Chapter 11
"A vast granite statue stands on an island, holding back the sea.
The heavens crown its brow. It sees to the edge of the world.
The sea drowns its feet with every tide.
The heavens turn overhead, light and dark. The tide rises to devour the earth, and falls back.
The sun and stars fall to the sea one by one in their turn, only to rise again.
The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless.
Struggle is an illusion. There is nothing to struggle against."
—excerpt from The Tome of Koslun, the Soul Canto
Malcolm
After washing up in their rooms then grabbing a quick meal of what they could wheedle from the kitchens, Malcolm and Líadan headed back down to the compound.
Nuala was waiting for them just inside the door from the palace. She leaned against one of the wooden crates in the storeroom, eyebrow raised precariously high. "This is some bullshit, you know."
Malcolm sighed. "Never said it wasn't. You tell Fergus the same thing?"
"Of course I did." She pointed alternately at Malcolm and Líadan. "Separating the two of you? That's ridiculous. I was there that whole year when you were secretly bonded and witnessed firsthand all that shit you went through, and now you have to throw it away." Líadan opened her mouth to speak, but Nuala cut her off by pointing at her again. "No. I don't want to hear anything from either of you until I finish. Because not only are you splitting yourselves up, but you're taking the children, and you're leaving me behind. I should be able to go. I'm an elf, even though I was raised in the city and still prefer the city. You'd think the Dalish would accept me, given the circumstances."
"They would," Líadan said quietly.
"Then why not bring me? I'm not their mother, Maker knows I'm not, but I nursed Cáel from the time he was three months old. I nursed Ava since hours after she was born. I'm not going to stand here and say that I don't love the both of them, and that it wouldn't hurt terribly to lose them. Not when they're so young."
Líadan inhaled sharply, as if she'd just taken into account what Nuala had said. It made complete sense, and if his mind hadn't been awash in the awful possibilities that were quickly to become reality, Malcolm would have realized it sooner. Líadan probably would have done so before him. Nuala had been family from early on, and her role with both children was as integral as theirs, and she was no more ready to have the children gone than Malcolm and Líadan were. They'd expected it to be when they were older, closer to adulthood, and not so small and innocent.
"I'm sorry," said Líadan. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean… I know… if you're angry at me, that's fine, it—"
The flinty hardness in Nuala's eyes faded and her arms reached out toward Líadan before she tugged the other woman into a hug. "No, it's not fine," she said in a much softer tone. "It's not fine at all. It's not fine for anyone and we're all losing something dear to us and there isn't a sodding thing we can do about it. But, between us, we're all right. It's everything else that isn't."
Líadan didn't seem convinced. "If you say so."
"I do." Nuala took a step away, but kept her hands on Líadan's shoulders. "I just want to know why I can't go."
"I think you can, actually. Not… not right away. But maybe after a while, once I've caught up with the Suriel. Like you said, you're an elf. Emrys wouldn't object to you being there, and neither would the clan. It probably won't even be years, like it will be for Malcolm, if he can even visit. Maybe inside a year, if we find the Suriel soon enough. City elves run off to the Dalish all the time, so you wouldn't be the first to leave, and I doubt you'd be the last."
"Thank you," said Nuala. "You've no idea how much—"
"I think I do."
Nuala gave her a small, genuine smile, and then dropped her hands as she looked over at Malcolm. "I'm sorry," she said to him.
He did his best to appear unshaken, but he knew he failed when it came to someone who'd been his friend for as long as Nuala had. He gave up. "I know it's for the best, but it's…"
"Some kind of bullshit, isn't it?" Nuala's smile to him was rueful and probably the start of many attempts to reassure him. "That's how Shianni described it, and it's hard to disagree."
Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "It's hard to disagree with Shianni about anything, especially when she's right."
"You aren't seriously still afraid of her, are you?"
"A healthy amount of fear has done me well, over the years." Then he glanced over Nuala's shoulder and into the empty hallway beyond the storeroom. "Speaking of fear, where are the children?"
"They got restless after dinner, so Fergus has them outside, where no one can get to them without going through the Silver Order and a bunch of Wardens. Come on. I'm sure they'd like to see you." They were halfway down the hall before she added, "The other princes are here. Bethany managed to convince Dane he'd seen an amazing trick that she'd given to Ava, and it worked. Maker, if I hadn't known myself, I'd have believed it. Bethany said it was something her father used to do when she and her brother were little. Of course, since they were here and saw their cousins outside, they wanted to run, too. If previous Theirins were anything like this lot, I don't see how they let themselves be cooped up in a castle long enough to take the throne."
"I think they traveled the Bannorn a lot," said Malcolm. "Or maybe they wrestled for it and whoever lost got stuck with the throne."
"Knowing you and Alistair, probably the second option," said Líadan. The fact that she'd cracked a joke, even at his expense, made Malcolm feel better.
Outside, they found that Fergus had not only brought the children there, but that he'd returned them to the sparring match that had gotten cut short earlier. He supervised from where he had before, sitting on the top rail of the low fence. Near him, but on the other side of the fence, stood Dane. He wore look of a child who desperately wanted to play and wasn't being allowed. Revas had teamed up with Anora's mabari, Adalla, to chase Callum around in the grass outside the ring.
"Anora and Alistair are inside, getting something to eat," Fergus said without prompting when Malcolm approached. "Anora informed me that Dane has already had his bath, and therefore would not be allowed to participate in the sparring."
Fergus really did do a mean impression of the queen.
"She said I can't fight because I'll get dirty," said Dane. "I think I can keep from getting dirt on me."
"It's pretty hard to fight effectively without getting a bit mucked up," said Malcolm.
Dane sighed and glumly propped his chin on the lower fence rail. "That's what Da said."
"Well, he's right." Malcolm climbed over the fence and leaned against it.
Fergus chuckled. "I don't think it properly counts as a fight if no one gets dirt on their clothes."
"Mud is the qualifier, I think." He studied Cáel and Ava as they sparred. Their actions were a lot slower than they had been in the afternoon, which meant they were tiring. There was also a significant amount of mud on both their backsides, which meant an even fight, which was probably also why no one was crying. "How long have they been at it?"
"Half an hour, I believe. Give or take," said Fergus. "They're tied. They've been tied for the last quarter of an hour and I keep thinking they'll either fall over or give up, but no."
"Keep waiting and they might literally pass out where they stand," said Líadan.
"Might, but not likely." Malcolm glanced over at the two mabari. "You could send Revas in. She'd take care of it. Adalla might go, too. They love herding children."
"Because that's exactly what wardogs are for," said Fergus.
Dane gave him an incredulous look. "They are?"
"They're not, but they like to," said Líadan. Then she signaled Revas and jerked her head toward the ring.
With Adalla following right behind, the huge dog leapt into the ring and ran circles around the two combatants, slinging mud with her paws. It wasn't long before both children got the giggles and Revas toppled them over while they were too busy laughing. Adalla flopped herself in the mud next to Cáel and Ava, and Revas did the same on the other side. Callum snuck under the bottom rung of the fence and joined in, launching himself on top of Adalla, whose only response was to lick the face of the little boy who'd become a giggling mess.
"Oh, come on!" said Dane.
Malcolm decided he'd take the blame on this one. He leaned over the fence, grabbed his nephew, and hoisted him over his head. As the little boy squealed and laughed, Malcolm carried him upside-down to the pile of children and dogs. Then he spun him sideways and plopped him right next to Adalla, making sure to get Dane's blond-haired head into the mud before letting the mabari take over. And she did. Between Adalla's paws, Revas, and the other children, Dane was plenty muddy when Anora and Alistair returned. At first, Anora's irritation was directed at her son, up until Dane informed her who had dumped him in the mud. Then her glare switched to Malcolm, who only grinned in return. After all, though Dane didn't know it, he wouldn't have another chance to play with his cousins for a very long time. It was worth the muddied clothing for Dane and the scolding Malcolm knew he'd get from Anora.
However, it was sneaking well past the time they should have started bundling the children into bed. After being rounded up, Dane and Callum tracked gloriously muddy footprints into the compound and then the palace as they were shooed to their baths. Cáel and Ava were slower, with Fergus giving them great big hugs before they left with Nuala.
"I'll miss them," Fergus said as the door to the palace closed, leaving him in the storeroom with Malcolm and Líadan. Then Fergus looked at Líadan. "I'll miss you, too."
She gave him a small smile, despite the sadness that'd crept into her eyes after she'd said good night to her nephews while knowing it was good bye. "And you haven't been half bad for a brother."
He pulled her into a hug. "Don't stay gone forever. You keep my little brother from falling to pieces. I don't think I can put him back together if you don't return."
"I'll come back."
Fergus gave her shoulders a final squeeze. "I'll hold you to it. Have a safe journey, and return home healthy." Then he headed out of the storeroom, clapping Malcolm once on the shoulder as he left.
Wordlessly, Malcolm started for the family wing, with Líadan keeping pace right beside him. Ava and Cáel would probably be close to being done with their baths, depending on how cooperative they chose to be. Some nights, it was all anyone could to do to get them to use soap, much less scrub. Other nights, they were happy to cooperate, and loudly protested having to get out of the water. No one had yet to figure out the difference. Baths this late meant bed very soon after, which meant an end to the time Malcolm had with them. Bed was already late, but he wanted to let the children stay up even later. He wanted to keep them up so he could play with them, sit with them, listen to them talk and laugh for as long as he could before he couldn't.
Fresh from their baths, they were already in the large sitting room, bursting with energy and questions, even as the evening crawled perilously close to their bedtimes. Nuala slipped out of the room after Malcolm and Líadan came in, quietly telling them she'd be back in time for them to head for the compound to meet the others.
"Is what Uncle Fergus said true?" asked Cáel asked once he realized he had their attention.
"Which part?" asked Líadan. "Your uncle says a lot of things, and some of them stretch the truth. Like the story he told you about werewolves."
Ava tilted her head to the side. "You mean the one where he said a Dalish clan turned into werewolves?"
"Yes."
"I think that one was entirely a lie," said Malcolm. "I've never heard of Dalish werewolves."
Líadan sat cross-legged in front of a low bookcase lined with hardbound books filled with various children's stories and Fereldan myths. "Neither have I."
"But there are werewolves." Cáel frowned slightly as he stood next to Líadan and looked over the books on the shelf. "I remember reading about them. Sort of. I didn't know all the words. But I know it's here." His finger traced the titles on each spine as he searched.
Malcolm had too much anxious energy to sit down, though he knew he should if the children were ever going to calm down enough to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. Except he couldn't bring himself to sit, and wouldn't allow himself to pace, which meant he stood stupidly and fidgeted. Then Ava kindly gave him something to do.
"Papa, can you make me tall?"
He raised an eyebrow. "I suppose, but I'd have to stretch you out on a rack or something. I'm not sure the palace has one of those around, plus there's the whole problem of it being torture, which isn't allowed. Because it's not nice."
She rolled her eyes. "Not that one. The one with your shoulders."
"Oh!" He bent and picked her up, and then thought better of it. "Wait, didn't you smack your head on a lintel last time?"
"I'll duck."
"Yeah, you said that last time, too." He lifted her up onto his shoulders, anyway. "Fine, but if you get an egg on your head, you take the blame. Enchanter Wynne isn't here, and we aren't going to go bother Bethany or Perran over it, either." He started a circuit around the room that would allow her to see and reach items she normally couldn't, such as a few tomes about questionable magic they kept on high bookshelves. Next to the books, there was also a carved wooden halla with a missing horn that Merrill had given Líadan. Hanging on the wall was a Highever shield Fergus had given Malcolm, a painting of a griffon that Merrill had found somewhere and had Varric send them, and a halberd from Alistair. Malcolm still wasn't sure why Alistair had given that to him. He never used them. Alistair had mentioned something about Oghren and pikes and left it at that, and Malcolm felt safer in not knowing.
"See! There are werewolves." Dane pointed at the book he was fighting to keep open with his other hand. He scowled and sat down, opting for his lap instead. "It says so right here."
"Which book have you got there?" asked Malcolm. "Because if it's by Brother Genitivi, its veracity is more than a little suspect."
Cáel furrowed his brow. "What's veracity?"
"Truthful to the facts," said Líadan.
"Then why not just say that?" asked Ava.
Malcolm chuckled. "You sound just like a little Dalish girl I once met. She got mad at me because I kept using complicated words."
"Was it Mamae?" asked Cáel.
"No," Malcolm said, drawing out the word. "But I bet your mother was just like that when she was little."
Cáel gave Líadan an expectant look. "Were you?"
Líadan briefly glared at Malcolm before saying, "Maybe."
"That means yes." Cáel smiled and then returned to his book, keeping his place with one finger as he closed the book and checked the cover. "Says it's Ferelden: Folklore and History, by someone named Sister Petrine. What's that say about the veracity now?"
"Probably more fact than myth," said Malcolm.
Ava grabbed the halla carving as they walked by. She'd probably sleep with it instead of cuddling a blanket if given the choice, which was why they kept it up on a higher shelf. Mostly so that she didn't roll over in the night and get a halla horn in her eye. Because by virtue of being their child, she would.
"So," said Cáel, "these werewolves were around during the Black Age. Says they were killed by Mather and Haelia Cousland, and says that's when Highever was made a teyrnir."
"True as far as I know," said Malcolm. "It's what I was taught as a boy. Fergus and I always questioned the werewolf part, though."
Cáel looked up at him from the book. "But you're sure about the other parts?"
Ava got too wiggly, so Malcolm set her down to run around on her own two legs. So, of course, she skipped over to Líadan and settled in her lap, halla carving still in hand.
"Mostly," said Malcolm. "The Couslands and Highever Castle still have relics from that era, complete with the stories to go with them to explain their histories." He motioned toward Líadan. "In fact, the silver necklace your mother has is from that time. It's said that Mather Cousland gave it to his wife, Haelia, before she took the first of the troops off to fight the werewolves. It was supposed to keep her in good health, if I remember correctly."
"Really?" Cáel leaned over far enough to look at it closely. "Did humans even make it? I've never seen any sort of metal look that much like thread, not in the market. Not even in Master Wade's shop."
"No idea." Malcolm finally sat down, his back to the low fire in the hearth. "No one knows who forged it."
Cáel straightened, put the book back on the shelf, and sat next to Malcolm. "You still didn't say either way about what Uncle Fergus said." Though he'd sounded almost cross when he'd said it, Cáel leaned against his father as he waited for an answer.
"If he told you that Uncle Alistair took care of things as best he could, then yes, it's true. You'll be safe." Both things were true, though not in the manner the children would assume. The missing parts would be explained later, when it was safe for Líadan to do so. Even then, the immediate omission of details felt as much a lie to Malcolm as doing so outright.
"All right." Cáel nodded seriously, and then looked at his sister.
"He's the King," said Ava. "He'll protect us."
Malcolm nearly winced. The two of them were going to smash his heart to pieces.
"Let's go, you two," said Líadan, who'd picked up that Malcolm was having difficulty maintaining the appearance of being fine. "Past your bedtimes."
The announcement brought the requisite whining, but for once, Malcolm didn't mind, if only because he didn't know when he'd hear it again. He held his hand out to Ava. "We need to put the halla away."
She hugged it close to her chest. "I want to keep it with me."
"Wooden carvings of halla aren't exactly the best for snuggling. Besides, don't you have a stuffed spider you snuggle with at night? Use that, like usual. At least it's soft, for Maker's sake."
"I like the halla better."
When he still didn't relent, she huffed and reluctantly handed him the halla. He still felt like an ass for insisting, but she really would end up poking her eye out on that lone horn. After all, this was the child who'd been born during a demon-killing venture into the Fade while the Qunari attacked Kirkwall outside.
The process of tucking them in went by far too quickly, even with added production of Revas insisting on sleeping in Cael's room. Too soon, Malcolm found himself outside their rooms, standing in the corridor and looking between their closed doors.
Líadan gently took his arm after a few minutes. "Come on. I know you want to, but you can't stand here all night. Or half the night or a third or whatever you'd bargain for."
He pressed close to her as they walked into their rooms. "I know. It's just… I'll miss them, even more than I thought, which was a lot. "
"I'm sorry," she said.
"No, no need to apologize. It's just the way it is." The halla drew his attention when they returned to their rooms. "Do you think you should bring the halla with you?"
Líadan bit her lip as she thought it over. "Maybe. Or she could get a new one from Master Ilen when we get to the Mahariel."
"It wouldn't have a broken-off horn, though."
"He could just carve it with one horn. I know, I know, not the same thing." She frowned. "Maybe I should. I could put it in her pack, so that when she found it, she'd feel better."
He glanced over at the clock Hildur had brought him from Orzammar. Something about being on time more often if he had a more reliable way for telling time than anything human-made, including chantry bells. "It's a lot later than we'd planned to have them down. It cut into your packing time. So if you want to skip—"
"What? No, I'm not skipping our larder raid. Dinner wasn't enough, I still need food supplies, and I'd like that chance to say good bye. And I don't care that we let them stay up too late. I'm happy to trade packing time for you being able to see them longer."
He gave her a wan smile to show her he was grateful, but also that he felt that all the time in the world wouldn't be enough. She hugged him and then set about finding what she needed for packing, while he looked up at the halla.
When Nuala cautiously poked her head inside the room to let them know she and Kennard were set to keep watch, Malcolm had gone from staring at the halla to paging through the book his son had been reading earlier. He absently tossed it onto the chair he vacated, and then followed Líadan to the Warden compound.
Where, it turned out, Alistair had procured some rather fine ale. He was pouring a mug of it when Malcolm and Líadan walked into the small room off the larder. "Teagan assured me that this is some of the best," said Alistair.
"This will not end well," said Anora.
Seriousness stole into Alistair's demeanor just long enough to tell the others exactly how troubled he was before he said, "Look, I really need to drink if I'm going to not deal with this." When Anora didn't answer, Alistair carefully placed an ale in front of her. "Besides, it's really good ale."
Anora sighed and accepted the mug.
As soon as Malcolm sat down at the small table, Alistair passed him one, and then slid one down to Líadan when she took a seat. Líadan looked at the ale, and then at Alistair. "I was promised Brecilian apples. This is ale. Not apples."
"The apples will go really well with the ale," said Alistair. Líadan's look turned into a glare, and he gestured at a basket behind him. "Over there. Maker's breath, all these years I've known you, and I had no idea you took apples so seriously."
She had already hopped out of her seat and had two apples in hand before Alistair even finished his statement. "Only Brecilian apples," she said as she sat down again. Then, true to her word about dinner, she heaped her plate with food and started in. Alistair and Malcolm weren't far behind, while poor Anora was left to alternately look on in horror or sip her ale. By the time the Wardens at the table were even remotely sated, she was well into her second mug.
"You partying in here without me?" came Oghren's voice as he strolled in.
"Oghren!" Alistair thumped his mug on the table with gusto. "Join us!"
"Already sodding did, pike-twirler. Worst drink I ever had, but I did get some fancy weapons out of the deal."
"Ale?" asked Malcolm. It occurred to him that he should offer to share the food, but Oghren generally wanted ale.
"Thought you'd never ask." Oghren helped himself to a tankard, and then raised it to Anora. "Good to see you down here, Your Majesty."
"Really?" asked Alistair. "She gets the 'Your Majesty' treatment from you and I don't?"
"She's regal. Just who she is, like those Aeducans who run Orzammar or the Wardens or whatever. Like them, she looks like she's from a long line of regal folks. Opposite you Theirin boys. Who'd have thought you'd end a Blight? Steal your throne back? Maybe the Stone. Never would've put my coin on it." With that, Oghren took a long pull of his ale.
"I'm not sure whether or not I should be insulted," said Alistair.
Líadan raised an eyebrow at him. "It isn't like you don't act like you aren't clever. You've been practicing for so long that you're very convincing."
"I didn't think it was an act, at first," said Anora. "I honestly did not believe the two of them would actually manage to rescue me."
Malcolm stopped fidgeting with his mug and looked at Anora. "From Arl Howe?" It was a time he hadn't thought about in a while. Maybe the parts with Morrigan, due to Ava and Cáel and other things he didn't want to contemplate right then, but nothing involving Anora or Howe.
"I assumed he would have captured you. You did go to his estate, after all."
Alistair rolled his eyes. "We were fully aware that it was a trap. That Orlesian woman practically screamed it with her theatrics. But when Zev told us you were truly being held, it wasn't like we could just leave you there, trap or not."
"Still, you surprised me, and you both have continued to do so since." Anora frowned down at her ale. "Where was this from? It's a bit strong."
"A new blonde ale from a brewery in Killarney. I like it," said Alistair. "And it makes you chatty."
Malcolm was fairly certain Alistair was making moony eyes, which was made more certain by the flush the ale had drawn to Alistair's cheeks.
"I do not like being chatty," said Anora.
"I know, that's the fun!"
Definitely moony eyes.
Anora ignored Alistair—which Malcolm figured wise—and then inclined her head toward Líadan. "What about you?"
She had her fingers threaded through the handle of her mug, which still had at least half the ale she'd first been given. "Oh, I like it. But, I have to keep a clear head, so it's just one for me."
"No, not the ale. I meant these two, when you first met them."
"Oh, Maker, please don't," said Malcolm. This had gone beyond chatty, and he did not like that look in Alistair's eye.
"Are you kidding? This is a tale I want to sodding hear," said Oghren. "Manskirt said it was sparks from the beginning."
"Oghren, Anders didn't even join the Wardens until after the Blight," said Malcolm. "He was just making shit up." Because that's what the old Anders did. He teased and joked and told funny stories, yet was a really good friend. Malcolm missed him.
"But he was right. It was literally sparks," said Alistair. "Literally. Well, maybe not right at the first, but pretty close. She—" he pointed at Líadan "—hated him. I think. Acted like it, anyway. Riordan had to use all sorts of his sneaky ways to get them to even speak to each other without yelling. It worked. Sort of." He gave Líadan a curious look. "Which is why I never understood why you followed him to Weisshaupt."
"Because Riordan told me to," said Líadan.
"Hah!" Oghren shook with his amusement, and hastily put down his third tankard before any ale sloshed out. "You might get the others to believe that bunch of bronto droppings, but I know for a fact you volunteered."
"Maybe I did." Then her unwillingness to talk about what happened post-Blight took precedence over avoiding talking about when she'd met them during the Blight. "To answer your question, they confused me. I hadn't spent a lot of time around humans before, so I spent the majority of my time trying to understand them."
Alistair took to playing with some of the water that'd dripped onto the tabletop, tracing out both crude and quaint sketches. "Didn't Morrigan help you the most?"
"She did, yes."
"But you still hated him."
"For the love of the Creators, I didn't hate him. I just… Malcolm was more difficult to understand than anyone else."
"Suspect it's 'cause you didn't understand your own thoughts about the blighter," said Oghren.
Alistair's eyes lit up, becoming shinier than the ale had already made them. "Oh, you're becoming insightful. Means you're getting up there in flagons."
"Nah. Well, maybe. But this little gathering seems like it's about truth telling, so I figured I'd play along. How am I doing?"
"Rather well," said Anora. "Please continue, if you wish."
"All right." Oghren switched to the speculative tone he tended to bring out after five or so flagons, but apparently that had been some sort of cover, since he was merely nearing the end of his third. "So, what would that witchy-type say about all this?"
"You mean Morrigan?" asked Alistair.
"Not any other witchy-type I know."
Líadan looked over at Malcolm, which told him she thought he should handle it. He sighed. "She'd say we're doing the right thing." He frowned. "Correct thing. No, she'd use a better word. You know, a Morrigan word, said in a Morrigan way. Anyway. She'd agree."
"You sure? Not just telling yourself that so she won't come back and take your manhood as some sort of trophy?"
"I hadn't realized she required an excuse," said Alistair.
"I'm sure," Líadan said after throwing a glare Alistair's way. "She did tell me to keep Cáel from the Chantry by any means necessary."
"Huh." Oghren scratched under the braids of his beard. "She would be the type to see this kind of thing coming."
"Can we not talk about Morrigan?" asked Malcolm. Talking about Morrigan reminded him that even Cáel had to leave him because if he didn't, he'd be in danger, too. And he didn't want to think about what would be gone come tomorrow morning. Not while he still had them.
"Oh, no," said Oghren. "I've been wondering for a long time about how much that witch knew." When no one offered their opinions, Oghren chuckled before he held out his tankard to support whatever statement he was going to make. "You know what I think?"
"I hesitate to wonder," said Alistair.
Oghren ignored the skeptical looks from the others. "I think the witch set 'em up, since she knew what was coming."
"She did not," said Malcolm. It was a ridiculous thing to say, especially for Oghren.
"No?" Oghren raised a bushy eyebrow at him. "Go on, ask the elf what she thinks. I'll wait."
There was no way under the Maker's sun Malcolm would follow through and ask that question, even as everyone at the table, except for Líadan, implored him to do with their stares.
Líadan stared down into her mug.
Bethany wandering into the room saved them both. "Oh!" she said as she came through the doorway, a cloth sack thrown over her shoulder. "I hadn't thought there'd be people down here."
"We're trading stories about what we all thought the others were like when we met 'em," said Oghren. "It's your turn."
She blinked, but did gamely attempt to answer. "I thought you were all…" Then she struggled for the right word.
"Go on, you can say it. Mad as a nug with a war hammer?"
"Exciting, I was going to say, actually."
Oghren laughed. "Sure you were. Have a flagon. That'll get you telling the truth."
Instead of fetching Bethany a mug of ale, Alistair pointed at the sack she held. "What've you got there?"
"Oh, just a few health poultices. That's all." She put the sack down on the floor, where it thunked rather loudly, and some clinking followed.
"Just a few?" asked Alistair. "Maker, it looks like you've got enough for an entire regiment."
"Maybe some potions, too."
"'Fess up," said Oghren. "You robbed someone blind, didn't you?"
"What? No. No! I just thought… I thought they might be useful for Líadan, since she can't heal."
"It looks like you expect her to fall off a hundred cliffs," said Alistair. "She's not exactly accident-prone. That's Malcolm. You've seen how often he gets hit in the head. Or catches fire. Sometimes both."
Malcolm didn't dignify that with a comment, mostly because it was true.
Bethany sighed and managed to give him a sympathetic look at the same time. "Yes, she's graceful. The children, however, aren't exactly prone to sudden bouts of caution. And I'm not sure Ava really understands the concept of danger once she decides to accomplish something."
"She's got you there, pike-twirler."
Alistair stood from his chair. "That's it, I'm getting more ale."
"You'd better save some for me," said Sigrun, who traipsed into the room with Thierry, Perran, and Rhian behind her. "Also them." As she grabbed a tankard and headed for the keg, she caught sight of the basket. "Oh! Apples!"
"I'd be careful if I were you," Alistair said as he returned to his seat with a refilled mug. "Líadan might cut off your hand if you take one."
"I will not. I happily share with my friends."
Alistair stuck out his bottom lip. "I'm not your friend?"
"Brother-in-law. It's a bit different, so keep your hands off my apples."
Oghren started chuckling, and it quickly turned into a rumbling belly laugh. "Her apples!" He nudged Líadan in the side. "Get it?"
Instead of answering out loud, Líadan gently placed a flask on top of the table. Oghren's eyes went wide when he saw it, and sent him to patting down all his pockets. "Ancestors! How?"
"Nevermind that." Líadan held the flask just out of Oghren's reach as she smiled at him. At least, it seemed to be smile, but contained an awful lot of warning. "Next time you mention my apples, you won't be getting this back." Only when Oghren nodded did she return his flask, which he immediately squirreled away.
"And all this time, I thought you were the problem," Thierry said to Sigrun.
She grinned. "Speaking of, did you want your boot knife back?"
Thierry sighed.
Malcolm couldn't help the grin from forming at all their rather unique expressions of friendship. Yet, he would give every bit of it up in an instant if it meant he could stay with his family. The realization descended with a frown of its own, and the smile disappeared. Líadan gave him a concerned look, but he shrugged it off. Now wasn't the time to dwell. He had tomorrow and all the days after for that.
Which meant, of course, one of their friends noticed. "Don't worry, elf," said Oghren. "I'll take care of the blighter for ya. Reckon this little separation might cause some issues."
Líadan pushed her empty mug to the middle of the table. "Oghren, I'm not Branka. And I'm not bringing my entire family, aside from my bondmate, into the Deep Roads. There are also no traps, golems, or anvils, and it isn't permanent."
"No?" asked Sigrun. "Because this looks a lot like a funeral for someone who's joining the Legion of the Dead."
"I'd always thought dwarven funerals would involve a lot of ale," said Alistair.
"You aren't helping," Líadan said to Alistair.
"I am! Except it's Oghren's side I'm taking, this time. Which, now that I think about it, means I shouldn't have had that last ale." Alistair put aside his tankard and stood, using the table as a support.
"I'll be fine," said Malcolm.
To which everyone in the room, including Anora, laughed.
Because of course they did. Doing his best to avoid eye contact, he stood and went to the water bucket to rinse out his mug. Except that he couldn't find the damn bucket, so he stared at the shelves behind Alistair for a moment before giving up and turning around. But before he could escape, Alistair put an arm around his shoulders. "We know you. I doubt you'll be fine, unless you can be completely distracted with work. Lots of work. Like, your desk piled with paper and letters and possibly some new recruits. Stacks of them. Literally. On your desk."
Judging by how much weight Alistair was resting on him, Malcolm was fairly certain he was actually holding his brother up. Since he didn't really want Alistair to fall on his face—yet—he stayed put.
"Already sent a message to Aeducan," said Oghren. "She'll come up with something."
Wonderful. If Hildur came back down to Denerim, Alistair's wishes of piles of work would come true. Hildur would drown him in it to keep him occupied. So, he didn't address it at all. "I think my brother needs to call it a night," he said.
"Probably," said Alistair. "Remind me not to drink that ale again."
Anora rose from her chair, but didn't start for the door. "Malcolm, if you took him to his rooms, and act as he does while you escort him, it would lend credence to the plan we have in place."
She was right, obviously. Far more a chance he'd shove his foot in his mouth if he'd had more than a mug of ale. It wasn't that he got mean when he drank—far from it, in fact, leaning more toward the lazy, happy kind of pleasant—but his filter did tend to turn decidedly off. It'd already gotten him into trouble on several occasions, and led to many next-day sincere apologies for a little too much honesty.
"How are you always right?" Alistair asked Anora. "You'd think there'd be missteps somewhere, but no. Got to be magic or something."
"Time to get you tucked into bed." Malcolm aimed his brother for the doorway. "I'll see the rest of you tomorrow."
"I'll meet you in our rooms," he heard Líadan say from behind him as he led his brother out.
They hadn't even gotten to the storeroom before Alistair started babbling. "You know I would never really let the templars take Ava, right? Or that I'd give her to them or the Chantry or the Circle or whoever. If it came down to it, right in the moment, I'd fight. I just… I know doing that would drag the whole country in with us."
"You know what? You're drunk."
"Maybe a little."
"More than." He had to be, if he was pouring out his worries that he'd managed to keep contained before this. However, Malcolm couldn't deny that Alistair's confessions were good to hear. While he'd wanted to be entirely sure Alistair wouldn't do anything that would end with Ava in the Circle, he hadn't been certain.
"Whatever." Alistair bumped into a crate and glared at it like it'd attacked him. "What I'm saying is that once the army is ready, the second it is, we'll bring them back. Get Feynriel to come too, or try to get Emrys to help or something. I won't let your family be separated for one minute longer than it has to."
Now it was getting awkward. "Alistair—"
"I'll fight for them, and so will Ferelden, and we won't fall. We just need time."
"There's never enough time." It was a lesson repeated to Malcolm over and over as his life went on.
Alistair paused to give him a curious look. "Are you sure you aren't drunk, too? We're getting philosophical."
"No. I'm saving the drunk for tomorrow."
"Oh, two nights in a row. That could be painful. I wonder if that means I'm too old for it." He tilted his head to the side as they stumbled through the doorway from the compound to the palace. "Do you think I'm getting to old for it?"
"I hope not. It isn't like I'm that much younger than you." They continued like that through the palace and to the wing where their families were quartered, talking of silly things in confused ways, as they'd done a few times before when they both had been in their cups. Then Malcolm dumped Alistair through the door, where Anora already waited, somehow having beaten them there. Probably Sigrun. She was sneaky and fast enough to get Anora through the palace undetected.
Before Malcolm left, Alistair grabbed his wrist to make his brother look at him. "We'll fix it," he said, and the look he gave him was a lot more sober than Malcolm had assumed. "I promise."
Malcolm nodded, not wanting to say anything else, and then headed for his own rooms. While Alistair promised much, he could make a promise every time he breathed and each one would be as empty as the one before it. Not because he didn't believe his brother—he did. But Malcolm couldn't see past the part where even the King of Ferelden had no other solution to offer except to run and hide. For all the power they had, they might as well have been children playing a game.
As she'd said, Líadan had returned to their rooms before he did. She had three packs already out and a piled assortment of items near them, yet was staring at something in her hand.
"It's a hand," he said to her after he closed the door. "You've got two of them. As far as I know, you always have."
She let out a soft laugh and turned. "Perran gave me this." Then she handed him a small charm strung on a necklace of tiny ironbark links. "Well, for me to give Ava. He said it would help her, in case the demons returned."
Closer inspection revealed the charm to be a bear, carved from what looked like halla horn. Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Well, Dirthamen's bears are pretty protective, and they aren't going to get deceived or be scared by nothing less than, I don't know, a dragon." He gave the charm back to her.
"Yes, exactly." She graced him with a brilliant smile at his display of Dalish knowledge, but it was quickly dampened by sadness that fought to break her composure. "I'll go finish packing." Then she half-turned away before saying, "I don't know how long it'll take, so don't feel like you have to wait up for me."
He resisted making the several comments that came to mind, and nodded instead before settling into a chair to resume looking through Cáel's book. They were both quiet, which Malcolm hadn't thought would happen. He'd figured they'd be talking as much as they could before they couldn't, but neither of them had much to say that wouldn't make things worse. So he stayed in the chair for a while, available if she decided to chat, but they both ended up quietly struggling with their mirrored fears. Eventually, he set the book aside and headed for the other room. If he was going to stay up, he'd at least be comfortable. There was also the ulterior motive of enticing his wife to do something other than packing—or at least pack faster—but he didn't have to say it out loud.
Not when he could leave the door open while he changed, which he did. Then he made a show of hopping into bed clad only in his smalls. It brought out some of the desired reaction from Líadan, jolting her out of whatever melancholy held her. It was enough for her to roll her eyes and smile at him at the same time.
"When I'm done with this," she said.
"Promises, promises. I'll just be over here, a handsome man waiting in your bed." And that comment even drew a blush to her cheeks. It was a partial victory, though, since she kept on with the packing. He was content enough to settle in and watch her, for he'd miss even moments like this one, with easy banter and teasing and understanding beneath it all.
But the planning and packing for a very sudden, very long trip for an adult and two children took a lot more time than either of them assumed, and Malcolm eventually drifted off. At some point in the night, Líadan must have finished and crawled into bed to sleep, because he woke up in darkness with her curled up against him. While grateful that it wasn't yet light outside, he was still frustrated with himself for having fallen asleep and the time lost to it. His arm was also going numb, but unless he woke up Líadan, there wasn't much he could do about it since she'd taken to using it for a pillow. With how much travel she was going to have to do, made only more difficult with two children in tow, she'd need all the rest she could get. That meant not begrudging her some much-needed sleep. However, he was getting perilously close to having a dead arm. While leaving his right arm still, he rolled onto his back to see if that would restore the blood flow.
It did nothing, so he tried flexing his hand, which only helped a little.
"You can just move your arm," Líadan said, slightly lifting her head. "I'm awake, because you really aren't subtle."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up." He pushed himself up slightly so he could work the pins and needles from his arm. "Wouldn't have objected if you'd woken me up when you were done, though." When she raised herself up enough to look at him, he realized how that might have sounded. "I'm not mad at you. Mad at myself for falling asleep in the first place."
"Don't waste what we have left by being angry," Líadan said. "We don't know the next time we'll be able to even sleep next to each other. I mean, you are rather nice to cuddle with on cold nights."
He listened to her, but the last comment didn't register, not when he was struck by the fear he hadn't acknowledged all day. "What if it's never?"
"Don't—"
"It could—"
"Stop." She moved her hand lightly down his cheek, and he thought he could hear the rasp of his stubble against the pads of her fingers. "I don't want to think about any of that. I don't want to think of what ifs or what abouts or nevers. I want now, because we…" Then she didn't say it, and he knew it was because she didn't want to. "Because I do."
"All right."
Her hand drifted downward to his chest, while he reached out and ran a finger along the edge of her pointed ear, so very different from the rounded ears of humans, yet it was right, and it had been for a long time. A long time that he'd thought would be longer.
Her fingers brushed over the smattering of hair he had on his stomach, and then halfway followed the thin line that trailed under his smalls. "Elven men don't have this sort of hair," she said.
"You've said that before."
"I know, but… I don't know when—"
"And now you see how it isn't so easy not to talk about it."
He saw the shadow of sadness in her eyes before it was replaced by a wicked glint, and then he realized she was much better at setting things aside than he was. "I think we've easily managed to avoid a lot of conversations about your body hair. If I'd known how much you were dying to talk about it, I would've brought it up even more often." Her fingers returned to his stomach, but it wasn't a caress she was intent on. Her touch was light, and he squirmed as he tried not to giggle. It was unmanly and definitely not appropriate in their situation, but she didn't let up.
Maker's mercy, she was tickling him, at a time like this. "Quit that," he said. "You're going to make me laugh."
"I'm trying to make you laugh. I like your laugh. I want to hear it again." She didn't say so I'll remember, but she didn't need to. He knew. She didn't relent in her efforts, and soon enough, he couldn't keep himself from laughing. The smile his laughter wrought from her was wide and genuine and then he wanted to see another kind of smile from her. He took her deft hands away from where they'd yet to let up on tickling, placing them up over her head as he half-rolled on top of her. She caught the look in his eye and nodded, and when he let go of her hands, she didn't move them.
He wanted to remember her smile. And he wanted to bring her that smile again, the one he'd first seen when they came together in the rain at Highever, the one he'd sought every time they were together afterward. His fingers trailed lightly over the skin he'd come to know so well: the faded dusting of freckles on her shoulders from a childhood spent outside in the sun, the two large claw mark scars on her flank from the shriek that had mauled her while they fought the Archdemon, the silvery lines just above her hipbones from when she'd carried their daughter, the faint scar on her thigh from her first meeting with a deepstalker—he traced them all, his tongue following his lips following his fingers as he did. Then he switched to places he knew to be favorites of hers, drawing out exactly the sounds he knew would eventually lead to that smile again, but just when he'd finally removed her smalls to explore one last time what waited there, she reached the end of her tolerance for keeping her hands off.
And there was the smile.
He'd not so much as blinked and her hands had moved, hauling him upwards along her body to draw him into a breathless kiss. His smalls, he realized, had been a victim of her quick hands, taken off and tossed to the side before he had even spared them a thought. Now he was tantalizingly close to slipping into her, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to yet. The realization had struck him that this could be the last time they were together in the foreseeable future—possibly, frighteningly, ever. His hips twitched forward of their own accord, and had this been any other time, his decision would've been done for right then. But this time, he stilled once he slid all the way in, torn between believing he should draw this out to make it a long memory that could sustain them while they were apart, or to give into the raw need for an intensity that would chase out every other thought beyond being with the person he loved.
Líadan shifted restlessly beneath him, as if driven by the latter. "Please, please, just—"
Her plea did him in, because he couldn't remember her ever sounding like that, and he moved.
She clung to him, arms and legs wrapped around him as if she could meld them together so that they couldn't be separated. He placed his forearms on either side of her head, as close as he could get without losing sight of her face, because he didn't know if they would ever have this again. She held onto him as desperately as he held onto her, wishing as he did that neither of them had to leave. Yet, all they had was this, and only for a short time more.
Her release caught him by surprise, and her sudden exhalation as her body flexed against his told him she hadn't expected it, either. It had her grasping him tightly inside and out, and even as he tried to resist it, to stubbornly make this time last, the heady power of hers triggered his own. It was drawn from what felt like his very toes, forcing his eyes shut as it overtook him, and wrenching a groan from his chest that might have sounded more like a whimper.
Not that he would admit it, or that it had happened before, or that Líadan had lovingly teased him about it for weeks. Not at all.
Yet, he would gladly suffer the teasing, welcome the teasing, if it meant she wouldn't have to leave.
When he opened his eyes, he became conscious of the fact that he'd placed all his weight on her body, and readied to move to the side. But when he went to roll, her legs held him in place.
"No, don't go. Not yet," she said quietly.
He rested his head next to hers in a way that left his lips on her ear. "Not ever." Starting with that elegantly pointed ear, he resumed the exploration she'd so impatiently interrupted. This time, she was patient enough for him to go as slowly as he liked, allowing them to be together for as long as they possibly could.
Then they ran out of time.
In the grey before dawn, armed and armored, packs in hand, Líadan kissed him one last time, and then stole out the door. Malcolm couldn't follow. He couldn't even watch them go because it would give them away. Already, the night guards had started the rumors. Already, the daytime guards would be passing the word along. Already, the staff in the kitchens and the rest of the palace would be talking about the shouting match between them. In an hour or so, Nuala would go to rouse the children as she did every morning, and feign surprise that they were gone.
Then Malcolm wouldn't have to act at all, because all he had to do was tell people that Líadan had left. It would be true. Every consequence and emotion would be absolutely true because he didn't even know when he'd see her or their children again. But they would be safe. Ava would have a teacher and not be left to demons. Cáel would be harbored by the Dalish as he and Morrigan had been when he was a newborn. Líadan would be there, giving them at least one parent at their sides. No matter how much it hurt, none of it would matter so long as they were safe.
And he would repeat it to himself until he believed it.