"It wouldn't be a lengthy detour," Zevran told Jayne that evening, the tents pitched in a small clearing off the backroad they had taken en route to Redcliffe. "A day or two at the most," he suggested.
She peered down at the marker. It had haunted her since they'd left the Brecilian Forest. It kept her mind occupied from the eeriness of the desolate roads. She hadn't liked the emptiness and quietness. They had been on the lookout for the usual: bands of opportunistic bandits, groups of fleeing refugees, the occasional squad on a headhunting mission and even the lonely wagon of a merchant. Even the absence of Darkspawn was unnerving. The further south they moved, the more she expected them to surface from beneath the ground to ambush them, imagining them swarming forth as they had at Ostagar, endless pinpoints of flame ready to engage in battle. She regretted they hadn't just gone to Denerim and met the Arl there, but Alistair was right: they needed to enter the city beneath the Arl's banner, under his protection, publicly and under the auspices of a very visible Landsmeet. To venture into the city alone would be a futile provocation, one that would likely result in their swift imprisonment, in the best case.
She caressed the surface of the marker, its edges soft and crumbly as coal.
"If we survive," she said, seeking Zevran's amber eyes, "I will."
"I don't understand why you don't just settle the matter. It's driving you to distraction," he chided her.
"I don't have any reason for believing this is true," she told him. "From all accounts, Fergus and our soldiers were ambushed by Howe and Loghain's men. I am sure their orders were clear; they knew whom to target. His survival sounds quite impossible, you must admit, and if at all managed, would not be kept under wraps for this long."
If he were alive, he would have found a way to let her know. He had to be dead. She couldn't believe otherwise, she repeated to herself sternly. To believe otherwise was to hope, and hope was weak and scarce as it was. She refused to do such a thing to herself: to even consider the possibility that Fergus was alive. The pain, if it proved false, would be too great.
Lost twice. I cannot take it. Not now, not like this, she reasoned, contemplating the marker before shoving it away into a compartment inside her pack.
Her fingers brushed over the dry petals of the flower the Lady had given her.
No matter how harsh or cruel the winter, spring always comes, she remembered the Lady's parting words. She caressed the withering petals.
"Warden," Zevran called to her, watching her fuss with her pack, avoiding any further conversation on the matter.
She turned her eyes up to him, bracing herself for another tug of war with the persistent elf.
"Whenever you are ready to look for Fergus, I'll come with you," he said seriously.
She couldn't help smiling at his determined expression.
The village of Redcliffe appeared as they crested the hill. The old windmill greeted them, its blades black against the setting sun and broad smoky sky as the forges worked overtime. The thatched roofs and timber framed homes blended in unremarkably with each other, their drabness contrasting with the hillside. A heaviness weighed upon the village, already battered harshly in the year's previous attack. The castle loomed ominously in the background, its flags and gonfalons snapping and whipping in the wind. She observed Alistair contemplate his former home forlornly.
"Maker, the people do not deserve this." His eyes scanned the gloomy village.
Redcliffe appeared to have some activity, but she noticed people moved about silently, as if preoccupied. She had returned briefly, almost two months previously, to help Sten locate his sword. Redcliffe had remained in disrepair from the attacks, but despite everything, there appeared to be a verve in the village back then, a restlessness she could only associate with a desire to move forward, to rebuild. Perhaps the uncertainty of a Blight had dulled that out of the already battle weary villagers.
They made their way with little fanfare towards the castle, a messenger having been dispatched from the gates on horseback to notify the Arl's steward.
Despite the heaviness in the air, she caught glimmers of normalcy: a woman sweeping her stoop, a group of children playing a tagging game in one of the common yards among some houses, and a party of elderly men conversing in lively tones while resting their tankards over barrels in front of one of the taverns. Throughout the village, lanterns and torches were being lit in the twilight.
"It will be a welcome reprieve not to have to sleep in a tent tonight," Wynne sighed, as they crossed the imposing bridge leading to the castle.
Jayne felt an unpleasant shiver run up her spine as she walked towards the courtyard and the staircase leading to the castle's front entrance. How many undead had she battled past there, until the steps glistened in murky blood? The guards at the gate immediately saluted them.
"Grey Wardens!" they called, stepping aside to allow them passage into the yard. Inside, all activity halted as they wandered towards the steps. At the top stood the Arl, the Arlessa, and the Arl's brother, Teagan Guerrin. Her eyes searched the modest crowd assembled to greet them looking for one particular little face. But she shouldn't have worried; bursting out from between his father and his mother's fussy dress, the red-haired freckled face of Connor appeared, radiantly smiling.
"JAYNE!" he cried, racing to her, arms spread out widely.
"Here comes the competition," Zevran grumbled behind her.
"I know. I've known him all his life, I helped save him too, and I might as well be a bowl of chopped liver," Alistair muttered between his teeth, watching the boy speed down the steps.
Connor flung himself into Jayne's outstretched arms. She gave him a warm hug, patting his small, delicate frame as he clung to her heavy armor.
"My father told me we are traveling to Denerim together!" he said delightedly, barely able to seize her gloved hand between his slight one.
Jayne smiled politely as she reached the top of the steps, greeting the Arl and his family.
"We are relieved you have arrived within the time frame you had given us," the Arl stated, after they had exchanged greetings. "A couple more days and we would have been forced to make our way to Denerim without you," he explained. "How soon can you and your allies be ready to depart?" he wondered, ushering them towards the main hall's entrance.
She glanced at Alistair.
"We feel there is little time to waste. Would tomorrow be too soon?"
"We are ready when you are," the Arl insisted.
"After tomorrow, perhaps?" the Arlessa interrupted. "Since we are relocating to Denerim, after all," she sniffed.
The Arl shot her a disconcerted glance.
"Relocating to Denerim?" Alistair asked, expressing surprise.
"Yes," the Arl offered with a tight grin. "But get settled first. There will be time for us to talk afterwards." He glanced at the the Arlessa again. "Isolde?"
The woman nodded and stepped forward, signaling to her servants.
"Take their belongings to the third floor of the eastern wing of the castle," she explained. She cast a disdainful glance towards Sten. "The Qunari, the elf, and the dwarves will be lodged above the carriage house by the stable," she informed them hastily.
Their entire party bristled at her dismissive tone. Jayne knew the woman was impossible. She learned that when they fought to save Redcliffe, but she hadn't expected new incidents to add to her repertoire so promptly.
"My allies and I have much to discuss; we'd like to be lodged in proximity to each other," Jayne stated in an overly polite manner.
The Arl shot his wife an embarrassed look.
"I think that can be managed, can't it my love?"
She and Alistair exchanged knowing glances.
She leads him by the balls, they'd both agreed one drunken night when they uncharacteristically engaged in some very gossipy and catty commentary. She has the gift of bringing that spitefulness out in people, Jayne frowned.
"I wish it were that simple," the Arlessa stated in a strained tone. "Unfortunately, repairs to the castle haven't been completed and we are somewhat limited in the rooms we have to offer our guests." She signaled the servants to resume their activity of shuttling their belongings.
Hardly! Jayne assessed the tidy and elegant castle hall shrewdly. No, my lady. This Qunari and this elf both fought for your son, for your husband, and for these people. They will not be stashed away like something unpleasant and unwanted because of your prejudices, she thought angrily.
"Then all of us would be glad to stay in your carriage house," Jayne continued, calling her bluff. "It is still infinitely better than the nights we've spent on the ground at camp, right?" she shot her group a rallying glance.
They stared back at her wordlessly. An impasse had been reached, and everyone around them turned their heads towards the Arlessa now, to see what she would say, including the servants, standing frozen, unsure of where to go with their packs and belongings. The Arlessa smiled uncomfortably.
"I am afraid we wouldn't have enough rooms to ensure your comfort…"
"But I want Jayne to be close by—" Connor whined.
The Arl cleared his throat, a cautious glint in his eye.
"I am sure we can find space for all in the castle," he stated with a pointed glare at his wife. He turned to them and continued, more amiably, "You will simply have to excuse us for any less-than-ideal conditions, which I am sure you will, as you are familiar with the recent circumstances."
"Of course! Of course!" The Arlessa tried to smile, with exaggerated grace. "Third floor," she ordered the servants, once again, gesturing towards the staircase. "And have Manon make up two more rooms…" she hesitated and turned to Jayne once more. "Will the Mabari be needing his own quarters, too?" she asked in a cloyingly sweet tone.
Jayne felt Alistair's hand shoot out to gently grasp her arm as the blood rose to her face. Miraculously, it was Bodhan who intervened and prevented a diplomatic disaster.
"Madam Arlessa, my boy and I would prefer to stay close to our mare and our wagon. We'll gladly remain in the carriage house." He swiftly turned to Jayne. "And Rune is welcome to remain with us, as he is quite used to it."
The Arlessa gave him a tight-lipped grin before turning back towards the castle, her skirts swishing noisily around her. "Please join us for the farewell repast we had planned with some dear friends before our departure, once you are settled in your rooms," she announced. "Just give me a moment to request more place settings at the table…"
They assembled in a large waiting room off the foyer, awaiting directions from the staff, as the Arl and Arlessa left them momentarily. Teagan approached her and Alistair apologetically.
"Please forgive us for the confusion—it's been a very hectic few days…an uneasy transition. My brother will update you soon, I trust."
"Of course!" Alistair stated, nodding to Teagan as he bowed formally on his way out of the room.
"Ouf!" Leliana exhaled, collapsing into one of the chairs. "It'll be good to wash up properly."
"I feel insulted that I wasn't cast off to the carriage house," Morrigan teased Sten and Oghren. "You would think my being an apostate…"
"It's the feathers, dear," Wynne joked. "I hear such wardrobe embellishments are considered quite refined in Orlais."
Morrigan widened her eyes.
"I hardly meant my feathers as an embellishment—"
"No…it's more of a cautionary tale to birds everywhere," Alistair quipped.
"I don't care where they stick me, as long as I know where to land after I've had my ale, but I wonder why she wanted us away from the castle? Are we dirty, or somethin'?" Oghren puzzled, staring at Zevran.
"You, yes," Zevran explained with great authority. "Me, mostly because I am so handsome and enticing—she'd have a difficult time staying away from my bedroom," he continued cockily.
"Heh," Oghren's face crinkled into a mischievous grin. "I get it: that makes us both dirty, then, in different ways."
The two began guffawing at the juvenile crack, much to Jayne's mounting annoyance. Sten stood stoically by a small bowl filled with an assortment of traditionally Orlesian delicacies: nuts, dried berries, and crystallized fruit, and every once in a while raised his hand quickly to his mouth.
"I'm glad Connor is well," Jayne said to them.
"He was definitely glad to see you again," Wynne noted.
"Hmph," Zevran pouted, crossing his arms. "I have my eyes on him."
"Zevran! He's just a little boy!" Jayne censured him.
"There is no such thing when it comes to boys and I say this from experience," Zevran explained, stretching his legs out before him as he took a seat next to Morrigan. "He is nurturing all kinds of affections for you inside that undeveloped brain of his, dear Warden."
"I can't believe you are saying such a thing! He's a child!" she emphasized.
"Let's talk again in 7 years or so, when he is fully grown. At that age, he'll be the worst. The worst!" he declared, pointing to the ceiling with a knowing expression. "You pay heed to my words. And you know what is most bothersome, yes? It's that boys that age have a thing for older women," he explained. "Not a bad thing in and of itself, because, I must add, some of my most devastating maneuvers were taught to me by older women…" he revealed slyly.
"And now even the elderly are dangerous in Antiva," Alistair mumbled.
"That is true to an extent, but I meant devastating in the bedroom, Alistair…Where experience often trumps enthusiasm," he winked.
Jayne grimaced and shook her head.
"My friend Salvail, for instance, never recovered from that phase of his development." He stared at Wynne. "He would worship the ground you walk on, Wynne. Salvail prefers women with experience and maturity. He says they have more substance, are more robust and flavorful…" he stated, kissing the tips of his pinched fingers.
"When are those rooms going to be ready?…" Wynne wondered, leaning her body towards the hall.
"But you will see!" Zevran continued, unabated. "Right now he must content himself with sticking his tongue out at me, but in a few years he'll be challenging me to a duel over our fair Warden…And I will have to oblige him…after which I'll promptly defeat him and carve my initials with my dagger on his sorry—"
"I wish the moat around the village would challenge you to a duel so we could have some peace and quiet," Morrigan interrupted impatiently. "Go carve your initials on the water, until they take…"
Jayne blinked, watching him boast ridiculously, causing Leliana and Oghren to chuckle and the others to groan and argue back. Something inside her ached, tenderly.
In a few years he'll be challenging me to a duel over our fair Warden…
In a few years, he'd said.
I will take it, she told herself, unable to sustain her glare despite all the idiotic things he was spewing out at such a rapid pace.
He'd inadvertently revealed that he envisioned a future with her in it, she smiled at last, even if he did so in jest, even if the likelihood of such a thing appeared to be slim.
It gave her a rush of mad, impossible hope to imagine what kind of 'few years' those would be. She desperately, she admitted to herself, wanted to know.
A/N: Dialogue about Salvail is from the game. Poor Wynne. Isolde was one of the first Orlesians we got to meet in game, and she did not disappoint. She came across as haughty and I couldn't help feeling she was looking down on my Warden's party. Or maybe it had something to do with her being the ultimate force behind Alistair having been sent away from the only home he'd known, forced to train as a Templar. She's a riot- fun to write. Meow!