Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.
Author's Note: I would like to make this a gift fic to the lovely EilonwyCousland. Here's some Nathaniel for you, hun. I hope I dressed him up in all the right angst for you.
Stillbirth
"He does not know how to live this life when everything in him is telling him that it is lost. He reaches for a past that does not want him anymore." - Nathaniel Howe discovers what dying really means.
Nathaniel remembers the night he first saw his father cry.
He is nine winters old.
His mother is asleep in her bedchamber, the handmaidens gone from the room. There is only a single midwife carrying bloody sheets and a now-lukewarm bucket of water from the room, her steps light along the empty hallway, the door closing slowly behind her.
Nathaniel watches, from a darkened alcove, as the midwife trails down the long, dark hallway, silver light from the moon outside slipping through the open windows to illuminate her steps. There is silence from his mother's room. Down the other end of the hallway he can hear the faint and choking sounds of sobs. It is unlike anything he has heard before.
He furrows his brows at the sound, moves from his hidden pocket of shadow and steps noiselessly down the hollow hall. Paintings of past ancestors, honorable generals, noble teryns, nameless and faceless Howes to him, look on as he walks past them. At the end of the hallway, sitting on the marble bench beneath a low window, is his father, crouched and huddled in on himself, his arms wrapped tightly around something smothered in blankets. He holds the bundle so tightly to his chest that it looks as though he is cradling himself. Rocking back and forth in the silent night. He is draped in the moonlight streaming in from behind him, the walls on either side of the hallway seeming dark and trapping around the crouched form of his father.
He hears a ragged sigh and a tear-stained croak of anguish leave the huddled form before him. He watches in silent fear, all wide eyes and trembling fingers. He must have released a breathless gasp because his father's head whips up quickly and catches sight of him.
He cannot move.
He can only trace the tight and pained face of his father with his eyes. The man before him seems older than his father should be, smaller, more fragile. He can see his shoulders quake from where he stands several feet away.
Rendon blinks at his son, unable to look away, unable to move his mouth to form words that should be natural and easy to him. Instead, his brows crinkle in pain once more and his lips begin to tremble.
Rendon seems so old to Nathaniel. So old. So lost and so defeated. The lines of his face telling of years and tales that he has begged of his father. That brilliant sharp gleam is gone from his eyes. His hair is speckled with grey that reminds Nathaniel of the wild hares his father taught him to hunt. There is loss and past and death in his eyes. The heavy and resigned fall of his face as he buries it back into the bundle in his arms.
Nathaniel takes a small step forward. There is blood in the air. Warm and fresh. The sharp tang of dying flesh. Nathaniel halts his step when he sees the tiny still hand peeking out from the blankets pressed against his father's chest. He sucks a tight breath in and his eyes are fixed on the small unfurled fingers.
Rendon Howe sobs into the dark, steady night, his dead babe held tight to his chest.
Nathaniel remembers this night. He remembers his father, small and aging and lost for words. He remembers feeling that harsh clench in his chest that tells him this is wrong. This is wrong.
It was only a babe.
Tears are already hot against his lids, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. He tries to call out to his father, but it is only a raw and shaking croak that leaves his lips.
His father sobs harder.
He cannot look at this man any longer. Nathaniel turns from the sight and makes his way back down the hall, back where his soft sheets and warm fireplace await him. Back where the only smell is of mabari and dried leather. Back where his mother is still heavy with child in his dreams.
Sometime in the night he hears his father screaming.
Sigrun is angry at him for many days.
He does not understand it. He took the blow for her. Because he cares for her. He does not understand why she should be so angry.
He sits alone at the meal table in the hall of Vigil's Keep, his left arm still resting in its sling, his right laying on the wood of the table. His bread and stew are already cooling. He watches the plate in disinterest. Does not pick up the spoon resting close by his hand.
Nathaniel hears the bench creak with the weight of someone sitting down and looks up to find Sigrun settling beside him. She plops her plate onto the table and begins to tear at her bread roll. She stuffs a piece into her mouth and looks at him, chewing unabashedly.
He finds his lips twitching upward in a hesitant smile.
The soft flutter of her lashes and the way she looks back to her plate tells him she is happy to see him as well. "I'm sorry," she breathes lowly, her gaze still on her plate as she picks up her spoon and digs into her own stew. She swallows the spoonful wholly, licking her lips as she glances back to him. "For snapping at you."
He watches her eat in mild fascination. "It's okay."
She watches him for several seconds, and then motions toward his injured arm with her spoon. "How's the arm mending?"
Nathaniel tries to shrug the shoulder in question but winces at the pain of it. "Slowly," he chuckles. He hates not being able to join the Hero of Ferelden while she investigates the reports of the Blackmarsh. What he would give to pull a bow. Even in practice.
Sigrun hums a soft acknowledgement. "You know why though, right?" She lowers her spoon and watches him expectantly.
He furrows his brows in question.
"Why I was angry with you," she clarifies.
Nathaniel blows a low breath through his lips and looks off past her, to the guards milling in to the hall for their meal. "Not really, no. You'd have done the same for me, Sigrun. Why wouldn't I take a hit for you?" He looks back to her and finds her lips pursed tight. He raises a hand and brushes a soft strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lighting along the casteless markings branding her cheek.
She unconsciously sighs at the motion, the memory of his touch still vibrant and fresh to her. "Because I'm already dead."
His fingers halt in their motion, and he is silent several seconds before he lowers his hand.
Sigrun sighs beside him. "I'm Legion, Nathaniel. You know this."
"You're a Grey Warden. Just as I am." His words are firm in the air between them.
Her mouth is a tight line. "I've already made my peace with death. That's why we have funerals in the Legion. Your only worry should be for the darkspawn."
He clenches his jaw tight and his words are a growl as they leave his lips. "Then forgive me for wanting to save someone I care for."
Sigrun's throat grows tight and she must look away. "Nathaniel…"
He pushes from the bench swiftly, swinging his legs over to walk from the table, when Sigrun catches his elbow.
"Whatever this is...between us, it can't last. You know it can't. Not when death is a daily chance. Not when there is much more at stake."
Her words seem to come from someone else and he must close his eyes to the sound of them, his back turned from her. "There is nothing left in this world for me, but you." The words end on a shaky exhale and he thinks father and Delilah and family. But they are gone from him. And he does not know where he goes from here. He does not know how to live this life when everything in him is telling him that it is lost. He reaches for a past that does not want him anymore.
And she will not promise him a future.
Her hand slips from his elbow and she is silent.
Nathaniel takes one last heavy breathe in before he walks away.
Their food is cold and forgotten on the wooden tabletop.
Mahariel's arms are wrapped loosely around Nathaniel's neck as her weight rests against his back. He carries her, arms hooked under her knees, her blood soaking through the thick leather of his armor. He swears he can feel her heartbeat against his back. It grows fainter every second.
"Nathaniel." Her breath is a rough whisper at his ear.
He stills, turning his head to eye her, her breath hot and labored against his cheek. He swallows tightly at the wheezing sound of her voice.
Sigrun and Justice halt in their march through the dark tunnels. The whole place smells of rot and putrid death. Their boots are thick with slime and tainted blood. The Mother lays dead several passages behind them.
"We're almost there. Just hold on a little longer," Nathaniel urges hoarsely.
Mahariel digs her fingers into the leather of his shoulder guard and swallows back the latest stab of pain. "No, put me down. I just…I just want to rest."
Nathaniel turns so that she cannot see the heavy furrow to his brow, the deep frown marring his face. He pulls in a shaky breath and moves to slide her gently from his back and into his arms. Justice helps. Together, they lay the elven Warden down against the dark soil, a small open patch amongst the bones littering the ground. Her grip is unnaturally tight on Nathaniel's arms as they lower her. His hand is cradling her head as she shifts to rest her back against a smooth outcropping of rock.
He gulps as he looks down and catches sight of the large chunk of flesh missing from her thigh, the thick and blood-soaked bandages they hastily wrapped around the limb. She is trembling fiercely, her muscles spasming at uneven intervals. His eyes move upward and find the ragged gash along her chest, running from her left shoulder along her collar bone and down to her right breast. He had tried to preserve her modesty when bandaging the wound, tried to afford her some level of decency as he pulled the ruined armor from her chest and attempted to steady the flow of blood. She had reached up herself, her teeth grit in pain, a sharp and raging cry of agony dragging along her throat as she ripped the tunic from her chest herself and exposed herself for him, allowing him to attend the wound better. It didn't matter in the end.
Now, as she pulls her arms in on herself as though cradling her broken body, Nathaniel is awash with an ache he has no words for. This woman. This woman whom he taunted and berated and raged against when they first met. This woman who owed him nothing and granted him everything. This second chance at a life beyond father and alone and ruin.
There are tears in his eyes he is not ashamed to show her.
She smiles, and it is as broken and scarred as her body.
Justice stands stoically beside them. "It seems petty and unfair to remark that we should have brought Anders."
Sigrun's voice is hollow when she speaks from behind them. "There is no point in it now." She sniffs loudly and Nathaniel does not need to see her face to know the tears that stain it.
"We're almost there," Nathaniel repeats, more urgent, more frantic. "Once we make it to the surface we can-"
He stops at the subtle shake of her head. She pulls in a heavy breath and winces. There is blood staining her lips. "It is pointless, Nathaniel. There is no saving this body." She coughs once, twice. Pulls a shaking fist to her mouth to catch the blood. "I'm already dead."
Sigrun steps away at the words and turns from them. Her shoulders tremble with the quiet sobs and she will not look at them. Cannot look at them.
Something in Mahariel's words lights a fire of anger within Nathaniel and he is setting his jaw tight, his hands gripping her elbows lightly enough to avoid causing pain but firmly enough to bring her downcast and heavy eyes up to his.
"Then you're a coward," he seethes through clenched teeth. He hates that the tears are many now.
Mahariel's eyes are soft and knowing when she locks gazes with him. Her dark hair is plastered to her cheeks with sweat, her face pale and filled with shadow. "Perhaps I am." She coughs again, her chest jerking with a sharp spasm of pain, and her voice is so raw from the screams that only a low moan now escapes her.
Nathaniel watches helplessly.
Mahariel's lashes flicker softly as she meets his eyes once more. "Maybe…maybe we're all born dead, really."
He thinks of the unnamed babe buried somewhere unknown on the Howe estate. Lost and forgotten to many. But never to him. Never to him.
"And maybe," she continues, her voice wheezing, "Maybe this is just some sick joke of the gods. And we are just…just a flicker of after-life. Just a memory. Maybe…we are just…" She trails off as her eyes glance over to Sigrun's form, the dwarf's low slumped shoulders, the steady quake to her frame that tells Mahariel that she cries for her. She cannot take her eyes from Sigrun's back. She blinks furiously, tries to steady her labored breathing. "But if we're not, if…" Her voice is surer, her fingers reaching for Nathaniel. She looks to him and finds him clasping her hands with his own. His touch is warm and steady and everything she is not. "If I am wrong, then Nathaniel…" she urges.
He searches her eyes with his own pained ones.
"Then don't spend another second of this life dying." Her lips are trembling, a small trail of blood running from her mouth down her chin, to disappear past her neck and into the mass of red-soaked bandages against her heaving chest. Her eyes are on Sigrun once more and Nathaniel follows the gaze. His heart clenches painfully and he must look to the ground before the feeling can overtake him, must focus on the jagged bits of dragon bone crushed beneath his boots.
Justice's hand finds his shoulder. "She won't be long now. The Fade calls to her." There is something heavy and halting to the spirit-corpse's voice, as though he does not quite know how to express grief in this body, as though the sensation is alarming and frightening and trying to claw its way from his throat without him knowing how to release it.
Nathaniel looks back up to Mahariel when her fingers twitch against his hand.
She is wearing a smile from a time when she used to know happiness. "Please, find Zevran. Tell him…" For the first time, tears threaten to overwhelm her. She swallows back that thick slice of regret and begins to shake violently. "Tell him I'm sorry," she whispers, her face crumbling before him. She closes her eyes to the tender ache and tries to remember sun-kissed skin and warm words in the night. "Tell him I'll be waiting for him."
Nathaniel can feel the slow release of her grip on his hand, the steady slump of her shoulders against the rock.
Sigrun releases a short, tear-stained gasp, a low moan of denial falling from her lips as she turns to the fallen Warden. "No, no, no no no," she cries uselessly.
Warden Mahariel dies where there is no one there to tell her they love her.
Somewhere inside, Nathaniel is screaming.
"I'm going with you."
Nathaniel's words catch Sigrun's attention and she moves from adjusting her shin-guards to stand straight up and watch the archer stop next to her.
He is in full armor, his family's bow slung over his shoulders, his quiver full, his face set, his fists clenched at his side.
The road from Vigil's Keep stretches long before them.
Sigrun is silent for many moments. And then she is sighing, her hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Please, Nathaniel, don't make this any harder." She moves her hand back down to her side as she looks up at him.
He cocks his head at her and there is an impish smirk to his lips that sets Sigrun's skin ablaze. "Thought you could sneak off in the early morning hours, did you? You're not as slick as you think."
She watches him in quiet hesitation, and then, "I'm going into the Deep Roads, where I belong. Where I never should have left." There is something needful and dark to her words, something longing and ancient anchored deep inside her.
Nathaniel is unswayed. "And I said 'I'm going with you'." He remembers the feel of Mahariel's hand in his as she slipped away. He remembers the way she cried at the end. His jaw clenches tight as the smirk falls from his face.
Sigrun huffs and raises her fists to plant along her hips. "This isn't a game, Nathaniel."
"I'm quite aware."
She swallows. "You know I don't intend to come back to the surface. I will perform my duty, to the Legion and to the Wardens, the best way I know how. And I don't expect to be coming back. No matter what I will lose for it. Do you understand?" She steps closer, her eyes imploring on his because she needs him to know. She needs him to know.
Nathaniel's eyes soften and he leans down to kneel on one knee, his hands moving to grasp hers. "I understand." He heaves a sigh and looks to their joined hands, rubs a thumb along the cool skin of her knuckles.
She sucks an involuntary breath in and cannot move her eyes from him.
"I understand and I am still going with you."
She furrows her brows at his words, her mouth opening to retort but he continues before she can.
"I don't think we're all born dead, Sigrun." His voice is suddenly low and melodic, lilting with the grace of grief. "I think death is a choice." He looks up at her. "And I haven't made mine yet. I refuse to make mine yet."
There is pain pulling taut at Sigrun's features when she looks at him. Her throat is tight when she tries to speak, her voice barely a whisper between them. "But I have already made mine. And I cannot ask of you the same." She pulls a hand from their clasp and points out across the horizon, past the forests and the cliffs, past the rocky hillside, where somewhere there are deep, dank tunnels carved into the earth, where somewhere, dark things crawl beneath the dirt and they call it "death".
Somewhere she cannot ask him to go.
She sighs, her outreached hand falling to her side. "I have an oath to fulfill."
The cool, grey light of early dawn lands in slants through the nearby trees to brush against her face. She has never looked so beautiful. He levels her with a sure and constant gaze. "Then this will be my oath: You will not be alone when death comes for you."
She feels her heart raging against her ribcage and doesn't know why, why, it should hurt so much. Her eyes are wet against her bidding. She does not speak for long moments.
A slow and hesitant smile spreads across his lips and he moves a hand to brush against her branded cheek. Her brows quake at the motion, her lips parting in fearful and anxious longing.
He leans in and presses his mouth to hers in ways that are familiar and tender and needed. He pulls away, just enough to keep his breath fanning her lips, just enough to smell the salt of her tears. He releases her hand between them and bunches his fingers in her dark hair. Closing his eyes, Nathaniel whispers against her lips, "I'm going with you. So you might as well shut up and accept it."
She laughs, and it is caught somewhere in her throat with the tears so that it is a choked gurgle that he feels upon his mouth. He smiles, feeling her hands slide up his arms to hold his wrists tenderly at the base of her neck.
Nathaniel cannot live this arrested life any longer. He cannot reach for things lost and keep wondering at the emptiness. He cannot leave this world a stillbirth.
He knows no other way to be but to be present, and powerful, and in constant motion. He knows no other way to live but fervently and with everything of himself. He knows no other way to love but as though he only has this single day to show her.
He is done living in the past.
He is done living for the dead.
Nathaniel Howe vows not to be a broken man, sobbing and regretful, at the end of a long empty hall.