Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Solis 9:37 Dragon

“Well they’ve really gone to town with this one.” Anders crouched to pick up one of the Arbor Blessing buds that had been scattered across the street. Rare flowers, these. He didn’t even want to think about how much they’d cost.

The funeral procession had moved through this part of Denerim already but there were still clusters of people dressed in mourning garb, huddled together crying.

All this over the death of a mage. He snorted.

Well it was certainly the way to go out. Had she demanded this, when she’d seen those first blight patches appearing across her body? Make sure the people remember me. Or was this King Alistair’s work?

Anders continued on his route. He’d meant to visit the grocer for supplies, but he’d forgotten that it would be closed. All the businesses were closed. You’d think that Ferelden didn’t need the commerce. He passed a cluster of sobbing elves.

Who did they think Neria Surana was that she deserved this howling, this hysterical sorrow?

It was sickening.

Yes, she’d stopped the Blight. She’d stabbed an archdemon. But as soon as the smoke from her funeral pyre cleared, they’d all see how she’d done nothing for ages.

He found himself before one of the many etched portraits King Alistair had had mounted around town. Her greyscale eyes stared back at him emotionlessly.

“You let down your people, Neria.” He shook his head. “You were supposed to have been immortal. The next Andraste. That’s all they wanted. Not much to ask, is it? But of course you could not deliver.”

The swell of voices in song drew him out of his staring contest with the poster. Elves. The whole alienage was gathered to praise their dead savior. 

Dareth shiral Neria. Emma ir abelas. Souver’inan isala hamin...

Fools! They had it all wrong.

He shouted in the direction of the sound. “Your queen is dead. Your king is through. She’s not coming back to you!”

In a sudden burst of anger, he tore down the portrait. “Why are you all weeping over empty promises!” The couple across the road, who’d been leaning close in shared grief, glanced at him and hurried away. The fact that he no longer had an audience, didn’t stop him. He yelled into the empty street. “To the Void with her self-righteous anger, her pretences. She said she’d free us! Why are there still Circles? Why are there still alienages?”

A little girl - clad in black like everyone else - came around the corner and paused, staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

“Go on,” he said to her. “I know you want to ask me. Why am I not dressed in black like everyone else?” He spun around with his arms open wide. “I must be an opportunist. Perhaps I’m a traitor!” He advanced on her. “Or perhaps I’ve seen the truth. Ferelden has been bled dry. By a monarch who had no clue how to lead, and his opportunistic bride who wanted ultimate power. Not for the mages, not for the masses, but for herself.”

The child gasped and fled.

Anders collapsed against the wall, a little bit ashamed.

“It’s our funeral too,” he muttered.

 It was only a matter of time before Orlais pressed their advantage and invaded.

Chapter Text

7 years ago…

Harvestmere, 9:30 Dragon

Anders was being held in the palace dungeon the day that Ferelden got a new king.

He’d lost track of the time he’d been locked up there. He’d aimed to escape to Kirkwall to find Carl, but had instead found the borders closed due to the Blight.

Somehow, despite the darkspawn and all of the other real and pressing problems they might have been dealing with with, the Templars had recaptured him and thrown him in here.

He’d only found out later that it was because they literally had nowhere else to put him. Kinloch Hold had fallen to blood magic.

Maker, he’d heard rumours in his time there that some mages were being naughty and doing spells they shouldn’t have been, but he’d never imagined anything quite like that.

Since the borders were closed, they couldn’t very well send him anywhere else. So he sat out the Fifth Blight in the cells.

The first indication that the political situation had changed was the arrival of Queen Anora. She wasn’t escorted by servants as she had been the only other time he’d seen her (she’d been doing some kind of good will thing with the prisoners for the Chantry). This time, she was in chains.

As the guard slammed the door of her cell she queried, “So what happens now?”

“I suspect they’ll take your pictures off the wall and carry on with fighting the Blight,” the guard provided. He didn’t mention whether she’d be killed, which was either a small mercy or an oversight.

She sank to her knees as he left. Anders didn’t say anything, so when she spoke he wasn’t certain whether she was actually speaking to him or just voicing her thoughts.

“I didn’t expect to be on the throne for long. I’m not a fool.”

Anders still said nothing.

“I told myself I didn’t care. I tried to harden my heart. Alistair is the rightful ruler, and why should he want me as his queen? I bore Cailan no heirs, he gave up on me. I should be grateful that Alistair didn’t chop off my head as he did father’s.”

This intrigued Anders too much for him to resist commenting. “Who’s Alistair?”

She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Your king.”

Anders shook his head. “Before that part. I thought Maric had only one son? Where’s your husband?”

Her eyes widened. “My husband is dead. Betrayed by my father. Alistair is his bastard brother. A Grey Warden. He’s rallied the armies to fight the Blight. How have you not heard any of this?”

“You miss a lot when you’re locked up,” Anders responded, stretching out in the cell.

Anora looked away for him and he realised she was crying. Blood and ashes, that made him uncomfortable.

“Um… anything I can do for you?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Well, maybe not that fine, but I’ll get by. I always have before.”

Then, in a much smaller voice, she asked, “What happens now?”

Anders had no answers for her. “You’ll get by. You always have before.”

For some reason, having her own words echoed back at her didn’t comfort her. She seemed to crumple. “What happens now?” she repeated.

Anders sighed. “Please don’t ask anymore.”

He didn’t think she heard him.

Missing the coronation was a pity, but with everyone in the castle distracted, it provided the perfect opportunity for Anders to spring an escape.

He heard later that the new king, who had grown up in the Chantry far away from court, had shocked everyone by announcing at his own coronation that he intended to marry a pretty blonde elven mage.

Yes, an elven mage. And a Warden to boot.

And would she be his consort?

Not at all. She was to be crowned queen.

Apparently she was also the reason Alistair was on the throne and Anora was in the dungeon. They were calling this mage the Hero of Ferelden and Anders felt a little hopeful that perhaps his days of running were over.

Well, nearly over.

He’d need to lie low for a while until the happy couple enacted reforms in law rather than mere gesture...

Outside of the palace walls, he managed to find out a little more.

He snagged a job as a servant to one of the local noble houses. While pouring their tea and looking pretty, he caught snippets of conversation.

“How did we allow this to happen?” Lady Emery opined while fanning her face.

“The Blight,” her friend said with a sigh. “The elf slipped in while we were concerned with darkspawn.”

“We have declined to an all-time low,” Emery said. “Elves have become the set to know.”

Her friend agreed. “Things have reached a pretty pass.”

“She’s completely graceless. A Grey Warden!”

“And vulgar. Have you heard her ideas?”

Emery sighed. “How can she be accepted, let alone admired?”

The day Lady Emery had a Templar friend to tea, Anders scampered.

Luckily, Ferelden was desperate to build up its army again after the disastrous darkspawn battle that had lost it its previous king. Anders enlisted as a healer - just potions and salves, no magic.

Every time someone mentioned the queen in the barracks, it turned into a roaring argument. Some of the comments bordered on treasonous.

“The king is a fool. Placing a mage in a position of power, what next?”

“He’s breaking every taboo. And an elf! The last straw.”

“Kings can do as they please. If he wanted a bit on the side, all well and good. As long as it’s discreet, you know? But on the throne? She’s not qualified.”

“She’s a mage. She should know her place.”

“If she’s just using him to get control of the kingdom, he’s exceptionally dim.”

“We should be on our guard.”

King Alistair Theirin stared down at the body of the would-be assassin.

“Well, the knives are out,” he said.

Neria folded her arms but didn’t speak. Alistair glanced up at his wife-to-be. She cut an imposing figure for someone wearing just a nightgown. They were alone in the room, having sent away the bodyguard who’d prevented the man from stabbing Alistair in his sleep.

“Worst thing is, I don’t even know who to blame. Seems I can’t turn around without finding someone else who thinks they’d do a better job than me. I’m not saying they all mean harm… but clearly some of them would gladly see us dead.”

“It doesn’t matter what those morons say,” Neria finally spoke. “Our nation’s nobles are a feeble lot. There’s only what, twenty wealthy families anyway? What are twenty next to thousands who are looking to you?”

Alistair sighed, collapsing onto the bed. “Once again, we could be foolish not to quit while we're ahead. We could have a fine life slaying darkspawn in the Anderfels.”

She growled, running a hand through her hair in obvious frustration. “This is crazy defeatist talk. You’re already crowned.” She drew a deep breath and came to sit beside him. “You don’t need nobles if you have the people on your side.”

He smiled. “Oh? And how do I get the people on my side? With my magical Theirin blood?”

“I have a few ideas.”

Chapter Text

Harvestmere 9:30 Dragon

“A great new Ferelden! The chains of the elves untied. The voice of the People cannot be denied! “

Anders frowned at the poster. It had gone up just outside the alienage. There was nothing particularly wrong with it. Only, he’d just walked past a very similar one outside a tavern he knew apostates frequented.

“A great new Ferelden! The mages' battle song! The voice of the mages rings out loud and long!”

He didn’t buy for an instant that they had sprung up of their own accord. They were clear and simple propaganda. Much of the communication out of the castle in the lead up to the royal wedding had borne similar messaging.

The Blight had destroyed much of the South, and from its ashes Alistair Theirin’s great new Ferelden would rise.

A few days ago as Anders had been passing by the alienage, he'd heard the sounds of a crowd. Never one to miss out on entertainment when it was freely provided, he’d approached.

The woman herself had been holding a rally. She’d been standing on a small stage, hair neatly pinned back to show her ears. Her hand had been raised in emphasis.

“There is only one king in all of Thedas who cares about the elves. He lives for your problems. He shares your ideals and your dreams,” Neria told the gathered crowd. “He supports you for he loves you, understands you, is one of you. If not - how could he love me?”

It would have been less sickening, heart-warming even, if it had been the first time he’d seen her giving such a rally. His first glimpse of the queen-to-be had been in the square where she’d been addressing a similar crowd. It had been beautifully staged. She’d been travelling through the square in her coach when the she’d seemingly ordered a halt. She’d climbed out and stood on a soap box to address the people. She wanted them to know that she was looking forward to being their queen, but would forever be one of them. Then she’d called out to the mages specifically. She’d said that she knew there were apostates in the crowd.

“Now, I am a mage. I've suffered the way that you have. I've been in a Circle, I've starved and I hated it too,” she’d told them. “But I found my salvation in Alistair, may the kingdom! He will save you as he saved me.”

And then she’d lead them in a chant. “A great new Ferelden! A new age about to begin!”

It was clear what she was doing. She was drumming up fervour. And who needed fervour when they had something legitimate to offer?

The truth was, she and her husband had no idea how to lead.

Anders tore down the poster and continued on his way. But as he rounded a corner, someone snagged his arm.

His first thought was templars. His stomach lurched. They’d finally caught up with him. But the grim-faced city guard who’d stopped him was certainly no Chantry dog.

Anders resisted the urge to fight back, to flee.

“What can I do for you, Ser?” he asked, forcing a smile.

The guard glared at him. He was tall and his eyes were hard. “Mind telling me why you did that?”

“Did what?” Anders asked, his heart beating a little faster.

“I saw you tear down that notice. Do you disagree with Her Majesty’s declarations? Are you an enemy to the elves?”

“Enemy to the -” this had to be some sort of joke. “No. I did not mean any harm.”

“Then you won’t mind explaining your actions.” Another guard approached from the other end of the alley.

Anders swallowed, this was not looking good. He’d been bullied by templars often enough that he knew what was coming.

“I required the paper for use in the lavatory”

He didn’t even see the punch coming. One moment he was looking up at the man’s unamused expression, the next he was sprawling on the ground, his head singing. He clutched his jaw and whimpered.

“We’ve seen you hanging around. Her Majesty doesn’t take kindly to your type.”

Her Majesty already? Weren’t they getting a little ahead of themselves?

“And what type would that be?”

The guard lifted him up by the front of his shirt. “The kind who like to meddle.”

“I don’t like to meddle,” he protested, struggling to get the words out. “I don’t have the constitution for it.”

“We have a funny one here,” he said to his friend. “Let’s see how funny you think this is.”

He drove his fist into Anders’s stomach and dropped him. He hit the floor hard, gasping, unable to draw in air. The guard gave him a steel-toed kick for good measure.

“We’ll be watching you.” They turned and left him.

So this was the great new Ferelden, was it?

Turned out, that wasn’t even the surface of what they had planned. King Alistair’s social reforms started not long after.

First, there was a ban on foreign-owned business. Many Orlesian shops in the fancy part of town closed almost overnight. The rest were bought out by the crown. Anders could just imagine what Lady Emery thought of that.

When asked why, Alistair said only that a kingdom could not be truly independent without national self-sufficiency. Words too large for the Chantry kid. Anders knew they weren’t his.

Then, the most radical idea of all, Alistair called for the formation of what he called “Guilds”. Apparently he had seen a similar system work well in Orzammar, although it had been flawed.

He dismissed his entire court and instead appointed members of the community as “guild leaders”. In a matter of weeks, he had filled the castle with butchers and bakers and Tranquil rune-makers.

All commerce went through the King in one way or another.

He had seized active control of every industry in all of Ferelden.

And everyone loved him for it.

Alistair stared out of the window at throngs that now crowded around the castle. Neria had wanted the love of the common folk and now they had it. His subjects gathered there every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of the King or the Hero of Ferelden. Often they would take up the chant, “A great new Ferelden! The chains of the mages untied! A great new Ferelden! The voice of the People will not be denied!” They’d shout it over and over again until his head ached, sometimes long into the night.

“Once again, we could be foolish, not to quit while we're ahead,” he said to Neria.

She was standing on a stool being measured for her wedding dress. She looked at him askance, with her arm stretched out for the Orlesian seamstress.

“I can see me being happy in Tevinter. Sipping sweet wine on a terrace, being fed grapes in bed, sleeping easy, playing chess. It’s attractive.

Neria waved away the servant, gathered up her skirts and stepped down from the stool. “Don’t think I don’t think like you. I also have those nightmares sometimes.”

He hadn’t meant them as nightmares but before he could argue, she’d closed the space between them, wrapped him in her arms and kissed him.

As she pulled away, she said, “I know it can be difficult to keep going when all you have to follow is yourself. But you’re doing well.”

The way she placed her hand on his arm, it was as if she really did believe in him. But they both knew the truth. He was following her. They were all following her.

Her gaze dropped to the floor. Genuine sorrow flicked briefly across her features. She seemed momentarily vulnerable. “Would you have done what you did if you hadn't thought, if you hadn't known, we could lead the kingdom?”

He knew what she was referring to. It sent chills up his spine. The dark ritual with Morrigan.

It had been necessary so that they could both live, so that they could have this future. So that they could make Ferelden better, a power to rival Orlais. He pulled Neria into his arms and held her tightly as the chant started up again.

“A great new Ferelden! The chains of the mages untied! A great new Ferelden! The voice of the People will not be denied!”