"I have already told you that I am fine, and if you persist in your attempts to foist that foul tasting concoction on me, you will not be!" Morrigan's strident voice rang out clearly from the far side of their little camp; moments later, Wynne returned to the fireside, shaking her head in amused resignation.
"She should be ready to travel tomorrow," the mage announced, her blue eyes finding Alistair. "Your turn."
"I'm fine, too," he said quickly, thumping his chest with a balled up fist. "Hale and hearty."
"I'll be the judge of that, young man," Wynne informed him crisply, crooking a finger at him.
"But -"
"Go with her, Alistair." Talia didn't move from where she was stretched out before the fire, her head resting in Leliana's lap, but she cracked open an eye to look at her fellow Warden.
"All right, all right," he groused, coming to his feet and following the mage. When they had returned to the Dalish camp, they had found Morrigan, healed of her wounds, but still very weak, and Alistair teetering with exhaustion and alarmingly thin. Two days of rest, coupled with Wynne's healing spells and restorative potions had improved both of them, but his clothes were still visibly loose on his tall frame as he walked away from the fire. Talia opened her other eye to watch him, her forehead creased with worry.
"He'll be fine," the bard assured her, drawing her fingers through the tumble of dark hair. "Wynne knows what she is doing."
"I know." The Warden tilted her head into the touch, her eyes closing and the troubled expression smoothing slightly. "Just glad we ended it when we did."
"Yes." Another day or so of trying to hold back the progression of the curse, not only in Morrigan, but in the afflicted elves, as well, would likely have killed Alistair.
"What do you suppose passed between them in our absence?" Zevran spoke up, leaning indolently against one of the logs that had been dragged around the fire.
Sten paused in drawing his whetstone along Asala's blade to glare at the assassin. "Must you always gossip like an old woman, elf?"
"Seeing as how the only old woman in our group avoids the activity entirely, it seemed only fair that someone should take up the task," Zev replied, unaffected by the qunari's criticism. "And since Shale has refused to enlighten me, I am reduced to speculation."
"The painted elf assumes that I actually paid attention to such things," the golem droned. "I was asked to guard against attacks, so I was watching for hostile actions."
"And in three days, you saw no hostility between Morrigan and Alistair?" The Antivan quirked an eyebrow. "That has to be a record."
"There were a few distractions, Zevran," Talia reminded him without opening her eyes.
"Ah, but in such tense moments, the flowers of romance bloom the brightest," the elf proclaimed grandly, before winking and adding, "or the flowers of lust, at least."
"Yes, the swamp witch was undoubtedly most desirable laid out with her innards exposed, in the midst of elves transforming into werewolves," Shale said. "How the templar was able to resist such temptation is indeed a mystery."
"Thank you for that image, Shale," Talia murmured, propping herself up on an elbow and regarding the elf steadily. "I'll make you a deal, Zev: you stop speculating about what went on while we were gone and I don't ask Wynne how she likes you calling her an old woman."
"Blackmail, my dear Warden?" Zevran smirked at her. "I'm beginning to feel like I am back in Antiva...if it were only a bit warmer." He inched closer to the fire, lifting his eyes to the thinning canopy of leaves with a suitably theatrical sigh. His gaze dropped again, staring past Sten. "Good evening, Keeper. Have you finally decided to accept my offer?"
The qunari never raised his eyes from his task, but Talia sat up as Lanaya approached.
"Good evening, Zevran," the clan's new Keeper replied with a faint smile that made clear what the nature of the offer had been...not that there had really been any doubt, Zev being Zev, Leliana reflected. "And I fear that I must continue to respectfully decline. I am here to speak with the Wardens."
"Andaran atish'an," Talia said immediately, gesturing toward an empty spot on one of the logs.
Lanaya's smile widened. "Ma serannas," she replied, bowing slightly before accepting the proffered spot. "A bit more time, and you will be speaking as one born among us."
"More than a bit, I think," Talia replied, though much of her time the previous two days had been spent among the Dalish, learning their language and customs. A few of the elders of the clan remained suspicious of the Wardens, refusing to accept Zathrian's role in the deaths of so many of their number, but most of the elves had witnessed the confrontation between the old Keeper and Morrigan, and Lanaya's acceptance had ended any open hostility. "Alistair should be back soon," she went on, shifting back until she could lean against the log behind her and draping an arm around Leliana's shoulders. The bard scooted a bit closer, resting her head on the Warden's shoulder with a soft sigh of contentment. The peace of the Dalish camp had been a welcome respite after the relentless tension of the hunt for Witherfang, and the knowledge that it was only temporary had made her all the more determined to savor it as long as it lasted.
"He's back," Alistair announced, walking between two of the tents and working his mouth in a grimace. "Why does medicine always taste bad?"
"Nan said that it was so that people wouldn't pretend to be sick," Talia replied, a shadow flitting across her face and gone before any but Leliana - and perhaps Alistair - had the chance to register its presence. "I never understood why anyone would pretend to be sick in the first place."
He chuckled as he sat down. "You've never been assigned kitchen duty in a Chantry, then."
Lanaya laughed softly. "We've more than one apprentice beset by that particular illness," she observed wryly, "and our healers use the same type of remedy. Tincture of elfroot can be very bitter if you cook it a bit too long, without affecting its healing properties."
"Not so loud," Alistair cautioned her, glancing back in the direction from which he had come. "Wynne doesn't need any more help in that area."
"She seems quite skilled," the Keeper agreed. "I am glad to see you and your companion doing so well. You all risked much to help us; it will not be forgotten."
"It wasn't entirely altruistic, Lanaya," Talia reminded her.
"Perhaps not, but neither was it wholly rooted in self interest," Lanaya replied. "By acting as you did, you allowed Zathrian to reclaim his honor in the eyes of the clan that he served for so long. What he did was wrong, but he was not an evil man."
"I know," Talia said softly. "I know why he did what he did, and I know that pain. I could very easily have been like he was: consumed by the desire for revenge. I still could," she admitted, her arm tightening slightly around Leliana's shoulders, "if I didn't have friends to keep me steady." Her lips twitched in a faint smile as Wynne appeared and settled beside the fire. "And kick my ass when needed."
The elf nodded. "There were none here for many generations who would ever have considered even questioning Zathrian, let alone reprimanding him...myself included. Had you not intervened, the curse would likely have claimed the whole of our clan and spread beyond. Your deeds will be remembered and taught to our young for as long as tales are told and songs sung."
It was the aspect of Dalish culture that appealed to Leliana most: they wrote very little, passing on their history in an oral tradition that extended to before the days of Andraste. History books were dull affairs for the most part, doomed to sit ignored on shelves, save for scholars, but to be the subject of an epic ballad or story was to achieve a sort of immortality. While Talia's time had largely been spent with the warriors and hunters, the bard had been listening to Sarel, the clan's storyteller, soaking up as much as she could and remembering...
"We will be moving on tomorrow," Lanaya went on. "Those who were injured have regained their strength, and we must begin to send runners to contact the other clans, but tonight we will gather together to remember those who were lost. You are welcome to join us."
"It would be an honor," Talia replied, watching as the Keeper rose, bowed again and walked away. "I would have killed him," she said flatly, as soon as the elf was out of earshot, her eyes staring into the dancing flames of the fire, "and I would have helped him kill Witherfang, if it wouldn't have killed Morrigan along with the elves. I did what I did because I didn't have a choice."
"And you are a fool for not accepting Zathrian's proposal," Morrigan announced calmly as she joined them at the fire, still a bit paler than was usual, but otherwise seeming fully recovered and as acerbic as ever. "One of such power and stature among the elves would have been a valuable ally against the Blight."
"And the fact that it would have left you dead doesn't bother you in the least, right?" Alistair drawled, turning to regard the witch with an irritated expression. "Funny, but I remember you saying something quite different a few days ago." While Leliana's imagination was not so inclined toward romance, there was no denying that there had been a shift in the currents between him and the witch in their absence. The two of them stayed well away from each other in camp, speaking seldom, and yet, she had frequently caught one of them looking at the other with a thoughtful, faintly troubled expression that vanished quickly when the individual in question realized they were being observed.
"I did not say that I was not pleased with her choice," Morrigan replied with the faintest edge in her voice. "Merely that it was quite possibly not the wisest one in regards to her long term chances of success. With the exception of the pair of you, no one is unexpendable."
"That included Zathrian," Talia informed her, lips twisted into a sardonic smirk and an odd, bitter light in her eyes. "The Wardens decide who they need, and allies who lie are less than useless, power or not." She gave the witch a tight smile. "That 'coldly reasonable' enough for you?"
Morrigan nodded slowly, her golden eyes on Talia's face. "It is." As always, the witch seemed to be able to sense when she had pushed just a shade less than too far.
"Good." Talia pushed herself up from the ground, her arm slipping from around Leliana's shoulders, and ducked into the tent that they shared. Leliana glared at Morrigan, whom she'd never heard thank any of them for saving her life, then followed.
"Talia, what is it?" She caught the warrior's arm, turning her so that they were face to face, reaching a hand up to touch her cheek. She'd caught fleeting hints of an odd melancholy in the Warden since they'd left the elven tombs, but it had always been there and gone before she could speak up. "Tell me, please? I know something has been troubling you."
"I don't know," Talia said softly. There was no anger in those dark eyes, only a hollowness touched at the edges with fear. "I don't know whether to loathe Zathrian or envy him. He loved his children enough to do whatever it took to avenge them -"
"But in doing so, he brought pain and death to countless innocents who had nothing to do with his children's fate," Leliana protested, framing Talia's face in her hands. "He was even ready to let those of his own clan perish, rather than end the curse. That is not love, Talia; that is hate, and you have seen what lies down that path."
"I know...I know," Talia murmured, resting her forehead against the bard's, arms encircling her waist. "I just can't seem to stop thinking about them, about that night, wondering what I could have done."
"You did all that you could, Talia," Leliana replied, kissing her gently and remembering Wynne's words about the path out of grief not being a straight one. At least now, she would accept comfort.
"I never got to give them a proper pyre." Talia closed her eyes, pain washing over her features. "I don't even know if they were burned, or their bodies tossed on the trash heap for the crows."
"Then tonight's ceremony will be for them, as well," Leliana promised her, "and when this is all over, you and I will go to Highever, and we will have a memorial service befitting their station."
"When this is over," Talia echoed, staring into her eyes, drinking in the hope that she offered with those words. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes too bright, but tears still refusing to spill.
"You're welcome," the bard responded, drawing her lover into an embrace, feeling the tension in the muscles over her back and shoulders. "I'm here for you, always."
"I know." Talia caught her hands and drew them down, kissing each in turn. "We should probably change into slightly more presentable clothes."
"More than slightly," Leliana admonished her, fingering a sizable hole in one shoulder of the tunic the warrior was wearing. "I'm taking you shopping in the next town of any size that we pass through. Didn't your mother ever teach you needlework?"
"She tried." Talia grinned as she pulled the tunic over her head, then bent to rummage in her pack for something that the bard would deem more suitable, carelessly tossing rejected items to the floor of the tent. "After I got myself tangled up with Brego and two of the cats, she gave up."
"Oh, for the love of -" Leliana snatched up one garment that had been wadded into a ball. "She couldn't teach you how to fold or pack either, I take it?"
"She did," the Warden protested. "I just don't have time on the road, that's all. And they fit better in the bag that way."
"They wouldn't if you folded them properly!" the bard informed her in exasperation, grabbing the pack and upending it. "Wear this and...these." She picked out a tunic and trews that were not too terribly wrinkled and tossed them to her. "Now, watch and learn. And when we go shopping, you will get at least one simple dress!"
"A dress?" Talia yelped. "What do I need with a dress out here?"
Leliana shook her head with a sigh, shaking one of the tunics out as best she could, folding it neatly, then rolling it up, repeating the process until she had a stack of folded and rolled clothes which she tucked back into the pack, leaving room to spare. "You see?" she asked Talia with a smug expression.
"I see that I just got my clothes folded and repacked," Talia announced cheerfully.
"Ooh! You!" The bard pounced, but their playful wrestling match quickly shifted in tenor, laughter fading as the desire that neither of them had any interest in denying asserted itself.
A discreet clearing of a throat outside their tent, then Alistair's voice. "I believe that the elves are waiting for us."
"Or should we simply charge admission?" came Morrigan's tart query.
Talia drew back, eyes dancing with amusement, shadows banished for the moment. "Be right out," she called, sitting up and straightening her clothes while Leliana sorted through her own pack, selecting and donning a deep blue woolen skirt, a blousy white linen chemise and a soft leather kirtle dyed to match the skirt. No shoes, unfortunately, but bare feet were perfectly acceptable here.
"Well?" she asked, twirling before her Warden, delighting in the way the skirt flared and then fell back into place.
"You look beautiful," Talia replied, her approval plain on her face as she tightened her sword belt at her waist, settling Starfang over her left hip.
"It would please me to see you so garbed on occasion," Leliana told her persuasively. "You looked lovely in the dress that Isolde provided for you."
"All right," the warrior conceded, taking the bard's hand and pulling her close. "One dress. For you."
"And shoes?" Leliana persisted, knowing when to press an advantage.
"And shoes," Talia agreed with a good-natured roll of her eyes. "I'll even let you pick it all out...but I have to be able to walk!"
"Trust me, my love," the bard said, standing on her toes to steal a final kiss before slipping her arm through Talia's. "Now come; it will be easier to tame your hair sitting outside by the fire."
The ceremony was a quiet affair, and dignified. Words were spoken and tales told of each of those who had been lost, and the trees that would serve as their earthly memorials had been planted earlier that day. Songs were sung in the lilting Dalish tongue, and though Leliana could comprehend perhaps one word in five, she knew the names of Arlathan and Elvhenan, the homeland that had been lost centuries ago and still mourned by the elves.
The firelight cast strange shadows on the face of each elf who stepped into its glow to offer story or song, the markings of the vallaslin – some delicate and graceful, others harsh and forbidding, adding a deeper air of mystery to their faces.
The stars were bright and the moon high overhead when there was a pause, and she realized that Sarel's eyes were upon her. She had learned many of their songs and stories in the past two days, but what was foremost in her mind was something that she had first heard long ago.
Squeezing Talia's hand, she stepped forward into the firelight, lifting her lute. "A very wise elven woman sang a song for me when my mother died, many years ago," she began, drawing her fingers across the strings, beginning to weave the haunting melody. "She told me that death is not something to be feared, or hated. It is simply another step in our journey into what lies beyond."
She did not turn around, but she could feel the weight of Talia's gaze upon her as she lifted her voice, weaving it effortlessly into the notes that fell from the lute, hearing Lanaya's voice softly translating the words for the Warden and her companions:
"hahren na melana sahlin
emma ir abelas
souver'inan isala hamin
vhenan him dor'felas
in uthenera na revas
vir sulahn'nehn
vir dirthera
vir samahl la numin
vir lath sa'vunin"
Around her, she saw surprise and approval in the eyes of the elves, along with the occasional scowl of outrage that a shemlen would sing of Uthenera, the long sleep that hearkened back to the days when the elves were all but immortal. The approving looks far outweighed the others, however, and Sarel's nod told her that her choice of song had been a good one.
When she turned back to Talia, however, she felt her heart fall. The Warden stared at her, dark eyes stricken and the walls of her control visibly crumbling.
"Talia -" The bard took a step toward her, but she backed away quickly, shaking off Alistair's hand on her arm and turning to vanish into the darkness beyond the fire's light.
"Does this mean we won't be treated to an encore?" Morrigan's voice dripped false sincerity. "Pity."
"Stow it, Morrigan," he growled, moving to Leliana's side. "It's all right, Leli."
"How can you say that?" she cried, her mind awash with memories of that first night they'd been on watch together, and how badly she'd blundered then. "I wanted to comfort her, but I've only hurt her again."
"A boil must be lanced before it can heal," Wynne offered, taking the lute before it could fall from the bard's hands. "She has kept her wounds hidden deep, but I think the time has finally come for her to grieve as she was not permitted to before."
"Wynne's right," Alistair said, his expression somber. "She's been holding it back for months, but I think she needs this now." He turned his head to regard the shadow that hovered just outside the glow of the flames. "Take us to her, boy."
Brego whined low in his throat and immediately turned in the direction that Talia had taken. The mabari had been overjoyed by his mistress' return, but his bond with Alistair seemed to have been strengthened by their time together; he would generally obey the other Warden now without looking first to Talia, as though accepting that they spoke as one.
"We'll be back," Alistair promised Wynne, pausing only long enough to retrieve cloaks for himself and Leliana from camp before taking the bard's hand and following Brego through the trees. She walked beside him, lost in misery and fear, terrified of what they might encounter when they found Talia, barely able to consider the thought of facing those wounded, accusing eyes again.
The mabari led them deep into the forest without hesitation, stopping and settling to his haunches at the edge of a large, moonlit clearing, his eyes fixed on the figure at its center.
Unencumbered by her armor, Talia was a dervish in the argent light, but her movements bore no resemblance to the precise and controlled forms that she had learned from Sten. She whirled and twisted, dodged and struck, lashing out with Starfang again and again, the ragged gasp of her breath and her footsteps the only sounds she made as she struck killing blow after killing blow, her face set in an implacable mask and her eyes fathomless wells of rage and grief.
A harsh sob escaped the bard, and she dropped her eyes, unable to bear the sight of her lover's torment, but Alistair watched with an expression of sorrow and compassion.
"Talia." His voice was low and calm, and he did not try to approach her. At the sound of his voice, she slowed her deadly dance, but only slightly, her eyes cutting briefly toward them before returning to whatever demons she faced.
"I fought," she grated out, parrying an unseen blade and slashing out in return, "at Ostagar, Lothering, Honnleath."
She twisted, sword cleaving through the air, the litany continuing, almost a chant now. "Soldier's Peak, Redcliffe, the Circle, Haven, here."
She spun, blocking high, then striking low...then high, then low again. "Fought for people I didn't know, didn't give a damn about, because it's what I'm supposed to do."
"And I keep getting better." Her teeth were bared in a snarl, something bright and terrible shining in her eyes now.
"Stronger." A powerful side-to-side sweep that would have sliced a man in half.
"Faster." Quick as a thought, she lunged, executing a series of strikes that could be seen only as a silvered blur.
She stopped without warning, facing them with Starfang held before her, as still as a statue. "If I had been this good then, could I have saved them?" The words were a child's plea, anguish surfacing in her eyes, begging for an answer.
"No." It was Alistair who spoke, the single word gentle and laden with regret, but firm, his eyes meeting hers without hesitation. Leliana was frozen, her throat locked in sorrow, fearful of saying or doing the wrong thing as he stepped forward, his hands outstretched. "You would have killed more of Howe's men, but there were too many of them. The end result would have been the same, except that you would have died with all the others at Highever. Is that what you want?"
The question was a blunt one, and it seemed to Leliana that her heart did not beat in the moments between it and Talia's reply.
"No." Her voice was weaker now, almost bewildered as the rage passed, leaving only sorrow in its wake. "Not any more, but...it still hurts." The last two words wavered, growing thick with tears, and the hand that held Starfang dropped to her side, the sword slipping unnoticed from her fingers. "It hurts so damn much!"
He moved quickly to catch her as she stumbled, guiding them both to their knees in an unconscious mirror of that moment at Ostagar weeks ago, his arms folding around her as she buried her face in his shoulder and cried, screamed, howled out her pain and loss, and now Leliana could move, kneeling beside them and hugging Talia, feeling the sobs that shook her lover and the tears on her own face. Brego approached slowly, whimpering softly as he nudged his way into the embrace. Surrounded by the three of them, Talia's grief stormed, crested and finally – after what seemed an eternity - ebbed. The tension seeped from her muscles, and her breathing grew slow and even.
"She's asleep," Alistair said quietly, carefully shifting the burden of her until she lay with her head resting in the bard's lap, one arm draped over Brego's shoulders. "I could carry her back, but I think you'll be safe enough here." He glanced at Brego, who chuffed his agreement, eased out from under Talia's arm and sat up, the picture of vigilance. "Not like we haven't already killed everything that moves in this part of the forest," he muttered under his breath as he got to his feet, taking off his cloak and laying it over Talia.
"You're not staying?" Leliana asked.
He shook his head. "It's you she'll be looking for when she wakes," he said, looking down at the still form with a gentle affection, "and if one of us doesn't go back to camp soon, they'll start sending out search parties."
She smiled fondly at him. "You will make some lucky girl very happy one day, Alistair."
"Just one?" he quipped, with a fair imitation of Zevran's lecherous smile.
"Yes," the bard replied without any doubt. "Eventually just one, and if she doesn't make you just as happy, she'll have us to deal with."
He grinned at her, shy but obviously pleased at her words. "Yes, well...if I do happen to find a likely candidate, do me a favor and don't tell her that until after the wedding."
He left, then, and Leliana studied Talia's sleeping face, her fingers smoothing back errant strands of hair. She looked peaceful, more relaxed than the bard had ever seen her, and she realized that Alistair had been right: Talia had needed this release, this catharsis, as painful as it had been to watch.
A boil must be lanced before it can heal.
"Sing for me?" She'd been staring up at the moon, pondering the truth of Wynne's words, when Talia spoke, and she looked down to find the dark eyes watching her, clear and calm.
She knew what the warrior was asking. "Are you sure, Talia?" Her hand brushed over a cheek that was still slightly damp with tears. "I don't want to hurt you -"
"You didn't." Talia caught her hand, bringing it to her lips. "What happened...it needed to happen. I've never been able to stop wondering if I could have changed anything that night, done anything different. I blamed myself for leaving them, for not dying with them, but they wanted me to live, and not just to see that Howe faced justice. I know them better than that."
Her hand reached up, fingers lightly tracing the curve of the Orlesian's cheek. "They wanted to give me the chance to find what they had, what Fergus had with Oriana: to know that kind of love and happiness, and I found it with you." A finger pressed to her lips when she tried to speak. "Sing for me, my bard."
She nodded, her heart aching with a sweet joy in her chest, and began to sing softly, her only accompaniment the chirping of crickets and the wind in the trees. Talia lay still, watching her in silence until the last of the elvish words had faded into the night air.
"We sing, rejoice, we tell the tales," she whispered, quoting the translation that Lanaya had given. "We laugh and cry, we love one more day." She pushed upright, propping herself on one hand, her eyes steady on Leliana's as her free hand stroked the bard's hair. "It is what they wanted me to do."
She bit her lip, looking suddenly shy. "I have something for you," she began, her hand dropping to the pouch at her belt and drawing something from within. "I found it in the dragon's horde in the ruins, and Master Varathorn helped me clean it up."
She held up her hand, letting the object dangle from her fingers on a delicate silver chain, and Leliana felt her breath catch. The sword had been cast in silver, gleaming softly in the moonlight and surrounded by flames of carved and polished amber that caught the moon's rays and burned with an inner fire. The Sword of Mercy, symbolizing the blade that Archon Hessarian had used to spare the Prophet the agony of burning alive, combined with Her own Eternal Flame. "It is beautiful," she murmured, her fingers brushing wonderingly over the amulet.
"You're beautiful," Talia replied, slipping the chain around the bard's neck and fastening it. "Strength, tempered with kindness, and a light that shines forever in the darkness. That is you, my love. Alistair keeps me sane, and Wynne keeps me honest, but you are my strength, my hope, my light." Sword callused fingers moved gently up the line of her neck to cup her cheek. "I've been following your light since I went back to Lothering for you. More than anything or anyone else, you are the reason that I haven't given in to the hate and anger, the reason I haven't fallen."
"I -" The words would not come, choked off by emotion. Leliana wanted to protest that she was not worthy of such a comparison, wanted to tell Talia that it was the Warden who had been her salvation, freeing her at last from the guilt and shame of her past. Instead, she drew Talia into her kiss, letting the warrior lower her gently to the forest floor as Brego politely retreated to a more discreet distance to stand guard.
A.N. - The only major change to content in this chapter was to correct Talia's reference to being unable to bury her family to the canonical funeral pyre.
This was another of those points I'd been building up to for quite some time, and I knew the first time that I heard Leli sing the song in the game that it would be what crumbled the last of the wall that Talia had built around her grief. It couldn't accomplish it alone, however, so the process has been a gradual one, coming to terms with the loss of her family while learning to trust and depend upon her newfound companions, but it would still be only Alistair and Leliana that she would bare herself so completely to.
There was no question to me that it would be Alistair who went to her first. Sometimes it takes someone not quite so close to the heart of a matter to understand what needs to be said; by the same token, he is also wise enough to know when it was time to step aside and leave the rest to Leli. I'm rather proud of the way he's grown up.