Dawn.
The Grey Wardens of Val Royeaux were lined up at the gates in full dress, confounding their Warden-Commander as the group emerged from the stables. "What's the meaning of this?" Amarina asked, baffled, as she led a black mare. The mare was already saddled and bridled, but was obedient to its mistress as the elf gently led the horse. Gaspard was behind her, ponying two horses to his bay gelding. Even as a gelding, the horse was huge, with white mark down the face and feathering on the body. Levian and Alistair followed, each ponying extra horses to their own. Amarina had paid for new horses to be bought, which greatly disturbed the peace of the stablesmaster. Levian had to do some very loud jingling of the purse to convince Fionn.
"To send you off, Commander of the Grey," said one of the mages, who were standing, staff in hand. Amarina raised an eyebrow; her blue cloak billowed in the cold wind. Gelsomina came out of the stables, leading a blue roan gelding.
"Whatever for?"
"You're our Warden-Commander," came back the simple reply.
"Very well." The elven woman hooked her foot into the stirrup, then hoisted herself up into the saddle. "Adrian!" she called sharply. "Please come here."
The Antivan hurried forward.
"While I am gone, you will be in charge," she said as she adjusted her cloak so that her blade could be wrenched free without hindrance. "If there's any trouble, send word to Jader."
Adrian nodded. Amarina pulled the reins as the horse tried to canter. "Wardens!" she cried. "The situation is fragile here. We have all heard of the Kirkwall rebellion. No doubt some of you have feelings about that." She cast a sharp glance. "But you are to remain neutral! That is my last command until I return. Is that clear?"
The Wardens chorused a yes.
"Good." She turned her horse and was about to move forward when Adrian stepped forward.
"Warden-Commander."
She turned her head.
"May the Maker watch over you," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest in deference. This woman, whether he liked it or not, was the Commander of the Grey, and she had risked everything to slay the archdemon. He knew that she deserved respect for her sacrifice and her suffering. The blue cloak billowed behind her like a blue banner, and the golden griffon flashed in the morning sunlight.
"And the Maker watch over you," she said. Then she jerked the rein and turned her horse in a trot. The Wardens left one by one through the gates, Levian bringing up the rear.
The Wardens walked their horses through the city of Val Royeaux, their gaits clip-clopping on the cobbled streets as they rode through. They took the widest route out of the city, but even then, the city wasn't called an escargot for nothing; they crossed Grant-Pont fairly easily, and avoided the Les Halles area due to its morning market bustle, going east first toward Parlement then moving north toward the city walls. They were hearing the bells signalling the terce just as they were leaving the city proper, and saw the faithful walking toward the Cathedral for the morning services. It was a typical Val Royeaux morning, with activities everywhere, the din of the market overheard from the silence of the nearby streets, the drone of the Chant a faint, pleasant hum in the ears.
The guard at the gates looked at the approaching riders with some wariness, but as soon as he saw Amarina's golden griffon on the chest, he snapped into a salute. "Warden-Commander!" he greeted. A mage stood nearby, a faint blue glow around his fingers as he checked the authenticity of the documents presented by travellers. The Wardens dug around their belts and produced sheafs of parchment, wrapped carefully in oilskin and waxy paper. They were passports, issued by Weisshaupt and written in the black ink to prevent fading and with the seals of the Grey Wardens at the bottom; the Orlesian Wardens all carried one, issued by the Commander of the Grey in the name of the First Warden and notarised by the Chantry official, the seals blue, gold, and white.
"Amarina Theirin… Alistair Theirin…" The guards inspected the parchments first, checking the rearing griffons and the sunburst imprinted in the wax. The mage came over, done with the group of minstrels who were leaving the city to head to Ghislain, his fingers glowing blue. He cast his hands over the documents, but nothing happened.
"These are real, Bevis." The mage said. "And I've seen these two before. She's the Hero of Ferelden, and that one's married to her."
"Hurrah for notoriety," Alistair whispered with a grin; Amarina did not respond, but merely received her document back and carefully tucked it into her belt. This piece of paper allowed her access to pretty much anywhere. Such was the influence the Grey Wardens held on Thedas; every time there was a Blight, the Wardens would have to put their lives on the line to save thousands of people, and in return, they were above most laws of the land. Hailed as heroes, it was easy to get free lodging and even free food.
They rode out of the city, Alistair in the front, Gaspard in the back. The Imperial Highway was well paved, a legacy of the might of the Tevinter Imperium, and for that, the Wardens were thankful. Dirt roads flooded when it rained, and even in the best of the weather the holes and the bumps made the journey an unpleasant one. They rode at a good pace going east.
"How long has it been since you've been in Ferelden?" Gelsomina asked the blond Warden. Amarina was behind them, talking with Gaspard about where to stop for the night and the inns ahead. The Alistair looked ahead thoughtfully.
"Let's see… I haven't really been back since the wedding, so… four years?" He turned his head. "Is that right?"
"Is what right?" asked his wife.
"We haven't been in Ferelden for four years."
Amarina shrugged. "Give or take a few months." She then started. "Oh Maker, it's only been four years."
"Feels longer?"
"Lev, it feels like I've been married to Alistair for a decade. I feel like I've been in Orlais for half my life."
They stopped at a roadside inn for the evening, where the horses were taken to the stable to be taken care of. The inn was clean, the barkeep looking happy that the famed Warden-Commander was there to grace the customers with her presence, but was disappointed when her companions pointed out that the Warden-Commander was neither of the blond men in armour, nor was it the Dalish elf, but the slight-looking woman who was dozing off in her seat. Fancies shattered, the barkeep returned to his wife in the kitchen and noted that "stories were not all that it was told to be".
But the food was good, the ham cured well, the pottage thick and the bread warm, and the bed was clean, the duvets aired out. Levian went outside after supper for a walk, and Gaspard joined a group of men for a game of Wicked Grace and to hear some information while spending a silver or two. Alistair had gone off to the stables to check on the horses, or so he had said. Amarina knew better; he had just avoided getting caught in the possible crossfire, knowing what Amarina was about to tell the younger mage.
"Absolutely no bedding men," Amarina told her fellow mage when she caught her trying to slink off. "I don't want trouble, Gelsomina."
"Excuse me, but why are…"
"It's my business. I don't want you to leave a trail of broken-hearted men in every town," she explained. "They tend to remember people who broke their hearts far better than those whose hearts remain intact."
The Warden's green eyes widened in anger, but the elven woman did not back down either. After a moment of intense staring match, the girl stormed off, a sullen pout on her lips, her coppery hair bouncing around her shoulders. The elder woman rubbed her eyes, weary. Four years of staying in one place had made her senses dull, she supposed, and she berated herself. She would soon need to be full-on alert. She felt she was getting older; she had been younger than Gelsomina when she and Alistair had started on what seemed a hopeless journey to stop the Blight.
She shook her head. It had only been eight years ago. But eight years was a long time; Petra, back at the Circle Tower, was no longer an apprentice, Finn was in Tevinter, Anora was close to completing the university. Time went on, merciless, allowing one to neither slow down nor speed up. Someday, her Calling would come; and then she would go, hopefully with Alistair at her side. But until then… until when? Until she was doomed to die in some filthy corner of the Deep Roads, a blade in her back? After all that she had done?
"What's wrong, dear wife?"
"Thinking about just how much time has passed," she said. "I was younger than Gelsomina when we woke up in Flemeth's hut, you know."
Alistair swallowed the ale, letting the rich, dark flavour of hops fill his mouth. As long as he knew, Amarina never drank ale. She drank wine and water, but he had never seen her drinking any other spirits. He remembered staring across the swamps, trying to come to terms with Ostagar, when his wife - well, not his wife then - had emerged from the hut, alive. Battered, worn, and definitely thinner, but alive. Grief and fear in her eyes. When he had proposed that they do what the Grey Wardens were supposed to do, she had agreed, but he could see what she said in her eyes: we're the most junior Grey Wardens, I've only been a Warden for less than a week, what do you expect me to do? But she had taken the task given her and completed them, one by one.
"How were the horses?" Amarina asked, nursing a goblet of wine.
"They were dried down and fed." He looked at her, saw her looking drowsy. "You should go to bed. You look tired."
"I am tired. I didn't realise how complacent I've become. To think that I could cover the same distance on foot, and not be this tired at the end of the day, eight years ago… I'm getting old."
"Well, so are we all. Go to bed."
"I will." She took in the last dregs of the wine, then stood up. "When you come in, please don't slam the door." With that, she got up, and went upstairs, the hilt of the sword on her back gleaming gold as she disappeared into the darkness.
Gelsomina was long asleep - or she was pretending to be - when Amarina had arrived at their room. For the sake of safety and because Gaspard knew that coins didn't regenerate themselves, they had decided that they'll take a large room and have the cots brought in. Tugging off the brigandine and yanking off the boots, the elven woman crawled into bed. She didn't bother taking anything else off. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she was asleep. The men came in sometime later, talking in whispering voices, careful not to wake the women up as they tugged off their armour, pulled off their boots, stashed daggers under the pillows. The two women were mages and could easy freeze an attacker amidst the tracks, but the men were not and needed a little messier solution.
Soon, there were five, steady breaths in the room, a thump as someone rolled over. Sleep claimed them as they slept off the weariness of the first day of travel. They did not dream, and no shrieks awoke them. Dawn came, her rosy fingers creeping through the sky and parting the darkness, and the birds sang their songs to rouse them, to start them on the second day of travel.
