Author's Note: This is a response to a prompt at the Dragons Age Kink Meme here dragonage .com ?thread= 38833761# t38833761
(remove the spaces). Constructive Criticism is always encouraged. Flaming will be mocked. Hopefully wittily, though I can't guarantee it.
Hope you enjoy it.
I don't own Dragon's Age, any of the characters, ect ect. If I did none of the characters would be female and all of them would wear invisible armor and walk around naked all the time. I mean really naked, without those cute little diapers they wear. Except maybe Oghren. Not because he's a dwarf, but because I'm not sure I want to know how many ale flasks and wineskins the man actually carries around with him at all times.
Nathaniel Howe had gone through many stages of thought when it came to the Warden Commander of Vigil's Keep. The Hero of Fereldin, he should say. Although the real hero was the man who had actually done the deed, or so the heralds claimed, but Nathaniel thought they probably had it wrong as usual. After all, Alistair had cut the Archdemon's head off, but who'd gotten them there in the first place?
But the first stage had been hatred. Absolute, unflinching, total hatred. He'd hated the Gray Warden before he'd ever met him. The man who'd killed his father, who'd smeared his name across Ferelden, who'd been lifted to glory on the backs of the innocent people he'd stepped on. They were starting to call his father the Butcher of Denerim, for the Maker's sake, by the time Nathaniel went in search of the Gray Warden. He'd come to Vigil's Keep to kill him, to end the slander and to bring honor back to his family name.
When he'd first met the Warden-Commander, his hatred had been tinged with a healthy dose of shock. This was the man…the elf…who'd killed his father? This tiny, fragile looking thing that looked far more suited to a…whorehouse than a battlefield? A full head shorter than anyone else in the room, yet obviously in command, the elf had worn a set of obviously custom studded leather armor and an air of command that had belied his stature and appearance. And a face that, even straight as Nathaniel had always been, was enough to make even him pause in admiration.
And through the ensuing conversation, he'd felt his hatred being slowing being tinged with yet another emotion: grudging respect. The elf didn't back down, or look away, or appear particularly worried about his threats or the fact that Nathaniel's sworn duty in life was to end the Warden's life. And he'd conscripted him, Nathaniel Howe, the son of the man who'd life he'd taken and the man (or, according to the Warden's wry words, one of the men) who wanted him dead. He'd made him a Gray Warden. And to his shock, once past his initial outrage, Nathaniel had found himself willingly taking the cup.
When he'd passed the Joining, Nathaniel's respect had grown a tiny bit. It had been painful and horrific; the visions of the Darkspawn in their deep lairs, their grotesque, horrific faces…He still had nightmares, really. Although he'd been informed that nightmares were now an expected thing.
And as they'd battled through time after time, after he'd watched the Warden struggle against odds that any sane man would have bowed before….his respect had begun to overtake his hatred. The elf was so strong, so durable, both mentally and physically. Fights that left Nathaniel winded merely inconvenienced the other man. Wounds that must have hurt merely caused him to pale and grind his teeth together while one of the others doused him with a poultice. And decisions that made Nathaniel squirm were made with firm, unhesitating wisdom that sometimes left Nathaniel breathless.
And through it all, as Nathaniel slowly, painfully learned the truth about his father, Dairren had never once ground his nose in it or thrown it in his face. He'd patiently held up the facts, refused to allow Nathaniel to back down, and guided him to the people he needed to speak to…but the whole time, he'd been right behind him, supporting him, trusting him, giving him the space he needed but staying close enough to be ready when Nathaniel's walls had finally come down.
Finding out the father he adored his whole life had become…had perhaps always been…a twisted, vicious, torturing bastard who sold elves into slavery and slept next to the torture chamber to listen to his victim's screams at night had nearly destroyed Nathaniel. The man who'd read him bedtime stories and laughed while he practiced shooting arrows was the man who'd plotted the slaughter of the entire Cousland family, killing everything in the castle including the children and servants. His hatred of the Warden had faded as his acceptance had risen, until he no longer hated the dark-haired elf and instead felt nothing but admiration and respect. And again, through it all, it had been Dairren who'd encouraged him to remember the good things too, to hold onto the memories that showed that however horrible and venial Howe had been, there'd been at least a little good in him.
It was that thought that allowed Nathaniel to grieve the loss of his father and not to simply hate him. He would always treasure Dairren's insistence on that.
And now, just lately, his feelings had begun to shift again. Not like that; he had enough trouble on his plate with his odd and uncomfortable attraction to the damn mage. No…what he'd begun to feel for the Warden was worry. Deep, personal, alarmed worry.
Dairren had always been small, but lately, he seemed to be shrinking. Folding in on himself, Nathaniel thought. Collapsing? The shadows under his eyes had grown deeper and his pale skin had grown even more pale. He was moving slower, his practice bouts with the recruits were still furious and he still was capable of fighting every damn warrior in the keep to a standstill, but there was something missing. Something was lacking…
Joy. That was it. The Warden had no more joy. The spark Nathaniel had always sensed when they were fighting was flickering. Since the defeat of the Mother, the Warden's life had become one, long, tedious meeting. Vigil's keep needed to be repaired (again). A new seneschal to replace poor old Varel, who had died so dramatically and heroically defending the keep. Merchants had to be paid. Servants organized. The Gray Wardens arrived from Weisshaupt with orders for the Warden-Commander; they'd spent eight hours cooped up in his little office, and when they'd left he thought Dairren looked even more drawn and pale than he had before. When he'd asked, Dairren had just shaken his head and muttered something about the Architect.
Nathaniel still wasn't sure what had happened there at the end. What exactly they'd let free, and what the consequences would be…he was glad he wasn't the one to have made that decision.
Standing in his usual spot along the wall of the Main Hall, he watched the throng gathered below with a professional, skeptical eye. Most of them were Banns; they'd gathered for the traditional day of Judgement. The non-nobles were clustered off to one side, nervously eyeing the Banns, and the knights gathered towards the back indicated that something was up. As usual. Not that there'd been anything remotely interesting lately. Mostly a bunch of squabbles that rightly should have been solved between the parties and not dragged up in front of the Warden-Commander.
He glanced to the side and caught sight of Anders making faces at Oghren across the room. The two often engaged in silliness and outright tom-foolery to pass the time; once they'd been in the middle of a game of 'who can make the rudest gesture?' when Danniel had stopped the ceremony, marched over, and flicked Anders on the nose like a naughty puppy, much to the amusement of the gathered nobles and Ander's continuing outrage.
Shifting his gaze to Dairren, Nathaniel frowned. The elf was slumped to the side, trying not to look like he was about to fall asleep. The chair they'd found for him (he'd outright refused anything that looked like a throne, much to Varel's approval) was too big for him, like most furniture in the Arl; he had a little footstool so he could rest his feet. It made him look a little ridiculous, like some child playing grown-up, and he knew that Dairren hated it. Most of the time he stood, despite the height-difference, and did the entire Judgment on his feet. Today, however, he looked exhausted.
I wonder what he was up to? Nathaniel thought with a deeper frown. If the Warden-Commander had been out, why hadn't he taken Nathaniel? Or at least Anders. Thinking more about it, he started to believe that Dairren hadn't been going anywhere, but instead had simply been up all night. Again.
Through the ensuing audience, even Nathaniel had a hard time not falling asleep. Oghren had given up and was leaning back against the giant cask he always 'guarded', mouth open, snoring quietly. Anders was still awake but the way he was tapping his fingers on his arm told Nathaniel he was having a hard time. Across the way, he could see Sigrun had snuck a book out and was surreptitiously reading. Probably another one of her steamy romances, Nathaniel thought with a grin. Some of the books she read would scorch his eyebrows off.
Finally the Judgment ended, on the lovely case of a stolen pig. Dairren, clearly growing short of patience, ordered the owner to either find better evidence or admit the damn pig had just ran away, much to the farmer's offense. But as he rose, Captain-so, sorry, Senseschal-Garevel cleared his throat apologetically.
"Sorry, Warden-Commander. Ah, there are several groups to see you. They've been waiting since yesterday. The Merchant's guild needs approval on a new trading charter. The herders have sent a representative to ask you about what you think they should do with the Darkspawn corpses they keep finding in the fields. There's a group from the Historical Society to discuss the dispensation of research grants, and…ah, there's a…'representative', I suppose you could call him, from the…what was it again? Oh, yes. The Blight Orphan's Association. I'm not sure what he wants; he keeps muttering that he'll only talk to you personally."
Nathaniel felt his outrage bubbling in his chest. The Warden-Commander looked like he was going to fall over, he hadn't had lunch yet (and if Nathaniel knew Dairren, he probably had skipped breakfast), and…and most of this garbage the Seneschal should be handling anyway.
Suddenly he couldn't keep his mouth shut anymore. Garevel was a good man…but he wasn't half the Seneschal that Varis had been. Time and experience would solve that, but until he was more comfortable in his role, he would just keep dumping crap on the Warden's lap.
Well, not anymore. Garevel, you're going to grow a pair starting right now.
He pushed off the wall and strode to the front of the Hall, startling Garevel (who wasn't sure, even after all this time, of how exactly to treat Nathaniel) and Dairren both.
"Get one of the Orlesian Wardens to explain how to destroy Darkspawn corpses safely. You should be able to sign the damn charter; that's your job. The grants committee can wait; they're always standing around with their hands out anyway. And that damn orphan can either tell someone else what he wants or shove off. The Warden-Commander needs to eat and rest-look at him, man. He's about to fall out of that chair."
"I happen to be perfectly fine." Dairren said mildly, although Nathaniel could see the faintest shimmer of anger in those grey-green eyes. "I don't need…"
"Bullshit." The harsh, flat expletive seemed to shock Dairren all over again; he blinked, his mouth snapping shut. "You're running yourself ragged and I'm tired of watching you let them help. Whens the last time you had a day off?"
"I…" Dairren started to answer.
"Listen to the kid." Oghren called out, sounding highly amused. "He's right. Take the day off. Have a drink. You don't drink enough."
"Not everyone needs to consume three times their own weight in alcoholic beverages a day, dwarf." Anders called out. "But I agree. You work too hard, Commander. Go eat, at least. You're looking positively pale, and while it's a good look for you, I don't think it's healthy."
"I…" Dairren tried again.
"Shut up." Nathaniel quite enjoyed the utter shock that appeared in Dairren's eyes. "Come. We are going to your chamber. And we are not…to…be…disturbed for the rest of the bloody night. Do you understand me?" He pointed at Garevel, nearly stabbing the man in the chest. "The whole night. I don't care if the keep collapses around our ears. You will handle it. Do you understand me?"
"I…yes." Garevel said, drawing himself up. "I understand. Get him out of here before someone else comes along."
"I…" It seemed to be all Dairren was capable of saying. Nathaniel grinned suddenly. Dairren might kill him for this later, but…reaching down, he scooped the Warden-Commander out of the chair, holding him bridal-style, and marched out of the Main Hall, ignoring Dairren's outraged squeak, the muffled laughter of Anders, and Oghren's lewd cat-call.
He avoided meeting anyone by ducking up the back stairs; no sense in adding to Dairren's humiliation by parading him around like this in front of the servants. Once in his room, he dumped the startled elf into his bed, then reached out and snagged the bell-cord.
"Not a word." He told Dairren fiercely. To his surprise, Dairren settled silently into the bed, his eyes murky and his face still.
When the startled servant arrived (Dairren hardly ever used the pull), Nathaniel snapped a series of orders. A hot bath, a meal for four (he planned on having left-overs later), a bottle of Antivan Brandy-not the crap they kept for Oghren but the good stuff he damn well knew was stashed in the back-and then for not one person to knock at the door until they emerged in the morning.
The servant looked startled, then knowing, and Nathaniel nearly slapped her. Stupid cow. But he didn't care as long as his orders were carried out. Which they were, in short order.
Once the last servant had bustled out, he locked the door, then turned to the Warden-Commander, who was still laying in the bed watching him with that odd, impossible to read look. "Take a bath, and don't argue. I will strip you if I have to. You might be able to beat me in a fight, but I bet I can be more sneaky and underhanded than you can."
"I don't doubt it." Dairren said after a moment. "Shall I strip for you, or do I get a little privacy?"
Nathaniel flushed crimson and rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to bed you, Commander, I'd have told you so. Since that's not on the agenda, I suggest you disrobe behind the curtain."
"Just checking. Since you're being so forceful tonight." Smirking, Dairren sat up and slid out of the bed, padding to the curtain. Still flushing, Nathaniel investigated the food and found a lovely pot of the tea that Dairren liked, all wrapped up to keep warm.
Listening, he heard Dairren remove his clothes, and then the sloshing that announced the elf had slid into the water. When he was sure he'd settled in, Nathaniel carried a cup of the tea over, keeping his eyes pointedly on the ceiling as he handed the Warden the cup. "Drink this. When you're ready, dinner is on the table. You will eat as much as you can, and then have some brandy. And then you will sleep. All night. I will be here, standing guard, so don't think you can slip out at dawn, either."
Nathaniel sensed that Dairren wanted to retort, but the elf merely accepted the tea in silence. Turning, Nathaniel returned to the table and munched lightly on the meat, listening to the sounds of Dairren bathe. At one point, he went over and started the fire in the grate, noticing with a grimace that it obviously hadn't been used much lately. It's been freezing; what has he been doing, sleeping in the snow? Stupid elf. I know he's strong, but this is ridiculous.
The sloshing stopped; he stood up, stretching his back, and then heard an odd, soft thump that made him spin around on his heel.
Dairren was on the floor; gasping, Nathaniel rushed over, scooping up the slender man and turning him over. Dairren glared at him, but Nathaniel ignored the look, checking Dairren over thoroughly for a wound.
When he started to pull the robe open, Dairren finally stirred, protesting sharply. "I thought you didn't want to sleep with me?" he snarled weakly.
"I don't. Andraste's Ashes, Dairren. What the hell are you doing to yourself? Look at this.." Nathaniel grabbed one of the elf's hands, jerking it up to show the Warden his wrist. "You're skin and bones! You've lost at least ten pounds, and you barely had any to start with. Haven't you been eating at all?"
"Yes! I eat." Dairren said defensively, jerking his hand from Nathaniel's. "I eat. I'm just never…hungry."
The way he trailed off made Nathaniel snort in disbelief. "You're an idiot." He told the elf shortly. "If you don't eat, you're going to die. Do you want to die?" His voice had risen; he was almost yelling, anger blossoming in his chest. Stupid elf! Stupid Warden!
"No." Nathaniel was caught by the quiet sorrow in Dairren's voice, so quiet and soft after Nathaniel's yelling. "I swear, Nathaniel. I don't have a death wish. I'm just…"
Nathaniel sighed and lifted the elf, nothing now how paper-thin he seemed, how fragile. "You're just what?" he asked, but the heat had left his voice. Carrying him over to the table, he deposited him there, making sure that the elf's robes were closed and comfortable. Honestly, even if he was the kind to be inclined to find men attractive, the figure of the Warden-Commander wouldn't have roused anything more than the slight disgust and pity it was getting from him now. The man was just too damn wasted to be attractive to anyone who wasn't a sexual deviant. Like Anders.
"…tired." Dairren said quietly. "I'm just very…tired, Nathaniel."
He sighed and lifted his hand, curling his fingers around something Nathaniel hadn't noticed before. An amulet of some kind; looking at it closely, Nathaniel was surprised to see hairline fractures marring the smooth surface. It had been repaired, lovingly it seemed, and then coated with a clear varnish to keep it from fracturing further. He wondered who it belonged to, and why the Warden seemed to draw strength from it.
Dairren was determined to pick listlessly at his dinner; Nathaniel was determined he would eat. They wrestled with it for a few moments, but Dairren's lethargy was no match for Nathaniel's stubborn insistence. He watched every bite like a hawk; Dairren seemed to find it both highly annoying and somehow amusing.
"I can't. I really can't. If I eat anything else, I'll throw up." He said finally. Nathaniel frowned, not happy with the small amount he'd finally gotten the elf to eat…but then again, if Dairren hadn't been eating, he'd have to start off lightly.
"Fine. But you're having a cup of this." He said, grabbing the bottle.
"I don't drink." The flat way he said it made Nathaniel pause; there was something there, behind his eyes. Perhaps a ghost from ages past.
"You do tonight." Nathaniel said just as flatly. "One glass won't kill you and it'll help you sleep. I promise I won't let you turn into a drunk; one snoring, farting, belching Gray Warden around the keep is enough, thank you."
Dairren blinked, then almost smiled, accepting the glass from Nathaniel. He eyed the amber liquid almost suspiciously, and then took a delicate sip.
Nathaniel grinned at the coughing that ensued; he poured himself a glass, settling back in the chair. "Don't stop. A couple more drinks and you won't feel the burn anymore."
Dairren gave him a slightly disgusted look, but took another sip, grimacing. "Why are you doing this? I mean, the faithful puppy dog routine is cute and all, but I hardly think it's your normal game."
Nathaniel raised his eyebrow, still grinning. The caustic tone of Dairren's voice hid something, he thought. Probably gratefulness. The elven Warden hated being in debt to anyone, and he probably thought Nathaniel was racking up some kind of bargaining chip here.
"Because you won't do it for yourself. Like I said, I'm getting tired of sitting around watching you wear yourself to nothing because you won't tell anyone no. I'm aware that being a Gray Warden is a lifetime of duty and sacrifice, but drinking the blood already ensures that lifetime is short enough. Why should you be allowed to wiggle out of it early?"
Dairren's wince at the mention of 'duty and sacrifice' made Nathaniel look at him again, closer. The hand he'd been worrying the medallion with closed tightly around it, and the pain that shone in Dairren's grey-green eyes struck Nathaniel like a knife. "I know all about duty and sacrifice, thank you very much." Dairren muttered.
Oh. Andraste's Great Bloody Flaming Toe.
He mentally did some very fast arithmetic, counting back the time he'd been at the keep and before that…and realized he'd been a bloody idiot. They'd all been bloody idiots, every last one of them. Then again, it was easy to lose track of time, considering everything that had been going on…but still. They should have realized, should have known when Dairren started to fade.
Tonight. If he was right, it was tonight. The one year anniversary of the defeat of the Archdemon at the top of Fort Drakkon, the ending of the blight…
…and the death of Gray Warden Alistair, who'd, sacrificed his life and future to destroy the Archdemon's soul in the oldest and nastiest traditions of the Gray Wardens.
While he'd been counting and realizing, Dairren had drained the glass and poured himself another. The alcohol was already taking effect-the elf was tiny, never drank, and was super-thin and exhausted besides. Nathaniel thought about stopping him, but by the Maker, if anyone had earned the right to a night of drunkenness it was the elf sitting across the table from him.
"Is that his amulet?" he asked finally, picking up his glass.
"Yes." Dairren blinked, a little owlishly, and then sipped his brandy. "It was his mother's. He lost it, for a long time, but I found it and gave it back to him. He'd broken it, thrown it away in a fit of anger, and Arl Eamon found it and put it back together for him. He was really happy…" Dairren trailed off, then sighed. "I wanted something to…remember him by. Something physical. So I took it. I never told anyone I had it, but I didn't want it to be buried with him in Weisshaupt. I thought he'd like that."
"I think you did the right thing." Nathaniel said, biting his lip. "I know it's good to have things to help you remember people."
He sighed, and then rose. "Come on. If you don't get to bed now, you might not make it later. Let me help you."
Dairren allowed Nathaniel to pick him up, making sure to keep his hold on the glass. As he carried the Warden across the room, Nathaniel was started to feel Dairren snuggle his face into Nathaniel's neck.
"So tired." Dairren whispered. "I can't. It's so much. Everything…everyone needs something,w ants something, and I can't say no. I'm the Hero of Ferelden, the Savior of Amarathine. The bloody Commander of the Grey, Warden-Commander of Ferelden. How can I say no? They want miracles. I've done miracles. They won't understand if I can't do their personal miracle for them. I promised, I know I did, but it's so heavy…"
Nathaniel felt his throat close; he was close to weeping, suddenly, just from the tired, hopeless tone of Dairren's voice. He'd always admired the elf for his strength and determination; he'd never seen the strain it was for him to keep it up, to be the strong defender and the wise leader. He was just a kid, when the Wardens were killed at Ostagar. Newly Joined and with no idea what to do. He came from an Alienage, had no experience in battle or leadership, and willingly took on the incredible responsibility to unite Ferelden against the blight. He's my age-maybe younger, Nathaniel realized with a start. He faced down an Archdemon and watched his companion and friend willingly die.
"I know." Nathaniel managed to whisper back. "It's ok. Just…"
He reached the bed, then suddenly changed his mind. Turning, he sat down, then wiggled his body until he was sitting up, his back against the headboard. Adjusting Dairren a little, he held the other man securely in his arms, stroking his fingers soothingly over the robe-clad back. After a moment, he took the glass away from Dairren and drained it before setting off to the side. He didn't need any more of that, Nathaniel was sure.
"Just for tonight, it's ok." He said quietly. "Lay it down. Let it go. Just tonight. You're not the Hero of Ferelden or the Commander of the Grey. Tonight you're Dairren, and I'm your Warden. I'll guard your sleep and keep the nightmares away. Sleep with me, Dairren."
Dairren's body remained still and slightly stiff against his for a long moment, and Nathaniel found himself holding his breath. Would Dairren accept what he was offering? It was done freely, with no strings or conditions. Would his fellow Warden be able to feel his sincerity?
Finally, finally, Dairren's body relaxed against his and Nathaniel hugged him, once more running his fingers along Dairren's back. He was glad he had chosen not to wear his armor tonight; his thick velvet shirt was comfortable for the other to lie against, unlike his custom black leathers. They lay like that for a time longer, in comfortable silence. Then Nathaniel felt Dairren's body hitch and realized he was sobbing, silently, curling tighter into Nathaniel's body for comfort. Utter capitulation; he'd given up the last of his pride and accepted the affection and support Nathaniel was offering. Probably for the first time since he'd been a child, really. It touched Nathaniel deeply, to be so trusted.
He felt the wetness on his collar, but didn't comment on it, simply holding Dairren tighter and rocking the slender man's body with his own. Turning his head, he nuzzled the dark hair gently and, from the back of his mind, he found a cradle-song his mother must have sang. Or one of the nurses; he doubted his mother had ever sang to him. Still, it was soothing and calm and he sang it hesitantly, his voice rusty and uncertain from disuse. From that one, others flowed; he hardly remembered the songs he sang, but the words came surely and the tone gradually grew more confident as his singing seemed to sooth the battered elf in his arms.
And once Dairren had finally fallen asleep, he gently rearranged him a little and settled in for the long night's watch. There would be no nightmares for his Warden tonight. Just sleep and healing peace and hopefully, a happy dream or two.
…
He'd gathered them together-Anders, Sigrun, Oghren, Sensechal Garevel, the new Captain Mikkah, and the Chamberlain Leondi, a stout older lady who managed the house and servants. He'd left Dairren eating breakfast, after evoking a stern promise from the Warden Commander that he would eat, read a little, and then go back to bed for a nap.
Now that Dairren had accepted his new authority, he argued much less, although Nathaniel thought, rather fondly, that it would change as Dairren started to feel better. He looked forward to it, actually.
He explained, shortly and without much detail, how Dairren had been working himself to the bone and skipping both meals and sleep to fulfill all the various requests and demands that had been being made on him….and that he expected this practice to stop, immediately. He knew, he continued, that there were a great many things that had to be handled by the Commander himself, but…there were a great many things that did not, and that he needed their help with this.
"I hadn't realized…" Garevel said slowly, looking troubled. "I really hadn't. I knew that Varel had dealt with a great many things, but I assumed it was because of the troubles. I wasn't…I mean, I never wanted this position, and…"
"Oh, stop your groveling." Leondi snapped, but her smile took the sting out of her harsh words. "You've been doing a pretty decent job, considering you never had any real training at it, and we all know it. The lad isn't accusing you of anything; he's just trying to figure out how we can help the Warden Commander. Right?"
"Right." Nathaniel replied, grinning at her. She reminded him sharply of his favorite nurse, growing up, a lady who took no nonsense but still managed to keep one eye closed to harmless childish pranks like apple-stealing. How he'd adored her, even as he pulled the worst pranks and tricks on her.
"So…what can we do?" Sigrun asked, sounding troubled. "I owe the Warden-Commander a lot, and I'd be happy to help, but I don't know anything about any of this."
"Same here." Oghren said. For a wonder, the dwarf seemed sober, if not steady. "Just point me in the direction of a problem and I'll bash it down."
"Or start it on fire with your breath." Leondi sniffed.
Anders snickered. "Seriously, Nate. Tell us what to do. I can tell by the twinkling of your pretty eyes you have a plan."
"My eyes are not…" Nathaniel started, then flushed. "Shut up. But I do have a plan. Listen…."
…
One week later and Nathaniel's plan was working great. Anders and Garevel were working together to pre-sort the people and groups who showed up to demand audiences, handling a great many of them without having to actually send them up. Nathaniel had officially taken over the second-in-command position, much to Dairren's amusement, and was handling most of the rest of them. Only the most serious got through to seeing Dairren, whose audiences had shortened to almost nothing. Sigrun and Oghren had taken over the training yard, managing between the two of them to keep the rowdy recruits, guards and Wardens in line. Anders had also taken over recruitment and was overseeing a slow but steady drive to swell the ranks of the Gray Wardens back to full strength-they had not just Vigil's Keep to staff, after all, but the new Warden Outpost at Soldier's Keep, the Warden Compound in Denerim, and patrol-outposts in the Kokari Wilds. He'd also begun arrangements with the dwarves in Orzammar to supply, staff and train Wardens for forays into the Deep Roads-now that they'd beaten them back so far, the Dwarves were eager to begin reclaiming the lost Taigs, and it made a lot of sense for the Wardens to be involved in those efforts now that they knew the Archdemon wouldn't be appearing anytime soon. Besides, it was excellent training and would keep the Gray Wardens sharp, hard, and aware of the real danger of the future Blight they were guarding against.
And Nathaniel, when he wasn't helping the others with their tasks, was mostly involved in distracting, coaxing, teasing and outright bullying Dairren into taking better care of himself.
They were rewarded; Dairren had gained weight, was sleeping through the night, and had stopped clutching the amulet around his neck when no one was looking. He'd regained some of his old spark too; it helped that he had a purpose now. He'd taken to leading scouting parties along the Dark Roads, helping the Dwarves fill out the spotted, ancient maps of their old realm. Nathaniel worried about him, but he sensed, quite strongly, that Dairren was happier on the battlefield than he'd ever be cooped up in a keep.
Now. If only he could get that damn mage to stop 'accidentally' 'losing his way' or 'being cold' or 'having a nightmare' and ending up in Nathaniel's bed every damn night.
Or…well, maybe not.