If you've read Canticle of Fire ( s/8948494/1/Canticle-of-Fire), this takes things further. If you haven't, this story will make little sense without it.
DA: Awakening and beyond. Spoilers for The Calling.
(I'd love to make all this into a mod, if I only knew a thing about modding...)
I: Gale
. . .
She tries to fall asleep, but all the doubts chase sleep away. Cousland leaves the bedroom, which she still finds difficult to think of as hers, for it is not her place, it never will be, not Amaranthine, of all places...
The night air is cold, but the sky is clear and full of stars. Cousland wishes her path was half as clear as the sky. She walks along the wall of the Keep, to and fro, lost in thoughts. Doubts and decisions all over again, and she just shakes her head and smiles mirthlessly because she willingly signed for it. Not without some amount of coaxing, but... And then a thought strikes her.
The dwarven woman, Utha. The Architect mentioned she had been a Grey Warden once. And if that is true, there is someone who can give her answers.
Cousland hurries down and knocks at Velanna's door. The elf opens, grimacing, wiping the sleep away from her eyes.
"What is it, Commander?"
"Velanna, I need a sleeping draught."
The elven mage frowns. "What in Thedas for? You once said you're used to nightmares."
Cousland hesitates. "It's not for nightmares." Maker, why cannot Wynne be here where she needs her most? For a moment, she contemplates telling the truth... But who would believe that? There are moments even she does not believe her own memories. But then there are also moments when her memories seems clearer than reality. "I just have too much on my mind," she mutters. "I want to sleep, but all I can do is thinking." This, at least, is true.
The elven mage nods sympathetically. "Fine. Go get into bed, I'll get you something. Something mild, since it's so late."
As promised, Velanna brings the potions a few minutes later. But it does not work.
Oh, yes, Cousland falls asleep, but there are no dreams. And she needs dreams. Just one dream. But she feels reluctant to explain it all to Velanna. Even more so to Anders; however likeable he seems, she cannot quite bring herself to trust him.
Maybe, if Wynne still was in Amaranthine, she could... As soon as Cousland is dressed, she writes a letter and hurries to find Nathaniel.
"Something happened?" Nathaniel asks, concerned, when she knocks at his door.
She hands him the envelope. "I need you to get this to Amaranthine. Remember that elderly lady mage we encountered?"
"Yes. Your friend, if I recall correctly."
"Yes. If she's still in the city, give this to her and take whatever she will give you."
Nathaniel nods. "Private business?" he asks, with mild curiosity, but not prying.
"Ah, I wish." She lets out a short laugh. "Warden business."
"Secret Warden business, I see," he remarks. There is open curiosity is his eyes now, but he does not press for answers.
"Isn't all Warden business secret?" she asks wryly, which earns her a short bark of laughter from Nathaniel.
"Aye, that it is. Very well, Commander, it will be done."
"Nate, I've told you so many times..."
"Oh, yes, I know. Don't think I don't remember." He smiles lazily, as if he was teasing a younger sister. "I just enjoy watching that look on your face far too much to ever stop calling you that."
She sighs wearily, her brief moment of good humour evaporating suddenly, and for no apparent reason. "Nathaniel, please."
The look in his eyes turns concerned, but he knows better than to ask. "I am sorry," he says quietly. "For whatever it is."
. . .
When Nathaniel returns from Amaranthine, he brings her a small package from Wynne. Inside, she finds a bottle of some yellow liquid – how curious, how ironic that is should have such a warm shade, like bottled sunshine – and a note. She reads is quietly, aware of Nathaniel's attentive gaze on her, and she keeps her face impassive. Nathaniel is observant, and smart, and he should not learn too much about the whole thing. Not yet, anyway.
Wynne's note is short, but the words are laced with friendly concern. Cousland realises how much she misses the elderly mage and her advice.
One dream, reads the note, that is what this bottle will give you. I will not risk more.
Child, be careful. The fire can warm up, but it can also burn. Despite all I've said to you about this, and despite all you know yourself, please be careful. You might not be able to judge this right.
Maker guide your steps. W.
Thank you, she thinks, thank you, Wynne. She is aware of the risk, but if the worst came to be, Nathaniel would replace her, and he would be a good Warden Commander, if slightly gloomy. And of all the decision she has to make, she would rather not make that one blindly. Saving the world, she thinks with a rueful smile, is tiring.
"Is that what you hoped for?" Nathaniel asks, not able to contain his curiosity any longer.
Cousland's smile changes, becomes more bitter. And yet also more hopeful. "We will find out soon."
. . .
She closes her eyes and steps into the dream, concentrating on one thought only, and there it is: the familiar forest. The squirrel is sitting on a log, looking at her expectantly and waiting for a nut. Then, realizing there will be no food today, the squirrel darts up towards the treetops.
At the edge of the forest, Cousland stops, not entering the clearing. This is only a dream, and it does not matter, but life on the road taught her to be wary of open spaces.
Then she closes her eyes. "Duncan!" she calls, loud and clear. There is a moment of stillness, and then the taint in her blood sings quietly, as it never sings for her fellow Wardens. This little song is different, like a signature.
"You gave your word," he says, his words a gentle reproach.
She opens her eyes. "I'm here for answers, Duncan. Nothing more." And she does not allow herself even a thought more, just what she came here for, because she does not know how much time she has, and too much is at stake. Again. She is really getting weary of this, and it hurts a little to push feelings aside when she can see his face and look into his eyes again, but there is no time. Duncan, if anyone, will understand.
He gestures towards the fallen tree and they both sit down, but not close enough to touch. There is concern in his eyes, and a warmer look to them, but with a great effort of will she ignores both.
"The Architect. We've met him... it... I don't believe his promises. I don't believe it's possible. We wouldn't have fought as hard as we have if it were, would we?" She sighs. "I... I am weary, Duncan, I no longer trust my judgement. Please, help me," she pleads.
There is pain in his eyes, but it quickly gives way to kindness, and to duty that is painfully alike indifference. "Yes, the Architect didn't lie. He can give it to you. No need to fight anymore. A world of ghouls." Whatever memories he is looking at, they must be terrible. "It's too long a story, but when we met him, some of us listened to his promises... And then they died trying to stop him."
"But the dwarven woman...?"
Duncan shakes his head. "I only know what I've seen with my own eyes. I don't know if this is the answer you need."
"What I've seen with my own eyes..." she mutters. "Yes. Yes, I think that is my answer." Cousland looks up at him, and smiles, and that smile hurts. "Thank you, Duncan," she whispers.
There is fondness in his eyes, and a smile similar to her own appears on his lips: half-broken, half-hopeful, despite everything, and tinged with regret. Feelings flood her, and everything comes back to her, and she wonders how could she have ever doubted it even existed at all.
She touches his face, unable to stop herself, and then leans over and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, closing her eyes, wishing to memorise this moment, his skin warm under her lips and hand, his deep intake of breath... As she pulls away, Duncan's hands grip her shoulders.
"You can't come back here," he says quietly. "Please."
There is something deeper to his words, she can sense that. "What is it?" she asks softly.
Duncan does not answer.
She takes his hand in hers and begins lightly tracing patterns on the inside of his palm. There it is again, that reserve she has always sensed in him. But now, finally, she has a vague idea what it is. "What are you so afraid of, Duncan?"
His sigh comes soft like a lightest breath. "Of hurting you." His fingers close around hers. "I feel I am taking something from you, something I have no right to take, but I cannot do anything about it if you don't."
"But you answered my call."
Duncan laughs, a quiet, involuntary laughter. Nervous? "I am not without faults." He sounds troubled. "Neither I am made of stone."
Cousland looks into his eyes. "Then what are you made of?" she asks in a whisper.
His hands slide up her arms to lightly rest on her shoulders. "What are souls made of? What are we made of?" His eyes are deep, bottomless... There is doubt, still, but beyond that there is a sea of fondness and yearning. It is not desire, for he is but a spirit, a soul, and there can be no desire where there is no flesh.
But the feelings and emotions are still there, deeper maybe than in life, the core of being. And she can see his doubts are just another facet of what she has always hoped to see in his eyes, of what she now knows she has but glimpsed back then in the Fade, and the discovery leaves her breathless.
"Duncan..."
He leans over and she freezes in expectation, because surely that cannot be possible, if it has not happened yet why should it happen now... Duncan kisses her gently, and she melts, because in his kiss she finds infinite tenderness and love, boundless, and it touches her as only a soul can touch another soul. She trembles in his arms.
"Duncan..."
He shakes his head, and his eyes fill with sorrow and guilt. "Now you understand," he says quietly. "I'm taking what I have no right to take." He moves to pull away from her and leave, but she grabs his tunic, and a fistful of his hair.
"Now it's time you understood," she says firmly, and presses her lips to his in a gentlest of kisses. She has learned to live again, she has found friendships. She has taken up the burden of difficult decisions again, and willingly so. But she does not want another man.
Duncan looks at her, dazed, as if he has just heard her thoughts. Maybe he has, she thinks. This is, after all, a joining of souls.
"I gave you my word. And you accepted it." She smiles at him with the confidence she does not feel. "That will not erase you from my thoughts," she whispers, and when she touches his face he draws her into his arms. His kiss is soft and gentle, loving, and it makes her heart ache, but it is a good kind of pain.
When they part, he looks at her tenderly. "You know it cannot go on."
"Yes, I know. I gave you my word. I'm not going to go back on it." She winds her arms around his neck and clings to him, and though she knows she is dreaming, he is warm, and real, and as much alive as she is. "You promised you'll be there for me. At the end of the road."
"That's hardly the end of it." But his hands come up to cradle her to him, and his cheek comes to rest on the top of her head.
"Be with me, Duncan," she whispers.
"I am. I will be. Just not like this."
"It's a lonely watch, isn't it?" she asks, knowing he will understand her words. There is more peace, in a way, where he is, but also empty spaces and more silence, and that is not always a comfort.
"Yes," he admits finally. "Yes, it is."
"So dream with me."
He says nothing, just buries his face in her hair, and that is all the answer she needs. Under all the armour of self-control and composure, there is a soul as tired as her own. And just as he had had enough peace in his life to comfort her when she needed it most, she now has enough peace in hers to share with him. Enough life to share with him.
"I will not see you more, will I?" she asks, guessing the answer. Still, she is happy enough to have here and now, at least.
"No. But I will be with you. Here," he says softly, pulling away and gently touching her temple. "And here," he says, lightly placing his hand over her heart.
She smiles at him tenderly, and lovingly touches his cheek, and oh, Maker, he closes his eyes briefly and leans into her hand, and that is a most precious sight. He kisses her palm, too.
"It's time for you to wake," he says.
She nods. "Yes." Then she smiles. "Kiss me goodbye, Duncan."
"A goodbye," he confirms. "Not a farewell."
She tilts her head, and he kisses her gently, and his kiss is warm like sunrays, just like the sunrays she feels warming her face when she wakes up. There is a faint mark on the inside of her palm, pale like an old scar, and seeing it she smiles, and closes her fingers around it. It will be her reminder.
"Thank you, Duncan." She smiles to her dream, trying to memorise every detail.
Later during the day, she takes a break from her duties and writes to Wynne. The letter is short, but each word is heartfelt.
Maker bless you, Wynne. Whatever that was, Maker bless you for it.
. . .
She was grateful for that one dream and one talk on every step of the way. But when at the end of the road even Nathaniel, the trustworthy, down-to-earth, wonderfully reasonable Nathaniel faltered, she touched the mark on her palm and knew her answer.
What I have seen with my own eyes, she whispered back then. Maker, she still remembers the dungeons, and the bodies, and oh, yes, she has seen with her own eyes, though she wishes she has not. Whatever the Architect was, she could not allow him to continue his profanities. She did not allow him to.
Cousland sighs quietly. She is tired, so tired... They tried to save the city, and almost lost the Keep because of it. They lost Varel, and many others, good men who died protecting their land, but it does not make them any less dead. The victory is bitter. But still, after honouring the fallen, she attended the feast, and did all the smiling and necessary morale boosting.
And then she slipped out from the festivities and into her room, and scribbled a letter to Fergus, asking him to prepare a room for her, because she would go to Highever as quickly as possible.
The price of being a Warden seems too much when she cannot even be with her brother when he needs her most. But she swore an oath, and cannot back away now.
Yes, she will go to Highever, for a time. Maybe even establish another Warden outpost there. Fergus has little interest in the castle, and memories and duty are all that keeps him there. That, and having no other place to go. Certainly he has no interest in marrying again. It is too soon to think of such things, and Fergus is still grieving, but they are both Couslands, and she knows. He had sworn his love to his wife, and after she died he would never swear to another. It is not that they cling to their word despite all, but they value honour highly, highly enough never to speak oaths they do not intend to keep.
When she joined the Wardens, she did intend to keeps hers. Things have changed, since then, but the taint is in her veins now, and she would never find peace elsewhere.
A sound breaks her reverie. There are footsteps behind her, quiet, almost noiseless, but she recognises them. Nathaniel stops beside her, looking down the battlements.
It is surprising, really, how after everything a Cousland can get on with a Howe so well. Calling Nathaniel a twin soul would be an overstatement, and yet, despite all the differences, he agrees with her every decision. Well, has done that, up until recently.
"You still have doubts about my decision," she speaks softly, looking at the horizon, drawn by an invisible line under which the stars do not show. "Concerning the Architect," she clarifies.
Nathaniel shakes his head. "Doubts? No. I'm just wondering."
She focuses her eyes on the horizon line, trying to see through the night and find it. "There was no other way."
He watches her carefully. "How do you know that?"
"We're not the first Wardens to have met him." She closes her eyes. "There is a middle-ground, where we wouldn't have to fight anymore... If we had let ourselves be infected. There..." she pauses, unsure how to say it. "There were Wardens who tried it."
"Where are they now?" Nathaniel asks, probably already guessing the answer.
"Dead. They'd have eventually died of the taint, but they died trying to stop the Architect."
"That... makes things clearer, I guess." He glances at her. "How do you know all that?"
Again she closes her eyes briefly. "Duncan told me."
"The previous Warden-Commander, yes?" He waits for her nod before continuing. "You knew him?"
"You could say so."
They fall silent. Nathaniel keeps glancing at her hands, but finally asks.
"What happened to your palm?"
"I got burned," she answers cryptically. Yes, she thinks, I got burned, but now I carry the fire within me.