This story is dedicated to suilven, for her patience and supportiveness. With thanks to WellspringCD for her excellent betaing!
Nathaniel Howe perched on the edge of the Warden Commander's desk. He had his arms crossed and his best intimidating glower firmly fixed on his face, but they didn't seem to be making an impact on his superior. "I still don't understand why you want me to talk to her."
"Maker's breath, Nate, you know I can't talk to women! I get all tongue-tied and my feet grow four sizes and if the women don't run screaming from me like I'm some kind of oversized deepstalker, they pat my head like a mabari puppy." Alistair sighed unhappily. "I'd probably just make things worse."
Whatever response Nathaniel might have drummed up to that undeniably true litany was shattered by the loud cry of "Ali-STAIR!" that resounded through the keep.
The owner of that name stood up and walked to his office door, shouting back, "Try it a little louder next time! I don't think they heard you in Par Vollen."
"You don't seem to have any trouble talking to that woman."
"That's because Caron isn't a woman. She's some sort of Fade demon with a sword for a tongue who is my punishment for something terrible I did in a past life." Nonetheless, Alistair straightened his armor and anxiously checked his hair in the glass before leaving the room in response to the summons from his second-in-command.
Nathaniel allowed himself a brief smirk at his commander's expense before returning his attention to the problem at hand. He agreed with Alistair—someone did have to talk to their new recruit. He just wished it didn't have to be him.
He found her right where he had expected to, kneeling before the statue of Andraste in the Chantry. For a long moment he stood in the doorway, listening to the soft sniffles that came from her, before moving into the room. It took conscious effort to make enough noise with his steps that she heard him coming; his natural tendency was to walk silently, but he didn't want to startle her.
Bethany looked up, swiping the back of her hand furtively across her cheeks as though she could hide the telltale tracks of her tears. "Warden Howe! I'm sorry, have I missed a meeting?"
"No, nothing requires your presence just now. The Commander sent me to find you."
"He did?"
Nathaniel was surprised to see the trepidation in her eyes, as he always was when the new recruits insisted on seeing Alistair as some kind of heroic figure. They also invested him with a great deal more sternness than the genial Warden Commander had ever dreamed of possessing. Of course, knowing Alistair as he did, Nathaniel supposed it was better that the recruits were awed by him than that they laugh at him. And he had to admit that Alistair's discomfort at being treated like a commander afforded Nathaniel no end of amusement.
"Am I in some kind of trouble?" Bethany asked when Nathaniel didn't answer her question.
"Nothing of the sort. The Commander is concerned for you, as we all are."
"Oh. I'm not ill, if that's what you're wondering. The Joining worked."
"That isn't what I meant, and I think you well know it, Bethany."
She sighed, facing forward again. "I'm fine. I'll be fine."
"Which is it? You're fine now, or you'll be fine at some undisclosed future point?" Nathaniel took a seat in the front pew, hoping that the young Mother who ran the Chantry would keep her nose out of the room. Mother Sophronia was young and enthusiastic, and far more moderate than most, but he thought the Chantry's teachings were likely to be of limited guidance here.
Bethany shook her head. "I don't know."
"Well, now we're getting somewhere. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"
Her mouth opened, as though she was about to let her words fly, but then she glanced up at him, her cheeks reddening, and shook her head. "I can't speak to you."
"Why not?" With a flash of horror, he wondered if it was some kind of female problem.
"You're a Warden."
"Ah," he said with relief. "If you're looking for a non-Warden to unburden yourself to, you're going to have a time of it."
"I know."
"But we aren't going to let you sit here and cry by yourself, either," Nathaniel said, his tone brooking no argument. "So let's hear it."
She hesitated, and Nathaniel ostentatiously leaned back against the back of the pew, stretching out his legs.
"This is my assignment, Warden. I can wait all day."
Bethany bit her lip, looking up at Andraste as though seeking divine guidance. "How do you live with ... it?"
"It?"
"The taint."
"Oh. That." He crossed his arms, considering. "I don't give it much thought, really."
"But can't you feel it, heavy and thick and ... disgusting, in your very blood? Eating away at your body from the inside out?" She spoke in a rapid whisper, shuddering.
"No." Nathaniel had never been one for letting his imagination torture him; reality did that well enough.
"I can." She was silent for a moment, then her hands clenched into fists and she pounded them on her thighs. "I hate being a Warden! I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!"
Nathaniel didn't move; he just kept watching her.
Bethany glanced at him. "You probably think I'm horrible. Everyone here seems to think that the Wardens are the most important, special, wonderful thing in Thedas."
It was true; Alistair was inordinately proud of being a Warden, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Nathaniel leaned forward, catching her gaze. "I don't."
Her lips parted, and he noticed rather incongruously that her mouth was lovely, her lips so full and soft. He'd never looked at her this closely before.
"Really?" she asked, her eyes brightening with relief.
"Not everyone chooses to be a Warden, you know. In my case, I had the choice between conscription and death, and it was a long while before I was certain I'd made the right decision."
"I see. I think it was the same for me, but I didn't get to make the choice. My brother made it for me."
"Would you rather have died?"
"I don't know! But wasn't it my right to decide? Wasn't it my life? Since I was seven years old, I've been dragged here and there by people trying to protect me. 'Oh, poor little Bethany, too small to hide her magic.' 'Sweet little Bethany, couldn't possibly fight the darkspawn.' 'Innocent little Bethany, too pure to get her hands dirty working with smugglers.' It shouldn't have been a surprise that I couldn't even choose to die without my brother stepping in to take matters into his own hands."
Nathaniel couldn't help thinking of his father, whose word had been law. "Now that, I understand."
Bethany blinked at him, startled out of her rant by the grim tone of his voice.
He shook himself out of the memories, having learned long ago that the dark place inside him was fathoms deep and entirely too easy to lose himself in. "Nonetheless, yours or not, the choice was made."
"It wasn't fair," she muttered.
"Nothing is."
"That's too simplistic," Bethany shot back. Nathaniel was glad to hear the spirit in her voice, replacing the respectful monotone she had used since her arrival. "Don't you have anything better to say than that hoary old chestnut?"
He snorted a brief laugh. "The Wardens didn't recruit me for my cheerful disposition and ready stock of uplifting commentary."
"No, I suppose they wouldn't have. They don't, really, do they? I mean, the Wardens are all about death. We carry it in our veins, we bring it to others." She looked down at her hands—small, well-formed, clearly cared for, the fingers narrow and nimble. Nathaniel briefly considered reaching out to take one in his and then caught himself as she went on. "I always thought it would be nice to create things with my magic. To heal, or to build something, or ... I don't know. But it seems that magic is mostly used to destroy, especially here in the Grey Wardens."
There was no denying the truth of the statement. The Grey Wardens with their secrets and their nightmares and, yes, their tainted blood were far more about death than life. The occasional visits Oghren's child and Nathaniel's own small nephew made to the Vigil were startling reminders that outside the walls life moved on, children grew, people worked toward a future that didn't have its ending date already spelled out.
"That must sound foolish to you," Bethany said when Nathaniel didn't respond.
"No. I rather agree with you."
"You do? I'd have thought you'd be the last person ... I mean ..." She blushed, clearly thinking she might have offended him.
"I can see why you might think that. My outlook is not always cheerful."
"Mine used to be. I just can't see a way to be happy here."
"It would make the Commander sad to hear that. One thing you can say about Alistair, he is almost relentlessly good-tempered." It was one of the things that Nathaniel admired about his friend, and one of the traits that annoyed him the most.
"So I've heard. He seems kind, but ..."
"You don't wish him to know how unhappy you are."
Bethany bit her lip. "I haven't hidden it that well, have I?"
"No." It was an understatement; this was the longest conversation anyone had been able to draw from her, by far.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be a burden."
"You are not a burden; we are concerned about you." Nathaniel leaned forward, lifting her chin on the tips of her fingers, and trying to keep his mind off the softness of her skin and the luminosity of her amber eyes. "I've seen what happens to Wardens who allow themselves to be consumed by despair."
"Or Justice," she whispered, and they shared a pained look.
"Exactly. I would not want to see something similar happen to you."
"Why not? You barely know me."
Why not, indeed? He let his fingers fall away from her supple skin and sat back. Was it just because, now that he had seen her up close, spoken to her, he found her lovely? Or because he was drawn to the lively spirit he was glimpsing and reluctant to see it crushed further?
"You're right," he said at last. "I don't know you. But I think I would like to." He hadn't intended his voice to dip huskily on the last phrase, revealing the surprising attraction he had begun to feel for her. Clearing his throat, he said, "And I would hate to see you allow your brother's choice to rob you of your life. Making the best of your life as a Warden isn't just meekly going along with what he decided for you; it's the best way you have to take control of your own future. The Wardens are about death, but you don't have to be, even as a Warden. Alistair is more full of life than anyone I know—"
"Especially around Caron," Bethany interrupted, displaying heretofore unseen dimples as she smiled. It was the first smile he had ever seen on her face, and he was immediately determined it wouldn't be the last.
"You've noticed that, too, have you?" He chuckled, and she laughed with him, the sound drawing him toward her. Their eyes met, Nathaniel's breath catching in his throat as Bethany's tongue delicately moistened her lower lip. Her extremely full lower lip. "So, uh ..." He reached desperately for the thread of his lost thoughts.
"I thought I heard voices in here!" The cheerful voice of Mother Sophronia echoed in the room, and Nathaniel and Bethany moved apart as though stung. "Wardens, is there anything I can help you with today?"
Hastily, Nathaniel stood up. "No, I was just going." Mother Sophronia's good humor was too much for him, and he didn't care for the Chantry's messages. "Warden Bethany, I look forward to ... uh ..."
"Finishing the conversation we started?" She smiled, really smiled, and he was almost surprised into smiling back. "So do I." Bethany stood up, putting a hand on his arm. "Thank you, Warden Nathaniel. I will take your advice. It's time for me to stop railing against my fate and decide what I want for a change. I think ... I think I may already know." She blushed, ducking her head and moving past him with a spring in her step he hadn't seen before.
Mother Sophronia was looking at him with a knowing smile that didn't irritate him nearly as much as it should have. As he left the Chantry, it occurred to him that he was very glad Alistair didn't know how to talk to women.
