A/N: This may get confusing, but trust me; all will be explained in following chapters.
Chapter Two takes place nearly six years after these events.
As You Pass Me By
"I'll always miss her wherever she goes,
and I'll always need her more than she...could ever need me.
I need someone to ease my mind, but I want you to know,
That I need you right now...I need you tonight.
And I'll say anything to keep her here tonight,
and I'll be anything to keep her here tonight.
Cause I want you to stay...with me.
I need you tonight."
~ In The Arms of Sleep - The Smashing Pumpkins
The Arl's estate had been set for a grand celebration. The triumphant heroes had returned from their battle, and the Archdemon now lay dead. All of Ferelden's troubles were over, or at least, long forgotten in the deepest bucket of mead.
Trija Tabris had been throwing up in her quarters for what seemed like some time. While her stomach heaved, she had not taken into account that her hair had become unfastened from the back of her head in a rather unladylike fashion, her forehead glistening with a sticky sheen of sweat. It was always at odd times did she empty her stomach involuntarily. Usually when her emotions were in such a tangle, like they were now. Everytime she thought about what had happened, her stomach would squirm in protest at the memories and empty itself. But she couldn't help it; they would not leave her alone.
She kept seeing Alistair's hand reaching for Anora's as they joined the ceremony most of all, and the human female snatching her own away. She could still smell the sharp, sickly smell of wine and beer through the air. The smell of the roasting meat for the feast. She also kept seeing the content expression on her friend's faces, the blank expression Sten always wore as she suggested she travel to his homeland alongside him. Groaning at the thought and gulping out for the last time, Trija wiped her mouth on the back of arm, letting the sleeves of her icy-blue frock fall back down past her wrists as she raised herself shakily to her feet.
She was supposed to be meeting Sten by the harbour so that they could get on a ship together and travel to Par Vollen in a few days time. There would be no goodbyes. Much easier that way. Trija noticed the creep of flimsy fabric creeping down her arm; the frock again. Suppressing a growl, the young elf grabbed at the fabric, not really knowing what to do with it. Pulling on it as hard as she could, she smiled bitterly as the swooshing fabric was tore apart from the gold embroidery at the top of her arms. She noticed her faithful Mabari watching her as she proceeded to do the same with the other arm. He cocked his head at her, almost as if to ask what had gotten in to her.
"Don't worry boy, just...improving it," She mumbled, still ripping. "It's how they wear their stupid bloody dresses in bloody Par Vollen!" The dog continued to cock his head. She did not seem to notice that she had shouted the last two words, letting her hands fly up slightly. She paced back and forth by her bed, as if mulling over an important speech, but in an incredibly angry way.
"You know what, Rabbit? I would love right now to just be able to turn back the stupid metaphorical clock and go back to the time when I...I was was happy in the Alienage." The dog started to cock his head again. You don't mean that, he seemed to say.
"Don't I?" Trija yelled. "It wasn't much...but it was my life...I was actually happy! Sure, I didn't want to get married I was only eighteen for the love of-"
Trija stopped in her yelling. She could hear people singing downstairs.
"Right." She stated, sounding defiant. "I am through with this." She seized a handful of hem from her dress and once again pulled it between her hands. Finally shaking her hair free, she chuckled sourly as the fabric ripped, leaving it no longer trailing around her ankles but gathered around her knees. She used the torn fabric to wipe the horrible make-up and perspiration from her face. Finally turning her gaze upon what seemed like her only trustworthy companion, Trija gave him an apologetic look.
"Stay there, boy," she commanded. "If I'm not back again this time tomorrow then...go to the kitchens and cause all the trouble you can, ok?"
Rabbit waggled his stump of a tail. "That's my boy."
Exiting down the cold staircase barefoot had been less painful than she had expected. It seemed that what seemed like a lifetime of roughing it in camps under the stars had made her immune to the cold. The hallway was now silent, she was almost certain that everyone was on the other side of the estate, making merry times and being able to drunkenly kiss whomsoever they please without worrying if they had affected Ferelden in any way, waking up the next morning shrugging off a hangover and trotting off to work. The elf sniffed at the thought. That could have been me, she thought. I could be living a normal life right now if Duncan had gone somewhere else. Why come to an Alienage, of all places? No talent there, just vagrants and wife-beaters. She shook the dark thoughts out of her head.
She had managed to get herself down the staircase without even a servant noticing her. Or, so she thought.
"Where are you going?" Came a familiar voice from behind her. Spinning around on her heel, Trija turned to face the voice. It was Soris. The woman was shocked to feel disappointment flutter through her chest. She hesitated for a moment.
"They're holding a ceremony down by the waterfront. They managed to find the remains of some men from Denerim who died in the battle. There's going to be a little procession of the coffins and such, loved ones are going to say goodbye and old men are going to tell us we're all going to die. So just lots of grieving women, really." She smiled sadly. Soris opened his mouth to object. Crossing his arms across his chest, he offered a smile.
"I won't stop you, cousin. I...I'm just glad you're still here." Before she knew it, he had closed the gap between her and swept her up in a massive bear hug. "I'm going to miss you, you know." He whispered.
"Are you going somewhere?"
Soris sighed knowingly. "So, I'm guessing news doesn't travel as fast in the city as I'd hoped." He struggled to find the words. "I'm going to make my way to Highever. I want to...find my fortune, so to speak. But just imagine, cousin; they don't even have an Alienage there. And I've heard the ruling family are lovely people. They have quite a nice daughter." She knew he would be waggling his eyebrows dreadfully.
Trija laughed into her cousin's shoulder.
"Please, just don't go anywhere without me just yet. I'll be back."
It was sad to see the hysterical women. There were plenty of them, alot more than Trija could ever had imagined fit into Denerim. They all sobbed as the remains passed them by, Trija herself could have easily have been recognised as a grieving young elven maiden from the Alienage who had lost a brave husband in the battle. No one around here really knew who she was. She had been forgotten, it seemed, in the coronation of the new King and Queen. Long may they reign, she thought icily.
It seemed like it was expected of the newly-made widows of Denerim to throw flowers down at the feet of the procession as it passed. A variety of different colours landed, shades of purple, blue, orange, yellow, green, and even flowers with many colours mixed into the rainbow. Wives and girlfriends stared thoughtfully at their flowers before casting them down, as if giving away their lover's most prized possession. Trija thumbed the rose she had held in her hands for some time now. She had been given it months prior, when she was much more naïve. The once-beautiful petals had nearly completely perished, their faces completely crushed from being inside a dry backpack, the edges coated in a thick, black rot that threatened to choke the whole plant, the petals no longer a lovely, fresh red but a colour that had rotted a dark purple, small holes left from curious bug-nibbles.
Placing a quivering index finger over one of the small holes, she tried to hold back the memories that burst through her mind. She would not remember. Without so much as a second thought, the young elven maiden was seen throwing down her lost lover's dying rose to the earth, almost angrily.
It was darker now, and Trija had not seen Alistair...or The New King, as she simply referred to him in her mind. He was not her Alistair. He was not the nervous inexperienced Chantry-boy she had met so long ago. He was a confident ruler, his mind, it seemed, completely cleansed of their past and seemed not to remember that he had ever been in more than a polite conversation with the Hero of Ferelden. Trija scoffed to herself, fastening the clasp on her travelling cloak tightly around her neck.
"I must seem like a moody cow to you, cousin." Trija sighed, adressing Soris. He chuckled at this.
"Not at all! I've seen you moody, cousin, trust me; it gets worse. Like when Allendria used to call you 'the Elven Librarian' because of that calm voice of yours. Now then, you got moody."
Trija snorted at the memory. "Bitch deserved to fall off that wall. My voice is calm...that's my battle-voice."
"Only you would have a battle-voice at the age of twelve, cousin."
A silence fell between them for a while.
"Ready to go?" Soris asked quietly. Trija hoped Sten would not mind.
"Ready as I'll ever be!"
"Alright, then. To Highever!"
