The entire Keep was silent from where Fiona sat in the dining hall. No footsteps or creaking doors disrupted the quiet as they had in the other wing of the stronghold. Once Hale left, Fiona was left alone with her thoughts while she waited. Between Hawke and Hale, Fiona had gathered what she needed to know about the Warden's meeting the day prior. Her secret was intact.
The High Constable could be the only conscious Warden who knew of her child, and she planned to keep it that way. She had already practiced what she would say to Cohen, rehearsing in her mind a plea to return to the Wardens and the necessity of keeping the history of her pregnancy confidential. Cohen had been a reasonable man in the past, and Fiona prayed the quality remained.
As expected, he was the first to enter the hall that morning, apparently so accustomed to this habit that he didn't notice her sitting in the corner. She sat patiently, allowing him to gather his items for breakfast, tea and a piece of fruit he had scavenged from some storage place she must have missed within the kitchen.
Lost in thought, he returned to the dining area, gaze set to the ground.
Fiona kept her voice soft, certain she would startle him, regardless. "Good morning."
"Maker!" Cohen gasped in shock. With a few blinks, his eyes focused on the hooded Fiona at her lonely chair at the table. "Is that you, Fiona? Where have you been?"
She nodded. "I need to speak with you. Please, Cohen."
"Do you also need to scare the living daylights out of me?" He sighed, still recovering from being alarmed, and set his tea down at the table across from her. "If you intend to appear frightening, you're successful."
"It was not my intent." Her hands clasped on top of the table began to wring. "I couldn't afford to ask the others questions until I spoke with you."
Cohen made an annoyed snort and shook his head, unmoved by Fiona's situation. "Well, you have found me. It has been a long time."
"That it has." Fiona murmured, recalling her last memories of Cohen when she had returned from the Deep Roads with Duncan.
Fiona had traveled to Weisshaupt a month ago, called for a debriefing about her experience with the Architect. They determined she was an anomaly but not without forcing her to undergo every possible test the Wardens could develop. The taint no longer thrived in her blood, and she had no explanation. So far, they had been unable to reverse the cure.
The testing drained her, and each morning she found herself queasy, dreading what violating methods they would find to examine her that day. She was taken aback to receive a call to the High Constable's office that morning instead.
Dusty sun-stained stone walls encircled the desk in the High Constable's office. They absorbed the heat of the relentless daylight that crept in through narrow windows. Newly appointed to his role, Cohen managed to keep his desk tidy, save for a few scrolls. Weights held one open, revealing a report— about her.
He gestured Fiona to take a seat. The High Constable sat at his desk, his elbows propped on the desktop and his hands laced in front of his chin.
"How are you feeling, Fiona?" he asked with concern, a wrinkle of curiosity marked his brow.
Unsure how honest to reply in the circumstances, she shrugged. "I've been better, High Constable."
"According to the healers, the attempts to initiate another Joining have been unsuccessful." Cohen frowned, scanning the report and only glancing up to Fiona on occasion. "We are fortunate the trials have not harmed you, as it seems you are with child."
"Excuse me?" Fiona's stomach turned, as it had all morning. She put her hand to her mouth to quell the urge to vomit.
Releasing his hands, Cohen leaned back in his chair. "The news was just as astonising to me, considering the odds of two Wardens conceiving. Your quest to the Deep Roads was with your fellow Wardens."
And Maric, Fiona thought to herself, feeling the heat in her cheeks climb to her ears. She wanted to disappear. It was clear Cohen knew the blaring detail he chose to omit.
Whether an act of sympathy or discomfort with the silence, Cohen continued, "It is inappropriate for myself or anyone else to pressure more information, Fiona. You are free to say as much or as little as you like, and the choice of what to do with the child is yours."
His words were calm, even, and this gift of mercy all too rational. After the conditions the leaders at Weisshaupt had subjected upon her, a kind Warden seemed unbelievable. She remained silent in her skepticism.
"With this news, the Order has decided to release you from your service to the Grey Wardens." He removed the weights from the scroll in front of him and rolled it.
"That's it then?" Fiona watched the paper as he tied it. "I'm free?"
"Well," he frowned thoughtfully, "as a mage, you may be obligated to relocate to a Circle, but if and where and when that occurs is your choice. You are also welcome to stay in Weisshaupt as long as you like."
She had left soon after, returning to Orlais and taking up with the Montsimmard Circle. The support of the correct decision was immediate and the circumstances were ideal. Her skills and critical thinking were warmly welcomed and applied. They accepted her, and upon the birth of the child, the Circle approved her leave to make arrangements.
With Duncan as her escort, she went to Denerim having already decided what to do about the child— her son. Confident the plan was possible with Maric's help, Fiona ignored the pain the decision rose within her. It was best for the baby. Duncan held Alistair throughout their trip.
Cohen's voice interrupted Fiona's reflection. "The Wardens on kitchen duties will arrive soon. We can continue this conversation in my office." He gathered his mug, steam still rising over the brim, and took it with him.
She nodded and followed to another suite on the same floor. The few Wardens they passed on their walked mumbled greetings and half salutes to Cohen, barely acknowledging Fiona. Eventually, they reached an office and Cohen.
As soon as the door closed behind Cohen, Fiona blurted, "Let me rejoin the Order."
He blinked with shock, frozen for a moment before stepping to a padded chair by a small end table, both coated in a light layer of dust. He didn't put a desk between them and instead gestured for Fiona to sit across from him.
He asked as he sat down, "What have you heard?
"The Order will be cleansed. All Wardens, sick or not will be freed from the taint. When it is done, they will rejoin." She blushed from the extent of her knowledge, knowing he would wonder where she acquired it.
He snorted, impressed with her intel, but he didn't press her for her sources. "You were unable to rejoin before. What makes you think it would work now?" After he sipped his tea, Cohen set the mug down on the round table and waited for her reply.
"It would be worth trying, wouldn't it?" She leaned forward, determined to convince him. "I have not entered the Deep Roads since that quest, and any influence of the Architect's on my mind or body has long since passed." Her toes wiggled within her shoes. "I am also not with child."
"Good point." He looked to the ground in front of him, possibly recalling the news that led to her release from the Wardens. "We are uncertain if the Wardens will choose to stay."
"I will." A firm tone strengthened her voice. "Let me rejoin, Cohen. You need all the Wardens you can get."
"If this works," Cohen sighed with a defeated shirk to his shoulders, "—if this works, Fiona, you are welcome to rejoin the Order of the Grey."
"Thank you." She said with a relieved exhale, assuming the end of their conversation.
But Cohen's balanced tone posed an inquiry, "Does he know?"
The sense of relief that had washed over her vanished, replaced by weight in her chest. Fiona swallowed the discomfort. She knew who Cohen referred.
"He does not." She pressed her lips together then added, "and I promised his father to keep it that way."
Shaking his head, Cohen took a deep breath and didn't hide his grimace. "The same stands as our prior conversation, Fiona. None alive are aware of the details of your quest and cure, and I have no stake in revealing the information. Yet, considering present circumstances, I fear you will drive yourself to insanity before you maintain this secret."
"I've made it this far." She did not offer Cohen insurance against his concerns. With her terse response, she rose from the chair, ready to leave. She paused. "Thank you for your time and confidence, Cohen, in all respects."
He gave a tentative nod, wary and tired, but Fiona did not humor him. She left the room and chose to return to the dining hall to find the travel party.
The Night Before
"After what happened in Ferelden during the Blight, many young Orlesians volunteered. We were afraid we might be next… ashamed we didn't offer support sooner."
Nathaniel studied Bridgette's enthusiasm as she spoke. Her eyes sparkled, reflecting the votive light between them; she might have teared up but he couldn't tell. The melodic sound of her Orlesian cadence intrigued him and the pleasant shape of her mouth making unique inflections to even the most common words managed to distract him. She didn't seem to notice the way his eyes wandered from hers. He felt guilty, considering the professional and polite nature of their conversation; the intense stare of Hale a few tables over didn't help either.
Nathaniel smiled and replied as diplomatically as he could, "It is heartwarming to hear the past division between our countries does not divide the Wardens."
"Now, I did not say that." Bridgette grinned back and lifted a finger. "Animosity is not always lost between Ferelden and Orlais, or Tevinter and Orlais," she glanced to the ceiling during her pause, searching for words, "or the Free Marches and— well, I could go on." She made a playful roll of her eyes. "But in the face of a Blight, Wardens' obligations to the Order overrule their commitments to their country. That is our charge."
"If we could have acted sooner to help the Inquisition, we may have saved more Wardens from Erimond." He was serious, remembering her upset from the meeting earlier that day. "I extend condolences and regret, Warden Constable Bridgette."
"Bridg," she corrected. "Just Bridg is fine, and do not apologize. You were right during the meeting. We would have only risked more Wardens if you had come." She looked at her hands as she spoke. "The First Warden was right to be circumspect."
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the rough sound of Hale huffing. She rose from her seat and trudged from the dining area. It's better this way. Curiosity and concern were not strong enough to compel him to chase her, and the awkward silence following Bridgette's assurance needed to be filled.
Nathaniel changed the subject.
"I joined the Wardens after the last Blight as well, though it was hardly voluntary," he snickered wryly and nervously adjusted the collar of his tunic with one hand.
"You mean you were conscripted?" She questioned as if this detail was out-of-character for Nathaniel. The woman was smart, knowledgeable thanks to her time in the Order and her extensive dealings with record keeping. He appreciated the engagement of an adult conversation, free from animosity. Guessing she was at most a few years his junior, the faint lines around her eyes suggested he was right.
He gave a single nod. "The current Warden base in Ferelden belonged to my family's name until my father squandered it with deceit to the kingdom. I was in Starkhaven during the Blight and returned to my home when I heard of my father's death. It was then I was conscripted."
He let go of his clothing, wishing they still had food to occupy their hands and mouths between conversation. They had been talking for over an hour, and though he knew the conversation was destined to arrive on the topic of his father, he wasn't pleased it had finally occurred.
"Rendon Howe?" She asked, her brow lifted and then furrowed. Nathaniel assumed Bridgette had already learned his surname from Cohen and put the pieces together, but now she seemed confused. "I thought he only had two children and his son died in the Blight."
Nathaniel made a consternated hum, wishing he was more surprised to discover non-Fereldans were unaware he was the son of his father. "My younger brother passed in the Blight, and my father preferred to pretend I did not exist, hence sending me to the Free Marches as a lad." Nathaniel couldn't retain his dry laugh. "To think I returned to Ferelden to avenge his death."
After tucking a red curl behind the gentle curve of her earlobe, Bridgette's hand touched his on the table. Years spent training in sword and shield with chevaliers left her palm callused, yet the gesture was soft, warm. "It sounds as though your father missed the chance to know an intelligent and capable man."
Hardly. Nathaniel kept his self-deprecation to himself and looked away. Having only shared fragments of his experience as Warden Commander with Bridgette, Nathaniel hadn't admitted his immense burden of failure. If his father had any reaction to the man he was now, it would be undoubted ridicule.
She changed the subject from the awkward silence this time, moving her hand away to her neck. The candlelight flickered, nearly going out. Nathaniel thought he noticed a blush rise in Bridgette's cheeks. "Forgive my boldness, but I must know. Does the Warden Commander of Ferelden have a lady awaiting him at the Keep?"
Another hum escaped him, poised and casual. The question from Bridgette alleviated a portion of his guilt for the intrigue with the elegant way her tongue and lips and tone cooperated as she spoke. His smirked and slowly shook his head. "I do not, Warden Constable. Does anyone wait for you in Orlais?"
"None." With an impish purse of her lips, her chest lifted in confidence.
Their conversation returned to work, drifting in and out of the covertly flirty dialogue, both emboldened by permission to share an open attraction and mutual respect. Years in the Order of the Grey, accumulated seniority and experience, gave them much to talk about. It helped Bridgette seemed to enjoy Nathaniel's company, and she was charming. Hale hadn't crossed his mind since she left.
As the evening waned into the night, the direction of their discussion led them to Nathaniel's room. Nathaniel's heart raced, compelled by the woman leading him down the hall. Her hand brushed his as they hurried down the dark hallway. They murmured to one another comments on the Keep, playful teasing until they found their way to his room.
When they reached his door, Bridgette just a step ahead of him, she turned around. Smiling, her back facing the entrance and pulled the collar of his tunic to bring him closer. Nathaniel leaned forward with her direction, his hand reached to the door frame on her side and his other landed on the handle.
She whispered, "Do you find someone to join your bed in every town you visit?" The words tickled Nate's ear, and the light floral scent of her perfume left him unexpecting of her kiss to his cheek.
Nathaniel replied with a chuckle, sure to keep his voice low so as not to wake the others sharing the hallway. His thumb brushed her cheek as his lips nearly grazed her ear. "The occurrence has been rare since I became Warden Commander. And yourself, milady?"
Again, he left out his off-and-on relationship with Hale for the last year and her consistent place in his bed—by his side. It was easier to act as if their fling hadn't happened, just a simple mistake he had made, attempting commitment, especially with someone so young and immature.
"Yes, on occasion," Bridgette replied, turning her head so her lips brushed his.
Touch provoked another hum from Nathaniel, almost a growl taunted by the sing-song voice coming from the plump lips of this woman. His hand released the door frame and wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, as the other opened the door. Their mouths met, locked as Nathaniel guided Bridgette into his room and shut the door behind him.
A moan escaped her when they reached his bed. With a gentle hand to his chest, she pushed him away as she sat down. Lips red from kissing, Bridgette wrinkled her nose. "This place makes me miss Orlais. Llewellyn leaves this Keep in such disarray. All the rooms smell like mold and dust."
"I've noticed." He watched her with curiosity as she pulled off her satchel and opened it.
"It is why I come prepared." She revealed a few sticks of incense and a small stone and striker. "Ansburg— for all its backwater water— has an excellent trade route."
As if she already knew her way around, Bridgette kicked off her boots and crawled across the bed to the modest bedside table. She lit a small candle with a quick spark from the striker. The old and charred wick ignited, and Bridgette passed the incense sticks through the flame. She blew them out and set them in small notches in the wooden table. Her quick and effortless action left two streams of scented smoke rising to the ceiling as she reclined against the headboard of the bed.
"I'm impressed," Nathaniel said, beholden with Bridgette's brightness. The addition of candlelight let gold glisten in her hair. It made the woman glow. And the smell was soothing, sweet sandalwood the permeated his bedroom.
Her legs stretched across the bed toward him, and she pointed with her toe. "Then I believe it is your turn to impress me, no?" Her head cocked to one side.
With a chuckle, Nathaniel closed the gap between himself and the bed. He grabbed her feet and dragged her to the edge. A light giggle escaped Bridgette as if she wasn't the least bit surprised about Nathaniel's action.
And it all felt natural. The two cooperated as Nathaniel leaned forward to kiss her, working together to remove her clothes. Socks and leather breeches fell to the ground to reveal the bare skin of her defined legs. Nathaniel's hands ran along the outside of her thigh, noticing the stray grooves of scars from long-healed bites, nicks, and gashes resulting from years of swordsmanship.
After a moment of studying her scars, Nathaniel glanced up. Bridgette stared back with an amused arched brow. He smirked a reply and pulled his shirt off, leveling the playing field by revealing a chest of similar healed scars and scratches.
Bridgette sat up. Her confident hands explored his chest and belly, touching grooves of muscles and the indents of old wounds until she made her way to his pants. Unlacing the strings with strong fingers, she let him pull them off when she finished. He removed his boots in the process.
He was hard. Their night of flirting and the unrushed intimacy had teased him far too long. Freed of his breeches, his length rose in his smallclothes. And as if she couldn't resist, her hand pressed against him, holding his member from outside of his underwear. He sighed, wanting more and unwilling to rush it. They were equals, and this heated exploration required patience.
He ran his fingers through her hair, gripping the roots of a handful of hair. She purred, enticed, and deftly pulled his smallclothes over his length, letting them fall around his ankles. And he watched her, attracted and aroused. He had suspected he had impressed her and awaited the natural flow of their connection.
Bridgette stroked him, experienced and aware motions applied a balance of pressure. It coaxed him to groan, and he gripped her hair tighter. As her hand moved, persuading his twitches and heavy breathing, he bent to kiss her. And her lips met his, parting to allow his tongue.
They moaned into each others' mouths, heat emanating from their bodies. Both of Nathaniel's hands moved to find the buttons on Bridgette's cloth gambison. It helped he knew the facets of Grey Warden attire, and that she had refrained from full armor. He could have navigated the garment with his eyes closed, and he nearly did.
She released him and his kiss, taking the chance to pull off her remaining garments. Nathaniel kicked his pants away from his feet at the same time. When he was done, he realized the woman on his bed was completely naked.
The contours of the woman's muscles on her arms and chest proved her time training was well spent, and only seemed to complement the attractive shape of her breasts. Nathaniel inhaled, nearly intimidated by her evident strength compared to his lean build. But the woman waited for him, not the least bit hindered.
So he knelt to the ground. Agile hands separated the woman's legs before Nathaniel dragged his lips along her inner thigh. He reached her heat. And it was hot— wet and swollen, glistening with want. Their eyes met again, continuing this dance in silence, free from insults and derision, free from the blurred lines of a passionate power struggle.
He took his mouth to her, his tongue gliding against her outer folds, tasting her satisfaction. She whispered something in Orlesian and reclined on the bed. Nate continued, wrapping his arms under her legs and reaching up to her chest. His mouth explored, tender and careful, but quick and precise. He searched her entrance until he influenced a loud moan.
When his tongue found her bundled nerves, she convulsed. Her legs tightened for the briefest moment, and her fingers weaved through his hair. She whimpered. Light flicks of Nathaniel's tongue alternated with gentle rubbing of the tender spot. Her back arched and her legs pressed harder against him as her body seized.
Long seconds lasted, and he kept contact until she gasped, coming down, returning from the climax to the bed. He would have continued, prompting another quick orgasm from Bridgette if she hadn't pulled his face up to hers for a long kiss. And in the position, he felt himself against her heat—supple, lubricated, and throbbing against him.
She nodded and whispered. "Yes, Nathaniel Howe." Her hand slid between them and guided him inside.
Preferring the position, the control, and momentum, Nathaniel stood up as Bridgette remained prostrate, her feet were planted on the corner of the bed. He slowly thrust, each inch of his member filling her until he reached her fleshy wall. Then he pushed a little harder.
She sighed and gripped the sheets of his bed. Retracting, Nathaniel thrust again. Slow, steady, feeling her body easing him in with each inch he entered. Her sighs became moans. Attentive to the tightness of her body relaxing as he thrust, Nathaniel increased his speed and force.
"Bridg," he murmured, panting as his hips firmly rolled into her, filling her up. "Is this good for you?" His voice was concerned, and void of flirting. He didn't ask to boost his ego.
She smiled and squeezed her legs against his sides. "It is quite good."
And it was good. Wet friction stimulated his groans, and the impact satisfied something deeper, something frustrated and carnal Nathaniel could not explain. But Bridgette didn't mind; instead, she took him in, over and over until he had to lean forward. He pressed a hand to the bed beside her so his other could massage her muscular breast.
It seemed the touch freed her. Bridgette's hips pressed, requiring Nathaniel to maneuver to stay inside. She sang climax— a beautiful and pleasured sound, void of anger and hostility. Her body stiffened, eyes squeezed shut, and she convulsed for waves, the pitch of her moan changing with each crest.
And it called to him. Bridgette's pulsing tightness around him and the ache throbbing in his cock made him want something more. In the past, if he had gone weeks without release, he would come effortlessly, time now seemed time to contribute to his stamina. He slowed, and Bridgette seemed to read his mind. She nudged him to remove himself, and she rolled to her hands and knees.
"I enjoy it this way." She explained, grinning over her shoulder to him and crawling forward to make room for him on the bed.
He knelt behind her and found his way inside once more. His pace accelerated faster that time and her moans matched. A hand squeezing her hip gave him control of force and impact, and the curve in her back seemed to allow him further entry. She met another climax and he groaned, all but pounding into her as his other palm gripped her rear. A frustrated growl fell from his lips and his hips bucked into her. He throbbed, releasing. Spent.
When he pulled out, he cleaned himself with his underclothes and handed them to her. "Thank you, Bridgette. That was not what I expected when I arrived in Ansburg's Keep."
"Nor I when you arrived, Nathaniel. Though I am not the slightest bit disappointed." She tossed his clothing to the floor. Without another word, she found his tunic and pulled it on.
Nathaniel snorted to himself, gathering a washed pair of smallclothes from his belongings. One leg at a time, he put them on, realizing the aches and pains in his body from the extent of his travels to get there. He knew he would sleep well that night.
Bridgette would too, apparently. The woman joined him under the covers and fell asleep against him. Her incense still burned.
When he woke the next morning, Bridgette was still there. At first, he smiled, content with the appealing shape of her warm and welcoming body stretched alongside him. But then a knot tugged at his stomach. He remembered the confusing and tender night with Hale just a few days before they reached Ansburg. Hiding his activities with Bridgette would be impossible, and the desire to do so was disrespectful to her.
He rose from his bed and dressed in clean clothes, glancing at Bridgette's muscular body comfortably prone. Fuck. What have I done?
Hair brushed and braided, he left the bedroom, only to find a damp and disgruntled hair walking on the other side of the hallway. Concerned, he called to her. "Hale?"
And she explained, an angry description of an attack by ghouls. When her speech slowed, she shivered. The news of the ghouls should have worried him more, but under the present circumstances, he was not alarmed. He found himself more worried about Hale. Familiar with the challenges of a bruised ego, he wanted to give her his gambeson or better, take her into his room and help her change. But he couldn't. Instead, he put his hands on her shoulders, attempting to keep her warm.
He checked her safety, gave encouragement and directions, orders as Warden Commander. Before their conversation could continue, Bridgette joined them. The knot in Nathaniel's stomach tightened, and he noticed Hale's face pale. Shit.
She nodded blankly before wandering to her room, and Nathaniel desired to go after her. But he didn't. Bridgette took his arm and led them down for breakfast. His heart sank when he heard Hale's cry as they turned the corner of the hallway.