sense of it, because it does make sense. Anora has eyes, though, and has obviously noticed that she and Alistair are closer than most. Namera quickly and defensively tells her it is not her business and that it does not matter and that it is mere politics and she doesn’t know if she can come back from this.

 (Tell my love to run)

When Alistair finally joins her in their room that night, she is sitting on the bed, fiddling with a loose string of the quilt. He’s going on about Anora and his lack of trust for the Queen and she doesn’t know how to bring it up, but she has to, because things cannot be unsaid and sense cannot be unmade. “What would you say about marrying her?”

There’s a pause, a shift in the room that she can feel in her bones. He gawks at her, no doubt unable to believe he’d heard her right, before he shakes his head and speaks with clear shock. “Marry her? As in marriage? As in be her husband? You’ve spoken to her about this? You did, didn’t you?” He’s pacing now, running a hand through his hair and giving it a tug, as if he could pull the idea from his mind. She watches, silent, wishing she could sink into the bed and disappear. This is important, though, and she can’t ignore that. “You… why would you do that? What about us?”

She lets out a shaky breath, steels herself, and looks him in the eye. “I know. But this is important.” More important than them, which, while she knows to be a truth, somehow feels like the biggest lie she’s ever told.

He deflates and she persuades him the same way she had persuaded herself: it’s their best chance for peace. This is all of Ferelden they’re talking about. It’s bigger than them, literally and figuratively. She doesn’t want her own selfishness to get in the way of what’s best for the country, her country. Her parents, having survived a war, had instilled a patriotism in her, a willingness to sacrifice herself for the greater good of Ferelden and its people.

Silence engulfs them, neither sure what to say. Eventually, Alistair speaks, voice small and gaze elsewhere. “Do you trust her?”

She knows his opinion on this, that he does not trust Anora one bit. She thinks back to her earlier conversation with the woman and- “I want to.” But she can’t. It might be because of the calculated nature of Anora’s words. It might be so petty as to be because of her father. But she knows it’s just because she can’t. She hasn’t trusted anyone the same since her family fell at the hands of Howe. The only people she feels to be truly reliable are those she has been traveling with, that makeshift family of hers that has bled and fought alongside her. She has only a limited amount of trust left, she feels, and she does not want to put it in the hands of a woman she only just met with enough ambition to fill a country.

They stop talking. She doesn’t promise him anything for the future, no guarantee as to what would happen to their relationship should he marry Anora, and he doesn’t ask her for one. Instead, she takes his hand and draws him to the bed. They wrap themselves around each other and, if there’s one thing she now wants above all else, it’s to never let go.

But the morning comes and she has to.

 (And he does)

They’re outside the doors to the chamber, the Landsmeet waiting just beyond them. She’s coiled tightly, fingers twitching with the pressure she feels. She knows, no matter what the outcome, that nothing will be the same and there will be no going back from this. Her future’s hanging by a thread, swinging, and she doesn’t know what direction it will fall.

She stops right at the doors and turns to Alistair. He’s in Cailan’s golden armor and hers is freshly shined. They’re both looking respectable as ever and, behind the nervous shifting of his steps and the way his eyes glance about the room as if looking for a possible escape, she can see a king in him. Looking back, it’s been there since they met, and has only grown since. In his hands, she knows the country will be alright. He’ll stumble, she’s sure, but in the end he’ll do his best and learn and do what is right and that’s all she could ever ask for from a ruler.

She grabs a hold of his armor and brings him down, crashing her lips to his, because it’s nothing but the unknown lying behind those doors, but she knows this. She knows him and while she’s increasingly unsure of if she knows herself, she knows she loves him, no matter what, until the end. He kisses her back, greedily, and she can feel her own desperation reciprocated in his mouth. No matter the outcome of today, she thinks, knowing he loves her will be enough to give her the strength she needs.

 (Oh he does)

“Will you face me yourself, or have you a champion?” It should be Alistair’s fight, she knows. Loghain is responsible for Alistair’s greatest loss: the Wardens and Duncan. But there’s something about Loghain’s voice, the glint to his shrewd gaze, that reminds her of the men in her father’s guard who had always eyed her dubiously when she’d held her sword, doubted her when she’d asked for a spar, suggested she put her attention toward the kitchen and cleaning and the art of hosting as if she could not master all that and the art of battle.

“I’ll fight this duel myself.”

 (With me by his side)

A decision has to be made. Loghain’s lying dead in a pool of blood, but all eyes are on her and her breath is bated, as if just as anxious for her decision as everyone else is. She knows what she has to do, what words she has to say. She doesn’t want to. Maker, she’d rather throw herself at the Archdemon right now than make this decision. Her chest aches and she worries she might not be able to speak, but she has to. She has to, she has to, she has to. It’s for the best, how many times must she tell herself this? Ferelden comes before her. She needs to let go of the man she loves, but she’s lost so many, so many, and this is the one thing she wants to keep above all else.

 She’s young, seventeen, and surrounded by color and laughter. She’s hidden herself in the corner, watching the dancing. Her parents throw wondrous parties, always the talk of the nobility for weeks later. She’s always enjoyed them for the most part. She knows how to be gracious and polite and to make others smile. She can charm any noble that presents themselves to her and not compromise herself in the process. Well-

“I think I’ve lost track of every young suitor you’ve danced with.” She turns at the voice of her brother, Fergus approaching her with a fond smile and that teasing twinkle in his eyes. She grimaces at him, despite the relief that she feels at his presence, and returns her gaze to the dancefloor. Fergus positions himself beside her, glancing toward the dancers as well before returning his focus to her. “You could always tell them ‘no.’”

She scoffs, hides the unladylike sound behind her hand. “And ruin mother’s party, months in the planning, by starting a feud? You know as well as I do that some of them are no better than Orlesians with their politics.”

Fergus sighs, eyes kind, and she knows he’s about to present her with some of his brotherly wisdom. “You know, there’s nothing wrong with thinking of yourself on occasion.”

She eyes him dubiously. “That’s called ‘being selfish,’ Fergus.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not always.” His eyes scan the room, land on Oriana, animatedly chatting up a noble. “One of these days, sister, you’re going to have to make a decision to put yourself first. It’s only healthy.”

“And the consequences of such a decision?”

He gives a hum, gaze steady on his wife. “Just might be worth it.”

She’s less sure now than ever. What a terrible, terrible moment to want to be selfish. But what even are her options? She cannot trust Anora alone, despite her clear capabilities. She can’t choose for Alistair to rule alone either. She doesn’t want him to carry that burden all by himself. She’s familiar with the weight of the world and she doesn’t wish it upon him. It makes complete sense for them to rule together, as she’d said, best of both worlds, but-

She’s younger, a small child, interrupting a story her mother is telling of a young maiden falling in love with a prince. “Mother, if I marry a prince, would I be a princess?”

Her mother smiles fondly. “Yes, my dear.”

“And when the prince is king, I would be a queen?”

Her mother is becoming amused. “That’s right.”

Namera pauses, thinks the fantasy over with a seriousness only children are capable of. “Would I be a good queen?”

Her mother’s face softens, eyes becoming thoughtful. She slides off her chair to sit opposite Namera on the floor. She runs a hand through the child’s golden locks, before tapping her chin to make sure their gazes connect. “Oh, my darling, with a heart like yours, you would be the best queen Thedas ever knew.”

 Her heart isn’t the same it had been when she was six. It’s scarred, chipped away at, but the center is still whole and warm and there, she likes to think. She likes to think, as well, that her new place in life is with the Grey Wardens, but, maybe, just maybe, there’s another place for her and Maker help her, she can see it, she really can.

She tilts her chin up, releases a quick prayer, and speaks clearly: “Alistair will be king, and I’ll rule beside him.”