She wakes up screaming, not for the first time.
The nightmares have gotten worse since Tamlen died. There was closure, but not the peace she'd hoped for. Instead, she is left with those last, brief moments. His final words, I always loved you, and an image of a shriek tormented by the Calling.
She doesn't want to remember him that way, broken and a monster. She wants to remember her friend as he was, rather than what he became. She wants to remember the late nights spent wandering beneath starry skies, her hand and his entwined like the roots of two great oaks. She wants to remember the long, summer days wasted in dreams of Arlathan and the Dales, their laughter echoing through the forest. She wants to remember her Lethallin smiling – blonde and beautiful and perfect.
But she can't put the ghoulish figure from her mind. In the day, it haunts the dark places of her mind. At night, it stalks her from the shadows, waiting until she falls asleep to attack – in her dreams, where she can't defend herself. And Nymaia will fall asleep, sooner or later. She has to. She wishes it were otherwise, but she can only go on for so long before collapsing from sheer exhaustion. It's happened before, and Wynne got on her case for it. You have to take better care of yourself, she'd said. Nymaia had almost asked why. What would be the point? That would have been her grief speaking, however.
It was stupid, but a part of her had hoped that Tamlen had survived. Duncan had made it clear that the Taint would either kill him outright or turn him into something else, something unrecognizable. Didn't matter, she didn't believe the Shemlen Warden. Even now, she remembered her silent arguments. Tamlen was strong, he could beat it. Maybe he hadn't been corrupted at all, maybe he was just lost. The gods knew his sense of direction could be questionable at times.
And the most idiotic one of all: she loved him. That should have made him invincible. It had certainly made her feel invincible. Why hadn't it been enough?
It's a challenge to free herself from the trap that is her bed. She can tell she's been tossing and turning because the blankets have wound around her in an impossible-to-escape manner. Her makeshift pillow, made out of a mage's old robes that she'd found in the Circle Tower, is soaked in sweat and almost a small lake in its own right. Actually, it's a little surprising that no one had woken her considering how much she must have been thrashing. But, no matter.
Nymaia rises and goes to sit by the fire. She can see Sten on the perimeter of their camp, patrolling with his usual single-mindedness and with her Mabari at his heels. The rest of her little group of adventurers are asleep, as far as she can tell. All the better for she needs time to compose herself. She needs time to forget about that black face, those pleading eyes. I always loved you.
The Dalish Elf pokes a stick at the dying embers, trying to stoke some flames. It's dark and cold and the warmth of a fire would be welcome. Trying to shake a bad dream, she's come to find out, is like trying to shimmy out of wet armor.
Darkspawn, she'll say when someone inevitably asks about the dream. That's the answer they expect and that's the one she always gives. It's just easier that way. No fuss, no monologuing about lost loves. After all, since she's a Grey Warden, obviously her only concern can be the Blight. Every waking thought must revolve around the Blight. The Blight, the Blight, the gods-cursed Blight. She's been living and breathing it since her Clan sent her away. Since she lost Tamlen.
No one had told her that becoming a Warden meant relinquishing her identity, sacrificing her very soul. But then no one had seemed to care about what she'd wanted, at all. It was all for the Greater Good or For the Best, depending on who you asked.
Never again shall we submit, that was the motto of the Dalish. Even now, she prefers it to the Warden's dreary motto. It stands for unwavering courage and unfailing strength in the face of opposition. Now, more than ever before, she has to remind herself of that motto. She cannot submit – not to her grief, nor her fear, not to anything or anyone. Nymaia is Dalish and that means she is a survivor. She will survive and, gods willing, move on from this dark period of her life.
That's what her Clan expects of her. That's what Tamlen would have wanted.
Movement catches the corner of Nymaia's eye. A flash of blonde hair. There's the briefest moment when she thinks, it's Tamlen! despite what has happened and what she knows in her heart. He's gone, forever. And in the end, it's only Alistair coming to keep her company. She feels guilty for the disappointment that brings.
"Trouble sleeping?" Alistair asks as he sits down next to her.
She nods.
"Me, too. Can't seem to get enough of those nightmares. I swear the Archdemon was serenading me in this last one." He gives a small chuckle. It's supposed to be a joke, to cheer them both up. She rewards his efforts with a small smile. She feels a little better, a little more like herself. "So, what was yours about?"
Nymaia thinks about telling him the truth. She considers talking to him about Tamlen, and all the nightmares involving him. The one where she finds him in the Brecilian Forest, but too late to help him. The one where he calls her lethallan in that same, familiar way and then goes for her heart with a poisoned dagger. Or the one from last night, where she finds his corpse in the Deep Roads.
"Nymaia?" He's expecting her to say something.
So she tells him, "Darkspawn" and they leave it at that.
A/N: Reviews are love!