By the evening, she had all but forgotten what had transpired.
Alistair had command of the watch that night, and so she found herself alone in her study after dinner, listening to the comforting crackle of the fireplace as she glanced over the many papers a Warden-Commander and arl must trouble herself with.
A report first, from one of her lieutenants, informing her that there were no more sightings of darkspawn along the coast.
Next, a patrol schedule submitted by the seneschal. A quick survey of the list showed that all was in order. She placed it aside.
Then, a letter from the Baan of Amaranthine, asking for more soldiers to patrol during the weeklong spring festivities next month. That was fair, and necessary; the festival drew large crowds, and was generally a very rowdy time. The seneschal had drafted an agreement in response for her, and she had but to authorize it. She raised her quill to sign her name.
But she was forgetting something. Had there been some sort of omission, some stipulation that would offend the high-strung baan? Frowning, she scanned the document.
No, there was nothing untoward in the agreement, or even in the original letter. She placed down her quill, wondering what had unsettled her in the first place.
A seal would be sufficient. She reached for a stick of red wax, and for the candle upon her desk to heat it. After dripping a large daub onto the page, she pressed the heavy seal of the Grey Wardens down upon it, then placed instruments and document aside.
She was about to move to the next letter when there came a knock on the door. Without waiting for her response, the handle turned, the door swung swiftly open, and the visitor walked through.
The person who walked into her study was not at all who she expected. White hair, slight frame clad in enchanter's robes, and clutching a staff-the elderly mage looked as though she had aged considerably since their last encounter. More lines had appeared on her delicate features, and she leaned on her staff as though she had begun to depend upon it. Her smile, however, was just as gentle and patient as before.
"Hello, dear."
"Wynne! Aneth ara—" Pleasantly surprised, she rose and gestured to a seat in front of her desk, smiling. "Please, have a seat. If I had known you were coming... Have you said hello to Alistair?"
The older woman moved to a chair as requested, and sat down with a slight sigh. There was a strange flicker of uncertainty in her features, though her expression remained pleasant. "Alistair... is here?"
"He's probably on the battlements right now. Let me send for him."
"No, that won't be necessary," came the quick reply. "I would rather speak with you alone, first."
There was something unsettling about the mage's behaviour.
"Is something the matter?" she asked the older woman.
In response, Wynne fixed her gaze solemnly—sternly—at her.
"You know, I spent some time looking for you in the Free Marches. Your clan has settled in by the Sundermount. It was a difficult journey for these tired old legs of mine."
"You looked for me there?" She leaned forward in her seat, frowning in confusion. "Why?"
"No one had seen you for such a long time, and it was believed that you had hidden away with your clan." The disapproval was now clear in Wynne's eyes. "Marethari, however, informed me that she had not seen you ever since venturing north."
It did not make any sense.
"I've been here the whole time, Wynne," she explained carefully. She tried to keep her words calm, refusing to allow her growing sense of dread to show through. Perhaps the long journey had confused the mage? "I came here to Vigil's Keep, right after we defeated the darkspawn."
Her visitor remained silent for some time, turning away to look out one of the study's many windows. The only sound in the room was the occasional cracking of the fire. Then, finally—
"My dear... do you remember what you mentioned of your future plans, on that day of celebration in Denerim?"
"What?" Somehow, her throat had turned dry.
"You wanted to continue on your journey. You asked for time, before you committed to settling in Amaranthine. And then you disappeared." The mage paused, letting her message sink in, before continuing, "They've long since found an Orlesian replacement. It's been over a year since then, Suledin."
The words were like a hot iron, and she flinched back as though struck, nearly unbalancing her chair. There was something she would not think about in what Wynne had said, and she was still struggling for something, anything to respond with, when the doors flew open and Alistair came striding through in full armor.
"Is everything alright? I heard voices—"
She felt a rush of relief upon his entrance, but looking at him and how he scowled at the mage, she realized that she had not been spared from her confusion.
"Wynne," Alistair said, his voice oddly strained. "What are you doing here?"
"I came here looking for her," was the mage's reply. They remained glaring at each other, mage and ex-templar, until she rose from her seat to break the silence.
"Alistair," she managed to ask, "Why are you treating her so coldly?"
Her lover did not respond.
"It is because he is not Alistair," said Wynne.
A hissed oath escaped from the man, and slowly, slowly Suledin turned to look at him. Sandy hair. Hazel eyes. Tall, sturdy frame. It was all as she had remembered. A solemn, troubled look was on his features, and he met her eyes with an expression of full sincerity
"You don't believe her, do you? You can't."
She remained silent.
"That is not Alistair," said Wynne sharply, interrupting them from where she was seated. "The real Alistair was named king at the Landsmeet. You named him king at the Landsmeet, Suledin. You saw him crowned, and he set you aside." The mage frowned, then amended softly, "You set each other aside."
"Andraste's flaming sword—I would never leave her—"
"No," interrupted Suledin, "You would. You did. I remember."
Both mage and ex-templar looked to her then, the latter striding forward to take hold of her shoulder.
"Surely—"
She shook her head. "You don't need to pretend. It's coming back to me, now. I remember."
Alistair backed away, the hurt all too evident on his face. From across her desk, she heard Wynne scoff.
"You do realize that 'he' is a demon?"
"Yes," Suledin said. She met the older woman's eyes firmly, secure in her position for the first time that night. "Leave me in peace, Wynne. I chose this, freely."
"You can't be serious," replied the mage, rising out of her chair. Her voice shook with accusation. "You chose to be enthralled by a sloth demon?"
Soft, masculine laughter interrupted the two women.
"I did not expect such a thing either," rumbled Alistair—the demon—from behind her. "She stumbled in initially, it's true... but then it was she who named the terms of this mutually beneficial agreement." Suledin felt him wrap his arms tightly around her, and she resisted the compulsion to lean in. Though she could not see his expression, she could read the rage that flared in Wynne's eyes in response.
"She dreams the dreams she wishes," the demon continued. "And in return, mage, I can feed on her for so very long—" But if it was going to continue, it had no opportunity to do so. There was a sudden murmured command from the mage, a brilliant blaze of light—and with a shock Suledin found herself held by a being in paralysis.
"Stop," she ordered, stumbling forward before Wynne could manage another spell. Hurriedly, she moved to stand between the mage and her target, waiting until the other woman had terminated her hold on her magic. Only then, she moved to explain—
"I've always done what was best for Ferelden. I've sacrificed...I've bled... I've done my duty. Now let me live out what time I have left, and forget. Please." The last word escaped her mouth in little more than a whisper.
Wynne did not seem swayed by her words, but lowered her staff accordingly.
"The world still needs you, Suledin."
She shook her head. "Find someone else."
"You can't replace reality with lies."
"I can try."
The mage turned away.
"Then you are lost."
She would have left right then and there, had Suledin not spoken out in that moment.
"Dareth shiral, Wynne. Please... tell no one of this."
"I make no promises on that matter," said Wynne, curtly.
The mage left without a further word, leaving Suledin and the demon behind.
