Epilogue
He stands at the back of the crowd, his face partially hidden by the hood of his cloak. He draws a few curious stares, but most are too caught up in their sorrow to even notice him.
He clenches his fists. The entire city is putting on a grand show of being united in grief. 'The Hero of Ferelden', they've named her. Most of them never even met her. What gives them the right to mourn her loss?
The new king's face is lined with sorrow and regret as he leads the honour guard in their slow procession through the city.
And, he fancies, more than a little guilt.
King. He makes a scornful noise, and the people around him give him reproving looks. He schools his expression into one of apology, and pulls his hood closer around him. He cannot afford to draw attention now, not with Alistair so near.
Alistair. Of all the people to put on the throne...
And yet she was the one who did so. That's what they're saying. She put Alistair on the throne, and then sacrificed herself to defeat the archdemon. She ended the Blight, and saved them all.
But who was there to save her?
Not Alistair, evidently. He hopes that is guilt he sees in the king's face, because the man should feel guilt.
Not as much as he feels himself, though. It was his actions, his mistakes, that set her on this path. The fact that those actions led to her saving all of Ferelden from the Blight is cold comfort to him now.
Alistair and his royal guards have moved on, and now the funeral procession proper is drawing level with him. He catches his breath as he sees her body.
It's not that he doubted she was dead. Not really. But seeing her makes it real.
She has been magically preserved, of course, and there are no wounds or scars to be seen; one would think she merely died in her sleep. She is clothed in robes far finer than any he ever saw her wear.
And her face... oh, her sweet, beautiful face.
She looks perfectly at peace.
His belief in the Maker has always been tenuous. He invokes His name more as a matter of habit than faith. But now he hopes beyond hope that the Maker is indeed real, and that she is with Him.
And that one day, he'll be deserving of an afterlife that offers a chance of meeting her again.
With a heavy sigh, Jowan turns away as the funeral procession makes its way towards the city gates, at the start of its long journey to the Grey Wardens' headquarters. And looks directly into the golden eyes of a familiar elven face.
"Leaving so soon?" the elf asks with a smirk.
He tenses, prepared to run, although he doubts he can move fast enough. A quick glance to either side shows no other face he recognises; the elf appears to be alone. He casts his mind back, searching for the name. Ah, yes.
"Zevran."
The elf smiles and inclines his head slightly, extending his hands out to show that they hold no weapons. "Indeed. Peace, my friend. You have nothing to fear from me."
Friend?
Zevran gestures, and he follows the elf bemusedly into a quiet alley, away from the crowd. Part of his mind screams at such a foolhardy act, but something tells him he can trust Zevran.
He also suspects that if the elf actually wanted him dead, he would already be so.
Zevran stops and turns to face him. "You take a great risk to be here. Our beloved king would not take kindly to your presence, were it to become known to him."
He nods. This is hardly news to him. "I had to come. I needed to say goodbye."
Zevran inclines his head in acknowledgement. "As did we all, my friend."
Curiosity gets the better of him. "Why do you call me friend? We barely know each other."
Zevran chuckles. "We had something – someone – in common, did we not? Some might say that made us rivals. I prefer to think we simply share excellent taste."
Despite the outward humour, there is something odd in the elf's expression – almost as if there is something else hidden beneath the laughter. Something familiar.
"You loved her."
It is a convenient arrangement, nothing more. I do not love him, nor does he love me.
Yet it seems he did. Did she know? Was she concealing feelings of her own?
Zevran's expression goes blank, and he stiffens almost imperceptibly. He laughs again, but it is tinged with bitterness, and the humour does not reach his eyes. "Love? Nothing so dramatic, my friend." He lets out a faint, wistful sigh. "Still, she did have a way of breaking down one's barriers, did she not? Even while she maintained her own beyond all reason."
"You loved her," Jowan repeats.
Zevran's eyes narrow, and his voice when he answers has a edge of steel to it. "An assassin can ill afford to indulge in such fancies. Nor would it have mattered if I had. Her heart belonged to you, my friend. She made that abundantly clear."
Jowan closes his eyes, feeling relief wash over him. He knows it was selfish of him, wanting her to continue to love him even when there was no likelihood they could ever be together. But he had wanted it nonetheless, and to hear otherwise would have been beyond bearing.
He opens his eyes again, to find Zevran gazing at him impassively.
Jowan swallows tightly. "Were you... were you with her? In the battle? At the end?"
Pain darkens the elf's eyes. "I was." He sighs. "She knew slaying the archdemon would cost her life, but she did not hesitate, nor did she fear that battle. She said it was necessary, to end the Blight." He hesitates, studying Jowan for a moment, and then adds, "To my knowledge, she had only one regret: that she had to put aside her own happiness in order to do so."
Tears sting at the corners of Jowan's eyes.
Zevran reaches into a pouch, and withdraws a scroll of paper, slightly tattered at the edges, tied with a faded blue ribbon. "I found this in her belongings, after... She would take it out often when she thought she was unobserved; sometimes she would open it, and sometimes she would simply hold it to her heart." The elf smiles faintly, and extends the scroll towards him. "I do not know what it contains, but I suspect it will have meaning for you. And I believe she would have wanted you to have it."
Jowan takes the scroll, and, with shaking fingers, he carefully unties the ribbon and unrolls the paper.
It is marred in a few spots by what are almost certainly tear stains, but the sketch is still recognisable.
He quickly rolls it back up again to avoid adding some tear stains of his own.
He takes a shaky breath. "I... I can't believe she had it all this time. I didn't even know she'd kept it." He exhales slowly. "Thank you."
The elf shakes his head. "No thanks are necessary. I owed her much, and there was little enough she would accept from me in return." His eyes glint as he meets Jowan's gaze. "Less still after the night she spent with you in the woods." He sighs dramatically. "But this much, I can do." He studies Jowan. "What will you do now? I do not think it would be wise for you to remain in Denerim."
Jowan lets out a bitter laugh. "You don't say." He shakes his head. "No, my plans lie outside the city. There is... something I need to do."
oOo
The roads are quiet. Even though the Blight has been ended and the darkspawn scattered, some still roam the countryside, and travellers are few and far between.
A few darkspawn will not deter him. He's fought them before, and he doesn't mean to let anything prevent him from reaching his destination.
The Grey Wardens are being rebuilt, they say, in Amaranthine. King Alistair has sent for Wardens from Orlais to train the new recruits from Ferelden. And there will be many to train. The Hero of Ferelden has inspired people from all walks of life to follow in her footsteps.
Rumour has it that – for the moment, at least, until their numbers in Ferelden are replenished – the Wardens will not turn away any worthy candidate, no matter their past. Even an apostate with a price on his head might be accepted, so long as he was willing to participate in their Joining.
There are also whispers that the Joining carries with it a risk, that not all survive – although no-one seems to know what determines success or failure.
The risks do not concern him. He means to join the Grey Wardens, or die trying. This is the way he will repay the faith she showed in him.
She always saw the man she thought he could be.
Jowan intends to become that man.