Author's note: I'm not one-hundred-percent happy with how this fic turned out, but it's been waiting for re-writing entirely too long. Maybe it'll happen, someday. For now, let it be as it is, and I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.
. . .
High Treason
. . .
I
On the outskirts of the Keep she is greeted by a young soldier, one of the guards, and a group of darkspawn. It would be naive to expect the beginnings to be easy – not when being sent to Ferelden, of all places... But arriving to find the Keep under darkspawn attack is a tad too much.
A few spells and minor cuts later it is done, and, together with the young warrior, introducing herself as Mhairi, they proceed to the Keep. In the yard, there are more darkspawn, an emissary among them. She concentrates on aiming the spells, each one carefully chosen by both following her senses and instinct. No anxiety, just the fight and the feel of magic flowing through her. Only when all the darkspawn are lying dead on the ground, she allows the tiny trembling ball of fear to uncoil. What has happened here? Is there anyone still alive? Why the darkspawn attack on a stronghold, when the Blight is over? She does not even want to think of the implications of that last question, not when snippets of talks with Fiona and Duncan hover at the edge of her mind.
There are injured soldiers, and she grits her teeth, not able to simply walks past. Still, she has to. The is but only one mercy for those wounded by darkspawn: death. She closes her eyes and concentrates; her fingers spread a cone of snow and ice. Death by cold is the only grace she has to offer.
Inside, she finds more darkspawn, and some unexpected allies. An apostate mage, a dwarven berserker; what really matters right now is that they can help fighting the darkspawn. She can deal with any consequences later... provided there will be a later.
Up on the walls, they find it: a talking darkspawn, and she mutters a quiet prayer to the Maker. This is not something she is certain how to deal with. There are more darkspawn around, one holding down a still alive prisoner. She assesses him quickly: armour, greying hair; maybe the guards captain. Right then his pale eyes look up at her, and he speaks out one word only. "Commander." It is an acknowledgement, a plea, and, shockingly, an apology. The darkspawn holding him moves, and the man slips to the ground, and the last thing she notices is a red line on his throat. For a moment she fights the impulse to run over to heal him, but this is the time to take care of the living first, and not the dying.
. . .
Robes, Varel thinks in disdain. They sent a bloody mage where they should have sent a seasoned soldier and commander. The thought takes no longer than a fleeting moment, as much as he needs to take in her face and fair her. A stain of colour catches his attention: her robes are splattered with blood, and not all of it seems darkspawn in origin. She has fought her way up here. So whatever profession she is, she is capable.
"Commander," he says, a strange welcome as he is down on his knees, hands bound behind his back. He might die very soon; considering the darkspawn's words – darkspawn's words – he hopes he will die. That one word spoken to the new Warden Commander is also an apology, as he realises he failed to defend the Vigil. Somehow also an apology to her, for misjudging her, even if she will never know about it.
. . .
"Commander, I owe you my life," says Varel, before they are both distracted by the sudden commotion on the road to the Keep.
She accepts his words gracefully; there is no need to tell him it was none of her doing. Lucky coincidence, set by the Maker, maybe, but she was ready to let him bleed to his death. Not without remorse, for letting allies die is never easy, but was he wounded more severely, she would not have saved him because of her choice. She is immensely glad none of it happened, but even if there had been no consequences, she took that decision, and she suspects getting rid of the feeling of guilt will not be easy.
II
"You're injured, Seneschal."
"Nothing serious."
She fixes him with a stern stare. "You've fought darkspawn. So let me be the judge of this 'serious'." There are almost no traces of Orlesian accent.
They have chosen her well, Varel thinks, even in such minute details. It really is a shame people here will not let her forget she is a stranger, that they still remember times when 'Orlesian' meant 'enemy'.
"Very well, Commander," he agrees, reluctantly. He is old enough to remember the time when taking orders from an Orlesian meant treason. It was over twenty years ago, and the Commander is Grey Warden first, and Wardens are – should be – above that – maybe 'aside' would be a better word. Besides, he is the seneschal of the Keep, of the Warden outpost, not hers; the Commander is a function to him, and it should not matter who stands behind the title. But it did matter with Arl Howe.
He begins taking off his armour, but she gets impatient and her hands move to help. Up close, he can see her hair is white, not fair, and wonders briefly if it is some magical effect, or simply a testimony of passing years. There are faint lines at the corners of her eyes and lips, suggesting the latter.
"I'm not certain about Fereldan standards, but I've been taught it's impolite to stare," she remarks casually.
"Apologies, Commander," he offers readily, turning his gaze away. After a moment he is glancing back at her again: she is a healer, and seeing her at work can tell him much about her.
She cleans his wounds methodically. They are not deep, but she puts her healing spells to use only after making sure the blade was not poisoned. Finally she raises her head, her gaze meeting his. She is just calmly looking at his face and into his eyes, but suddenly he is keenly aware he is sitting here without his shirt on. Normally it would not matter to him, for she is a healer, not a courtly lady, but now... There is something in her face – maybe the slight crook of the corner of her mouth – that tells him she is doing that on purpose.
The Commander notices his discomfort and smiles kindly. "Point taken, I believe," she says, but without malice. More like with a hint of humour.
"Yes, Commander."
. . .
The seneschal is reciting the words of the Joining ritual, words she has expected she would be the one to say, and it makes her realise how she underestimated him. The Wardens are the only ones to know the ritual; that the seneschal has been allowed this knowledge speaks volumes of what kind of man he might be. Trustworthy. Able of keeping a secret.
She watches each of the three Wardens-to-be, as they drink of the cup and slump to the floor – except for the dwarf, who seems to think this is but a new entertainment. The seneschal kneels beside Anders; the mage is breathing, and Varel nods. The he leans over the young soldier, Mhairi; his face clouds momentarily, and then he shakes his head. In her thoughts, she whispers a prayer to the Maker for the poor girl, and then a thanksgiving for those two who survived the Joining.
. . .
She can sense reserve in them. Oh, everyone is treating her kindly enough, and no one is openly suspicious, but she is an elf and a mage and an Orlesian, a combination somehow impossible to overlook. The seneschal is the only one to actually treat her in a friendly, if still official manner. Well, a seneschal of a lord who turned traitor against the realm cannot be very choosy. He took no part in the treason... which only seems to make everything worse, because some of the lords of Amaranthine were counting on gaining profit from Howe's schemes, and his demise crushed their dreams of wealth and power.
He is respected by the common folk and among many lesser nobles, she has grasped that much during a few brief meetings with her liegemen, but from what she has seen so far the seneschal has no closer friends. Most of those he might have had he probably lost to either the Blight or inter-realm fights. Others maybe to his rank.
So, in a way, they are both strangers here... only she is rightfully treated as such, while he is a stranger in his own homeland.
III
The hall is open, and he peeks inside. The Commander is sitting by the dying fire, which now is barely more than a few blazing embers. Her head is hung low, her eyes fixes on the embers, and at first Varel is certain she does not notice him. That is when she looks up, and a tired smiles appears on her lips, so fleeting he is not quite sure it has really been there.
"Varél." Then, immediately, she corrects herself. "Seneschal."
He shakes his head. "'Varel' will do, my lady." He is about to ask whether she is fine with him calling her that – he is not used to mages, and her robes remind him of courtly ladies' gowns, and it comes to him far more naturally that calling her a Commander.
"How courteous." This was intended as a jest, but there is no mirth to her voice. She graces him with another smile – she seems a patient person, with an infinite amount of warm or reassuring or slightly teasing smiles for everyone – but this one is not sincere.
"Is everything all right?" Varel asks, when it dawns on him something is troubling her.
She turns away from him, gazing at the weak flames. Guessing she is in no mood to talk, he is going to leave quietly.
"I've been thinking about Justice," she says finally.
Her words fix him in place. He does not really know whether he should stay and continue the talk – but if she did not want to talk to him, she would not do it, right?
"Yes?" he prompts, trying to be gentle.
Her hand is resting at the edge of the fireplace. When he looks closer, he notices how her fingers are clutching at the warm stone.
"Kristoff was my friend," she says quietly. "He was like a younger brother to me."
"Then why..." he wants to ask, but stops himself. He would hate to be that inconsiderate. "I am sorry, my lady," he adds hastily, and this is both an apology and an expression of sympathy.
"I need every Grey Warden I can get," she explains, her voice too even. "Kristoff would have understood. This doesn't change the fact that..." She sighs and shakes her head. Then, decisively, she gets up. "Excuse me, seneschal. I should not burden you with my troubles."
"Is there anyone else you can burden with them?" he asks tentatively.
She gives him one of these glances that seem to look through a person to the bottom of the very soul. "You're a wise man, seneschal."
"If you'll ever need anyone to burden, I'll gladly listen," he offers, feeling for her. She had to leave the place that has been her home for years, and then it turned out she lost even the friends supposed to be there with her. Besides, she has been nothing but kind to him so far, and the least he can give her in return is a thread of friendship.
She smiles at him sadly. "Thank you, Varél."
. . .
Another time, it is she that walks on him while he is resting in the quietness of the empty hall.
"Varél." She stops by the door, as if she wanted to withdraw. "I'm sorry, I didn't wish to interrupt."
"You're not interrupting anything, Commander."
She gives him one of these unnerving, mystical mage stares. "Your solitude?"
"Ah, that. You're a welcome interruption to that, my lady." When they are alone, he drops the formal 'Commander' in favour of a no less formal, but much more courteous title.
She smiles, and that smile is different, a little warmer. "Thank you, Varél."
Her command of Fereldan is excellent, with only faint traces of accent, but she still cannot get his name right, accentuating the last syllable too strongly. He ceased correcting her some time ago, for, truth to be told, he does not mind. It makes his name sound different, as if he was a different man – not that disillusioned, maybe, not that battered.
IV
She stays up until well past midnight, reading through old volumes, searching for new spells, for Grey Warden lore, for information on darkspawn. The seneschal stays up late answering letters and complaints, and doing all kinds of things associated with running the Keep and the arling for her. After some time, she orders for the supper to be waiting for then in the dining hall.
The hall is big, designed to house at least three dozen men. At that hour, it is empty, and there are just two of them, sitting at one of the tables. The candles are snuffed out already, with one of the fireplaces being the only source of light. With most of the hall darkened by shadows, the lit corner seems more homey; a closed enclave.
They do not talk much, both too tired for it. Varel asks her about her research, and every time she find some new piece of information about the Wardens, she shares it. Varel, in turn, fills her in on daily matters of the Keep.
And sometimes, when it is not that late, but late enough for everyone except the guardsmen to be asleep, they talk of other things, too. Random, trifling. Favourite time of day? Rest. Rest. Of year? Autumn, if the crops were good. Oh, that depends. Early summer, I think... when the whole nature sings 'life' as loud as it can. Village or city? The Keep. Mhm... yes, the Keep is fine... And I miss the Circle. And Montsimmard. Could we talk of something different? Very well. So, wine or beer? Ladies do not drink beer? My dear seneschal, I have been a Warden for over thirty years. So yes, lady Wardens do. In that case, you must try golden honeyed. Amaranthine's finest.
They even talk childhood tales, and in the end they sit up almost until dawn: Varel is trying to recall as much of Ferelden tales as he can, and the noises he makes for special effects make her laugh. She recounts some of the Orlesian tales, and then those heard at the Circle, adding a bit of magic here and there. This is a calm, peaceful moment, and for the first time since her arrival at the Keep, she feels at home.
. . .
She remembers the places she used to call home. The White Tower, where healing magic seemed to flow through her fingers with no effort at all, and quiet guidelines from benevolent Fade spirits. The Grey headquarters in Montsimmard when she first came there. Kell's quiet, reassuring presence. Utha's friendly silence. Fiona's sarcastic remarks. Reuel's magic fireworks. Later, Duncan's jokes. Leonie's merry laughter. Kristoff's kindness.
Losing her friends one by one, either to death, the taint, or simply because she had to leave. She is kind to the new Wardens she is commanding, but she would only call them comrades in arms, not friends. Well, maybe Nathaniel, one day, if the Calling would not claim her first...
When the grief began washing away, Nathaniel turned out to be a sensible man, who will make a fine Warden-Commander one day. Oghren, frankly speaking, seems only interested in fights and drinking. Velanna keeps to herself, annoyed by Nathaniel's constant teasing, and there is no bonding whatsoever about the whole 'I'm an elf, too' part. Anders... She supposes it is the difference of opinions. Yes, Circles are not a perfect solution, but there is too much at stake, and she will never help Anders retrieve his phylactery. She feels for him, and that he is miserable having exchanged one cage for another, but there are lines she will not cross, ever. Not after all the years in the White Tower, being so close to the Fade, constantly aware of its perils.
Justice... his view of the world is too black and white, but he is a decent... spirit. Teaching him about mortal life, its rules, about emotions – it is a humbling experience. But every time she looks at him she sees Kristoff's shadow, and his presence is a constant reminder of her friend's death. Like a thorn; she slowly got used to it, but it still hurts. And every time, she concentrates on not thinking of what Kristoff's wife, Aurra, must have felt when she saw Justice.
There is also the seneschal... A capable warrior, an honest man, so ordinary it is refreshing. Yes, she remembers he had the courage to refuse to serve Howe and almost died for it. But there is no magic, spirits, treasons or murdered families. Is it so strange that she seeks him out whenever she wants to rest?
She takes a slow breath. It has been a long time since there had been anyone in her life. Philippé, a Warden like her, called to Weisshaupt more than fifteen years ago. He never returned, and she was not granted a permission to follow. Over time, letters became less and less frequent, until they stopped coming altogether, and she knew he perished in the Deep Roads.
She has been lonely, yes. But there were duties, and as her private life was taken from her, she decided to give up on it. Now she feels her loneliness resounding more profoundly. She has but a few years left, and suddenly there is this need to live again, to the fullest... She quenches it. Unlike some – Duncan, Anders, Nate – she has chosen this life, and unlike most, she has been aware of all the consequences from the beginning. But on nights like this, she wishes she could fall asleep warmed by someone's presence beside her.
V
She is at the walls, walking slowly back and forth, eyes raised up towards the sky.
"Commander." He is ready to apologise, excuse himself and back away.
She half-turns, and acknowledges him with a brief smile. "Varél." She chafes her arms. "It's cold."
"Yes, colder than in Orlais." Following years of learning etiquette, he reaches to the clasp of his cloak, but she stops him.
"No, thank you. Cold is not a problem," she adds, apparently amused. A tiny summoned fireball appears between her fingers, and she rubs it over her hands and arms. The fire does not burn, so he guesses it only warms her up.
She moves closer to the battlement and points out. "Denerim."
"Correct." Varel cannot keep from smiling. For an elf who has been around longer than he lives, she can behave surprisingly childishly at times. No, he corrects himself, childish is not a right word. It is... she picks tiny fragments of everyday life that he would have never thought of, and draws joy from these shards. It seems that if she chooses to forget all the nightmares she must have seen and all the duties still awaiting, she simply does so. Though, judging by her white hair, it does not come without a price.
"Highever? Correct, yes?"
"Almost." He walks over to her, stopping at a respectable distance. "Is that what you've been doing instead of getting some rest?" he asks amiably, much less formal.
"Not every day. But I'd like to know my new homeland better." She pauses, turning to him. "You've been born here, in Amaranthine?"
"If you mean the land, my lady, then yes. Not in the city, though. One of the farms. Used to be..." He points out. "Somewhere there."
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
"Excuse me?"
"You said: used to be."
"It's been a long time." He decides to use the occasion to change the topic. "Well, probably not by your definition of long time."
Her eyebrows quirk. "Are you implying I'm old, Varél?"
"I would never..." he begins, taken aback, because he did not mean it like that, and it certainly was not his intention to offend her... and then it becomes clear she is just teasing him.
She laughs out. "But I am. No?" Another quiet laugh follows. "It's all right, I was only jesting."
"Where are you from, my lady? Ah, I know you hail from Orlais, but..."
"A tricky question for a mage. From what I gathered, I'm Dalish."
"But you believe in the Maker?"
"Why shouldn't I? The Dalish are to me what they might be to you: a legend. I was raised a mage."
She puts her hand on the stone and leans forward, breathing in deeply. Under the moon, her hair is the shade of moonlight itself; never before has she looked more an elf and a mage, so foreign it is disconcerting. She leans forward some more, as if she were to fly away any moment. Without thinking, he steps forth, putting both hands on her waist.
"Be careful, my lady. It would be an unbecoming death for the Warden Commander if she fell from the walls of her own Keep."
She laughs again, but follows his advice and steps back. He has not let go, and now she is closer than at arm's length. He withdraws his hands instantly.
"It seems I'd get lost even on the walls of my own Keep if not for you, seneschal." She smiles briefly. "Goodnight. Sleep well."
Strange that it is her brief smile, of all the things, that keeps him from sleep that night.
VI
The seneschal keeps to his promise and one evening – well, night, to be more exact – when she finally comes down for dinner, a jug of beer is awaiting.
"Straight from the cellar," Varel says, pouring.
She leans over her cup – it smells of hop and honey. Slowly, she takes a small sip. Varel was probably right about it being Amaranthine's finest: not too heavy and not too sweet, but with a pleasant tinge of honey.
She raises her cup. "To you, seneschal."
"And to you, my lady."
For some time they just drink in silence, watching the flames dancing in the fireplace.
"You mentioned being a Warden for thirty years," Varel says. "How is that possible?"
"You mean the taint?"
Varel nods.
"Aging is slower when you're an elf. So the taint, too, spreads more slowly. But it'll come, eventually. Especially now that we've had a Blight."
The seneschal's head jerks up as he glances at her.
"I'm not afraid of the Deep Roads," she says. It is not a lie... not precisely. She is not afraid of the Deep Roads, or the darkspawn, or darkness, or even pain. But she would hate to be alone in her last moments. Life of a mage is not exactly full of friends.
"What is it you're afraid of?" Varel asks quietly, hesitant to voice the question. He has seen battles; granted he would recognize fear.
"What everyone's afraid of," she answers enigmatically, knowing he will not press. "Well, maybe it'll never come to that," she adds, thinking that she would rather die in battle, with her comrades in arms beside her.
From the look on the seneschal face it is obvious he gets her meaning, but he says nothing, struggling for words.
"No need for that, Varél. I've been around for some time, learned to face my fears." She pauses. "Words of comfort, encouragement... I don't need that."
"Then what is it you need?"
Her hand draws an invisible circle in the air, indicating them both, sitting in the ring of firelight.
"This, " she says, looking up at him with a serene smile.
VII
The seneschal has fallen into slumber again. Good for him; it will fasten the healing process. She looks at his face thoughtfully; she remembers the time it would be considered treason to help a Fereldan.
Her gaze returns to the needle, as she sets to darning her robe again, but her thoughts linger at the seneschal. She is always considerate and cautious with words, but she would probably call him a friend. And there are moments she would like to take things further. She has seen how he looks at her sometimes; it probably would not take much. Still, she hesitates. Her Calling, even if she does not hear it yet, is slowly approaching. Might take a year, might take three, if the Maker will be generous. But that is no excuse.
The friendship they have is both strong and fragile. She can depend on it, she did not need proof he gave to know he would lie down his life for her if need be. Yet she fears that if she upset the balance, it would shatter; oh, of course he would still be kind and courteous towards her, but not so open anymore.
Varel has not seen or been through half of what she has... and she is grateful for it. He has had his share of fighting and struggles, and of people losing their humanity to cold cruelty – which she finds much more terrifying than any monsters. But he has come out of it able to get on with everyday life normally, something she herself has almost forgotten. The images that evokes – of a peaceful life, restoring and rebuilding what the Blight took away – she finds them strangely appealing.
. . .
He watches her, sitting beside him. She is an average height for an elf, and not that much shorter than human women, but like this, seated on the great chair and bowed over some work, she seems petite.
Her eyes are open, but she does not see, or rather: she does not see him or this room they are in. Whatever it is she has conjured before her eyes, whether dreams or memories, must be – or have been – happy. After a while he decides it must be memories, for there is sadness to her smile, and he guesses whatever she is seeing now is lost.
"I remember times accepting help from an Orlesian would have been called treason," Varel speaks suddenly, trying to pull her out of her bittersweet reverie. At his words she glances up and he offers a brief, slightly tired smile.
She smiles back. "Then what would saving an Orlesian's life have been called?"
He wonders if that is how she feels: an Orlesian first, not a Warden; if that is how they are making her feel. "I'm not... You're not... You're Commander of the Grey, not an Orlesian... Damn..."
"Varél, it's all right." She puts a hand on his shoulder briefly, her touch warm and reassuring. "That wasn't what I meant." Her gaze meets his. "I see how you treat me. As if I was one of you."
"Are you, my lady? One of us?" Something in the air shifts when she leans over, just a hairbreadth. Something elusive he cannot grasp or name.
"Do you want me to?" she asks quietly, but then she straightens in her chair and the moment is gone so fast Varel is not certain it has ever been there.
He looks at the fire, then at her. She is looking down, at the robe thrown over her lap, the needle a glimmer of silver in her deft, slender fingers. The light the fireplace is casting gives her face a warm glow, and puts some colour into her usually pale cheeks.
Suddenly it hits him how domestic the scene looks; she is sitting beside him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Varel closes his eyes. He has not thought of those things in years, has forgotten that once he wanted to marry, to have a haven to come back to. That it all had to return to him now, in the dusk of his life...
"You're cutting on sleep again, my lady, aren't you?" he asks, after a prolonging silence, wishing to forget the thought she might have become family to him.
She glances up and a quick, gentle smile lights up her face. "I've got a Keep to run and a wounded seneschal to tend to."
"You don't have to sit by me all the time."
"You took the bolt for me. So yes, I have to."
"Really, my lady..."
"Taelia," she corrects firmly, her gaze warm. "You saved my life. You earned the right to call me by name."
He nods in acknowledgement, not intending to call her otherwise than the usual 'Commander' in public and 'my lady' in private, and he thinks she knows that, but she does not press. "Don't mages have more fancy names?" he teases.
"I had a family name once. But I'm of Grey Wardens now." She falls silent, her face suddenly thoughtful. "I am sorry," she says eventually. The look in her eyes conveys she truly means it, and Varel has no idea what to make of this.
"Sorry, m'lady?" he asks, not comprehending.
"I dismissed the threat. You might have paid for my mistake with your life."
"Everyone misjudges sometimes. I wasn't sure what to do, either."
She shakes her head. "No, no." The words are spoken in earnest, and her accent returns, making them sound more like Orlesian 'non, non'. "I dismissed the threat. I've heard a rumour, I didn't follow the trail, because being brought in Orlais I thought you cannot really know that much of plotting or assassinations. And I got punished for my pride. Well, you did, to be exact."
"Nothing to be sorry for," he says, then smiles, to reassure her.
"You just say that out of kindness."
This time it is Varel who shakes his head. "Very well, it might've been a mistake. It's over. We're all alive. You're alive. The plot failed." He offers another smile. "You see, my lady? Somehow, it turned out quite all right. So do not trouble yourself over that. And certainly don't trouble yourself on my account, please, don't."
"Very well. I won't." She smiles in reply, but there is a shadow deep in her eyes, as if she was thinking there is plenty of other things to trouble oneself about, more dangerous and much more dangerous than petty nobles' plot. And that in the midst of it all, she might prefer to trouble herself about his wellbeing instead.
VIII
She is standing at the battlements, looking into the starry sky. There is a faint murmur of prayer from the courtyard, where a statue of Andraste is standing. She had been down there, to pray briefly with her soldiers, then departed with 'Maker be with us' on her lips, her words echoed by everyone around.
Now she is praying again, soundlessly wishing they will come alive out of whatever is waiting, hoping people of Amaranthine will be spared. This is her prayer: every breath, every beat of her heart. Stars and sky have always seemed closer to the Maker then stone statues build by hands of men.
There are quiet steps, and even without turning she know it is Varel. There is this moment, one she has seen coming: she is afraid, alone, and he is there, ready to offer comfort should she need it. She needs it... but under usual circumstances, she would never simply go to him and ask, and there is no reason she should do so now. Even if she would regret it later... If she asked, it would not be her. If he agreed, it would not be him.
She turns to the seneschal. "It's late. We need a good night's sleep to face tomorrow," she says.
Varel nods. "That we do."
She approaches the door, halting beside the seneschal for a second. "Sleep well." A brief smile, and she is gone. She wants to remember them as they are.
When the door close behind her, she stops, half-turns, reaches for the handle. Magic – she does not need it, for intuition, that ancient everyday magic available to anyone who can listen, is telling her the same – is telling her that on the other side of the door, Varel's palm is also touching the handle.
They both take a step back almost the same moment, and she turns, grabs the skirts of her robe in one hand, so it would not get in the way, and begins walking down the stairs.
Falling asleep today, setting out on the morrow, going down into Deep Roads – she will remember he did touch the handle, as she did. He also turned away, as she did, but for a brief moment he hesitated and turned back and reached out towards her, and she will remember that. If she returns, she will remember that. If she does not return, she knows she will not die alone, because he will spare a thought that would reach out and stay with her.
. . .
He stays up on the battlements long into the night. Despite knowing he should be asleep, that he should take as much rest as he can, because on the morrow the Warden Commander will march out and they will have to be ready for anything, and in all probability all hell will break lose soon after. Still, Varel is restless, pacing quietly to and fro, his booted feet making very little noise against the stones.
The moon is bright, and the stars are brilliant that night, more brilliant than he has ever seen them, he is certain of it. Even if there is a slight chill in the air, it is a beautiful night. Varel wishes it could never end, he wishes the morning not to come. He knows it will not be, it cannot be.
There is a vague thought at the edge of his mind, one he knows he should put into words, and quickly, while there is still a chance, and yet he cannot gather the courage to do so. Instead, he listens to the sounds coming from the courtyard below, quiet clicking of swords moved in the sheaths and muttered words of prayer to the Maker. Varel has not prayed for quite some time; yes, he does believe in the Maker, but serving Arl Howe left him with so many doubts, and there was always so little time, and when there was, he could not find the proper words... But now he stops in his track, and straightens, and closes his eyes, and his lips find long forgotten words of a prayer. It is not coherent, even to him, but it is best he can offer, and his whisper, though barely louder than breath, is ardent, and slightly desperate. He has protected her before, but now prayers are the only protection he can offer, though he is not certain what to pray for, and he has an uncanny feeling she would not know that, either. So he keeps his eyelids firmly shut, and thinks of her hair pale as moonlight, and whispers, putting his mind and heart and soul into it.
He is a little ashamed at discovering it brings him relief, because it helps to drown out that half-formed thought at the edge of his mind.
. . .
She stays up by her desk long into the night. Despite knowing she should be asleep, that she should take as much rest as she can, because on the morrow she will march out and she will have to be ready for anything, and in all probability the hell will break lose soon after. Still, she cannot sleep, but she is not restless; she is focused, and calm, because as her fingers move, working, her fears and anxiety ebb away.
The llyrium glows as she etches it into a runestone, painting the sign with tender, loving touches. She is making a rune of protection, and this is her way of praying, as she repeats 'Keep him safe' over and over and over.
Amusing, she thinks, how each of them can face darkspawn and corrupted men, and yet neither is brave enough to decipher what their friendship has really become. But then again, maybe in the end it does not matter. He makes her laugh, and she makes him smile, and she knows she can rely on him completely.
Together, they rebuilt the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. And together they will stop whatever dangers and plagues were endangering that peace won by ending the Blight. Together. It will not matter they will be miles away.
She feels selfish when she realises she no longer fears her Calling, because she will not have to walk the Deep Roads alone, for when the time comes, his thoughts will be with her.
IX
He spots her, standing on the stairs, hidden in shadows, looking at the courtyard and the gates, probably wondering what lies ahead. Or maybe she already knows, Varel thinks, and it is what makes her so reluctant to leave.
Her gaze meets his, and momentarily he is stunned, not knowing what to tell her. He would like to say he hopes she will return safely, but remembers their talk about her Calling, and has no heart to do so.
"Maker guide your steps," he says finally, trying to accept it might be better for her if she dies in battle now and never returns, because it would spare her a lonely death somewhere in the darkness of Deep Roads.
She takes his hand and squeezes it gently. "Thank you, Varel." She smiles a little at the surprise on his face when she pronounces his name right. "I've been practising," she explains, then laughs, trying to mask fear.
He smiles. "I never thought I'd miss a mispronunciation of my name."
They both laugh at that, but it is forced. A few words more and she will have to walk down the steps and set off to Amaranthine, and then... he dreads to think where she will have to go.
She mutters something intelligible and presses a stone into his palm; the rune on the stone is glowing a gentle blue, the hue of llyrium. "This will keep you a bit safer," she whispers. The hold of her hand on his tightens. "I meant what I said. Thank you. For understanding. For friendship. For everything."
"Don't, my lady." It slips out before he realises, before he has time to check himself. But she is saying farewell, and he does not want her to continue. He wants to stop her.
She looks into his eyes. "I'll try to come back," she offers quietly. "I'll do what I can to come back." Relief must be evident on his face, for she smiles again, this time a wider, more playful smile. "So please try not to take any more bolts."
He puts his palm over hers, and holds her hand in both of his. "I'll do my best."
Their eyes meet and he knows she is not certain if she will return, and he is aware she knows he is not certain if that is what he would wish her, and all of a sudden he feels completely at a loss...
But then her palms slip out of his hold and he is left on the stairs, his hand still outstretched, as if he was going to stop her, only he is not, he does not call her, does not reach for her, nor does he drop his hand and step back, all because he does not know. There is a battle ahead, and he should be thinking of defending the Keep, there is no time for idle thoughts, and somehow despite it all the most important thing is that he does not know, and momentarily it frightens him more than darkspawn that he will have to live or die with it.
He is watching her walk away, until she disappears into the woods. For a heartbeat, he wishes she would come back to him, but that would mean she would later have to walk the Deep Roads alone, and he would hate to subject her to that... But whatever he is feeling just does not seem strong enough, for he thinks wistfully he would like a few more months – or years, if the Maker would be generous, or weeks, if not – of whatever they have shared these last months, that awkward yet most natural connection that was both friendship and more, and neither.