(art by lonelion4ever) The beauty of Dragon Age is that of worldstates: entire tapestries of decisions and character fates that shape unique worlds. Fionne Cousland was the prime figure of my first efforts. I made her to romance Alistair. Well, spoilers for a possible DA:O endgame. If you turn down That, you know, That, while romancing him…well. Overwhelmed with pain and remorse, I wrote down a story about it. Later, I wrote a story with Turin Wayne, an arrogant boy who became a Warden and resolved to tease a smile out of the dour Commander. Later, when Inquisition was out, a friend suggested Turin could become the Inquisitor. Thus was Turin Trevelyan born – still arrogant and grasping, still a foolish young man relative to Fionne’s age and grief.
For them I fashioned Angst and Arrogance, a Regency AU game novelization about their improbable romance and the sadder but wiser Hawke who joined them to save the world. I had a lot of fun with this setting.
Rejected! He! Lord Inquisitor! It was not to be believed, not to be borne. Turin sat perfectly still and thought it through. Had she not offered training with a certain partiality, a particular attention to his merits and his efforts? Had she not danced with him an hundred times, an office she seemed to encourage only for him? Had he not every reason to believe her receptive to his plans and intentions? No, if she believed their association to be nothing she had misled him grievously, and not only grievously but heartlessly. It was an act beneath the woman he had thought she was. Perhaps it was just as well her wretched pride – the only passion she seemed capable of – had cut this possibility short. Frigid Warden! Now embarrassment between them was unavoidable; but embarrassment might well be preferable to a life with someone so unbending, so consciously superior. Rejected! It was just as well he had not spent more time cultivating their association, an association that must now stand tainted by confusion on his side and, surely, rightfully earned shame on hers.
What was there to do? — the only thing to do — the only thing to satisfy delicacy, honour, and the requirements of their situation — he must carry on as though she had never thrown his kindness in his face, as though she had never humiliated him. Creature of stone! Somehow he must find the strength of will to face her as a sister-in-arms, as another soldier in his great and ungrateful army. He had no doubt that she, cold and immoveable as her heart was, would have no trouble playing the part.
He left the garden and proceeded to his quarters, avoiding everyone on the way. Sleep was the only remedy he had for the sharp and pressing pain. And if he woke and found himself still wounded…well, let that be dealt with when he got there.
***
The double column made good time on the dry roads, a fact for which Fionne was grateful. There were few circumstances more socially awkward than getting one’s wheels stuck in the mud on the way to a siege.
She rode alongside the Grey Warden, Stroud, Hawke’s friend. He seemed a companionable enough sort, well-mannered if not highly bred. Even the roiling confusion of the past two days subsided a little with someone agreeable to talk to.
“There was a great deal of talk when you left,” Stroud was saying. “No one was certain why.”
“Why I should have retired from public life after the Hero’s passing? Everyone knew. There could only be one reason.”
He hesitated. “Personally, to be frank, I thought that was just something the bards invented.”
“No.” She looked away.
“I am sorry.” Even through his thick Orlesian accent she could tell he meant it. “It was not my intention to cause you pain.”
“It is in the past, Warden-Constable.” She took a deep breath. “In truth I am glad you are here now. I would not wish to face what we are about to face alone. Should we find Mr. Blackwall? We can have a meeting of the free Wardens to pit against those who belong to Corypheus.”
Stroud rose in his stirrups and looked around. “I cannot see him.”
“If he’s not in the main column he must be scouting ahead. He does that. He was never all that sociable.”
“Wardens are not selected for their charm,” said Stroud. “Take me for example.”
Was that a twinkle in that dark eye? Would flirting be as deadly here as unconscious partiality was elsewhere? No, she didn’t care. At least it was flirting instead of the flat assumption of tribute affection. “I find you perfectly agreeable, ser. And if you mean to say that I would fail such a test–”
“Perish the thought. You raise the class of the Wardens just being here.”
She looked down while she tried to think of what to say. “It still feels strange to smile,” she said. She had suppressed that for so long. “I like it, though.”
He smiled, yet seemed to back off a hair’s breadth. She was grateful for the delicateness. “The Wardens would welcome you, you know. At Weisshaupt. From there you could go anywhere.”
She had not thought of what might happen after the Inquisition was finished. The prospect was not an encouraging one. “I don’t know. I want to go home, but Amaranth is buried. I’ve known no other home for almost eleven years. I could request my brother’s hospitality at Highever but he doesn’t need an old maid presuming on his kindness.”
“Consider the Wardens,” urged Stroud. “For that matter, you could come to Orlais. Once we helped you rebuild the Fereldan order. After this blood ritual’s madness, we may need your help rebuilding our own.”
“I need to think about it,” she said.
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