"Chancellor?"
Daylen looked up from the paperwork on his desk, gratefully allowing the word to pull him from his least favorite aspect of his job. "Yes?"
His assistant Falon looked at the disorganized mess on his desk and puffed some air through his cheeks, but refrained from comment. "There's a woman here to see you."
He sighed, waving at the piles of paperwork. "Tell her I'm busy and can't be-"
"She claims that you knew her husband, ser." He shrugged. "I was going to take over your desk while you talked to her, but if you truly wish me to-"
Immediately he stood, reaching out and grabbing the ink before it spilled. "No, no, no, we must listen to each and every one of Ferelden's citizens!" he said quickly, not wanting to lose this chance. "I suppose I could relinquish some of this ever-so-important paperwork regarding-" He picked up the topmost paper and grimaced, "-'payment for services rendered to the King in the Pearl.'" He sighed and dropped it to the desk. "With deep regret, I'm sure."
Falon carefully kept a smooth face as Daylen rounded the desk, still feeling awkward without his mage's robe. Months in the King's court could not simply erase years of habit. "Yes, ser, I'm sure you will miss all this lovely paperwork." He glanced down at the desk, then back up as Daylen moved closer to him. "Her name is Helena. She has a young child with her." Daylen nodded and started to push past him, eager to get away from his desk, when Falin laid a hand on his arm. "Brace yourself. She was hurt in the past."
Daylen looked at Falon and smiled. "Is that not true of us all?" Granted, his own scars were generally hidden by shirt and tunic, or robe had he worn one, but he'd learned in his time since leaving the Tower that everyone had been hurt in the past, regardless of whether it had been the Blight to hurt them or not. "Good luck."
He moved down the short hallway between his office and the outer office where Falon typically sat, taking a deep breath and exhaling to push the lingering distaste of the job away. When he'd agreed to stay on with Alistair, he hadn't thought the job would require so much... tedium. Granted, that letter from Weisshaupt that had arrived just last week promised a break in the routine, but he wasn't due to leave until next week. His hand straightened the two tails of his hair and smoothed down the rest as he wondered why anyone would seek him out. Though not a pariah - he was the Hero of Ferelden, after all - the over-six-foot tall man obviously plucked from the Chasind Wilds, complete with the prominent black tattoo across his face of his Tribe, was hardly considered an ideal guest among the elite of the social circles in Denerim.
Which was, honestly, just fine by him.
The mystery of his guest distracted him as he was about to enter the other office, and his toe caught on the frame of the door with a sharp crack. He winced and kept on moving, adding a limp to his already slightly odd gait. Of course I didn't hit the clubfoot, I had to hit the actual toes. Oh, what I wouldn't give to be... well, not me, I suppose. Though Morrigan didn't seem to mind...
He pushed the thought away quickly. That wound was still too raw.
A woman was waiting for him, seated primly on a chair. She did indeed have a child on her lap, a young boy that wasn't even quite two years old yet, who was staring around at the office with an open-mouthed curiosity. As he limped towards her, he saw what Falon had meant by hurt - a long scar ran down the side of her face, puckering her eye and mouth. It was long healed, but it had definitely changed her looks - for the better, in his mind, but then he had rarely been attracted to the classical beauties.
Morrigan's beauty had, in fact, put him off until he began to learn more of her own scars within. Pushing away the thought of golden eyes and soft moans, he went to the chair and bowed a trifle stiffly. "Ma'am. I am Chancellor Amell."
She nodded at him, holding out a hand. "Helena." Nothing else, no start of surprise at his unusual appearance, no staring, no real... curiosity, really. It was distinctly odd, but then, he supposed she, like he, had grown out of the habit of reacting to other people's appearances because of their reactions to his appearance.
No surname? Interesting. He kept his bow in place as he took her hand, then released it as he straightened and sat gingerly behind the desk opposite her. "Falon said you wished to speak with me personally." Again, she nodded - a spare nod, a bare movement, and he noticed how it tugged at her scar. I wonder if it still pains her to move it. Surely any decent healer would have fixed that by now. As her mouth opened, he focused on her words quickly.
"I understand you were at Ostagar," she said quietly.
He nodded. "Yes, though I was one of but three who survived." He glanced at the child, then to the woman's hand, which bore a wedding ring common to Highever - of two hands clasped - but upside down. He shifted in his chair. "My condolences, ma'am. Was he at Ostagar in the final battle?"
Again, that shallow inclination of the head. "He... he was a Grey Warden recruit."
Helena. And suddenly, Daylen was standing in the ruins of Ostagar, hearing Jory protest, "I have a wife and child."
"Jory," he breathed.
"You remember him?" she asked, eyes pleading. "So he is... dead?"
You've lived through these almost two years hoping he would return? he almost said, but stopped himself. "I do." He recalled Jory very clearly, particularly the moment when Duncan had ran him through, killing all of Daylen's hopes that the Wardens were more noble than any other men. "His last thoughts were of you, and the child."
Her eyes blinked rapidly as a sheen awoke in them, and she looked down at the boy in her lap, who had turned his attention to the broach on his mother's dress. "So he... he died in battle?"
Daylen hesitated. Normally he was not the type to spare someone's feelings - he'd been accused of a hawk's nose and death's gaze often enough, after all - but he simply saw no reason to tell her the truth of Jory's death. It had not been a glorious ending for a man who had hoped for glory among the Wardens, and he owed the man's memory more dignity than it had gotten from Duncan. "He died in service to the Wardens," he said instead. "I was proud to fight by his side as long as I did." He considered her for a moment, then leaned forward. "Do you need any assistance? I could arrange for a full Warden's widow stipend for you."
She looked up, a bit startled. "Oh, no, I don't..." She looked down at the child on her lap as he looked up with bright smile. Daylen's eyes narrowed as he realized that something was not quite right about the child. For one, he had never uttered a sound, and for two, his gaze seemed to be a bit empty. "Well... perhaps for the sake of Norrell, I should accept. I won't always be able to sew, after all." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Thank you. I... I would always have wondered."
He nodded, then remembered she could not see him. "I understand." He began rummaging through the desk to find what he needed. Quill and paper were much easier to find on Falon's neatly organized desk than it would have been on his, so he was quickly ready to take her information. "Do you still live in Highever?"
She looked at him, startled. "N-no, I live in Denerim. When Howe's men attacked Highever castle, some of the men... invaded the village around it as well. All the militia and men who could fight had been sent to Ostagar, so there was no one to protect us." Unconsciously, her hand went to her scar. "I was lucky to live, but I think... I think it... hurt Norrell, before he could even be born."
Ah. The men assaulted her with the babe still in the womb, and hurt him. And he remembered where he had seen that expression before, now: on Sandal's wide, happy, empty face.
She hugged the child close to her, oblivious to Daylen's conclusions. "I'm sorry, that is not an answer to your question. I moved to Redcliffe after the Blight, once I recovered. A young woman named Valena was kind enough to help me get some jobs at the Arl's Castle for a while, but when he moved here to help the King, they released most of us from service. Especially the ones who wouldn't... play by the rules." She glanced down. "I came here. I... I'm currently at the Pearl. I sew their clothes and... help when someone has a particular..."
"Fetish?" he murmured, a deep anger sparking within. She nodded. "A beautiful woman such as yourself should not be forced to serve a position that obviously is not your wish." He considered the matter as he wrote the request for the stipend in his long, flourishing hand. Falon may dislike his organizational skills, but he could not fault Daylen for his penmanship. "Perhaps a position at the Palace? I will be in need of several new outfits soon, and I am particular about cut and fit. I would be willing to offer you a position, if you would be willing to accept it."
Again her hands tightened around Norrell, and he said quickly, "I know that two of the senior chambermaids have younger sisters that watch their children while they tend to their duties. I'm sure an arrangement with them could also be made."
She looked up at him, and he saw not just the beauty as he had originally seen it, but also the beauty that Jory must have seen, in her smile. "Thank you, ser. I... I have no words."
He finished the note for the stipend with a flourish, then took another paper and began writing the hiring paper. "There should be a guard by the door. Tell him to fetch Page Bartel, who will help you move your things to the Palace." Elegantly signing his hand to the note, he sanded it quickly, blew it off, then handed it to her. "Give this to anyone who questions you. I will have a room ready for you when you return."
An hour later, she was ensconced in the Palace, figuring out how to make his new Chasind-style (with certain changes to suit Fereldan sensibilities) robes, and he was back wrestling with his papers, the matter of Jory's widow put from his mind while he wrestled with how to politely word an eviction notice for Bann Coerlic's rowdy offspring from the nicer areas in Denerim.