A Midnight Clear
Dragon Age 9:41
A shiver chased along her spine like a frolicking puppy. Fear crystalized and hardened in her like amber. For long moments she stared at the Orlesian Warden, Stroud. Her heart raced, and the edges of her vision darkened before she remembered to exhale again. Her gaze shifted to Hawke, flickered over Dorian and Varric before settling on Blackwall.
"Are you hearing this Calling?" she asked, annoyed at the breathless notes of her voice. She took a deep breath and then another. She would not, by the Maker, faint in front of all these people.
"I'm fit," he growled. "No Calling will dissuade me from my duty."
"Are Wardens in other countries suffering the same fate?" she asked Stroud.
"We all suffer the same fate eventually, Inquisitor. This, however, is different, as I mentioned."
She wanted to shout that she knew all Wardens suffered the same fate eventually. Maker's Aunt Fanny, didn't she just. Hadn't it cost her the love of her life? Hadn't she given up any hope of marriage because of it? Hadn't she been ready to join the chantry as her parents wanted, even though her belief in the Maker had long ago disappeared? But she hadn't been able to do it, hadn't been able to completely let go of the dream. Still couldn't.
Stroud's voice ebbed and flowed around her, and she gave up trying to listen, relying instead on Varric's sharp brain to follow along. He was a master tactician, for all his joking. He would help her devise a plan that would save Wardens. Her brain refused to work, refused to respond to any commands she was foolish enough to send it.
Later, camped for the night, she took up watch and let her brain slowly uncoil. The sky was awash in stars that glittered with such intensity she felt as if they were fireflies dancing around her.
Like the night we met, she thought, and the pain of the memory was offset by the rush of love that followed…
Dragon Age 9:29
"You do know that you're hold that all wrong, I trust?"
Well of course she was, she knew that, but she was trying a trick shot and the grip was the key to success.
"Go away, annoying person," she instructed without turning around to see who it was that interrupted her training.
She was intrigued by the voice. Not a Trevelyan. Not even a Marcher, though there was a hint of it in the deep, slightly roughened quality of words. She was reminded of the smoky flavor of Nevarran whiskey.
Fereldan? Perhaps, but one who had been in the Marches for several years. And highborn, from the quality of the speech, as well as the arrogance in the undertones.
She heard the rustle of bushes and knew whoever had been there no longer was. She thought the noise had been deliberate and a smile plucked at her unwilling lips.
Much later, as she was walking the ramparts, her thoughts returned to that intriguing voice. She stood on a parapet and listened to the distant song of the wind singing through the trees. Stars danced and twinkled with teasing grace in the deep blue of midnight. No clouds marred the vista of endless sky and she breathed in the fresh, scented air.
"You seem to have free reign of the castle," a voice teased. "Or are you a thief intent on nicking off with a few choice valuables?"
She spun on her heel, which caught on the drape of her skirts and she knew a wild moment of panic as she tottered gracelessly. Until a hand slid around her waist and held her steady.
"Unhand me!" she exclaimed, embarrassment and anger at odds within her, causing her heart to jump in her chest.
She caught a hint of laughter, a brush of leather and a touch as gentle as the night breeze.
"Yes, your majesty," the voice whispered, that husky, whiskey-infused voice that made goosebumps raise up in delight.
She held her skirts with one hand and turned to face him.
She could not precisely see him in the light of myriad stars, but she had an impression of strength, grace and gentle humor. Dark hair, she thought, but what of his eyes? And a strong jaw. Obviously wide shoulders tapering into narrow hips and still she wished for more light. He was not a warrior, not with that build, and he moved with the grace of a panther. He moved with that grace now as he stepped forward and swept a bow.
"Nathaniel Howe, my lady," he said softly, and she saw the flash of white teeth as he smiled.
"Howe? Ser Rodolphe's squire from Ferelden?"
"The very same. And you are?" he prodded with an undercurrent of humor still embracing his words.
She hesitated to tell him. Once he knew that she was a Bann's daughter, and a member of one of the most influential of the Marcher families, would he disappear? Or worse, treat her with that obsequious deference she so detested.
"You would withhold such information, my lady? Shall I guess?"
A smile quirked and her lips twitched with the desire to grin. "There is no need. I am Annwyl Trevelyan, third daughter, and fifth child, of Bann Cador Trevelyan, great niece to the estimable Lady Lucille, who is the arbiter of all social graces and fashion in the Free Marches and beyond, if only in her own mind, and finally, winner of the Golden Bow at last year's Grand Tourney. The youngest, I might add, ever to do so."
With that she gave a curtsy even her mother would be proud of…back straight, head inclined at the correct angle, arms gracefully extended at her sides, toe pointed. Her smile was more of a loopy grin, but that couldn't be helped as her laughter was lurking like a shadowy presence.
"All this and you are what? Twelve? Thirteen?" came the laughing reply.
Her smile vanished, chased away by his words as surely as if he had slapped it off her face. It was always this way. Because she hadn't the famed height of a Trevelyan, everyone assumed she was considerably younger than her years.
Chin tilting up, she glared at him, wishing she was a mage who could zap him with a bolt of ice. "You, sir, are abominable to laugh at the daughter of your host."
"Yes, I am, aren't I? Yet there is something about you that invites humor and teasing. Could it be the smattering of freckles across the bridge of an otherwise dignified and shapely nose? Perhaps it is the dimple in your left cheek that peeks out when you are trying not to smile? Or the unruly curls that defy your attempts to tame them into obedience?"
"You are no gentleman to list my deficits, sir. No noble woman dares to allow freckles on her person, nor is curly hair at all the thing. As to the dimple, I cannot say as I do my best to hide it. And though I may be short of stature, I am far older than twelve."
A low, rich ripple of laughter issued forth from the young man as he came closer. His square jaw, hawked nose and dimpled chin gave him an austere beauty that was irresistible to her.
"Yes, I see that now. Quite mature; nearly on the shelf, I suspect."
"Faugh! I am not so old as that, serah!" She tried to suppress her smile, but after a brief struggle, the smile won out and danced onto her lips.
"Old enough to steal hearts, I think," he said and there was a serious note in his voice now, low and unmistakable.
"Hardly that, Ser Howe. I have never stolen nor broken a heart. I've not the acclaimed beauty of my sisters, nor would I want it. I am free to go my own way without the constant supervision of a young woman destined for a noble marriage. Nor do I have the build to become a templar, nor the inclination to become a lay sister. I am, to my relief, a constant disappointment to my family. And thus, left mostly to my own devices."
Heavenly Maker, what had possessed her to divulge so much to a stranger? Tension drew her backbone rigid and upright. Pride held it there. She waited for him to continue to tease her, but his voice was gentle and reflected sadness and understanding when he spoke. "I am hardly the favored in my own household. For all that I am the eldest son, I do not think I will be inheriting my father's lands and titles. I suspect my younger brother, Thomas, will have that singular honor. More's the pity for him. And Father, who has no idea that I revere him. Thomas does not."
She saw a look of startlement cross his face and disappear so quickly she was left to wonder if she had imagined it.
"I am unsure why I told you that," he said, his voice a whisper of confusion.
"No more so than I can imagine why I spoke as I did. Perhaps," she continued as the answer came to her with the blinding light of a comet across a night sky, "we recognize a kindred spirit in the other?"
Silence, broken only by the wind rustling through the trees and a nightingale, settled around them and she found herself smiling up at him. "I'm seventeen," she finally clarified.
"And I am twenty."
They stood close, leaning against the rough stone wall of the ramparts and spoke for hours, their voices full of emotions. When standing became wearying, they settled on the stone floor, backs against the wall. Finally, as the deepest part of the night slid into the pearly gray of predawn, Annwyl stood, shaking her skirts out. Nathaniel stood as well, his hands clasped behind his back.
"I must leave before someone notices I am missing and sets up an alarm. I would not wish to cause you trouble with Ser Rodolphe."
Pearl gray was giving way to pale blue. Streaks of gold and pink arced on the horizon. Sunrise was approaching, and the castle would be stirring momentarily.
Finally, she was able to see the color of his eyes, as gray as pewter, as gray as the predawn sky. They were heavily fringed by thick black lashes. A dark brush of stubble graced his chin and jaws. She had been right. There was an austere beauty about him that was breathtaking. And his eyes…she wanted to ease the pain she saw lurking in them.
"Meet me here tonight?" he asked. "I know we should not, and I would not dishonor you, Annwyl, but I – I wish to know you more."
She nodded, unable to help herself. She knew the risks but knew that he would be worth those risks.
"Annie," she said softly as she was leaving. "My friends call me Annie."
"Stop a moment," he commanded and stepped toward her. His finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face to him, setting her heart racing. "Your eyes," he whispered. "They are the color of the Waking Sea. Are they blue or are they green? I cannot tell."
Her mouth trembled, wishing for his lips to meet hers, but when she answered, her voice was steady. "Yes," she replied and grinned as he chuckled.
Once in her room, she scrambled into her nightdress and tugged at her braid, unraveling it quickly. She had just slid into bed when the door opened. Elsbeth, her maid, stepped into the room with a pitcher of warm water, her plump figure neat in dark gray, her blue eyes lively.
"Morning, miss. I don't think anyone saw you slip into your room just now," she said with a merry grin. "Were you out all night, then?"
"Yes, but you mustn't say anything to anyone, not even to the other servants," Annwyl instructed.
"Aye miss, your secret, as always, is safe with me."
Knowing she would never sleep, she stretched and rose to begin her day with a critical look in the mirror. The Trevelyans, save for her, were tall, handsome blondes with bright blue eyes. She was short and slender with freckles, dimples and curly brown hair. Her eyes had an odd shade that defied a specific color. Some days they looked bluish-green and other days they were greenish-blue.
"Elsbeth, am I pretty?" she asked and was embarrassed by the wistfulness in her voice.
"Pretty? What's brought this on, then, eh? You've not the Trevelyan's prettiness, tis true enough, but you, Miss Annie, have a rare beauty. It fair glows in your eyes and your smile. You are far lovelier than your sisters, and don't they know it. Tis why they delight in getting you into trouble, young miss."
"Really?"
"Aye, and no more compliments for you this morning, lest your head swell with them."
The hours to midnight seemed to crawl by. Annwyl did not see Nathaniel all day and the banquet hall was so crowded that she was unable to find him and was excused early before the Ribaldry started.
But at midnight, she stood on the ramparts and knew precisely when he stepped onto them. Her heart raced, and she felt an uplifting of her spirits, as if her soul had taken wing.
They met each midnight for two weeks and their friendship deepened, ripened and she fell in love for the first time, knowing somehow that it was also the last time, that she would love him always. Laughter and tears and honesty and her first kiss blended into a magical time for her.
It lasted until Ser Rodolphe returned to his home, bringing Nathaniel with him.
"I am obligated to his service for another year, Annie. Can you wait for me? Will you wait for me?"
"Of course, Nathaniel. I shall be right here, waiting."
Their kiss was deep and passionate. Annwyl wanted more, was willing to give herself to him, as she had already pledged her heart to him. But he was adamant that they wait, that he would not dishonor her by taking her virginity without the benefit of marriage.
Letters between them were scarce but filled with pages of thoughts and feelings as their love continued to strengthen and grow. But they kept their plans to themselves, afraid that sharing the news too soon would cause problems with her parents or Ser Rodolphe.
Her parents put renewed pressure on her to join the Chantry. She refused. Again. And began to prowl the ramparts, waiting for him. Time slowed and seemed to stand still. It was only the changing night sky that told her the seasons were progressing and therefore time was, as well.
Word came of the Blight and the chaos in Ferelden as civil war broke out there. Maker, don't send him home to that, she whispered as she wandered the ramparts each night.
And then he was there, nearly a year after he'd left her. Having not seen her in all that time would he still care for her? The answer was immediate as he swept her into his arms, his mouth finding hers in an urgent kiss.
"Beloved," he whispered against her hair. Her hands clasped him to her.
"I thought never to see you, Nathaniel," she said, her voice thickened by tears she tried valiantly to hold back. But they cascaded down her cheeks and he tried to kiss them away.
"Ser Rodolphe ensured I was too busy to visit. Forgive me," he said gruffly. "But not a day went by that I did not send you my love."
Yet there was something in his tone, in his expression that frightened her. "What is it, Nathaniel? What troubles you?"
It came out in a rush, his brother dying in the civil war, his father murdered by the Hero of Ferelden, an old friend of his family. He'd been told that his sister had also passed away and Annie felt a terrible sense of loss for him. And a deepening fear for herself.
"I must go back to Ferelden and avenge his death, as well as restore his honor. The wicked lies being told of him cannot stand. But give me a few weeks, my beloved Annie, and I will return to your side and make you a bride."
"But I can help you, Nathaniel. We can travel together, and I will help you restore your father's honor. Please, please don't leave me."
They had one night together, on the ramparts, and she pleaded shamelessly to go to Ferelden with him. "This is my battle to fight, my shame to assuage, Annwyl, not yours. I will be back by Harvestmere, at the latest."
Dragon Age 9:41
The fire flickered and danced in her blurred vision as tears shimmered but refused to fall. She was stronger now than she had been all those years ago. She could control her tears, even if she couldn't control her wayward heart that refused to love any other man.
She still had his last letter in her memory box, stashed away in her suite of rooms at Skyhold. It was creased and faded from frequent readings and becoming too fragile to read anymore. Not that she needed to read it. The words were etched on her heart, acid on steel.
In the privacy of those rooms, she sometimes whispered the words aloud:
"Beloved,
"Nothing was as it seemed and too late I discovered what a traitorous bastard my father truly was. Delilah, my sister, is alive and that is the only good news I can share with you. All else is grim.
"Enclosed is a document highlighting my father's crimes against Ferelden. You will note that I have lost the Arling to the Grey Wardens. But that is the least of it, dear heart.
"I have been conscripted into the Grey Wardens, a conscription for life. I cannot marry you, Annie, no matter how much I may want to. I cannot, in good conscience, ask you to share in a life that is devoid of hope or laughter or honor.
"I love you. I will always love you. But what we wanted is now an impossibility. I would ask you to move on with your life. Do not wait for what might have been as it can no longer be. I will not dishonor you with a name that bears such disgrace, nor chain you to a man with a short life expectancy.
"Please, Annie, go and have a beautiful life. It will bring me some measure of peace to know your life is happy.
"Yours,
"Nathaniel."
She had followed his career with the Grey Wardens for the past ten years, knew when he had traveled to Kirkwall, had planned to go there in the hopes of seeing him but had been afraid that the careful façade she had built around her would shatter and leave her broken.
She knew, through dogged research, about the Calling, about the life of a Grey Warden. It broke her heart that Nathaniel's beautiful soul was subjected to such horror.
Her first stop when she returned to Skyhold was Leliana's attic rooms. Without preamble she directed the spymaster to discover all she could about Nathaniel, who was now the Constable of the Grey in Ferelden.
"See if they are suffering from this intense Calling that has afflicted the Orlesian wardens, please. And quickly," she finished, nearly breathless with her fear.
"This is a special person, it seems," Leliana said softly, in understanding. "I know the Hero of Ferelden quite well and will find out as soon as possible, Inquisitor."
Annie sent groups out to follow leads in other matters, refusing to leave the compound until she learned something.
As in her youth, she took to wandering the ramparts late at night, unable to sleep, unable to bear being inside when the night beckoned her. And in walking those ramparts, she allowed only her memories to keep her company.
One night, with the wind as soft as a baby's breath, snow drifted down without hurry or care. A quiet beauty settled on the ramparts. Her fear tumbled away like darkly glittering beads off a golden thread. Finally, after so long, peace came to her like ripples of water caressing a long-forgotten shore.
She lingered on the ramparts until the snow stopped and still the peace within her remained, a friend newly returned to her. Stars began to twinkle and glow in answer to her own glowing heart.
The guard called the watch. "Midnight and all's well!"
And then, that beloved voice, like smoky Nevarran whiskey settled around her as caressing as silk. "I see you've added no height in all these years."
"No, and I've still a dimple in my left cheek, freckles across my nose and unforgivably curly hair. I cannot imagine why any man would be interested in me," she said, her voice cracking like fine crystal shattering.
"Can you not? Yet here I am, hopeful that my foolish pride has not destroyed what our hearts once shared."
She was in his arms in a trice, laughing and crying, holding him as close as she could and frustrated that it wasn't close enough.
"I had to come. When I heard you were worried about me, and learned about the problems with the Orlesian wardens, I came. In fact, Commander Cousland has officially assigned me to the Inquisition until such time as I am no longer required."
"I – I don't know what to say," she mumbled against the warm skin of his neck.
"Marry me, Annie? Marry me and save me from myself? Marry me and love me and forgive me?"
Silence settled like the earlier snow, now melting under the shine of countless stars. And then she heard her heart singing and found her voice again.
"Yes," she whispered softly. "Yes, and yes, and a million yeses, as many yeses as stars in the sky."
And then his lips found hers, and there was no need for talk as they stood, arms and hearts entwined on that midnight clear.
A/N: This was written for the CMDA Secret Santa several years ago. I thought I had published it, but apparently not. Age and memory are not friends, apparently. ;)