The march felt familiar, and yet it was the longest walk of his life. An anger Nathaniel couldn't explain bubbled inside, and his heart rate quickened along with his pace. Certain Hale had her reasons, he didn't blame her for punching the Senior Warden, nor did he believe she was responsible for the confiscated spirits from the Ansburg cellar. Yet with each step, he found his jaw clenching tighter.
Grateful for the excuse, he had dropped the confines of his daily routine to find her. To scold her? He wasn't sure of the purpose, but his body felt a need to voice his frustration. With what? The question lingered, and he marched on, confident the answer would find him before he reached her.
His initial stop in the dining hall did not reveal the Warden. His Warden, according to Llewellyn and on some level, Nathaniel agreed. They had this argument before, multiple times, and it was truer now that they were broken up than ever. Her actions reflect Fereldan's faction. He mindfully repeated his justification for the sense of responsibility, hurrying his steps before he reached the deserted Shrike wing. Without knocking, he opened her door to find an unoccupied room.
"Damn it, Hale," Nathaniel murmured in the empty bedroom.
Backtracking, he decided to search somewhere he would find results. Within minutes of entering the library, he found Philippa and Fiona deep in conversation in a corner.
"Philippa," he grumbled, and she ignored him, her other dialogue unbroken by his presence. "Philippa, I need to find Hale."
She held up her finger to Nathaniel without facing him, but she spoke loud enough for him to hear. "Pardon me, Fiona. Dearest Nathaniel needs me and apparently, it is more important than our quest for a cure for the Warden illness. Give me just a moment." Her toothy smile glistened. "What is it, dear?"
Aside from the sarcasm in her politeness, Philippa appeared tired. Wrinkles in her skin had deepened, and the circles under her eyes appeared darker. He assumed the magic she used to glamorize her appearance was too costly of mana in addition to fighting off the illness.
"Commander—" he corrected, clearing his throat. "Have you seen her—Hale?"
"She's quite popular among the Ansburg Wardens today, isn't she?" Philippa hummed; her chest lifting with pride. "From what I've heard, she corrected a certain Senior Warden's misconceptions of how to treat a guest."
"Do you know where she is now? It seems I might need to reprimand her for whatever happened."
Philippa tittered and gave him a knowing stare, a combination of pity and humor. "Come now, Nathaniel. I'd like to see you try." She followed a dramatic blink with a few shorter ones.
"What is that supposed to mean?" He widened his stance and crossed his arms.
"Must we argue?" She looked him up and down. "I'm not doubting your conviction. I believe you aspire to reprimand the dear child, just as you've intended since the two of you have met."
"We have talked about her behavior on many occasions. I do not let everything she does slide." He felt his neck elongating away from his collar and tried to hide the defensiveness building.
"I'm not sure who you are trying to convince." Her brows raised in question and she pointed at herself and then Fiona before pointing back to Nathaniel. A sarcastic shrug confirmed the mystery. "If you must know, the last I checked, she was with the Ansburg Wardens in the training yard."
He snorted and shook his head, confident that if he kept talking, he would only dig a deeper hole with evidence that he consistently failed to act as a leader to Hale. After locating the closest door to the outer grounds, Philippa called from behind him, "When you're done, Nathaniel dear, I have news for you!"
"Warden," Nathaniel called to Hale, who stretched in the grass with her new friends under the late afternoon sun. Behind them, the dead and dying grasses of the manicured training yard crunched under the feet of soldiers practicing drills. Dry spells and lowered evening temperatures drained the color from the foliage, and beyond Hale's new comrades, hills of brownish shrubbery faded into the horizon.
He received looks from many of her group, but none answered as he came closer. Choosing to use her name this time, he ordered, "Hale, report."
She blinked slowly and yawned, behaviors consistent with the puffy bags under her bloodshot eyes. "Report what?"
"What happened last night?" He didn't know what he wanted her to say that he didn't know already.
The other Wardens around her snickered and coughed as they rose and walked away. A tall woman patted Hale on the back before she departed.
Forearms rested in the dead grass of the minor incline; Hale stared away from him. Her long legs stretched in one direction with one foot crossed over the other, and her hair draped over one shoulder, exposing one side of her neck to the sun. In his present state, her disregard for his presence irritated him, but Nathaniel admitted missing her attitude even when he was the recipient—especially when he was the recipient. Lovely creature.
He forced himself to center his gaze on the side of her head.
"Nothin' happened 'side from teachin' some wanker not to touch me." She shirked her shoulders.
"Someone touched you?" He took a step closer to her, scanning her attire and skin for any evidence of injury or struggle, but remembered Llewellyn's report the man had ended up in the infirmary. "I told Llewellyn the man must have deserved it. You're all right?"
Stupid question, Nathaniel thought. He had seen her that morning in the dining hall, gloating over her victory. He knew she was fine. The question just extended a pointless conversation. Why am I here?
"What d'you think?" A lazy hand gestured her body, and she tilted her head over her shoulder to look up at him. "The arse biscuit smacked my arse so I let him have it. Why d'you even care?"
Nathaniel cleared his throat with a laugh. Good job, Huntress. "Warden Commander Llewellyn tried to blame you for the conflict and the drinking last night. I thought I would need to reprimand you." The conversation meandered. This didn't satisfy whatever propelled his pace to reach her. After two weeks of silence between them, he needed more. What is it?
"Well, you don't. Tell Llewellyn his Warden's a bellend." She sat up and crossed her legs in front of her, still avoiding eye contact with a gaze into the moors. "I'm sure yer new lass is looking for you."
She was right. After the morning meeting and the way he had departed, Bridgette was definitely looking for him. The shred of jealousy in Hale bolstered him. His heartbeat sped.
"Hale, I've wanted to talk to you about Bridgette." Weight on his feet shifted. He kneeled to her eye level and rubbed his fingers against his palms. His hands were sweaty, and he couldn't discern if it was due to the heat of the afternoon sun or his compulsion to talk to her. Look at me.
She swung to face him with an intimidating grimace and growled, "The fuck's there to talk about, Nate?! You're ploughin' someone else. That's it." In an instant, her disinterest turned to aggression.
He appreciated the reaction. Witnessing a glimpse of the rage she carried translated as loving, and a half-hearted want to appease her anger helped him search for clearer words. "I'm sorry." They fell flat. He knew it.
"Don't be," she barked. "When Phil finds the cure, you and yer pretty lass can go make babies like the bastard king and the bitch queen." In a fluid movement, Hale's feet planted, and she stood up, and stomped away from him.
"Is that really what you think I want to do?" He laughed again, louder this time. The thought of moving his legs didn't occur to him, but a step took him in the same direction. "I'm not leaving the Wardens or my post." Or you. The thought made his chest tighten, and he fought the feeling back with a frown.
Her shoulder rolled up to her ears as she rolled her head back. "I don't know what you soddin' want, Nate!" Her stomps took her further.
Fists clenched, Nathaniel followed, frustrated at her unwillingness to hear what he was trying to convey. What am I trying to say?
"Hale, she doesn't mean anything to me."
Hale snorted just as he caught up to her. Her mouth dropped open in disbelief, and he followed her lips, the edges curving up to a bitter smirk. "Cheers, mate. You're too bloody good at letting a lady think you mean something."
The connotation sank in and Nathaniel's face burned as if she had smacked him. Echoing off the walls of the nearby Keep and into the rolling hills of the moors, he roared, "Do I need to remind you that you fucked Garrett Hawke!?"
A weight lifted off his chest. The chance to air this grievance released anger he had denied since the Silent Plains.
"Yeah, 'cause you were still after the queen!" she screamed, her red face accentuated by her red hair. "And I'm still kickin' myself for rollin' around with him. You knew it, but you ploughed her anyway!"
Any regret Hale carried for sleeping with Garret was because of her qualms around his performance, not because she was sorry. Baffled by her blindness to the correlation between her actions and his, Nathaniel shook his head and extended his hands in frustrated question. "How many times do I have to tell you that I do not love Caoilainn?" Like I loved you. "You knew that, but you fucked the Champion of fucking Kirkwall immediately after I asked you not to!"
Hale's voice dropped, rigid and boiling. "You didn't ask anything, Nate. You gave me an order." An accusing index finger pointed at Nathaniel.
"Damn it, Hale." He made an exasperated groan. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."
Nathaniel and Hale's argument diminished from yelling to low voices. The vaguest awareness of onlookers wandering closer from the training yard did not incite any urgency for Nathaniel to move their quarrel elsewhere. The spectators kept their distance, too far to hear, but close enough to observe with cautious curiosity. Bridgette was among them, brow creased. Her arms folded over her chest.
Hale didn't seem to notice them as she ignored his correction. With an exasperated huff, she dug her heel into the dirt and hissed, "Well, what was that in soddin' Starkhaven? Cock hard one minute then," her shift to a whisper indicated she felt this was the most private information of their entire conflict, "sobbin'to me the next. And I'm a dumb fucken cunt 'cause I thought it meant something. But we hadn't been in Ansburg one night before you found another lay."
She's so fucking oblivious. Frustrated with her immaturity, Nathaniel related her ignorance of the onlookers to her ignorance in her actions.
"Yeah, I thought it meant something too." The argument had lasted too long to stop now. Wary of the soldiers' proximity, he whispered back, "But you were angry we didn't sleep together, and you left without a word."
"So, you went and fucked somebody else!?" The yell reverberated through the field.
I'm still kicking myself. Heat tinged his cheeks. Embarrassed the spectators heard Hale's words without any question and angry with Hale for her declared priorities.
"Grow up, Hale! We were never exclusive! I know because you ended it with me when I asked about it." He bared his teeth and growled at the sky, frustrated with the circular argument. "If that's all this ever was to you," his hand made a dismissive wave between them before it dropped to his side, "just fucking say so."
"Fuck all, Nate," she said through a derisive laugh. "You shut me down then cried like a baby and I still fuckin spent the night. What d'you want from me?" She exaggerated the question, her neck straining as her eyes rolled.
Her glare demanded an answer, and he had none. As much as he admitted validity within her statement, it did nothing to resolve his frustration. Hale's silent departure from his room in Starkhaven had splintered his confidence.
His narrowed eyes locked with hers through an extended silence. Calm and neutral, he spoke, "If they find a cure for the Wardens, are you going to leave?"
"The fuck do you care?" She shifted on her feet as she looked at the ground.
"As Warden Commander, I need to know if you would rejoin."
The scowl distorting her expression said what it needed, but Hale added anyway, "Grow up, Nate."
Hale walked toward the Keep, passing through the crowd of Wardens who appeared less interested in their conversation as a few minutes prior. As she passed Bridgette, walking pointedly close to the Warden Constable, Nathaniel heard Hale scoff.
9:10 Dragon, Denerim
"This is harder than I thought it would be." Fiona caressed the chubby cheek of the red-headed baby that Duncan cradled in his arms. A tiny nose and mouth scrunched as the newborn's face turned toward Duncan's chest. With a tender voice and gentle rocking, Duncan kept the babe from waking.
The fireplace flickered in the quiet study, filling in the gaps of the heavy silence between them. This was it, a final goodbye to Maric, their child she had carried, and their sad love story gone awry.
Was this even love? The confines of the Deep Roads had rushed intimacy. Both were wounded and lonely when they met, and in their vulnerability Fiona and Maric needed each other; it was temporary, nothing more and nothing less. Had she not accomplished the impossible and gotten pregnant, perhaps it could have continued in private, though they could never be seen together. She tried not to deceive herself into thinking too much about what could have been.
Nine grueling months spent carrying Maric's bastard son in secret resulted in this perfect, somehow healthy child. Every week that progressed had surprised her, and each morning she had woken in disbelief the child within her survived. Her time as a Warden caused no harm, and her body had cooperated with his growth.
The presence of him alive and well outside of her body felt even more surreal. The boy looked nothing like her, save for a darker pigment to his skin than his father. Her heart sank as she accepted this was the last time she would see the child. Tears welled in her eyes.
"We don't have to do this." The large hand of Maric rested on her shoulder and squeezed. His other arm wrapped around her waist. She wanted to close her eyes and inhale, to appreciate the scent of his clean sweat and furs, but it felt wrong.
The tender kiss they had shared in a special moment was over. It felt like long ago. Under these circumstances, his touch made her cringe. Fiona's shoulders lifted to her ears as she squirmed away from him. "Don't."
"Sorry. I...," He sighed, rubbing his neck as he looked into the fire. "This is hard for me too. I thought we were doing the right thing, but now I'm not so sure. I care about you both."
Duncan's swaying carried him toward the door he just entered, a silent offering to Fiona and Maric for more time to talk. When the infant whimpered, Duncan made a shushing sound from behind his teeth, and when it seemed the baby might waken, he let it suck on the knuckle of his index finger. Jealousy made Fiona's stomach tighten. Her friend showed a stronger, natural inclination to the child she bore than she could muster.
Nothing about this was fair.
"Don't go, Duncan." She called before he opened the door, concerned that if she took more time to talk with Maric, his optimism might convince her to do something unwise. She turned back to him, the tall, sad looking king whose wrinkled brows showed sympathy. "Caring isn't enough, Maric. It wouldn't be fair."
"We both did this. We made him together, and we can figure it out together. It's not too late for us to find another way."
"How? What is the other way?" Emotions she couldn't describe surged. They felt similar to what overtook her when she had first seen the child, every time she heard him cry or coo, and whenever his warm skin touched hers. The feelings were joyful and sad and strong and only intensified as she settled on her decision to leave him. Her sarcasm rang through her whisper in her attempt not to wake Alistair, "Should I subject him to living with me in the Circle until they send him off to be a templar? Pray to the Maker he doesn't show signs of magic before then. You wouldn't do that to your son. Or perhaps you should pull some strings and hire me on as the help so I can watch someone else raise him? I can't do that."
She glanced at the newborn and an ache pierced her heart. This shouldn't have even been possible. Nothing about this was fair.
"He doesn't have to live as a human."
"No. At least you have the ability to make sure he's taken care of. The best I can do is pretend I never existed."
She walked to Duncan, taking a deep breath as she studied the boy's features. He had woken and stared up at her with observant blue eyes. She fought the urge to touch him and failed, letting her hand cup the back of his head. Fine ginger hair and a tiny warm scalp met the curve of her palm, fitting perfectly before she retracted. She had to stop touching him. Looking at him only made this harder.
Maric stared at her quietly and let out a large sigh. "I'm not going to make you do anything you're not willing to do." His steps took him beside her, but he didn't force his touch.
Without meeting any of their gazes, she nodded. She reached a hand to touch Alistair's cheek again, and as she did, his small hand wrapped around her single digit. Fiona caught her breath, and her tears finally fell. With her free hand, she reached for Maric's palm and squeezed.
Duncan whispered, "I'll watch over him. You both have my word."
Maric's sorrowful smile to Duncan was followed by a gentle kiss on Alistair's head. She couldn't be certain, but Fiona sensed Maric might have blinked away his own tears. Without any other words, Duncan left with the child
and that was it. She would never see the baby or the King again.
The newborn wailed from somewhere beyond the wall, the volume lessening with each step she took in the opposite direction. It drained every ounce of effort not to sob as she left the palace.
Maric had asked if they would ever meet again and Fiona had answered, "If the Maker wills it."
She prayed, if the Maker willed this tragedy, may my path never cross Maric's again.
The longer they sat in the library, the more details Fiona noticed. Mold crawled up the walls between the stonework, yet she noticed it avoided the bookshelves. Aside from a thick layer of dust, countless texts showed no evidence of damage of time or weather thanks to magic.
Despite her duty to research a cure, Fiona found her mind wandering to Alistair. By the end of their last conversation, when she admitted she was his mother, the resentment in his eyes had changed to disappointment. He remained guarded around her since their talk, as if he had no idea how to act toward the woman who just told him she was his mother. She didn't know how to act toward him either.
Two weeks spent mulling over ways to approach him while searching for a solution to a much larger problem left her exhausted. Yet Fiona knew her exhaustion paled in comparison to Philippa's. The woman tried to hide her symptoms, but they showed. It seemed overnight, gray emerged in her hair, deep lines creased through her previously pristine face. Neither magic nor make-up couldn't hide the circles under her eyes.
Fiona sat opposite Garrett Hawke while Philippa searched through bookshelves for something. They had been there for hours and had accomplished nothing substantial, like their progress each day since they arrived. In her boredom, Fiona couldn't help but recall her last moments with the baby who would grow up to be the Alistair she knew now.
It was hard to believe he knew the truth of her most shameful moment, a decision she had loathed making though she had no other choice.
A distant chiming ringing in Fiona's ears brought her back to the room. The faint and repetitive sound hadn't caught the attention of Hawke when she checked his reaction. Instead, the man's eyes followed Philippa as she returned to the table.
"Ew," Hawke made a face bordering on disgust as Philippa joined them. "Someone's age is showing."
"Do shut up. I must concentrate." With a roll of her eyes, she focused her attention on the text in front of her. Whispering a short incantation, Philippa channeled her mana.
Fiona recognized a spell intended to clean the page and rid the tome of dust, based on the most likely translation. It was simple magic, requiring little skill or mana.
Nothing happened.
Philippa cleared her throat and aimed her magic again, this time closing her eyes to focus more effort. A cloud of dust flew off the book, immediately followed by the book itself shooting off the table.
As a courtesy to her friend, Fiona rose to fetch the text. The chiming grew faint until she returned. It seemed the others still hadn't noticed, or the sound was in her imagination. She hoped it was the former. "Are you sleeping well?" Fiona asked Philippa as she set the book down.
She couldn't tell if the exaggerated batting of Philippa's lashes was the result of her annoyance or sleep deprivation, but her forced smile belied her pleasant mood. "What do you mean, dear?"
"Have your symptoms progressed?" Fiona's question was direct. They all knew Philippa had exhibited the Warden illness, and the risk of its progression rushed their search for a cure.
Hawke snickered, turning the page of a book. "She means to ask if you're stable. You know, physically and mentally. With an emphasis on mentally."
"Shut up," Fiona's attention broke from Philippa to provide Hawke an order in a patient and neutral tone. "Philippa, perhaps you should rest while we continue our search."
The sorceress scoffed. "Pish posh. And leave you two to receive all the glory when you find the cure?" For a brief moment, Philippa's hand trembled as she moved a stack of texts on the table. The woman's eyes glanced at Fiona, checking to see if she noticed. Rather than acknowledge, Philippa smiled. "It's no matter, anyway. I would never leave you to fend for yourself with this charlatan." Her hand waved in Hawke's direction.
"This charlatan saved Kirkwall, remember." His sleeves stretched over the back of the chair as he reclined. A smug grin spread across his face.
"Really?" Philippa's brow lifted with mock surprise. "How could I forget when you continue to remind us?"
The chiming had accelerated, rising in pitch and volume. Fiona's efforts to ignore the clamor for fear of insanity failed., "Maker, don't you hear that?" She blurted her question and closed her book with a woosh. Looking under the table to identify the source of the persistent sound, she said, "It's coming from your bag, Philippa."
"What on earth are you talking about? What is that?" To Fiona's relief, Philippa registered hearing the noise, and swung the large bag from the floor onto her lap before rustling through its contents. For a few minutes Fiona and Hawke could only watch, hearing the dinging sound change in volume as it moved around in the bag.
Philippa placed a small red and chiseled stone on the table. In time with the chiming, it glowed from within.
"What is that?" Hawke asked, pointing to the stone and raising a brow at Philippa.
With a frustrated huff, she smacked his hand away and shook her head. "Don't ask me! I have no idea what this is or what it's doing in my bag."
"It's an elven stone," Fiona muttered, turning the rock in her hands, "for communication."
"'Tis about time you answered this blasted crystal." A woman's voice emanated from the stone and Fiona dropped it to the table. It continued to glow from within as the speaker scolded them. "I suspected you might need my help at some point. Considering you've been at Ansburg for weeks now, it seems I was right."
Picking up the red-colored rock, Philippa rolled her eyes. "You're too kind, Morrigan. We know what we plan to do, thank you. At this point, we're merely searching for the magical means to follow through with our plan. I suppose you have some backwoods magic to recommend? Should I send for raven bones and mugwort?"
Please have a recommendation. Fiona refrained from voicing her thoughts. Since forming said plan, the trio had long since met a dead end, and at this point the mage's time spent in the library seemed arbitrary. It merely gave them something to report to Nathaniel daily.
The stone remained silent and unilluminated in response. After a long moment, Morrigan spoke with an audible edge in her voice. "If you are too stubborn to accept my help, I will keep my suggestions to myself and the lot of you can remain at the Warden keep indefinitely until all the Wardens die."
"Maker, please just tell us." Hawke's hands planted on the table as he leaned toward the stone. "Don't listen to the aged one."
Philippa's nose twitched at Hawke's remark and she folded her arms, waiting for Morrigan to continue.
"'Tis only reasonable the three of you have at least managed to determine the need to recreate the spell I designed for Alistair and Caoilainn."
The glowing managed to brighten Philippa's features as she scowled. Flipping through one of the books on the table, she called to the crystal without looking at it, "We've determined the previous spell insufficient to cure the entire Order, that much is true."
Blushing, Fiona added, "We don't have Keiran." The use of the child's blood in the original concoction had made her uncomfortable. She didn't approve of blood magic, though she knew the other women had fewer reservations about its use when necessary.
"You have far better," Morrigan said. "A cured Warden will be more powerful."
Scoffing, Philippa slammed her book shut. "You know that we have too many to cure to make that feasible. Why else would you think our search has taken so long?"
Morrigan's stone gave a quick reply, "'Twill be a sacrifice. You have two candidates among you."
The room remained silent, and the dying illumination of the stone punctuated Morrigan's suggestion. A glance exchanged between Philippa and Hawke before both mages' attention settled on Fiona. The uncomfortable weight of their stares sparked a chill down her spine.
Philippa spoke to the stone, but her eyes held Fiona's. "I would not ask his majesty to do such a thing."
Closing her eyes, Fiona took a deep breath.
She remembered her final kiss with Maric before the heartache of parting with Alistair overcame her love for the man. The memory of her child's tiny hand wrapping around her finger and his wailing on the other side of the wall had haunted her for too long.
"I'll do it."
Fiona prayed to herself. Let the Maker's will be done.