Again, thank you very much for the reviews! There will probably only be two more chapters after this.


The Drunkard

-12-

Mistakes

She watches the woman she now knows as the Hero of Ferelden walk past her, then steps into Alistair's room, closing the door softly behind her.

He is sitting on the bed, his head in his hands; he looks up when he sees her, giving her a weary smile. "I... guess you heard that?"

She nods, sitting down next to him. "You aren't going to consider it, are you?"

He looks at her, and suddenly she can see the soldier, tired of Blights, war and power games; there's a sense of having... seen things in his eyes, years she couldn't have observed, things she can't know. "I don't know. I just don't know." He looks down, a hand on his face. "The Wardens were... they were my home. And then Loghain... But there was always her." He stops. "I don't know. She says she had her reasons." His eyes are on her again, and he asks, half-jokingly, "Why, do you think I should stay?"

She wants to say yes. She wants to say that he has helped Kirkwall, helped her, but instead, she replies, "Your choice."


Anders greets her when she walks into the clinic, and there's something hopeful in his eyes. "Her fever's broken."

For a moment, she sags with relief, then runs to her mother; when she finds her, she is still asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily. She sits next to the bed, looking to Anders. "Will she - ?" Wake up? are the words she doesn't speak.

He nods. "She's still very weak, and..." He sighs. "She's old. She can't fight it off as well as the rest of us. But keep up with the ale, and she should be all right. Well, maybe drunk, but healthy and drunk." He smiles, and she returns it; for a moment she can't help thinking that Hawke's lucky to have him, this occasionally arrogant, tactless, wonderful mage.


Nathaniel's anger has faded by the time Morgana returns, looking more tired than he's ever seen her, collapsing in an armchair in the office after placing a pie in the other room. "I've made the offer. And... I'm sorry that I didn't explain. We need the Warden who helped stop the Blight."

He nods, then thinks for a moment, the question on the tip of his tongue; should he ask it? It finds its way out of his mouth anyway. "Why a rose?" He still finds it hard to believe that he looked at any of her possessions without her permission, and is prepared for her anger.

She sits up sharply, looking at him, then shakes her head. "It's... hard to explain. Memories, Nate. They were given to me during the Blight, by..." She stops. "Before a few mistakes were made."

She looks at the pie. Ah. The Grey Warden appetite.

She is halfway to the door before he asks softly, "Mistakes?"

She turns in the doorway, their eyes meeting, and she says, quietly, "His as well as mine." She doesn't look back as she walks into the next room.


Nathaniel looks up from his parchment at the clank of armour in the entrance to the office. The addition of sensing another half-song in his blood, another with the taint, comes almost simultaneously.

It takes him a moment to recognise the man standing in simple mail at the doorway, sword sheathed at his hip, still pulling on a gauntlet; that's probably due to the fact that the man appears to be standing without help (he's taller than Nathaniel guessed he'd be), and his expression is grim, his eyes firm on his.

This is a man who might, in another life, have been king.

"Is the commander in?" He adds, "Warden business."

"Not yet," Nathaniel replies. "She's out in Kirkwall. Do you want to wait?"

Alistair shakes his head. "I'll find her." He walks away, but then Nathaniel hears his footsteps stop; he enters the room again, and looks at him, frowning. "You're Nate, aren't you?"

He sighs. "Nathaniel, please."

"Right." Then Alistair is walking down the stairs, past the viscount's office, and Nathaniel is left wondering what in Andraste's name that was about.


It takes him a moment to breathe when he spots her - seeing her in armour knocks it out of him all over again. Light brown hair over her shoulders, a cautious hand on her sword (still, even though he tried to get her out of the habit during their lessons, and it's Starfang, still) like it's about to fall out of its scabbard, and... splintmail. Dragonbone, but splintmail all the same. It's like ten years is nothing - this is still Morgana, the woman that... travelled with him.

He finds her browsing apples in Lowtown, turning one over suspiciously, and overhears her saying, "These are rotten."

"Wha' of it?" the trader replies.

"It's perhaps not the best idea on Thedas to sell them," she says softly, and then he has to stop himself raising his eyebrows, remembering her usual diplomacy, as the conversational politeness is suddenly dropped. "Unless you want to poison your customer base. Expect a report to the city guard if you don't clean this up. They're always glad to find another crooked seller." She gives the scowling man a smile, placing the apple carefully back with the others, and walks away from the stall.

He can see the exact moment to the second when she spots him, because she stops, swiftly stepping round a few people in the crowd and finding her way to him. By the time she does, he's casually leaning against a wall, watching her approach; she reaches him, and he doesn't miss the subtle movement of her eyes, taking him in. "Have you made your decision?"

"I have," he replies, then counters with, "But why now?"

What?"

"Why even bother? I was here, perfectly happy, but you still felt the need to come and... rescue me. Not kill me, or take me to Anora."

"The Wardens only take the best. Besides, as I said, there's too much history to just let you be killed..." She flexes her hand, gritting her teeth and looking away from him as his eyes fall to it; he frowns as a spark of recognition flares inside him. No, they can't be... Not that pair... She tries to snatch it away as he takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her palm, but he's already felt the telltale shape on the left gauntlet.

"You kept them," he mutters, eyes still on her hand. "Why would you do that? You could easily have found better..." The realisation hits him like a ton of bricks, and his eyes meet hers as he breathes, "After all this time?"

There is a pause, and then she nods, her eyes angry as she asks, "What did you do with yours, throw them away?"

Wordlessly, he shows her his right palm, the rose on the opposite side, and, in a quiet corner of the Lowtown market, two warriors stare at each other in silence.