A/N: Thank you for the review! :3 Please note, they help me write faster, give me a little boost. 3 In this one, I'm switching the POV, wont tell you who though. ;)
Shifting uncomfortably on the large wooden chair, he tried to keep himself interested in what was going on around him. Instead, his vision kept moving around to stare at the walls, counting the stones that confined him in this place. The wooden framed paintings staring back at him, scolding him for not paying attention. His feet were barely touching the ground as he stared out into the crowd of nobles in the Keep. The Seneschal Varel guy stood in front of the crowd, like she used to. Waving his hands as he spoke, taking over her job running the place, while the uncomfortable man in the chair had been left in charge of the people.
A shuffle made him tilt his head slightly, the rest of the Warden's looked as uncomfortable as him, each for their own reason. They now numbered thirteen with the loss of Justice, who had decided his time was up, and the body of the man he was using needed to be returned to the widow. A noble thing, even he agreed.
Velanna, the Dalish elf, stood in the furthest corner from the group of human nobles, scowling at whomever sent a glance her way. He almost felt sorry for her, but the alcohol ever present in his body made that near impossible, so he snickered at her dismay. It was her own fault they treated her like a whore, she was quite scantily clothed. And had a beautiful ass.
The Legionnaire Scout Sigrun stood near Nathaniel Howe, the eldest son of the traitorous bastard Rendon Howe. The two seemed emerged in a deep conversation about techniques they used to do… rogue-y stuff. The dwarf on the chair couldn't care less, as long as one of the two got the job done.
Tucker was standing stoically in his assigned position, his eyes only shifting to watch the proceedings with a dull unease that seeped from him. They all had better things to do, but it was required that they were all there. Beside him stood another Warden, a newer recruit. At each entrance, all three of them from the throne room, were at least two Wardens. Tucker and the new one, a city elf who was scary good with a bow, were stationed at the entrance leading into the rest of the Vigil. An older recruit and another newer recruit were stationed by the other entrance to the Keep, a wide scary looking human with a two handed sword to mock Sten's and a silent dwarven woman covered in weapons.
The last four almost unnoticeable Wardens stood at the main gate. All four were human, one was a woman, but not quite the looker that the Commander was.
Last was Ander's, who stood to the right of Oghren's chair, his fingers fiddling constantly. Going from pocket to pocket, then through his hair, then to the chair and back into a pocket. His eyes flickered towards the Commander's chambers. He and Velanna had been the ones taking care of her. Ser Pounce-a-lot poked his head from the mage's robes to mewl in the dwarf's ears softly.
He had to admit he had a soft spot for the little kitten.
Seneschal Varel finally kicked the nobles out, claiming they had things they needed to do. Oghren muttered something about the bloody elf hurrying up. "Warden Oghren, thank you for staying awake this time around," Varel spoke in his deep voice, causing the dwarf to crane his neck up to nod gruffly at the man.
"I nearly didn't make it there." He said, watching the Warden's all relax as the cooks brought out the food. Everyone stayed to eat, including the ever-twitchy Anders. Pulling what one would assume to be a skin of alcohol from the confines of his armor, Oghren took a swig. "But I did."
Taking his place at the head of the table, the Dwarf stood on his chair to bring attention to himself. From the corner of his eye, he saw his Felsi holding their child in a corner. Had she been there the whole time? He wondered, stifling the smile that threatened to break onto his face. Clearing his throat all the Warden's and even the guards of the Vigil who now ate with them stood.
"For long nights we've sat in here wondering what has happened to the Commander. But tonight, we do not. Tonight, we drink in her name and toast to get her healthy, ya' hear? In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. Now, drink!" After his little heart-warming speech the Wardens all let out a cheer, and dove into their food and drink.
As Oghren finished eating, Felsi came over, her hair tied back like he remembered. Her eyes warm and inviting, their babe bundled in her arms. "You haven't drank too much I hope, you sodding bronto-turd?" Her tone was light and joking, the insults they flung at each other only their versions of foreplay almost.
"Only enough to think you pretty," he grinned and belched a little. It was true, Oghren was cutting down on the booze, both for the Commander and the promise he made to her about his family. He curled a plated finger under the baby's chin, tickling her lightly. They hadn't named her yet, but they had an idea in mind. But, until the Commander awkened they were unable to ask it, so for the time being, the little couple called the child 'Baby'.
"Well, if you're done trying to out drink your subordinates, we should head to bed." She spoke softly, trying to keep that easily flaring temper under check as she urged him to sleep. Sighing, Oghren got from his chair, nodded goodnight to the remaining Warden's who were drinking themselves into a stupor and headed to bed.
"Stupid dwarf, drinking to one's health implies they are in good health," muttered the blond in robes, his hair tied loosely behind his head, sloppily done, body worn with lack of sleep. He'd spent night after night watching over her, healing her periodically, as if it'd help. Which it wasn't. Velanna covered day shifts, and he night ones, but he still had to be up by noon to do his Warden duties, so, in the end, Anders got the short end of the stick.
Pulling himself up the stairs towards the main bedrooms where the elder Wardens stayed, including everyone who had been involved with the Architect, he headed towards the 'master bedroom'. It once belonged to Rendon Howe, but now it belonged to the woman who killed him. As he opened the door, he was surprised, per normal, at how the room looked.
She had a very good sense of style, he had to admit. Against the far wall was a large four-poster bed with a thin veil of red silk hanging over for privacy, it had been that way since Nate had walked in on her. A small chuckled washed over his body at the memory. The walls were lined with paintings, many she'd done herself when she was awake…
Her illness was a strange one. When she first become sick she had been raked with fever until she fell into a coma-like state. Not two months ago, little time after Zevran, the close companion to the Commander, left she awoke with a start. Gasping for air as if she were drowning, her body sweating and muscles freaking. She had looked as if she was pulsing, before she fell back into her silent sleep. Sometimes he had to double check she was still breathing. It had been nearly five months since she'd gotten sick and her heart was getting weak. Now, every once and a while she would wake from her state and start talking, get up and move around, but her eyes were blank and she would not speak to any-body.
During these sleepwalking periods she had three types of experiences. The first was rage, she would scream, inflict pain on herself, run at walls and throw things. During these rages they would now strap her down to her bed. The second was calm. Complete and utter serenity, she would gracefully get from her bed and try to do something, recently they had equipped the room with both writing utensils and painting supplies for her. When she wrote it was in a strange language, and it looked as if she were taking notes, when she painted it was of a strange place, a beautiful place. The third 'phase' was lucid, these were the shortest. Waking with a start, she would talk. Not moving she would speak in the same strange language as she'd been writing. No one was able to translate what she was saying yet, but still they sent after the most exotic translators, hoping that they would be they key to regaining her health.
Anders sighed, opening his 'bag of magic' as she had called it once.
They were in the Blackmarsh, resting in a burnt down and broken building, once a home. Nate was sitting on the wall, on watch, while Oghren started a small fire and Anders looked after a nasty wound the Commander had received. All during the time, she chatted idly with the dwarf. "You know, one of the reasons I agreed to let in Leliana was because she had to be a better cook than him," she waved a hand a little, hissing through her teeth as she pulled on her wound.
Anders slapped the back of her head lightly, cutting off Oghren, "Commander, please, stop moving! It's hard enough to heal you when you refuse to remove your armor completely, with you moving it's worse."
Oghren's laugh echoed the commander, "Oh you sound just like Wynne," she whispered softly, her chuckles still vibrating her body. "I spent nearly a year and a half around four men and a lesbian, Anders, I feel the need to keep myself covered now." She glanced over her shoulder at the mage, whose hands were forcing magic to probe through her thick plate armor.
A shudder ran through his body as he met those eyes of hers, they were unsettling. They were so pale they seemed white except near the pupil, where they were the slightest shade of blue. "Plus, you've got your bag of magic, you're all good." She added, with a smile, turning her head back to Oghren, who finally spoke.
"Oh, he couldn't cook for his life! You all asked me why I was drunk all the time? Yeah, I blame his cooking, I had to be drunk or else I'd not be able to eat."
Her laugh shook her whole body, Nathaniel sent her a dirty look, that she met without flinching. He seemed to shuffle back. "You may want to quiet down Commander," he added the emphasis, "there are still many enemies around—"
She scoffed at him, rolling her head to the side, "I took down the sodding Archdemon with worse wounds than these, I can handle a few more werewolves. Hell, I had a huge gash across my throat and I still got that fucker in the eye…"
Anders watched her sleeping form with a small smile while he remembered that. Checking her temperature with the back of his hand, he wrote it down in the shared journal on the side of her bed that Velanna and himself wrote notes in. And so, he began to write:
Night 162.
Temperature has lessened again, sign for another phase. Sleeping again when arrived. Complexion is paler than regular, unmoved since night before. Been six nights since last phase, if the pattern holds, the next should be lucid.
As the night went on, the man watched his Commander; her body was covered in a loose fitting pair of breeches and tunic, her hair let out of its normal bun, twisted to lay on the pillow like a coil by Velanna's hands. She was thinner than he ever remembered, her skin was beginning to gray from age. They fed her regularly, forcing ground food down her throat, followed by drink.
Anders felt sleep begging to overcome him when a noise at the door made him jump out of his chair, knocking the pitcher of water at his arm over onto the floor, and throwing the chair to the ground. "H-hello?" He squeaked.
The door opened and one of the young Warden's joined him, it was the dwarf woman. She was darker in skin, her hair a blue black, and eyes a glimmering type of grey. She nodded to Anders, crossing her arms in a bow. She didn't speak often, but she wasn't the type of female dwarf who cut out their tongues to show their faith, or something. Anders knowledge of dwarven customs was limited. The commander once explained to him that the tattoo on her cheek explained she was a 'casteless' one without a place in Orzammar. Worse than a beggar, but no more. Natila Brosca was her name, rescued by the Commander from being executed for something she had no real hand in; the Commander had seen her strength and will. She had mentioned something about something Duncan would do.
"Greetings Ser Mage, there are two at the Gate waiting for you, we were informed not to wake Oghren by his wife, and to come to you instead," she had not real emotion in her voice. Those eyes spoke enough, she respected Oghren's orders.
With a nod, Anders gathered himself from his corner, placing one small spell over the sleeping lady and headed towards the door. "Set up a guard here and a runner, to inform me if she so much as moves."
Brosca nodded and quickly disappeared into the shadows of the keep to inform whom she needed to, as Anders headed towards the Gates.
At the gates, he found two men on horse. The first horse's man was thin and short, an elf. His face was structured like a sculpture, the exotic markings making him stand out. Zevran was back. The man behind him seemed at unease seeing the mage. He could feel the bags under his eyes, but he waved at them as he neared. The man was taller, broad and seemed as if he knew how to use the weapons strapped to his body. Then the chill ran through him. That familiar chill of his mana being touched by an outside force.
The second man was a Templar.
"Ah, dear Mage, you come to great us, which means Oghren as fallen asleep on the table again?" Zevran's accent always seemed to relax the mage, it had a soothing tone to it. It reminded him of one of his mentors at the tower, she had been an immigrant from Antiva who wielded magic and was trapped into the tower. She made her opinions known.
"Actually no, his wife is here and she would probably pluck my eyes out and pop them into her drink as decoration if I woke them," an easy grin lit the mage's face. "Who is this, Zevran?"
The Elf hopped from the horse, the man did the same. As he landed, his hood fell back and something hit Anders in the chest. He looked like one of the men in the paintings the Commander had done recently. Swallowing hard, Anders continued to analyze the man. His hair was short and well cared for, his face smooth other than a little stubble on his cheeks, his jaw was strong and his face nervous. Good.
"This? This is Alistair, the man who will be replacing Emily for now."
The man, Alistair nodded at Anders stiffly. Before looking around. Taking in the look of his Keep? Perhaps, he seemed a good man. "Well… you picked a fine time to get here Zevran, I'll get someone to show you to your chambers, I have to go back to babysitting duty." Anders shot a smile at the elf, who seemed perplexed. He'd explain in the morning.
As he walked away, he couldn't help but feel the stare of the templar on his back, "Tucker!" His voice brought the tall grinning man to him. Russell preferred to be called by his last name, plus, Tucker just fit him better. "Tucker, show them to their rooms please."
The man nodded, and with a smile, led them into the Keep after Anders.