What We Deserved
The scouting run had been a long one, more than a week away from the Vigil, tracking darkspawn and listening to Amaranthine's populace, getting a sense of their attitudes toward the arling's new overseers. Intending no outright combat, only a small, fast-moving group had gone. No heavy fighters, just two rogues and a mage.
How they were all coming back alive-without killing one another-no one knew.
Watching the Warden Commander had been enlightening for Nathaniel. She listened to the pleas and concerns of the common people with respect and courted the nobility with astonishing subtlety. He'd assumed trickery, bribery, manipulation, and brute force had won over the Landsmeet that put a Warden on Ferelden's throne. And they had, to a point. The Commander had said as much herself.
But she had a tongue as clever as her father's, and her mother's way of making people believe they wanted exactly what she wanted them to. She could, at a moment, ply her brother's good nature, and in the next speak with a solemn conviction that commanded attention.
Elissa Cousland was a . . . remarkable woman.
And every noble who pledged loyalty to the Wardens, every grateful farmer offering supplies, was another twist to the knife in Nathaniel's pride. Where was their loyalty? She killed their Arl!
But most seemed unconcerned with anything beyond their own future in the arling, regardless of who governed it. Even those resistant to the Wardens' overtures spared not a second glance for Nathaniel. The Howe name was a stigma now, a taint more damning to Ferelden's eyes than the Warden poison in his veins.
He watched the Commander out of the corners of his eyes as she moved restlessly around their fire. Hard to believe she'd managed to kill his father, and an Archdemon? Never. Even in armor, she looked delicate. Too small for the longsword she carried, and too weak to wield it in tandem with an offhand dagger. But he'd seen her leap on hurlock alphas and tear them down, and Oghren had some unbelievable stories about Ogres.
And the Archdemon.
And his father.
He turned a branch in his hand, stripping bark away, still unsure what to make of it. The rough grain beneath his fingers, the pull of the knife . . . they were a comfort, a solidity, in this world that no longer made sense. For a while, he stopped thinking.
Silence brought him back to himself. Anders's idle chatter ceased, and stillness settled over the site, disturbed only by the dancing fire and Nathaniel's own hands as they tugged a memory out of wood.
"Liss?" Anders asked-no sense of propriety or discipline. She never corrected him or insisted upon a title. She said his informality was refreshing. "What is it?"
When she didn't answer, Nathaniel looked up from his carving.
She faced away from them, head slightly bowed, perfectly still.
"Elissa?" Anders asked again.
"Shh."
He looked over at Nathaniel, baffled. At Nathaniel's answering shrug, the mage slowly reached for his staff, staring out over the surrounding fields and scrub forest, alert for trouble.
Absurd. Why didn't she simply explain? Resigned, he put aside his carving and got to his feet. She seemed to be looking at something right in front of her, but no harm in being cautious. He wrapped his hand around the hilt of his dagger as he approached.
Blade in flesh-would she see it coming? Would the mage notice in time to char him before-
"Commander," he said, coming alongside her, "what-"
Storm grey eyes flickered upward, silenced him. When they turned back down, he followed her gaze.
There, on the thumb of her gauntlet, perched a tiny butterfly. Pale, ashen wings opened briefly in a brilliant splash of sapphire, then drifted closed. It turned a slow circle, testing its footing, apparently untroubled by its rapt observer.
A small smile crept across her face, lighting her eyes with the closest thing to joy he'd seen in her since his arrival.
Such a tiny girl, perched on her brother's shoulders, shrieking with delight and reaching, always reaching higher, toward the treetops, the birds, the drifting clouds. Give her wings and she'd never come down.
Nathaniel looked away, his chest tight. Soon. He needed to act soon. Before he no longer could.
Sighing, Elissa raised her hand. When the light breeze ruffled the butterfly's wings, it moved to the end of her thumb and took flight, the brilliance hidden in its resting bursting into full view. She watched it dance away over the field behind them, wistful. When it flickered out of sight, she spoke. "Nathaniel, how far would you say we are from the Vigil?"
Far enough they'd decided it better to make camp for the night, rather than eating on the road. "Some hours yet."
"If we started now . . ."
"We'd arrive well after dark. Before midnight, probably. If we're quick about it."
She nodded, slowly. "Do the two of you feel up to it? We may have a wet night if we stay here. Certainly by morning."
Anders blinked up at the bright, clear sky. "I'll never say 'no' to a real bed, but are you sure about that?"
"Not entirely. Still, I haven't seen one of those since-" Disquiet briefly shadowed her face, and she visibly shook it off. "We called them storm skippers in Highever. They live in the mountains, normally, but come down to the fields before particularly bad storms. I wouldn't have thought to see any in Amaranthine. It could simply be lost, unconcerned for the weather."
"Thoughts from the native?"
Nathaniel shrugged. "Not really. I learned weather lore in the Free Marches. The waves might read the same on the coast, but there we'd be too far to reach the Vigil tonight, regardless." After a moment's consideration, he added, "Still, we've kept an easy pace these last few days. If we push for the keep tonight and it remains clear, at worst we lose only a few hours' sleep."
"And what we do get is in our own beds." Anders hefted his pack. "I'm all for it." With a gesture, he snuffed their fire.
Elissa actually chuckled.
Such an unfamiliar sound. Nathaniel hadn't heard her laugh since-
"Then let's get moving. I've certainly no desire to get caught out in the wet, even if only a drizzle. I'll take the thunder and wind, but camping in the rain is sloppy."
They were back on the road in short order. Within the hour, a briny wind kicked up, tossing the treetops, rattling their branches, and raising the hairs on Nathaniel's neck. Definitely a storm coming.
And tonight, they'd be back at the Vigil, the Commander alone in that remote tower room of hers. Would the storm be strong enough to hide footsteps creaking on that accursed old staircase? The Commander wasn't one to seek safer shelter when her home was threatened.
"Pity they're so fragile." He spoke without thinking, listening to the wind.
"Here I thought we were doing well," Anders said. He kept pace remarkably for a mage raise within a circle. No soft scholar, he. "Although 'fragile' is hardly a word I'd attribute to the Hero of Ferelden."
Better if Nathaniel had said nothing.
"He isn't referring to us, Anders."
That silenced the mage. But only for a moment or two. "Are we still on about butterflies?"
Nathaniel waved away the question, impatient and frustrated. Instead, he turned his attention back to keeping watch for stray darkspawn, bandits, and hungry wildlife. High overhead, something caught his eye, spiraling wide, riding the winds.
The Commander pressed the question. "Why is it a pity?" She sounded genuinely curious, without the mage's undercurrent of mockery.
Resigned, he nodded toward the distant hawk. When they spotted it, he said, "That seems far preferable for a winged creature."
As Elissa watched its course, some of that wild spark of joy crept back into her murky eyes. She glanced back at him, and this time, her faint smile didn't fade. "Indeed it does."
Again, that knot in his chest. How she could look him in the eyes after everything . . . let alone show camaraderie after the ruin the Wardens had made of his family. After what had been done to hers.
"You're both mad," Anders said. "That bug has the right idea. Give me a warm bed and safe walls in any weather. Just not Circle walls."
"You've no sense of adventure, Anders."
We deserve better. Delilah married to a common merchant, our heritage torn down. He never could tell when Delilah was genuinely happy or making the best of things. There'd been so much of the latter over the years. And now . . . Now they had nothing. The rest of the family dead, Nathaniel trapped in the Wardens-a death sentence in itself, he'd been assured.
Their father might indeed have been a traitor. Even Delilah believed the Wardens' account, and Nathaniel had to admit, the evidence did seem to point that way. Surely Father had reason! But who could say, now? He'd been killed with no opportunity to tell his story.
The Commander had certainly told hers. Enough was enough.
She looked over at him, mindful, always, of his silences and moods. He pretended not to notice, tried to think no more of Delilah, of the Commander informing him, gently, that his sister was alive and well in Amaranthine City. How relieved he'd been. And how grateful.
No.
No. Tonight, he would end it.
#
Lightning flickered on the western horizon as dusk fell, and the rains began as a slow drizzle shortly after the lights of the Vigil broke through the surrounding forest. It quickly grew to a downpour. They took the last leg at a run, and at the gate, Anders found a second-or third or fourth-wind and bolted for the keep proper.
Despite the late hour, the keep staff-such as it was, given the darkspawn attacks-roused to a man to greet them. The group was fussed over, chastised, and shuffled off to warm baths, dry clothes, and beds. Even the Commander was hustled off with brisk efficiency, her attempts to corner the Seneschal for a report met with a stern, "In the morning, Commander. When you aren't soaked to the skin."
Thunder rattled the windows as Nathaniel entered his room and flung himself down on his bed. Sleep would be long in coming with all the noise, even if it wasn't the furthest thing from his mind. How long would the Commander lay awake in this storm? Would those last hard hours drown out the thunder? Perhaps, after darkspawn and demons and Maker-only-knew what else-screaming nightmares of Ostagar in the dead of night that she can't, or refuses, to recall come morning-a simple storm would be insufficient to trouble her sleep.
If she heard him coming, she would fight.
In close-quarters knife combat, he would lose.
A victory either way, perhaps. If she lived, she would have indisputable cause to execute him. The charade would finally end. He deserved at least the dignity of a quick death, rather than to be conscripted like a common criminal to serve under his father's murderer.
In the deep watches after midnight, Nathaniel forced himself from his bed. He packed the few belongings he could not bear to leave; he would flee if he could, and just let the Wardens try to find him then. Dropping his pack by the door, he slipped his dagger into his belt and slunk down the hall, past heavy, blind doors leading to sleeping quarters claimed by the Vigil's other Wardens. Rooms that once belonged to his family.
The tower the Commander had claimed had been servants' quarters, long ago. Wind howled around the corner of the keep, masking the appalling creaking even his most careful footsteps summoned from the old wood. No one on the lower floors would hear a thing if this came to blows. And if it didn't, he'd be long gone, all signs of his passage washed away, before anyone discovered his handiwork. The door opened at a touch, any sound so buried by the storm even he couldn't hear it.
Barely seven feet of emptiness between the Warden Commander and Death. She slept on, unaware, her face dimly lit by the glow from her unusual sword hanging unceremoniously on the bed post.
Far too easy.
Nathaniel freed his dagger from its sheath. Her death would be quick, at least. She had granted even his father that much.
He stepped into the room with a blinding flash of lightning, the thunder on its heels loud enough to vibrate the stones of the tower. Holding his breath, he waited.
The Commander stirred, curling in on herself as though seeking escape from the storm. She looked very small, and very alone.
A spring visit to Highever, prolonged by heavy rains. Another storm, but close, too close. Lightning struck the stables, they learned later, and started a fire that killed two horses. They were awake, he and Fergus, a rambunctious pair of boys on extended holiday. But Elissa roused from a sound sleep with a wail and bolted for the nearest warm body. Calming her enough to pry her from Nathaniel's lap took Fergus quite a while, by which point she was almost asleep again. She never completely stopped trembling until morning, Fergus said, and remembered nothing of the episode. Nathaniel likened it to Delilah's night terrors and thought no more of it.
Elissa had been what, then? Four?
They had all changed so much since.
Fergus had written when his son was born, excitement pouring from the pages. How well Oriana had handled childbirth, and how perfect-and tiny!-little Oren was. He'd heckled Nathaniel about needing to hurry and find himself a bride, because fatherhood was wondrous.
Well. Wardens rarely had children.
Breath caught in his lungs like a physical blow. Oren was-
Because Father-
Nathaniel sagged against the doorframe.
The Howe's deserved better? Better than what?
Delilah was happy, more at peace than he'd ever seen her, now she was free of Father's expectations and constant disapproval. Happy, in love, and soon to have children of her own. He was deluding himself, questioning that.
Thomas died at Ostagar, doing the right thing for once in his life. He'd been laid to rest with honor, with all the rest who fell on that battlefield. Honor he hadn't before shown much sign of possessing.
Nathaniel was the one who'd come hunting the Warden Commander. Yet she had chosen, through mercy, nostalgia, or some ironic sense of justice, to recruit him rather than kill him. What "better" did he deserve?
To barely survive war injuries only to be told most of his family, including his wife and young son, had been betrayed and murdered by a trusted ally, as Fergus had? Or, like Elissa herself, to witness the massacre, and then be forced to abandon any search for justice-or revenge-in favor of shouldering the future of not only Ferelden, but all Thedas?
Or perhaps Cailan's fate, the source of Elissa's most persistent nightmares. Andraste's blood! Left to die by a life-long friend and advisor, impaled on spears, and strung up for the carrion crows . . .
Bile rose sour in his throat. Had any of their generation escaped the Blight unscathed?
So many lives wasted. Loghain may have believed or convinced himself he was protecting the country by seeing Calian removed. But Father? Did he really see the Couslands as a threat? Or did he invent the threat to offer some justification for his grab for power?
Ah, Elissa, I am a fool. You should have killed me, too. Saved yourself the grief of seeing my father's face every day. No one would have questioned you.
Instead, she treated him with genuine respect and concern, untroubled by his murderous disposition. She even found Delilah for him.
Thunder ripped the sky again, startling him, and again, Elissa shifted uneasily. What would she say if she woke and found him here? Best not to find out.
He sheathed his dagger, but hesitated a moment longer, fingers lingering on the door latch.
Starfang's wan blue light played across her hair, turning it white. With all she'd endured, she should have looked old, but she didn't. Neither did she look young. The spirited girl who had chased Fergus and all his friends around with a wooden sword, begged them for training, for stories, for rescuing from lessons in etiquette and dance-she was long gone.
Maker willing, she's seen the worst of it.
Maker willing, they all had.
He tugged on the door. "We all deserved better," he murmured.
#
The door clicked closed, barely audible amid the wind, and even then, only because Elissa strained to hear it, nerves thrumming. Slowly, she pried stiff fingers from the hilt of Duncan's dagger where it lay beneath her pillow. With a long, trembling sigh, she sat up.
She'd been sure. She'd been sure. And she was right-Nathaniel did not have enough of his father in him to let anger rule him. But . . .
How close had she come to losing that gamble?
Elissa sat awake for a long while, staring at the door from which Death had given her yet another reprieve. Though the storm continued to howl outside the Vigil, she barely noticed, listening instead to Nathaniel's parting words, over and over, and hearing in them a promise for a brighter dawn.
We all deserved better.