This story was meant to be a one-shot but ended up seven chapters long. It was originally written in 2010/11 and has never been published.
~o~O~o~
As the last of the lamps in the upper rooms of the ancient fortress were extinguished, darkness fell over Vigil's Keep. Only a few lamps remained lit outside for the night watch to walk by, which cast rays of pallid half-light through the large windows of the old banqueting hall, which now served as a soldiers' mess. The firepit had long since guttered out, and the hall's solitary occupant had not bothered to relight it.
He shivered a little as he sat alone at the end of one of the trestle tables, but still did not get up; instead, his attention was fixed on a door at the far end of the hall, directly in his line of sight: Commander Cousland's – Caroline's – office.
Caroline, as she insisted everyone call her, had done what she always did after days like today – she'd retreated to her office and had buried herself in paperwork. It was becoming predictable, now; once a month, he would visit the Keep, and Nathaniel would watch, appalled, as everyone scurried around like mice making sure everything was just so for his arrival.
Why? What had he done to deserve that?
He'd had the title of King handed to him in a frankly dubious process that had involved not only the death of Ferelden's greatest general - and Nathaniel's childhood hero - Loghain Mac Tir, but also in the exile of Mac Tir's daughter, Anora. The only claim that Theirin had to the throne was that he was Maric's bastard, or so he professed; but even that didn't make him the rightful heir to Ferelden's throne. Theirin wasn't Maric's only bastard – he was one of many of Maric's bastards, of that Nathaniel had no doubt. There were probably dozens of them roaming Thedas – all of whom would make a far better choice for King than that child in a man's body.
How Nathaniel despised Theirin, who had blundered his way through the Blight, with nothing but blind luck bringing him to where he was today. He always sauntered into the Keep – Nathaniel's childhood home! – like he owned the place with his handsome face, his chuckles, his one-liners, his honey skin and perfect hair and his charm and easy humour. And that boyish, lopsided grin that made Nathaniel's teeth itch. How he hated him!
Nathaniel liked routine and order, and detested that his routine was disrupted whenever Theirin came to visit. He hated that the Keep's staff, many of whom he'd known for years, fawned over the manchild in a way he found quite revolting. He hated that Theirin took a tour of the keep each time he visited, as though it would have somehow changed since the last time he'd come.
He hated that Theirin called him 'Nate' – had he given him leave to address him by his first name? And the shortened version of it, at that? No!
He hated seeing Caroline and Varel have to bow to him almost as much as Nathaniel hated bowing to him.
But what he truly hated about Theirin? What really burned and chafed and gnawed away at him like an itch he couldn't scratch?
Nathaniel knew for a fact that Theirin had been Caroline's first – that he had taken her innocence, sometime during the Blight, in a squalid, cramped, freezing cold tent – a tent of all places – in the mud and with Maker knows what manner of creatures scuttling around within. Caroline was a lady – the daughter of Ferelden's highest noble house – and Theirin had fucked her in a tent?
And, not content with taking Caroline's most precious gift – which, by rights, should have been given to Nathaniel on their wedding night – and, after making her believe that the two of them would remain together and never be parted, the sneaking, malicious bastard had refused to give his name to her after taking the throne. He had had a reason, Caroline had explained – that they would never be able to produce an heir. Reasons? Who cared for reasons? If he had truly loved her, then the Maker himself should not have kept him from honouring her! Had she just been some fancy piece to keep Theirin occupied during the Blight? She should have been his queen! How dare he treat her so shabbily!
Nathaniel winced as he cracked his knuckles a little too hard. Flexing his fingers and massaging his hand, his head snapped up as he heard muted voices coming from within Caroline's office.
"Goodnight, Commander," Nathaniel heard as the door was opened. It was Varel, the keep's seneschal. "And by 'goodnight', Commander, I mean 'go to bed'," Varel finished.
"I will soon, Varel, I promise," he heard her reply. "Goodnight."
Varel nodded, closed the door and headed toward the banqueting hall. Nathaniel sat as still as a statue, hoping that the shadows would conceal him. They did; Varel sailed through without a glance in Nathaniel's direction.
Nathaniel watched the older man leave and then wondered why he was hiding from him. I'm not doing anything wrong, am I? He thought, glancing back at the door. What am I doing? He asked himself. Watching her? What is that going to accomplish? You know what you want to do, so why are you stalling?
His knuckle-cracking resumed as he admitted to himself that it didn't really matter where Theirin had deflowered her. What ate away at him was that he'd deflowered her at all.
She should have been mine. Her gift should have been mine. If Father hadn't sent me to the Free Marches, and if he hadn't…
He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.
…if he hadn't…the Couslands…
He shook his head and opened his eyes, looking at his hands, his gaze settling on the third finger of his left hand, which was unadorned by a ring.
If it hadn't been for him, she would have been my wife by now. She would have had my children, and her family would still be alive…
His chest tightened painfully and bitter-tasting, acidic bile rose in his gullet with the realisation that he would never be able to have children, not now he was a Warden. He'd left it too late.
"You ruined everything," he seethed through clenched teeth, his hands balling into fists as the image of Rendon Howe crept, unwanted, into his thoughts. "Everything…"
"I hope there is a hell for you to rot in, you bastard!" he cried aloud, nearly upending his chair as he threw it back and stood, ready to charge out of the hall, and then froze, hearing the office door open again.
"Hello?" he heard her call hesitantly, her mellisonant, dulcet voice gliding down the hall toward him like petals carried on a gentle breeze, caressing his ears like a whispered promise as it reached him. "Varel? Is that you?"
Nathaniel's mouth opened to answer but, much to his vexation, his throat refused to co-operate, and no words issued forth.
"What – no takers?" she asked the empty hallway, and sighed. "Varel was right – I do need to go to bed," she murmured to herself, and closed the door.
Nathaniel closed his eyes and sighed, his heart playing a strident tattoo in his chest. Her voice…it did things to him. Things he hadn't felt for a long time.
He'd felt sexual arousal before, albeit in a somewhat mechanical way – either by his own hand, or in a meretricious encounter with one of the many whores dotted around the Free Marches, who'd warmed his bedroll for ten tawdry minutes on the occasional lonely night before having her turn with the rest of the men – an experience that had left him feeling even lonelier and emptier than he had beforehand.
And then there had been those times as a teenager, which had made him feel entirely different, but they were a long-buried memory, something he no longer allowed himself to think about, especially after finding out about Theirin.
It was Caroline who had made him feel that way, so long ago. When he had been sent away to the Free Marches, sometimes the memory of her voice had been the only thing that had kept him going. Her voice was the verdant, lush grass and delicate flowers that grew over, and enriched, the cloying mud of his cynicism, his scorn, his derision and his lumbering, jaded weariness. Her voice was like an exotic, delicately-scented unguent for his battered heart. It washed over him in healing, harmonising waves which he could quite happily drown in.
He often imagined that voice whispering his name as she lay beneath him, sated, panting, and completely and utterly his – his fingers would curl through her honey-blonde hair, and he would tell her everything: of how lost he had been up until that moment, and of how her love and belief in him had been a guiding light during his journey through the absolute, hermetic blackness of self-doubt, shame and regret.
She had helped him navigate that darkest of places, her small hand enclosed in his large one, her kindness, patience and unshakeable belief in him slowly drawing him out like a blade. She knew him better than anyone – she had made the effort to know him better than anyone. When he'd first been reunited with her after the darkspawn invasion at the keep, he'd snapped, sneered and sniped at her like a rabid wolf issuing a warning for her not to come any closer. He hadn't wanted her to come any closer; he didn't want, or feel he deserved, to be close to anyone, least of all the woman he'd once planned on making his bride, before his father had sent him away without warning.
But she knew. She knew him. She saw past the layers of hurt and bitterness and deep, rancid shame and self-loathing. She reached inside him, through the high, insurmountable wall he'd erected around himself over the past eight years, and touched a part of him he'd thought was long since dead: the part of him that dared to start forgiving and accepting himself. With just a look, or a soothing word, she touched him on a level he'd vowed that no one would ever reach; he had long ago closed himself to the possibility of ever loving someone again, or of being loved.
It hadn't all been soothing words and healing touches, however. Caroline had acquired a backbone since the last time he'd seen her – she was still the lady he remembered, but with a feisty side to her. Several times, he'd seen her vehemently – and noisily – defending her friends or those who had been dealt a rough hand. She had become a champion of the disaffected, the downtrodden and the unjustly treated.
The first time he'd seen such a display from her had horrified him. Nathaniel, Caroline, Anders and Sigrun had been shopping in Amaranthine, and Caroline had given Sigrun a sovereign to buy herself some sundries. After making her purchases, Sigrun had returned to Caroline and handed the change to her commander – not realising that Caroline had given her the whole sovereign, and did not want the change.
"Wait a minute, Sigrun – let me see that change," Caroline had asked, and Sigrun held her palm open; clearly the merchant had short-changed her.
"You should have had more change than that," she'd commented, walking over to the stall Sigrun had patronised a few minutes earlier.
"Oh…I-I'm sorry, Carrie," Sigrun had mumbled. "I don't count so good," she'd admitted in an embarrassed whisper.
Caroline had placed a reassuring arm around her dwarven friend's shoulders. "It's all right, Sigs – there's nothing to be ashamed of."
Caroline had cleared her throat to attract the merchant's attention. "Yeah?" he'd asked curtly, not bothering to look up from counting his money.
"Excuse me," Caroline had said, "my friend has just bought a few items from your stall, and I believe you may have miscalculated her change."
"Ha! Do me a favour, love," he'd answered with a snort as he looked up. "Your friend is obviously one of them cave-dwellers. They can't count, can they? Let alone read. Tell her she's mistaken."
Nathaniel had watched the exchange with mild disinterest up to that point, but had soon taken notice when he observed her body stiffen, her hands clench at her sides, and her pale green eyes become galvanised with a hard, steely glint.
"You knew she couldn't count?" she'd asked, the honey in her voice tainted with vinegar. "You deliberately short-changed her, didn't you?"
The merchant had rolled his eyes and turned his back on her.
Caroline's eyes had blazed and she'd charged around to the other side of the stall, grabbed the merchant by his collar, and hauled him across the counter; Nathaniel's mouth fell open and his eyes darted around, hoping that no one was watching her.
"How dare you turn your back on me!" she'd yelled.
"Hoy, guards!" the man had called out in a panic. "This woman's a bleedin' nutter! Tell her to put me down!"
Two guards had sauntered over, in no rush, and stood next to Caroline, one of them making a sterling effort not to laugh. "Is he causing you trouble, Arlessa?" he'd asked.
"A-arlessa…what?" the merchant had croaked, dismay apparent on his features as she released him and pushed him away.
"He's just taken advantage of my friend and short-changed her," she'd told the guard with a withering glare at the merchant.
The smirking guard's face hardened and he folded his arms. "Again?" he barked.
"Again?" Caroline had asked angrily.
"We've had several complaints about this one, but we can't prove it without going through his books," said the guard.
"Look, A-arlessa, there must be some arrangement we can come to, no?" the crooked merchant had stammered.
"Give my friend the rest of her change," Caroline had commanded.
"Y-yes, Arlessa," he'd answered, counting out exactly 25 silver and 3 bits into Sigrun's hand.
"Ha! Funny how you knew the exact amount to give her back!" Anders had sneered.
"Indeed," Caroline had agreed, turning to the guards. "Confiscate his stock immediately," she ordered, and turned back to the merchant. "You will bring your books and records to Vigil's Keep before sundown and will submit them to Mistress Woolsey for an audit," she commanded. "And bring a tent. We'll not have the likes of you staying at the keep," she finished, and turned her back on the stunned merchant before walking away.
"As you command, Arlessa Cousland," one of the guards had answered with a bow.
"Yay, Carrie!" Sigrun had squealed, wrapping her arms around her commander's legs. "You're so awesome!"
Caroline had started to chuckle as her friend's enthusiasm killed her anger, and then felt a sharp pain in her upper arm as she was harshly grabbed and dragged several feet away.
"What do you think you're doing?" she'd yelled at Nathaniel, shrugging her arm from his grip.
Nathaniel's pale eyes were almost white with fury. "What do I think I'm doing? What did you think you were doing just then?" he'd demanded.
"What? I was standing up for my friend – what's wrong with that?"
Nathaniel had taken a step closer to her and lowered his voice so no one else could hear. "A lady would not comport herself in such an opprobrious manner in public!" he'd hissed.
Caroline's nostrils had flared and she put her hands on her hips. "Swallowed a dictionary again, have you, Nate?" she bit out.
"Mock me if you will, but that does not change the fact you have just made a public spectacle of yourself!" he'd pointed out. "Someone of your house and bearing should know better, Arlessa Cousland!"
Caroline had taken a further step towards Nathaniel; Anders and Sigrun exchanged an anxious glance.
"Don't you ever speak my family name again!" she'd bristled, too angry to realise what she was saying. "You, of all people, have no right to speak my family name!"
And, with that, almost a month of convincing Nathaniel that he was not responsible for his father's actions was undone.
They had not spoken for almost three days after that until, fed up with the noxious atmosphere at the keep, Anders and Sigrun had inveigled the two of them into Varel's office – with the seneschal's blessing - and had locked the door, refusing to let them out until they'd apologised to each other.
The mage and the rogue had had a long wait; nothing but a weighty, charged silence had come from the office for almost two hours until, either driven by hunger, or bored of glowering and huffing at one another, Nathaniel and Caroline had said 'I'm sorry' almost simultaneously – and, once those simple words had been uttered, the apologies, sincere and heartfelt, came thick and fast from both of them. Anders, upon hearing laughter from inside the office, had unlocked the door and gingerly pushed it open, to find the two of them sniggering like naughty children from opposite ends of the room.
"Ah – room service has arrived," Nathaniel had quipped.
He allowed a small smile to creep onto his lips as he continued to watch her office door. He'd been a different person, back then when he'd been imprisoned by the Orlesian Wardens, and subsequently released and forced into taking the Joining by Caroline. He'd hated her, then – at least, he'd convinced himself that he hated her – after hearing of his father's murder at the hands of the Grey Wardens, who had been granted his home; and, to make matters worse, he had heard that Caroline, who had promised to wait for him, had taken up with that bastard Theirin.
He had subsequently learned the truth about his father: not only his actions during the Blight, but his efforts to keep him from marrying Caroline. Rendon Howe had discovered, quite by accident, that Nathaniel had strong feelings for her. Wanting his other son, Thomas – who was much easier to control and manipulate than Nathaniel – to marry her instead, Howe had instructed Nathaniel's new master, Bann Regis of Kirkwall, to intercept any letters sent between the two of them, claiming that Caroline Cousland was a girl of loose morals, and that Nathaniel was infatuated with her. It had taken a long time for Nathaniel and Caroline to realise this, and many bitter and angry words had been exchanged, and accusations levelled, in the meantime. For a long time, their once innocent, sweet and warm – though undeniably real – love for one another became a blackened, ruined battleground, with each of them standing at either side, neither willing to advance.
They had known each other for a very long time, since they were children; she had been his first female friend, his first crush and his first sexual fantasy – although she was a year younger than him, she had started to develop long before he had, and long before he realised what an effect her emerging femininity would have on him.
He remembered watching her play hopscotch, from behind a bush at Highever, at the age of fourteen, and had noticed her breasts jiggling beneath her frock as she hopped and laughed with her friends. He'd felt a very peculiar sensation just below his belly button, and had noticed that his willy had hardened – which had never happened before without him touching it. He had felt ashamed of himself, but that had not stopped him from going up to his room and gratifying himself while he continued to watch her from the window, getting an even better view of her breasts from up there.
After that, he'd been smitten by her, and had followed her around like an imprinted duckling whenever his family visited hers, or vice versa. She knew that he followed her, of course, being a wily female, but had pretended not to notice. She liked Nate and, having heard talk from her parents of a possible marriage between the two of them, had decided that the best way to keep him interested was to remain a lady – a lady who just happened to sway her hips as she passed him, and who wore scent and close-fitting dresses whenever he came to visit.
During one of the Couslands' visits to Vigil's Keep, Caroline, feeling mischievous, had decided to give Nate a little taste of things to come. She was fifteen by then - and him sixteen - and she was very well-developed. She'd caught him lurking behind one of the stables. For once, he hadn't been following her, but had been practising his stealth technique. As it was around noon, however, shadows and dark corners were few and far between, and he wasn't having much luck.
"What are you doing?" she'd asked brightly, causing him to start.
"Oh! Caroline – I, um… what are you doing here?"
"I was looking for you – and I found you," she'd replied, tilting her head coquettishly.
"Oh… what did you want me for? Am I in trouble?" he'd asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Always so suspicious, Nate, aren't you?" she'd teased, moving closer to him.
He'd stiffened, a heavy frown marring his face. "What do you want me for, then?"
"Well, as our parents have decided we're to be married when we're old enough, I thought I should see if my future husband is any good at kissing," she'd said, chewing her bottom lip as she looked him up and down.
His face had slackened, his frown melting away in an instant. "Kissing? Of course I know how to kiss – I've kissed lots of girls," he'd claimed.
"Oh, such as?"
"Well, it doesn't matter who," he'd said, a little indignation creeping into his voice. "It's not as if you've kissed anyone, anyway… have you?"
"Actually, I have," she'd informed him confidently, taking another step closer and lowering her voice. "There's a stable boy at Highever who's taught me how to kiss," she whispered. "He's eighteen and very experienced," she'd continued, noting Nate's scowl with satisfaction. "I didn't think it proper to get married without first knowing how to kiss."
"This boy," Nathaniel had said with a hard look, "has he taken liberties with you?"
"Oh, no," she'd answered emphatically, shaking her head. "Actually, he wanted to touch my…" she looked down at her breasts, then at Nate's face, "but I wouldn't let him. I think only my husband should be allowed to touch them, don't you agree?"
Silence hung in the air between them for a few moments, and Caroline noticed that Nathaniel's breathing had quickened, and that his eyes flitted in every direction away from her breasts.
"Would…would you like to touch them?" she'd offered and, realising she was biting her nails, placed her hands behind her back, deliberately pushing her chest outwards.
"I, um, I'm not sure I should," he'd mumbled, more concerned with the possibility of his willy going hard, and her noticing that, rather than whether it was proper or not to touch... those.
"But you are going to be my husband one day," she'd said, fixing him with a determined look. "I think it would be permitted."
"Um," he'd mumbled, glancing around. Half of him wanted to run as far away from her as possible; the other half wanted to throw her to the ground and tear off her bodice with his teeth. He wanted to touch her so badly, but didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of her.
Casting another wary glance around, Caroline made the decision for him and began unlacing her bodice. Nathaniel's eyes fell to her hands, mentally urging them to work faster.
"Here, l-let me help you," he'd offered, and Caroline smiled, retracted her hands, and let Nathaniel's large, strong ones finish the task. He made quick work of the lacings and slowly pulled her bodice apart, revealing a gypsy-style chemise beneath. He hesitated for a moment. Should he touch her over the chemise or, he thought with a gulp, could he put his hands inside, and actually touch her skin? Would that be rude?
His decision was once again made for him as a small, delicate hand took his, and placed it above the seam of her chemise, just above her left breast. Nathaniel could not help his thumb from stroking the warm, soft flesh there as his fingers tucked under her arm. He closed his eyes and his head fell back against his shoulders as he gently squeezed.
"Touch me, Nate," she'd whispered, moving his hand downward, and he forced himself to open his eyes and look at her as his hand was filled with sweet, soft, warm flesh.
"Maker, Carrie," he'd whispered hoarsely as he cupped her, and slipped his other arm around her waist, bringing her closer. Is that what a man would do with his wife? He'd wondered. Well, I'm a man, now, and must act like one.
To his complete delight, Carrie had closed her eyes and languorously stretched her neck and shoulders, easing herself into his touch. "That's nice, Nate," she'd purred with a delicious smile, and had wrapped her arms around his neck. "Now, I think you'd better kiss me."
Now this, he was nervous about. Despite his claims to the contrary, he had never kissed anything other than the back of his hand or his pillow, and had no idea what to expect.
Carrie gently pulled his head toward her and he bent forward, suddenly painfully aware that he had gone hard, and that he was panting, as he placed his lips next to hers. Now what do I do? he wondered, a thrill of panic flooding through him.
And then, the panic, the hardness and the panting ceased to matter – ceased to exist in his mind – as her lips grazed his, and she took his bottom lip into her mouth and softly sucked. He felt his entire body melt and he moaned loudly, heedless of who, if anyone, could hear as, at that moment, nobody else existed but her.
They soon found their rhythm, and Nathaniel, his confidence. He removed his hand from beneath her chemise and wrapped his arms around her, his fingers splaying across her back, pulling her closer - he wanted to be as close to her as he possibly could – and surrendered himself wholly, delighting in her soft moans as he plundered her mouth.
Eventually, to his utter despair, she'd broken the kiss and had stepped back, panting and flushed, shyly looking at the ground.
"I, um, I think I'd better go back," she'd said reluctantly, "otherwise Mother will send out a search party for me."
Rudely jerked back to reality, he realised she was right, and he didn't want to think what would happen if they were caught like this. He nodded, and with her help, started to lace her bodice back up.
When she was certain she looked tidy, she glanced up at him, immediately mesmerised by the way he was looking at her – like she was the only woman who had ever existed. Although she'd had little experience of love, she knew, without reservation, that at that moment, Nathaniel Howe was resolutely and irrevocably in love with her.
"I really should be going," she'd said with a playful grin, winding a strand of hair around her finger.
"Not yet," he'd answered, and brought his hands up to her face, stroking her right cheek with the back of his hand, and touching her lips with his other. Although he was by now agonisingly hard, he had no immediate desire to gratify himself; all he wanted to do was kiss her again, and to hear the sweet music of her soft moans.
"Caroline!" they heard from a distance away.
"It's Father! I must go!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening in panic, and she turned to leave.
"Wait!" Nathaniel said quickly. "Will you… will you meet me again, tomorrow?"
"Here?" she asked. He nodded.
"I will," she promised, and walked away from him, turning to face him one last time before she emerged from behind the stable. "You're much better than the stable boy, Nathaniel," she'd complimented him. "I shall not kiss him again."
She'd turned, gathered her skirts and had broken into a run, leaving Nathaniel breathless. "Coming, Father!" he heard her call.
They'd met in secret several more times after that, whenever the two families had visited each other. Much to Nathaniel's frustration, they never went any further than they had behind the stable – she had never offered, and he had never presumed to ask – but secretly he was also pleased; she truly was a lady, and he wanted her to be pure when they wed.
Shortly after Caroline's sixteenth birthday, something happened during a visit to Highever. The Howes had departed abruptly, and Caroline had not had a chance to say goodbye to Nathaniel. When she had asked her mother what had happened, Eleanor had told her that Nathaniel and his father had had a bitter argument, and Arl Howe had felt it best that they return to Amaranthine.
"But when will I see him again, Mother?" Caroline had asked.
Eleanor had sighed and taken her daughter's hand. "I'm so sorry, my dear – your Father told me that Arl Howe intends to send Nathaniel to squire for a bann in the Free Marches. That is what the argument was about."
Caroline had leapt to her feet. "The Free Marches? But that's across the Waking Sea! How will I see him then?"
"Darling," Eleanor began, standing and placing her hands on Caroline's arms, "it looks as though our plans for you and Nathaniel will have to be… rethought."
"No! We're betrothed, Mother! There must be some way!"
"Oh, darling, you were not betrothed – we had only talked of a possible marriage and had not yet announced your engagement. I'm truly sorry, darling – there's nothing I can do. Arl Howe is Nathaniel's father, and his mind is made up."
"But, Mother…" Caroline said weakly, her bottom lip trembling.
"Oh, Carrie my dear, do come here." Eleanor wrapped her arms around her daughter and pulled her close. "Do not despair, my beloved daughter. There are plenty of other eligible young men who desire your suit."
"But I don't want anybody else!" Carrie had cried, pulling away from her mother. "I love Nathaniel and he loves me!"
Eleanor's face dropped like a stone, and her voice wavered as she spoke. "I-I had no idea, darling… I thought you were just friends. I'm so sorry – please, come here…"
"Leave me alone!" Caroline had yelled, and ran out of the room in tears.
