Salroka (sal-RAH-cah): "Friend; one at my side." Most commonly used by the casteless.
The first time they found comfort in each other's arms, it wasn't on purpose, but Brosca was glad it happened anyway. They had spent days fighting darkspawn, looking for Paragon Branka, only to find that she'd let all her House turn into ghouls and Broodmothers. They all- even Oghren- had reeled from that revelation.
Two Wardens, a dwarf berserker, an apostate mage, and a free-willed golem made camp in the Deep Roads, near where the Anvil of the Void had been pitched into magma. Shale still stood where Caridin had, the crystals on her body glowing fiercely blue against the red light of the Dead Trenches, staring into the molten rock which had been her maker's death.
They hadn't really made camp. They spread their bedrolls close enough together that if something happened they would all wake at once, against one wall and hidden from the rest of the Deep Roads by the fallen golems. Oghren sat slumped against one, asleep, a flask held idly in one lax hand, the other bracing his axe against the ground. A little ways away Morrigan lay with her back to the rest of them, sleeping soundly. They had no fire, since the magma was both hot enough to keep them warm and bright enough to light their way. They had no need to cook food- anything they could catch down here was corrupted and could not be eaten, even by a Warden. They didn't really have a need to keep watch, for Shale didn't sleep and would see the darkspawn before they saw her.
But Nat Brosca lay awake.
She sat on top of her rumpled bedroll, hands clasped loosely over her knees, staring at the flickering shadows cast by the Trenches over the magma. This day she had come closer to death than ever before- and this day, she finally understood what exactly the Calling meant. Now she could hear it. The song, an ethereal sound in the back of her head, the call of Urthemiel, the Beautiful. In her mind's eye, she saw what she would become, years in the future, an engorged mass of writhing tentacles and heaving breasts, large enough to birth an army of genlocks.
"It won't happen."
Duran's quiet voice made her start. She glanced up at him; his grey-green eyes were steady and kind, despite the wound that had slashed open one eyebrow and the exhaustion that they all felt. Morrigan was not a skilled healer, so they had each had a sip from one of their last health potions, leaving their wounds all half-healed.
"Don't say that. You can't prevent it." She stared down at her knees, where her leathers had started to wear through. It wouldn't be long before she had to patch them, unless they got replacements made in Orzammar. She could see the uneven stitching of her last patch - she wasn't any sort of seamstress, but she could make do when she had to.
He sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. "I won't let that happen to you. If it comes down to it, we'll do our year in the Deep Roads together, and I'll make sure you get an end befitting the greatest of warriors."
It had been a long time since she'd been physically this close to anyone. He was being noble again, but this time it wasn't annoying, and she relaxed into him, turning so she leaned comfortably against his shoulder. Her legs slid down, her hands falling apart to toy with the tassels on her belt, left there for just that purpose.
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Duran," she said, using his name for the first time, trying to joke but failing. "I might just take you up on that."
"It won't happen," he said again, and his voice was a rumble in his chest that she could feel. "I promise, Natia. That won't happen to you."
Shale still looked over the Trenches, facing away from them; Oghren wasn't about to wake up any time soon, and Morrigan probably wouldn't either. Nat turned her face up to find Duran still looking at her with those warm eyes, expression soft behind all the dirt, and kissed him. His beard was rough against hers, his braided moustache scratchy against her smooth upper lip. His lips were soft and his kiss sweet.
"What does this mean, exactly?" he murmured when they finally parted, fingers reaching up to touch her face, stroke down her short beard and the tiny braids she'd kept more neatly than the braids in her hair.
"Shut up and kiss me, salroka," she whispered, and down in the deep they knew each other.