A billow of smoke lurks above the University of the Frostbacks, staining the clouds and the pastel colors of the morning sky.
Meraad switches on the ancient TV in the kitchen. Beneath a trailing pot of ivy, the local news plays footage of flames engulfing several of the main classroom buildings. The cause is currently unknown, the newscaster says in a well-practiced Denerim accent, cutting to a scene of confusion at the student union several blocks away. Only a few people were on campus at the time. Thank the Maker they all made it out of there.
Under the tiled table, Barkspawn whines and puts his head in Meraad's lap.
Meraad scratches the mabari hound behind the ears and makes soothing noises.
He tries to eat the omelet he made. It tastes like glue.
While he's pushing it around the plate, his phone rings. He checks the caller ID, and in an instant, the dingy old kitchen of his share house looks just a little bit brighter.
"I'm sorry to call so early," says Cassandra, blankets tented over her legs. "I didn't get much sleep last night."
"Don't be. Neither did I."
Meraad sounds exhausted. Cassandra wants to curl up with him, but this will have to do. She asks whether his housemates are all right (yes) and whether the smoke has blown toward his neighborhood in the foothills (no). He asks about the situation in town. Blocked-off streets, windows sealed tight, people milling around, emergency crews driving past with trucks full of half-burnt documents and other salvage.
Satinalia is over.
Cassandra slips under the covers and stares at the landscape painting on the wall. She imagines Meraad is surrounded by a forest of houseplants, fresh and green against the gloom.
"I hear classes are canceled next week," she says. "Hopefully they will have found somewhere to relocate us after that."
They agree to let each other know if they find out anything more.
"Meraad—wait—"
"Hmm?" His voice is a quiet rumble over the line.
"Is there still a hockey game tomorrow?"
"Last I heard, so long as the air quality is okay." Meraad cradles the phone against his shoulder as he scrapes the five-egg omelet into the trash. The thought of eating it later makes his stomach churn. Ma would despair if she saw this. What a waste. "Bull and I already checked in with the team. They're all fine. Not sure about their morale, but we'll pull through somehow."
"You will," says Cassandra, and Meraad lets himself believe it. Her voice is calm and resolute. "I'll watch the broadcast."
As she says this, Meraad opens the fridge to assess his options. Damn, we're out of orange juice again. It's hard to stay well-stocked for very long when you're a seven-foot-tall Vashoth with housemates. A fair amount of the stuff has DO NOT EAT scrawled across it, courtesy of Morrigan. Alistair isn't as sneaky as he thinks he is.
Meraad shakes his head. He spends a long second thinking about how to reply to Cassandra.
"We'll try not to let you down."
On her way to the afternoon market, trenchcoat hood pulled firmly over her head, Cassandra passes by the old village chantry. People are clustered under the heavy stone archway, passing through, stopping to talk. A few of the congregants look elderly enough to remember the last Blight. It must be frightening for them to see this destruction and panic, no matter how swiftly it's been contained.
A haze lingers in the rafters of the indoor market hall. Cassandra brings a basket of greens and tomatoes up to the weighing counter. Only a few vendors have set up shop today. She taps her card, feeling vaguely guilty, and scoops the vegetables into her canvas backpack.
She lingers at the chantry entrance on the way back. At the far end of the dimly lit sanctum, a wooden statue of Andraste is ringed with candles and garlands of flowers. The prophet smiles serenely above the wavering flames, sword at her waist, shield at her side.
"I don't understand." The words escape Cassandra's lips before she can catch them.
A sister in red and white robes glances over, mid-sweep.
Cassandra nods at her and steps back onto the cobblestones.
The arena is packed. Hockey is big in Ferelden, you might say, if you were prone to understatement. Meraad isn't surprised that this is where everyone has come together. The smoke from the damaged buildings has mostly cleared, but the investigation has barely begun, and it still isn't clear where classes will be held from now on.
Meraad watches from the bench as the Frostback Heralds speed across the ice in a blur of pine-green and obsidian, taking the chance for a final warm-up before the game. The school mascot shrieks across their uniforms. It's a bizarrely aggressive version of a migratory bird, the herald of a long-awaited spring in the frozen mountains. The Gwaren Wyverns file out onto the other half of the rink. Their namesake is emblazoned in gold on their white and charcoal uniforms, rearing back with claws and wings outstretched.
"We can take 'em," says Bull, adjusting his eyepatch. He scans the rink, and Meraad can picture the arrows and x-marks he's mentally drawing with a squeaky whiteboard marker.
Meraad is drawing them, too. Humans take one look at him and Bull (and their impressive racks of horns, if he does say so himself) and assume their coaching strategy must be based on physical strength. Not so. The Heralds are bold, yes, but only inasmuch as they're fast and clever and don't waste a single opportunity. The rest of the league has learned this the hard way.
The players take their positions. The centers glide into place for the opening faceoff.
Surrounded by a raucous, screaming crowd and echoing music, the game begins.
Cassandra settles on her bed in a sweatshirt and pajama pants, grabs the bowl of dried blueberries and popcorn balanced on the pile of romance novels on her nightstand, and finds the livestream on her laptop. She's never seen a hockey game before.
The camera pans across the swirl of activity on the ice, then switches to a rinkside shot of the benched Heralds. The players talk amongst themselves and with their coaches, one of whom looks very familiar. Cassandra's heart leaps.
Meraad is dressed in a traditional Fereldan tunic, much like the other coaches. Unlike some of the Heralds, whose manes flow freely from under their helmets, his long hair is pulled back in its usual knot behind his neatly polished horns. He stands behind the bench, towering over the seated players. A dwarf with a clean-shaven jaw and a large mustache turns to say something and he stoops down to be heard over the noise. Their body language is casual, but when Meraad turns his gaze to the rink again, he's as serious as Cassandra has ever seen him. She studies the screen, trying to reconcile him with the man she kissed at the Satinalia party.
All too quickly—no, go back!—the camera switches to the center. The referee blows the whistle, and two players jostle for the puck until one of the Wyverns slaps it down the rink to their teammate. The players explode into action.
Cassandra had no idea a person could move that fast on the ice.
She wonders what Meraad would look like if he were out there with them.
Meraad concentrates on the game, following the Wyverns and the Heralds as they zigzag across the ice.
Morale was better than expected at practice yesterday, as well as earlier today when they had their pregame skate. Meraad remembers how it felt to prepare before a big game back at Denerim State, and later at the professional arena in Amaranthine. The thrill, the pressure, the ritual, the focus. They needed this.
After Bull had gotten them sufficiently riled up with his locker room speech, they went through their strategy and lineup one final time. Krem and Skinner, who play left and right wing, are one of their most effective duos. They're usually in the starting lineup—which is precisely why they'll be in the second line today, to catch the Wyverns off their guard.
The game kicks off with a ferocious intensity that doesn't abate. The teams are evenly matched and they know it. When the clock stops for another shift change, and the third line of players heads off the ice to rest their aching muscles, Meraad finds himself wondering about Cassandra. Is she enjoying the game, back in her apartment?
An image flashes through his mind of Cass in a hockey jersey. His hockey jersey. The old one that he keeps in his closet.
He spends the next few minutes quietly dying inside while attempting to do his job.
Twelve and a half minutes into the first period, Krem passes to Skinner, a rapid volley down the ice that leaves the defense scrambling to catch up. Skinner narrowly avoids a sweep check, dodging a swipe from one of the defenseman's sticks, and she sends the puck back to Krem, who has already barrelled past for a breakaway. He's beyond the Wyverns' defense now, beyond everyone. The goalie butterflies, trying to protect the net with the full span of his legs, but it's too late.
The announcer blows the horn, an ancient thing gilded in bronze, and the arena erupts.
Wait. Did I just call her "Cass?"
Cassandra throws up her hands. "This is outrageous!"
It's the middle of the third and final period. The teams are tied, 2-2, and one of the Wyverns has just sped up from behind and slammed into his opponent in an attempt to take the puck, sending the defenseless Herald flying into the side of the rink with a crash. The glass shakes from the impact, mere inches from the front row of spectators.
"The act of a coward," she fumes. "Penalty!"
Shortly afterwards, a vicious fight breaks out, and the dastardly Wyvern is joined in the box by a player from each side.
This game is utter madness. Cassandra can't stop watching.
Apparently the Heralds now have a chance at a "power play," according to the commentators, who sound thrilled. Substitutes enter the rink, but the Wyverns are left one player down. Ah, yes. This seems important.
Cassandra wishes the camera would cut to the bench so she can see Meraad's reaction. She frowns and shoves the last good bits of the popcorn-and-dried-blueberry mix into her mouth.
The Heralds push into the far third of the rink, past the blue line. Three of them position themselves among the Wyverns in the center, and the other two flank them near the walls. They shoot. They miss. They're pushed back, and then they surge forward again in the same formation.
The power-play clock ticks down. Fifty-six seconds. Cassandra is so tense, she barely remembers to breathe.
In a flurry of passes and interceptions, one of the flanking Heralds—the runes on the back of his jersey say "Aclassi"—gains possession, winds up, and takes a shot.
The goalie smacks the puck away. In the thicket of players, one of them catches the rebound.
The puck hits the back of the net. The horn blares and the crowd roars.
Cassandra yells and leaps up in excitement, showering the bed in a flurry of popcorn crumbs.
When Meraad gets home that night, he staggers upstairs, pulls off everything but his boxer briefs, and flops onto the bed with a muffled thump. A few minutes later, he forces himself to get up and brush his teeth.
On the shelf above the sink, his phone starts to buzz. He picks it up and taps the green button on the touchscreen.
"Shanahedan! I just saw the game," says his brother, Kaaras, speaking their mother tongue as they usually do. "Fantastic stuff. Seems like they've learned a lot from you, hey?"
His voice is deep, good-humored, confident. Worlds apart from that of the little scamp who followed Meraad around the farm, asking endless questions and trying to roughhouse when they were supposed to be helping out.
"Thanksh," Meraad replies in slurred Qunlat, unsure of what else to say. He spits into the sink. "Mm, sorry. Toothbrush. How are you, how is everyone?"
"Just the usual. Harvest's going well enough. Ma figured out the problem with the malaxer last week, so we're making good olive oil again."
"That's great. Is Nadine feeling any better in the mornings?" He turns on the faucet to wash his face.
"Not yet, but the meds are helping. She's started working on the cradle between projects. Almost finished with a big order for a set of chairs. Pa's taking care of the deliveries."
The line crackles, cutting through his words. Reception isn't great in the Adaar residence, with its tiled roof and stone walls and broadleaf trees that shade it from the summer sun and winter rain. Meraad strains to catch everything Kaaras says.
"...that should be enough for us to pay off the rest of the loan. Also, Herah wants you to know that she scored high marks on her midterms," he adds, referring to their much younger sister.
"I knew she would. U of Markham, watch out."
"What else is going on in Haven these days?"
Meraad tells Kaaras about the campus fire.
"Vashedan. That's awful."
He dries his face with a washcloth. "We still have no idea why it happened. Guess we'll just have to do our best in the meantime." He sighs. "Anyway, let's move on."
"Sure." Kaaras pauses, and it dawns on Meraad, with a twinge of guilt, that he's just repurposed one of the standard things he says to his brother whenever he asks about his hand injury. Far from reassuring.
"Anything new with you? Personally, I mean."
"Uh, yeah, actually." Meraad swipes on a fingerful of moisturizer. "I'm… seeing someone. Her name's Cassandra. It's been good so far."
"Really?" Kaaras sounds pleased. He asks for more details, and Meraad obliges, knowing that whatever he says will have spread halfway across the village by this time tomorrow. Until now, there hasn't been anyone serious enough to tell Kaaras about since the split with Asaara, and that was what, three, four years ago? Before the accident, for sure. Strange how everything from that period has blurred together in his mind.
After the call wraps up, Meraad sees that he has a text notification. He messages back and lies down.
The phone vibrates less than a minute later, illuminating the dark room.
Meraad taps the green button, and Cassandra's rich, warm alto wraps around him, soothing the bone-deep exhaustion of a very, very long day.
"Meraad. I cannot believe what I just watched. It was total chaos."
Cassandra sits on the edge of the bed and listens to him giggle uncontrollably. It's a very strange sound to be produced by such a large man.
"I'm serious," she says, wanting to grab him by the shoulders. "What was that?"
Meraad calms himself. She pictures him running a hand down his face. "Whoo. Okay. How have you lived in Ferelden this long without seeing a hockey match?"
"I've only been here a year and a half," she protests. "Of course I've heard talk of it, but I didn't realize what a game would actually entail."
"It's… a lot," he admits.
To be precise, it's completely at odds with her gentle image of him thus far. "I'm curious. What role did you play in the past? I noticed there are two on defense, three on offense, and the goalie…" She ticks them off on her fingers.
"I played center on the Denerim State Sunbursts and the Amaranthine Bears. Basically, I was a grinder. Not the one taking the shots on goal, but the one setting them up by getting the puck back from the other guys. Sometimes by bashing into them. That's it, more or less. Just grinding along."
"I think you're being too modest."
"You sure about that?" He chuckles. It's a low, throaty sound, and between that and the tone of his previous response, Cassandra realizes just how tired he must be. She pulls off her lucky socks with the school logo on the ankles and climbs under the covers. Behind her, a flash of headlights from the street below cuts through the darkness, quickly sliding across the wall. The stadium has emptied out by now, but the taverns are full of revelers, and she can hear them noisily spilling out of one several blocks over.
"I noticed a few things during the game," she says, unsure of how else to put it. She tries to blend together the two halves of this man. Or at least, the two parts of him that she's aware of. "It must have taken great skill and cunning, to have done what you did. And great loyalty to your teammates. Do you have any videos from back then?"
"Not on my phone, but I could dig some up." There's a rustling sound, as if he's turning over in bed. "I promise you I didn't hit my opponents from behind like that one asshole on the Wyverns did tonight."
Cassandra smiles. "I know."
They talk for a little while longer, after Meraad reassures Cassandra that he isn't about to conk out mid-call. They go through the best plays of the game, the Heralds' strategy, the technical details that she wants to understand. Her voice is so close, Meraad begins to imagine her lying there in bed next to him.
It's not an unwelcome thought.
"As enjoyable as this is, I should probably let you sleep," says Cassandra, after a lull in the conversation.
"Can I see you again soon?" he blurts out, too tired to care about how he sounds.
Cassandra laughs softly in his ear. The intimacy is almost painful when he knows he can't reach out to touch her, kiss her. She's only just across town; he knows from experience that it could be far worse.
"Well, I have fencing practice tomorrow afternoon, and study plans after that. But I should be free after eight."
Meraad thinks back to their conversation on the rooftop. He can't half-ass this.
"All right, then. Could I take you to dinner?"