She knew Kristoff, more through reputation than anything, and though he was her only remaining connection with home, she did not rush to seek him out. Perhaps it was because she knew him, and trusted that he was capable of taking care of himself— she would hardly have appreciated being the focus of an unnecessary rescue mission, were she in his place. She was a Warden, and so was he; she had faith in his skills.
And so she focused on other things. Protecting the people under her charge seemed appropriate, even if they call her an Orlesian whore behind her back and were torn between resentment of her heritage and fear of her powers. The dwarves, at least, did not care about her accent so long as she had coin and lyrium sand aplenty, and the Vigil was slowly beginning to feel more like a defensible fortress and less like a tomb.
They were back at the Keep now, with two more Wardens increasing their ranks, and Magali had never before seen Joining rituals go so well as these. Six recruits and only one death was unheard of… perhaps it had something to do with the added drop of archdemon blood, rather than the thick sludge she vividly remembered choking down, concentrated from darkspawn taint alone. The Wardens hadn't had access to such blood in hundreds of years, and she had never read any records from that time. Later, once this Architect and this Mother had been put down, she would send word to Weisshaupt requesting any information the historians could provide— this was a theory she was eager to explore.
She was determined to rest in the Vigil for at least a day or two before setting off for the Blackmarsh— broodmothers were creatures of horror stories among the Wardens, nightmarish tales especially for the few women in the Order, and she had killed four of the sickening monsters simultaneously. Her skin felt too tight, her bones ached from cold she could not banish, and she was beginning to admit (at least to herself) that Kristoff's continued absence seemed more ominous by the day.
That was how Nathaniel found her, curled up on the chaise she'd had moved from one of the Vigil's many bedrooms and staring into the flickering hearth in her study. Her new robes were comfortable and fit well, but she'd discarded the ornate belt before lying down, and somehow the lack of that small scrap of cloth and metal made her feel rather exposed when the knock sounded on the doorframe. She had left the door mostly ajar, but still he lingered in the corridor, awaiting her leave to enter.
"Nathaniel," she said, her tone sharper than she'd intended, but his presence had startled her. He flinched ever so slightly, and she reined her voice in. "Is something the matter?"
Perhaps he noticed her unspoken apology, because his mouth twitched up into the ghost of a smile as he answered. "Other than the darkspawn, you mean? No, nothing's wrong." She sat up out of her recline, watching as his shuttered eyes travelled about the room. Then, before she could respond, he was speaking again. "This was my father's study. I certainly never thought I'd see Mother's sofa in here." Suddenly he truly was smiling, the expression crinkling the corners of his eyes, and her breath caught unexpectedly in her throat. "It looks wonderful, actually. Definitely better than before."
Finally remembering her manners even as she lost her head, Magali waved her hand welcomingly. "Please, there is no need to lurk in hallways; come in. You will sit, yes?"
Only a small step into the room, and Nathaniel hesitated, gripping the doorframe with one hand like a tether. "You were resting— I do not wish to disturb you."
"N'impor—" She was weary, but she still found the word she needed. "Ah, I mean, that is nonsense. I would not have offered if I didn't want company."
"That's very true," he replied dryly, then slowly moved farther into the room. The desk had already been stripped of most things before she'd even arrived, and now her own books and knickknacks were scattered across the ebony surface. Touching nothing but the wood, just grazing it with the tip of one bare finger, Nathaniel took a deep breath before turning to face her again. "You've managed to make the place rather cosy, Commander. I am impressed."
Crossing her legs and lacing her own fingers over one knee, she observed him carefully. "Is it very strange for you to be here, Nathaniel?"
He blinked, but he seemed to be growing used to her bluntness. It was good, she thought, for he was a Warden under her command and she was not about to change.
"Yes, to be perfectly honest." Pausing, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "This was my home, then it wasn't, and now… it almost feels like it could be again, in a different way. Does that make any sense? It is all very bizarre." Quirking her brow at his pensive tenor, she reached out and patted the far end of the chaise.
"Sit?" she asked again, noting the hint of colour crawling up his neck. If he was unwell in any way, she needed to know now, so when he looked about to refuse she upped her gamble. "Please, speak with me and help take my mind from my own homesickness."
"I— of course, Commander." As cautiously as she had seen him step around nearly invisible tripwires and vicious traps, Nathaniel padded over and perched on the very edge of the chaise. His posture was stiff, and his hands were braced on his thighs.
"Tell me," she began, allowing her voice to light up with a vague playfulness. "What is one absolutely frivolous thing you missed about Ferelden during your time in the Free Marches? Nothing significant— just something silly."
"Silly?" He looked almost afraid, but when she simply waited patiently, he seemed to gradually unclench. "Well, hm. I suppose… dogs. Real dogs, not the wiry curs they've got up there."
"You Fereldans and your hounds," she teased gently, shifting around until her bare feet were tucked up beside her. "It was a mage who first bred your mabari, you know."
He rolled his eyes, but it was not an unkind gesture. "Everyone knows that, my lady, especially in Ferelden." Little by little, he was leaning back in his seat. "We had a strong kennel here, before I left. I'm… not sure I want to know what happened to the dogs." His brows furrowed deeply, and she was surprised at her own pang of sadness.
"The ones who survived the civil war were taken in by Teyrn Cousland, as I understand it." Shrugging slightly at the obvious question in his gaze, she noticed (admittedly, not for the first time) the way the firelight brought out a rich chestnut sheen in his hair. "Varel told me. I had been told to expect dogs when I arrived, and their absence surprised me."
After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat. She became aware of why when his words still rasped out a bit thickly. "That's good to know. Thank you, Commander." Even when being silly, this man was so deathly serious. She could empathise— she'd felt trapped by her own bitterness ever since she'd seen the few ravaged bodies the darkspawn had left at the Vigil after that first attack. She had known some of those Wardens for years, had gone through her Joining with Patrice, and then to find them like that, or to not find them—
Ah, much too serious. Nathaniel was speaking again anyway, so she pushed the dark memories aside.
"And if I may, what of you, my lady?" He smirked, just a little, and she knew what was coming. "I'm sure there are any number of frivolous things you miss from your extravagant homeland."
She was definitely in a mood for levity, and thus decided to play along. "Oh, would you like a list?" Leaning one arm against the back of the chaise, Magali began to count exaggeratedly on her fingers. "Shops that sell real silk; having my name pronounced correctly; men who do not stink of mud—"
"I do not stink of mud," he all but squawked, and she did not stifle her laugh.
"No, you smell of leather and evergreen trees… and mud." His face twisted strangely, but there was still clearly humour there so she continued. "Now, do not interrupt. I also miss rosemary bushes growing along the road, dry feet, and good food."
He actually growled, and Magali was shocked at the small thrill the sound sent down her spine. She had not been lying when she'd admitted weeks before that she'd always been rather plain, but she had become a confident woman over the years, despite being no head-turning beauty. Serkan had called her a coquette, but that was a lifetime before; she was more than a little taken aback by the idea that she was now enjoying flirtatious banter with this abrasive, foreign man (and not even exotically foreign, like an Antivan or a Rivaini).
"No," he said. "Just wait a minute— I'll not sit idly by while you insult my smell and my cuisine. And we've got roses along roadsides."
"You see, that is one of the issues I speak of." She poked his shoulder lightly with her fingers, not hard enough that he'd even feel the pressure through his leathers. "Not knowing the difference between roses and rosemary is exactly why all your food tastes the same, and your sauces are all grey and thick. Preparing food should be an exquisite thing, like making love, not simply something you do." It was incredible to her that Fereldans flustered so easily, especially at the barest mention of sex, but it had not been her intention to put Nathaniel into fits. As a concession to his obvious embarrassment, she shifted the topic back solely to food. "You scoff, but I will show you. With a slow heat and enough wine, I can do things with coq that would make your knees go weak."
She did not realise how terrible that had sounded, even when Nathaniel's face turned scarlet and he choked harshly.
She hadn't just— she couldn't mean—
He felt as though his face were on fire. She'd sounded so alluringly impish, but surely this slip of a mage was not so audacious as that… She was no shrinking violet, of course, but surely he must have misunderstood. A language barrier, perhaps? Was she simply teasing him?
"With what?" he asked faintly, trying desperately not to imagine exactly what knee-weakening activities might be involved in the kind of offer she had most certainly not made.
"Red wine, and coq," she said again, frankly and without hesitation. Her expression betrayed how confusing she found his reaction, and now he was convinced it had been a slip of the tongue.
Of her sweet little pink tongue— No.
She was making that rolling gesture with one hand, which he recognised as a sign she was attempting to find the correct words. Despite suffering occasional miscommunication like this one, Nathaniel was secretly quite impressed with her command of his language, especially for a woman who had never been out of Orlais before. His tutors had tried to drill Antivan into his skull as a boy, but he'd had no flare for it, and the mishmash of dialects scattered about the Free Marches still made little sense to him. He could only thank the Maker that somehow Ferelden had chosen what others called the common tongue as its primary language— there had always been at least a handful of people who understood him, no matter where he travelled.
"How is it you say," she began, then after a brief pause she snapped her fingers in triumph. "Ah! Chicken, but male. Rooster, yes?"
He couldn't help chuckling, and he hardly cared that it came out a bit breathlessly. It was just his luck that his tough leather leggings had begun to feel rather uncomfortable during this whole fiasco, but they did hide a multitude of sins and for that he was incredibly grateful.
"Rooster, yes," he echoed dutifully, ducking his head when the laughter threatened to bubble up again. Her eyes were boring into him like daggers, which was not unexpected— she hated to be caught unawares or uninformed, and Nathaniel knew that. He wasn't exactly sure the best way to explain, but he also knew she was going to force him anyway.
"Why are you—" She stopped short, lips still slightly parted, and he watched with fascination as two small spots of pink darkened her pale cheeks. "I didn't… oh."
"We also call roosters cocks," he assured her, allowing only the barest hint of mirth to lace his words. "There's simply more room for, well, misunderstanding, I suppose."
Her embarrassment was almost adorable, for lack of a better word, and Nathaniel was caught up short by how much fondness he had developed for this woman. She terrified him, and when she wasn't doing that she was entrancing him, and he felt as if he'd left a significant portion of his good sense somewhere in the Wildervale.
They had much more pressing matters to which they must attend, and his instincts were screaming that something vast and dangerous was already in motion somewhere in the creeping shadows. There was little time for dallying about, but that didn't stop his body from reminding his brain exactly how long it had been since a woman had evoked such feelings in him.
Inhaling slowly through her long, narrow nose, she tilted her head to rest on the tallest part of the sofa's curved back. "You would not know it," she muttered, closing her eyes. "But I am actually quite eloquent in Orlesian."
He wanted to touch her face, to feel the softness of her skin and the heat of her flush, and so he clenched his fists hard. "You are tired, and you usually speak the King's tongue better than many Fereldans."
"I miss the sounds of home," she continued softly, as if he hadn't spoken at all, and suddenly something completely idiotic possessed him.
"Teach me." It was a hopeless enterprise before it even began, he knew, but it did draw her attention back in a rather amiable way. When she looked at him, clearly puzzled by the request, he elaborated. "Just something simple I can say in Orlesian. My tutors were unsurprisingly mute on the subject of your melodious language."
"Melodious, hm?" She was smiling a little, tracing invisible patterns across the sofa's plush upholstery with one fingernail. "All right. I will ask how you are feeling. Salut, Nathaniel. Ça va?"
She spoke slowly, but the words still flowed together like warm honey— sweet and smooth, but seemed as though they'd be sticky in his mouth. Clearing his throat, he shifted around to face her more fully. "And how would I respond? I'm, ah, I'm feeling quite content, actually."
"Bien," she said. "Or tres bien, if you are feeling very well. Mal, if your mood is bad, or you are unwell. It is simple, no?"
He knew a hint when he heard one; she wanted him to try for himself now. He was going to sound like a fool, but he pressed on regardless. She was watching him, but instead of the flinty gleam he had come to expect, her eyes were warm and amused.
"Sah-loo, Magali," he enunciated carefully, aware only after the fact that he'd used her name without any honorific or title at all. He wasn't sure he'd ever done that before, at least not to her face. "Saw vah?"
"Bien, merci." Her smile showed a hint of teeth, and it was lovely. "Your accent could use a bit of work, but that was a fine effort."
A measure of pride curled in his belly and seemed to expand outwards into the room, warmer even than the glow of the small fire. Andraste's grace, was she flirting with him?
"My accent needs work?" He tilted his head quizzically, feeling suddenly bold. "So says the woman who makes the seneschal shiver every time she rolls his name over her tongue."
"What? I— what do you mean?" He had been sure she'd noticed that, at least, but her reaction clearly informed him he'd overestimated her powers of observation. Varel didn't seem to know what to think of his new, unusual arlessa, but for a man who remembered the Orlesian occupation, the seneschal often appeared surprisingly intrigued.
"Your accent is very… exotic." He tried to remain diplomatic; it hadn't been his intention to make her uncomfortable. "Most of the Orlesians still in Ferelden have been here for years, but—"
"Yes," she cut in, and he knew enough of bitterness to hear it clearly dripping from her otherwise flat words. "I sound like a chevalier fresh from Val Royeaux. This is difficult for your people to accept, I know."
Holding out one hand in defence against any perceived slight, he then risked touching the sleeve of her robes. The fabric was soft, some fine weave he didn't quite recognise, but he was much more interested in the way she did not pull away.
"That's not what I meant," he said, keeping his demeanour calm despite the hint of danger and the warm arm under his fingers. "And trust me; no one would mistake you for a chevalier, my lady."
"That is a compliment, I suppose?"
He could seize upon the sarcasm and feint, or take advantage of the opportunity— regardless of the direction life had taken him, Nathaniel Howe had never been a coward.
Meeting her gaze very steadily, he nodded. "Yes, it was. Though not the best I could think of, I will admit."
"Not the—" Her self-deprecation notwithstanding, he had rarely seen her stumble over her words so spectacularly as she had during this conversation. The idea that his attentions might be flustering such a clever, powerful woman was an extremely attractive concept. "The best?" Before he could clarify, her eyes narrowed into icy slits. "You are making fun of me."
"You are suspicious and mistrustful," he replied evenly. He would not retreat, not yet. "But also very beautiful, and I am not making fun of you."
Silence was perhaps the best response he could have expected, given the temperament of the woman before him. With cautious optimism, he waited, watching.
After a few frozen moments, her gaze flitted to where his hand rested lightly on her arm, then snapped quickly back to his face in undisguised shock.
"You—" A sharp move, and she was free from his touch, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. "It was not so very long ago that you were trying to murder me, and now you call me beautiful. You snipe and you snarl, and now you give me sweet words? What is this?"
"I'm not entirely sure." It was a blunt answer, but true. He knew she would accept nothing less than the complete truth, and he would not risk any omission. If he was bold, she might still reject him, but if he danced around the issue she would strike him down. Perhaps even literally, given the uncertain kind of luck that followed him about— he did not relish the thought of incurring her wraith any more than necessary.
When it came to women, he was not by nature an especially forward man. He struggled with finding a sentiment to express that allowed him to remain mannerly, while also explaining himself in a frank manner. The more time he wasted, the angrier he risked making her.
"You are unlike any woman I've ever known," he said quietly. "And the longer we travel together, the more I come to realise that is a very appealing thing."
"You are serious?" She sounded as though he'd just thrown off a magical cloak and revealed himself to be the Architect in disguise. "You are mad—" One slender hand flew to the side of her head, her fingers tapping sharply against her skull. "Unhinged. You are not serious."
If he weren't certain it would earn him a slap, Nathaniel might have laughed at the incredulous display. "I'm always serious, as the other members of our little band are so often eager to point out. Is the idea that I might care for you so very terrible?"
It was a thoughtless question that left him wide open for scorn, for the most painful kind of rejection, and he regretted it almost immediately. It had been too long since he'd felt anything like this for anyone; he felt like a bumbling boy again, kicking his foot as he confessed to the cook's daughter that he thought she was pretty.
"Care for me?" This had been a horrible mistake. Maker, he'd count himself lucky if he escaped with his skin. "I—" When she cleared her throat unexpectedly, he nearly flinched, but then she continued in a much more measured tone. Such an attempt to restrain her shock could be a very good sign, or a very bad one. "I do not— that is, I am unsure how to respond, Nathaniel."
That she would even admit her uncertainty— that she did not dismiss him outright— Nathaniel felt a glimmer of hope bloom in his chest.
Very carefully, he lifted one corner of his mouth in what was almost a smile. "Just… consider what I've said, my lady. That is all I ask."
Her expression was nearly inscrutable, revealing nothing of her thoughts except the intense scrutiny he could feel sharply, as if it were boring into his soul. When she glared like this, unyielding and inescapable, he sometimes wondered if perhaps she were actually a blood mage— would he know it if she had him in her thrall?
"You are an unusual man," she said finally, curiously, and he sent a prayer of thanks that the silence had been broken, scarce moments before his need to squirm would have overcome him. Then she licked her bottom lip, and it was like lightening sizzling in his gut. "An intriguing man. I will consider what you have said."
He did not quite trust his voice, so he merely nodded.
And then, because she was a woman of some cruelty, Magali began speaking again of Orlais and Ferelden and homesickness, as if nothing untoward had occurred.
And Nathaniel, because he was both a gentleman and a fool, did not think to excuse himself. No, instead he sat with her for nearly another hour, putting wood on the fire when it began to burn down to coals and fighting valiantly to keep his attention on her words.
He listened to her words, answering appropriately, and he did not stare at her lips and wonder how they might taste. He did not allow his gaze to stray to the tight, unforgiving knot of her hair and think of how very soft it looked when draped down around her shoulders. He did not spare a glance at the way the firelight glimmered off the ornamentation of her robes.
He did, for one moment, imagine what it might be like to cradle her gently curved jaw in his hand, but there was a lingering trace of fear that she would somehow know his mind had gone such places. It was agony.
But her occasional smiles were, perhaps, slightly more intimate than they had been. He had not yet decided if that were enough, but it was a beginning.
AN: Seriously, littleblackdog? A cock joke? Yes, a cock joke. Whu-bam.
There will be one more chapter (with Nathaniel lovings; no extra charge), but it will not likely come as quickly as this one did. Wait— come as quickly? Was that another frigging cock joke? I don't even know anymore; I just want some coq au vin.
