CHAPTER FIVE: Sweet Iona
Since well before dinner was served, Iona had made it a point to catch my eye from across the great hall as often as she could. At first, she was discrete, electrifying me with only the briefest of glances. But as the night progressed, and the hall's guests departed or fell into drunkenness, the need for subtlety passed.
Many of the nobles excused themselves early, in anticipation of tomorrow's march, while others remained at the tables, seeking to wring every last drop of revelry from the evening. As you may imagine, Lady Landra was among the latter group. In a voluminous purple gown that displayed an uncomfortably large expanse of cleavage, she drank goblet after goblet of wine, laughed loudly enough to fill the hall, and danced circles around every willing partner. What I told Mother on the battlements still stands. I don't know what she sees in this woman.
Between dances, Landra asked me more than once where she could find Aeron. Quite honestly, I told her I didn't know: neither he nor Ser Jory had been seen, so far as I know, since lunch. Their absence at the banquet was particularly evident, since Father, Arl Howe, and several other nobles toasted them in absentia, honoring their commitment to the Grey Wardens with flowery words and raised glasses.
As for Lady Landra, even the most dedicated of revelers must eventually succumb, and eventually she slumped down in her seat and her head fell to one shoulder. Judging the expressions of those near her, she also began to snore. A few of her ladies-in-waiting, Iona among them, supported Landra's half-conscious body and guided her away.
The minutes after their departure found me fidgeting in my seat, fearing that Iona might not return. I've no interest in dancing, especially without Iona, and Father has long finished his toasts and speeches. He and Mother are seated nearby, lost in a quiet conversation, sparing only the occasional glance out at their guests.
How long should I wait? Should I risk another trip to the library, under cover of darkness? Or do I swallow my desires and my heartache and hope there will be time over the next few days to see Iona? It might be the smart thing to do, but I've been on edge all day waiting to feel her touch, to kiss her, just to talk to her. It's only another day, I tell myself, after more than a season apart, but even a few minutes feels like far too much time right now.
Of course, I needn't have worried. Iona slips back into the hall, and as she passes behind me, I feel her fingertips graze my elbow. She continues along the outer walls, past the fire, to stand outside a stairwell most commonly used by Nan's army of servants. The stairs provide access to every floor of the keep, except my family's apartments, and are the only direct route from the kitchen to the roof.
She is gazing at me unabashedly now, and smiles when she realizes I am staring back. She shifts her shoulders, and as the edge of her dress slides along her collarbone, I notice she has changed out of her earlier finery, into a simple peasant's dress. Firelight glints on a bottle of wine held in her left hand. Then she turns and steps into the stairwell, disappearing in shadows. The invitation is obvious, and I wait for what seems like a reasonable period of time before rising to follow her.
As I edge behind Mother's seat, I lean forward and whisper an excuse in her ear. She nods and tells me good night, and I wouldn't be surprised if she knows exactly what's going on. As I pass Father, he reaches out and touches my arm, then beckons me to sit beside him.
Although it's the last thing I want to do, I obey.
On my father's other side, Arl Howe has been quiet for most of the night, refusing food and sipping his wine very slowly. Now, he is talking quietly with his steward, Ser Randolph, a tall, inscrutable bann from south of Amaranthine. Randolph fought with Father and Arl Howe during the rebellion against Orlais; now, his duties as steward include command of Amaranthine's army and service as Howe's chief bodyguard. Besides the gamily guardsmen, Ser Randolph is the only person in the hall who is armed. A rectangular shield, painted into yellow and white quarters with a brown bear at the center, hangs on his back over a sheathed broadsword so long that I doubt I could wield it even with two hands.
With his taciturn manner, quiet confidence, and battle-scarred face, Ser Randolph is an imposing figure, and yet I've always liked him considerably more than Howe. Men like Randolph, and Duncan, and Father, wear their experience in the lines of their faces and carry it in the ways they move, and it seems to me that only a fool would ignore them when they speak. They make leadership effortless.
As I sink into my seat, Randolph nods to me, but he returns his attention on whatever his master is saying before I can respond in kind.
"Pup," Father says, and leans toward me immediately. He sounds tired, his voice husky. "I won't keep you long. Just a word."
Seated now, I nod politely. "Are you enjoying the feast?"
"Honestly? I've barely noticed any of it. Too much on my mind…" His gaze drifts away momentarily, his focus turning to the hazy darkness at the center of the hall, but then he manages a tight smile. "Your mother told me you spoke this afternoon," he says. "She says you've chosen not to join the Wardens?"
When I nod, relief spreads across his face. His smile relaxes, and he shifts ever so slightly in his chair, leaning against its high back.
"She tells me you also know our hopes for you?" he asks, so softly that only I can hear him. "That you will be Teyrn?"
Again, I nod.
"Thank the Maker," he says, and I believe he means it. Then he leans forward, his demeanor changing again, and he looks into my eyes intently. "I did not want to force this path on you, but I'm glad it's the one you've chosen. The Maker blessed your mother and I with two wonderful sons, and I cherish you both you, but if the worst should happen – well, I trust you, Liam, to carry on the Cousland line, and everything we stand for."
"Forgive me," I say, "but that sounds ominous. Do you…do you fear the worst?"
"No more than anyone does on the eve of violence," Father says. It's hardly resounding encouragement, and his voice is reluctant even as he speaks this minor evasion. "Fergus and I ride to battle, not an afternoon tea. Who knows what will happen to us. But I'd prefer you not worry about us, Pup. If Loghain's fears are grounded, you'll have more than enough to occupy your mind while we're gone."
"Do you think he's right? About what Arl Howe said earlier – Orlais invading?"
Father sighs heavily, and again his eyes drift to the darkness. "Who knows," he says after a moment. "My connections in Orlais thought we were on the cusp of an alliance, not war, but it's been months since I had word, and even then, who can tell? Orlesians love to play their Grand Game, and it's all lies or half-truths. I've never been any good at it." He chuckles. "None of us dog lords are, really. Whether he's right or not, Loghain has every reason to be suspicious."
"Is sending all our forces south really a good idea, then?"
"Our King demands it," Father says, his tone making it clear that this fact alone settles the matter. "Besides, even if the Orlesians are about to pounce, not sending our forces south would be a distinctly bad idea. Better Ferelden under Orlesian boots than darkspawn claws."
In some company, such words might provoke cries of treachery, or at least muttered accusations. To me, though, they underscore Father's fears of what lies in the south. Clearly, whatever he thinks of Loghain's warnings of Orlais, Father does not doubt there is a true Blight in the Korcari Wilds.
"I want you to send reinforcements to the garrisons in the passes, like we discussed this morning," Father continues, "but I also want you to prepare the men we leave here, just in case, and call up as many of the militia as you can. Legends of the Blights tell of horrible, horrible things. In ages past, these darkspawn have threatened many lands, and shown no mercy. If we cannot hold them, you must prepare for the worst."
A chill runs down my spine, but I nod. "I'll do my best, Father."
Hints of his smile return. "I know you will, Pup. You're a Cousland, after all. But enough of ominous things. Let us assume that all will go well, and let us rest in the assurance that the Maker watches over us."
Given that the Chantry teaches the Maker turned his back on mankind centuries ago, I take little comfort in this supplication, but I keep the thought to myself. Father is as faithful as I am doubtful, and I've no interest in arguing theology.
"Maker watch over us," I echo.
"I'll not keep you any longer." There's a bit of a twinkle in his eye now. "I assume you have better company waiting for you elsewhere."
Choosing not to answer, I merely bow my head and rise.
As I edge between the wall and the backs of chairs, moving slowly around the outside of the great hall, I studiously avoid looking back at my parents. Still, I can feel Father smiling after me, and Mother watching with resignation. It takes longer to reach the stairwell than I'd like, as my path is obstructed by various guests, most of them some combination of corpulent, intoxicated, or just oblivious.
Once I do, though, I step through and close the wooden door behind myself, and instantly feel relief.
The sweltering heat of the hall is behind me, and the buzz of drunken conversation, and the oppressing smells of roast meat and sweaty nobility. The roof is ten floors up, but the air here is cool, and my heart is racing, and I barely notice the steps as they begin to give way beneath my feet.
...
Iona sits at the very edge of the keep's roof, her legs dangling in open space, the bottle already uncorked and held to her lips. She's seated at the center of a wide break in the battlements, beneath a wooden crane that's occasionally used to lift supplies from the courtyard far below.
I'm not especially fond of heights, and in spite of my eagerness I approach cautiously and sit down gingerly at the very edge of the gap, holding onto the battlements with white knuckles until my hind parts are planted firmly and safely on the stone. Even then, I'm nervous as I slide myself sideways, towards her.
"Scaredy-cat," she teases, and offers me the bottle.
Taking it, I turn it back and forth in my hands, as though thinking it over. "I'm not sure alcohol and tall places should mix," I tell her, and then narrow my eyes suspiciously. "Are you trying to get me drunk and push me off?"
She giggles and shoves me playfully. There's no force to the push, but, embarrassingly, it still scares me half to death, and I nearly drop the bottle.
"Gods!" I exclaim, and scoot back from the edge.
She laughs harder, but slides back with me, moving closer as she does, so that her shoulder is pressed against mine.
"If I'm going to get you drunk," she says, leaning in toward my ear, so her breath is hot on my cheek, "it'll be to take advantage of you in other ways…my lord." The last two words slide from her tongue, half-mocking, half-seductive.
I've never had Aeron's voracious taste for women – I've never been with anyone other than Iona, in fact – but, Maker help me, with those words, with her body so close to mine, I'm tempted to just toss the bottle off the keep and carry her back to my quarters.
Instead, I turn my head slightly and lean in for a kiss. Our lips brush ever so slightly, teasing as our noses bump and her free hand goes to my face. It's more than either of us can take, and almost immediately the kiss deepens and then consumes us completely. Forget drinking – this is the sort of thing one shouldn't be doing on a ledge – because I'm wholly intoxicated now, by the feel of her lips and the taste of her mouth – and for the first time in months, I feel as though I'm where I belong.
How long the kiss goes on, I couldn't guess. When we finally break away, we're both breathing hard, and my heart feels like it's swollen to fill my chest, pressing out against my ribs out with every beat.
"I missed you," I whisper.
"I missed you, too," she says, and from the ache in her voice, I know she's felt my absence as acutely as I have hers.
Her hand falls away from my cheek, her fingers brushing my throat as they descend to my chest and effortlessly brush away the top two buttons of my shirt. She finds the necklace, a simple leather cord around my neck, and pulls it up, along with the wolf pendant it supports.
"You still wear it," she says.
"Always," I reply, fulfilling my part in our ritual.
...
At every meeting since our first, achingly brief reunion at the Landsmeet, she has touched my necklace, and we've repeated these same words. They are a tradition now, a shorthand acknowledgment of our lonely separation, and also of our enduring commitment.
Before she gave the necklace to me, Iona had worn it as long as I could remember. She'd told me only that it was passed down through several generations of women in her family, a reminder of their elven heritage.
The pendant is small, barely filling the center of her palm, and its edges are smooth, worn down long before it came into my possession. The metal could be mistaken for white gold, perhaps, or even for silver, but under the right light, from the right angle, other colors assert themselves: sometimes the metal takes on an emerald hue, and at other times it's blue, but a deep blue, like the depths of a lake or the expanse of an empty night sky. Whatever the metal's properties, the pendant has always felt ancient to me, like a relic of forgotten ages, and although I have no tangible evidence to support this assumption, I cannot shake the feeling.
The pendant represents not just any wolf, but the wolf: The Dread Wolf Fen'Harel, the trickster god of the ancient elven pantheon. Beyond his name and reputation for deception, the only thing I know about Fen'Harel is that he is traditionally an outsider, a personification of otherness.
Truth be told, Fen'Harel is not the only thing I don't understand about traditional elven spirituality. Most elves, at least here in Highever, sing The Chant and pray to The Maker. As best I can tell, they honor the memory of their forgotten gods as a matter of tradition, not one of actual faith. This is probably the only reason the Chantry tolerates practices that could easily be viewed as idolatry.
However, if the books and the rumors are to be believed, there are some elves who still live apart from the Alienages, and honor the elven gods as more than a memory. These wandering clans, called the Dalish, make their living in the forests and wildernesses at the fringes, and follow the old ways of their people. Not surprisingly, the Dalish are a subject of endless fascination for Iona. It's to her great sorrow that these Dalish keep to themselves, trading only with the most remote human villages, if they show themselves at all.
During our long afternoons in the library, Iona was always especially interested in any texts that pertained to the Dalish. Since the Dalish maintain a reputation that at best portrays them as aloof gypsies, and at worst murderous bandits, there are precious few firsthand accounts of human interaction with the wild elves. The accounts that do exist vary widely, in tone and in credibility, but a recurring motif is that the Dalish do not worship Fen'Harel in the same way they do their gods.
Unlike the rest of their deities, Fen'Harel is not honored within Dalish encampments. Instead, the elves leave offerings at various shrines and alters that are scattered across Thedas – either remnants of the ancient elven empires, which predate even the Tevinter Imperium, or memorials built by the Dalish themselves. These shrines are particularly common in western Ferelden, at the borders of the sprawling Brecilian Forest, and also in the eastern passes through the Frostback Mountains, and often take the form of wolves like the one depicted on the pendant.
Why Iona's family has treasured a talisman that represents trickery and isolation, I have no idea. Perhaps the elves, cut off in the Alienages from their own legacy, and relatively powerless within the confines of human society, might feel a certain kinship to a trickster god who lives in forced separation from his brethren? I asked Iona, once, if this was the case, and if Fen'Harel was a god favored by the Alienage's elves.
"By a few," she said, "but not by most."
That's the feeling I've gotten, as well, not that my observations are worth much. Most elves, outside my family's household servants, are even more reluctant to speak with me than are human commoners. Even so, from what limited conversation I've managed, I have a sense that Iona is rather unique in her fascination with elven heritage.
As a child, perhaps this interest was simply a natural outgrowth of her innate curiosity and bookish inclinations. Since she left Highever, however, it seems her studies have grown into something like an obsession, I can't help suspecting that what she seeks in the past is a foundation on which to rebuild her own identity.
...
Our romance had gone on for almost a year, and in our youth we were foolish enough to believe it a secret. Aeron knew, of course, as did a few of Iona's friends, but we had convinced ourselves that no one else in the castle had noticed that we spent every free moment together. Because we passed so many of those moments with only each other for company, I suppose we simply forgot that anyone else might notice that the two of us always seemed to disappear at the same time.
It was late in the spring, shortly after my sixteenth birthday. Aeron and I had only just graduated our studies, and were anxiously awaiting the ceremony at which our titles would be formally conferred. We had a great deal of time on our hands, and aside from the occasional errand for my parents, we were generally left to our own ends. During the day, while Iona tended to her duties – she had completed her schooling the previous year, and had taken a regular position on the household staff – I spent most of my time sparring with Aeron or practicing with my bow.
The evenings, though, belonged to Iona. We still spent time in the library, reading together, but more often we would kiss endlessly between the shelves, or spread a blanket on the roof of the keep, or lock ourselves inside my quarters. We hadn't made love yet, despite frequent, ribald suggestions from Aeron, but we had grown increasingly intimate over the year that followed our first kiss.
Even in a simple servant's smock, her hair tied back and her face smudged with dirt, Iona was gorgeous. But on the big rug in my room, lounging naked in front of the fire, its orange light glowing on the curves of her body, she was unequivocally hypnotic, a living embodiment of artistic beauty. Even if she remained still, I could watch her for hours, my heart tight in my chest, lust and love battling throughout my whole being.
No one else could see her quite the way I did then, and still do. I'm sure of that even today
But all the same, I should have known that her beauty would not go unnoticed. For a young elven girl, such notice can be dangerous, even in Highever. She had told me about a city constable posted at the Alienage gate who leered at her, but at the time she laughed it off. So I did, too.
I should have known better than to dismiss him so quickly, and Iona should have known as well, but we were young, and in love, and without even the barest semblance of wisdom.
...
A week before I was scheduled to take my title, I awoke to find there were soldiers in the courtyard, dressed for combat. The gate in the inner curtain wall was locked, and bowmen were posted on the battlements. On the way down to breakfast, Fergus told me the gates between the outer ward and the city were closed as well, and that the outer walls were patrolled by soldiers as well.
"There's an execution today," he told me. He'd heard it from one of the family guardsmen, who told him that the condemned was a member of the constabulary, who had assaulted an elven girl. Foolish youth that I was, it didn't occur to me that the girl might be Iona – or at least, it didn't until we reached the dining hall, and found it full.
Almost everyone who lived or worked in the inner ward was inside the hall, from Brother Aldous and the rest of the clergy to Nan and the kitchen staff. Each door was secured by family guardsmen, all of them in full armor, with shields unslung. Among the sea of faces, I looked for Iona first, and did not find her; this did not immediately alarm me, until I realized that I could not see any of her family members, either. Her mother, her older sister, and two of her brothers all worked in the inner ward, and all attended their duties during the day. They should've been there.
I don't remember how long we spent in the dining hall, but I'm sure the time passed more quickly than it seemed. It was obvious that the guards were posted to keep us inside as much as to keep anyone else out, and in the absence of any concrete information, rumors spread like wildfire. The one thing everyone seemed certain of was that the threat was not external – there was no army sieging our gates.
One of the younger guardsmen told a maid he was sweet on that there was a riot in the eastern district of the city, and that there were fires in the merchant district and the Alienage. It fit with what Fergus had told me earlier. Even in Highever, the notion that a human could be put to death when the victim was an elf would not sit well with many – and to those men who already resented the relative equality enjoyed by our elven population, this would be one offense to many by my Father's government.
Disquiet slowly gave way to terror, as my growing fear for Iona was compounded by the realization that my parents were nowhere to be seen, either. We could see nothing from the windows, except a vaguely gray haze from the north that could have been smoke, and could hear nothing whatsoever. If there was unrest, I understood Father would likely be in the city below, trying to prevent further violence – and if there were really an execution, he would need to preside. But Mother should be here, safe, with us.
The room was stuffy by the time we heard the doleful tones of the bell in the city's square being tolled once, twice, then three times, before falling silent. There was no doubt now – the sentence had been carried out. Only three bells meant the deceased was not worthy of a full toll, a recounting of his years; that there were bells at all meant the condemned had been a human, as no bells were ever rung for the elves, regardless of the manner of their passing.
Moments later, Aeron slipped in through a side door. With his already imposing form and his mop of red hair, I saw him first, and it was immediately clear that he was looking for me, too. He shoved through the crowd toward my usual table, wild-eyed, head turning left and right; I was surprised he didn't call out my name.
"You need to come with me," he gasped when I had pushed my way to intercept his course.
Without any further explanation, Aeron grabbed my hand – an utterly uncharacteristic act – and dragged me back the way he'd come. He ignored my blurted demands for information, and when one of the guardsmen moved to block our exit, Aeron stopped him with a glare. Like most of the younger guards, he already knew and respected Aeron, and gave a slight nod before letting us pass.
In the stairwell, he dropped my hand and began to take the steps three at a time.
"What's going on?" I demanded. "Aeron? Aeron!"
"Please," he said, without any pause, "just trust me."
Moments later, he pushed open a door and we stepped out into the training ground behind the barracks, on the west side of the keep. Other than a handful of archers above us on the battlements, there was no one in sight.
"This way," Aeron said, gesturing I should follow as he jogged along the keep's wall. "We don't have much time!"
We passed between the barracks and the tower, emerging in the courtyard. Almost directly opposite us, at the foot of the gatehouse, four horses from our stable were hitched to a carriage I'd never seen before. About a dozen mounted guardsmen were maneuvering into a protective formation; more guards were on foot, arrayed in a half circle around the gate itself, and those not carrying pikes had their blades drawn. Clearly, they anticipated trouble once the gate opened, and I wondered if rioting had reached the walls of the inner ward. I could hear no such commotion outside, but the walls were high, and when I tried to focus, I realized that I could hear little beside my own blood pounding in my ears.
Without meaning to, I'd slowed from a jog to a walk, and then to something even slower, barely moving as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.
My mother stood just outside the carriage, talking to an elven woman whose clothes identified her as a member of our family's personal staff. In retrospect, I should have recognized Iona's mother immediately, but I think at that point I was in shock. I knew, but I didn't want to know, so it wasn't until I saw Iona herself that my mind caught up with reality. She came around the back of the carriage, her father beside her, his arm around her protectively, pulling her close to his side. Her head was down, her hair falling loose and tangled to cover much of her face, and she moved stiffly, almost with a limp; his head was up and alert, and his free hand rested on the pommel of a short-sword hanging at his belt.
Elves can't carry weapons, my mind told me.
My mind asked me: Why isn't her hair brushed?
As I took it in, everything seemed wrong, off somehow, as though the events playing out before me were a fever dream, a hallucinatory glimpse into some alien plane of existence.
"What…?" I couldn't find the words to finish my question.
"They're leaving," Aeron hissed, and shoved me forward. "You know what's happening out there, don't you?"
"Someone..." My feet moved beneath me, across grass and gravel, steadily regaining the momentum they'd lost as something like gravity pulled me toward the scene ahead. "Someone's been executed," I managed. "A constable?"
"Yeah," Aeron growls. "Some miserable fucking cunt from the night watch. He attacked her. He…well, shit, I…" He didn't need to finish the thought, and knew it. He still had a firm grip on my shoulder, but I think at that point it had nothing to do with keeping me moving. His grip tightened. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.
One of the mounted guards noticed our approach and gestured to one of his comrades on the ground, a sergeant.
"Your father," Aeron continued, "he took the fucker's head. That's why they're rioting."
Aeron spat those last words. That's why they're rioting.
I can still hear the way he said, and still feel the way it hit me.
Earlier, in the dining hall, everything had made sense. An elven girl, raped. The rapist's blood spilled, to satisfy my father's justice. The people, bucking against the perception of a disruption in the natural order. It rankled, but it was the way of things; it was as expected. I accepted it as simple cause and effect.
No longer.
"They're leaving," Aeron said. "It's not safe. I don't know if they're coming back."
The guard sergeant tapped Mother on the shoulder, and she turned, stiffening as soon as she saw us rushing across the courtyard.
"Get back inside!" she snapped, and I heard her so clearly that I realized we were almost to the carriage itself, nearly among the outer perimeter of the guards. "Liam! Get back inside! Aeron! Aeron!"
Of course, I ignored her. So did Aeron.
Iona had seen me, and eyes, wide and full of pain and confusion, had locked with mine.
"Sergeant!" Mother barked. "Get them inside!"
The sergeant turned and began to pace toward us, but he was too slow.
Iona broke away from her father's grip and pushed toward me. Her lip was cut and one of her eyes blackened, and she seemed unsteady on her feet, but she moved quickly, passing my mother and collapsing into my arms.
...
I remember what came next so clearly, it could be happening in this very moment.
In one of many acts of selfless loyalty, Aeron moves between us and the advancing sergeant. He begins to talk. His hands are up, palms open, placating, but he is risking a beating nonetheless.
"What happened?" I ask, as Iona crushes herself against my chest. Her cheeks are wet with tears. "Are you all right?"
"I'm sorry," she sobs, and her hand finds mine.
"Are you all right?" I press. "What's happening?"
"Sergeant!" Mother is yelling, stalking toward us too now.
Iona's father is calling her name.
The sergeant loses patience and shoves Aeron roughly, sending him tumbling into the dirt.
Iona presses something into my palm. My fingers close over the wolf pendant, although I don't yet recognize what it is.
"I'm sorry," she repeats, and breaks away. Her eyes find mine, and what I see breaks my heart.
I still don't fully comprehend what's happened, or the scene that is playing out in front of me, but in my heart, I understand enough. She's hurting, and, worse still, she's being taken from me. I begin to cry.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm sorry," she repeats, and begins to walk back toward her family.
The sergeant's hands are on my shoulders now. He's surprisingly gentle, considering the strength with which he threw Aeron to the ground. "Come on, milord," he says, almost pleading with me.
Iona looks over her shoulder once more, and mouths the words I love you.
I only have time to nod once in affirmation, desperate in my conviction, before the sergeant is hustling me back toward the keep.
...
Until the following morning, all I knew was that Iona was gone. Where, or for how long, I was left to puzzle over. That she had been raped, or at least the victim of an attempt, I could piece together; whatever had happened, it must have occurred on her way home from her duties in the keep, as I'd not seen her after the afternoon meal on the day before the riots.
Aeron knew her assailant was a constable assigned to the night watch in the Alienage, and everyone knew that Father had ordered executed almost immediately following determination of his guilt. That unrest followed was self-explanatory, although the assumptions underpinning the expectation of riots were something I would never again take for granted.
Smoke rose from the city for the rest of the day after the carriage departed, and the castle remained in a state of heightened security. Aeron and I were confined to my quarters by the sergeant, on my parents' orders. There were two windows in my room, from which we could observe not only the plumes of dark smoke coiling up from the Alienage, but also the groups of archers on both the inner and the outer curtain walls, and the armed patrols in the courtyard and along the few alleys of the outer ward we could see.
We were kept under guard until breakfast time the next day, and even then were not permitted to go down to the dining hall. Instead, servants brought us an abnormally generous meal to be served in my quarters. Some of the servants were elven, and I knew one in particular was acquainted with Iona's family, but when I pressed him for information, he firmly demurred. His words were polite, but his eyes were cold, accusing even. It was an expression I was unused to receiving from persons of any race, but one that I would to accept over the following months, as the elves who remained behind in the Alienage continued to suffer in the aftermath of my father's justice.
That morning, my parents entered as soon as the servants departed, before Aeron and I had begun our meal. They did not reproach either of us for our interruption in the courtyard, nor did they offer any consolation to me. In fact, although the truth hung over our brief conversation like thick smoke from a blocked chimney, they did not even mention my relationship with Iona. Facts were all they offered, and in retrospect, I suppose that was a kindness.
Iona had been accosted by the constable the night before the riots. He met her just inside the Alienage gates, and when she refused his advances, he beat her until she was nearly unconscious, dragged her into an alley, and had his way. She was found soon after and taken to her parents, who were too afraid of the constabulary to make a report that night; instead, her mother spoke to mine when she arrived at the keep the following morning.
The constable was convicted by the testimony of men who heard him bragging of his conquest at a tavern; some of them were his fellow constabulary, men who would likely never have reported him if not questioned by my father's guardsmen. When confronted by the guard, the constable denied nothing, and seemed bewildered when he was placed under arrest. "She was just a knife ear," he told the guards.
Many others in our city no doubt harbored the same attitude toward non-humans as that constable, and many harbor them still. What set him apart was not the ugliness in his soul, but his ignorance: he had only recently moved to Highever, and wherever in the world he had come from, it was a safe guess that he would have suffered no consequence for his act.
Instead, he lost his head in the village square.
The execution was delayed only long enough to mobilize the guard and militia, as well as the more reliable of the constables, for the unrest that Father knew would follow. And follow it did. At the castle gates, working class men and women yelled and shook their fists, and some threw rotten vegetables and even bricks at the guards; in the port district, elven businesses were torched and elven boats scuttled, but there was no loss of life.
The elves knew what was coming as surely as my father, and retreated to the relative safety of the Alienage. The constables were withdrawn from the Alienage and sent to other districts to keep order, and in their place, militia and guardsmen had taken positions at each of the Alienages entrances. Despite these precautions, and roving patrols within the Alienage itself, agitators broke through several times, and about a dozen homes were burnt to the ground before order was restored.
Before the day ended, two soldiers were seriously injured by thrown bricks, three fishermen killed by the guard while trying to force their way into the castle, and scores of elves lost their homes and livelihoods. Curfew was imposed, and by midnight, order was fully restored.
...
While my father presided over the execution, mother saw to the safety of Iona's family. A human's blood had been spilled in retribution for the virtue of an elf. Neither the fact of Iona's innocence, nor the complete absence of input from family in the judicial proceedings, would be enough to protect them. Even after the human outcry quieted, even after peace was restored, reprisal would be all but guaranteed.
So, before the constable's body was cold on the ground, they were loaded into the carriage and escorted from the city by the mounted guards, who rode with them to Bann Loren's estate in Denerim. Mother's friendship with Lady Landra assured that she could ask anything of her friend, including a place for Iona and her kin among Landra's servants, either in Denerim or in Caer Oswin.
"It was the best we could do for them," Mother told me. "Away from here, they'll be safe, and they'll be well cared for by Landra."
Time has proved Mother correct. Landra and her husband provided housing for Iona's entire family in Denerim's Alienage, and Iona has risen to a place of honor among Landra's retinue. So far from Highever, I doubt anyone they encounter, even among the elves themselves, knows what transpired, and I am equally certain that no one from Highever – not even the constable's family – would think to go looking for them.
I can be certain of this because when the carriage left Highever, carrying Iona within, an uglier utility was achieved: my father issued a proclamation that stated Iona and her family had been exiled, a just and fitting punishment for "her part" in what occurred.
He told me of the proclamation with no hesitation, and met my incredulous gaze without apology. Our first duty is always to our people, he said, and this lie was well worth telling if it helped the city to heal.
...
What transpired that night, and the consequences that followed, fundamentally ruptured Iona's understanding of her place in the world, and indeed the place of her species. This was compounded by the more immediate changes necessitated by the move to Denerim, and the transition to serving Bann Loren and Lady Landra, rather than my family. A new Alienage, new masters, a new city, all that change compounded upon the trauma she had already suffered.
And into all this, a child.
Iona's daughter was born nine months later, hundreds of miles away from the site of her forcible conception, a babe unaware of the coldness of the world she was being born into. Like all half-born, she had human features – our smaller eyes and rounded ears – but was slender and lithe, taking after her mother's people.
When I saw Iona again, at the Landsmeet, I had no idea. She didn't tell me at our next meeting, either, but in a letter sent some time after, when her daughter was nearly two years old. Iona told me she'd chosen the name Amethyne, and I understood immediately. Amethyne was the name of a scholar who'd penned one of Iona's favorite volumes about the Dalish elves. During better times, we'd read the book together in Highever's library. Like the locket I wear, and the stories in those texts, her daughter's name is another expression of Iona's interest in the alluring history of her people.
Once upon a time, elves were not subject to the cruel whims of human desire, nor subject to the unwritten laws of a society that cheapened their very existence. Once upon a time, elves were not segregated into the slums of sprawling cities, forced to beg for scraps when nobles passed or huddle together for safety when torches were lit. Once upon a time, Iona might not have been a victim, nor would her victimization have become cause for flight from her home.
Maybe it's arrogant, but I wonder if Iona might also dream that once upon a time, she could've married the man she loved, rather than accepting a secret role as beloved mistress.
And maybe I'm fooling myself, but I also like to imagine there is also hope in Iona's obsession – hope that if it was once so, perhaps it might be so again – hope that Amethyne might grow up with a different place in the world than the one to which Iona was consigned from birth.
...
"How is she?" I ask Iona in the present.
We are laying on our backs, looking up at the night sky, only our feet extending into the space beyond the keep's walls. Her head rests against my shoulder, and are hands our clasped between our bodies. We've been up here almost an hour, and the bottle of wine is long-finished; it seems that, at last Iona's storm of questions is ended as well. She knows that Aeron will join the Grey Wardens, and that I may become Teyrn; more importantly, she has been caught up on the gossip and idle trivia of Castle Highever, from affairs between servants to Nan's ongoing tyranny, from the repainting of murals to Oren's growth into boyhood.
Talk of Oren, of course, turns to talk of Amethyne.
When she answers, I can hear her smile in each word. "Bigger every day. Smarter, too." Iona rolls toward me, onto her side, and drums her fingers on my chest. "Honestly, she's starting to be trouble – we have to keep at least one eye on her all the time, or else she's out in the street begging cakes off the baker, or arguing with a beggar about what the color green looks like."
I laugh. "Not a bookworm like you, then?"
"Not yet," Iona says, "but we're working on it."
At first, it was hard to wrap my head around the idea that Iona could be a mother – let alone such a loving one, given the circumstances of Amethyne's conception. The pain was fresh in my mind still, and it was hard for me to understand how Iona could bring herself to love a living, breathing reminder of that pain so unconditionally. Even more dissonant, in so many of my memories of Iona – each one achingly fresh, even years after she was stolen from me – she and I were little more than children ourselves. How could a child become a mother?
But that confusion ended years ago, in the months after we began to write. Now, Amethyne seems as much a part of Iona as her laugh or her pointed ears.
Iona rolls further still, so she's propped up, half on my chest, half supported by one elbow on the stone, and looks me full in the face, her eyes sparkling. "She's learning elven, Liam!" she exclaims. Her smile and her excitement are contagious. "Elven!"
"What? How?"
"The hahren," she says. She's told me before that the word hahren literally translates to "uncle," although the connotation is closer to "godfather" or "elder." When used as a title, it refers to an elected patriarch who shepherds day to day life in Alienages. "His name is Valerian. He teaches all the children old elven, and he'll teach anyone else who wants to know, too."
"Are you learning, then?"
In her studies, Iona has picked up more than a few terms and even phrases, but learning to actually speak the language of her ancestors has always been one of Iona's dreams.
"I have very little time," she says, and her tone is regretful, but her eyes are sparkling. "I've learned a bit, all the same."
"Oh?"
She nods, and stretches forward to plant a brief kiss on the side of my mouth.
"Ar lath ma," she says softly, "vhenan."
I recognize none of the words, but the way she says them – I really don't need any translation.
"Does that mean…?"
"…I love you," she says, confirming what I already know. "Vhenan means 'my heart.'"
"You'll have to teach me how to say it, then. If it's – is it okay for humans to learn elven?"
"Of course," she says, and then pauses, her brows furrowing. "Actually, I have no idea. So much of who we are has been lost. I really don't know." Her expression clears, and she kisses me again. "For you, we'd make an exception."
"Is that – is it common, hahrens speaking elven? Sarethia doesn't, does she?"
I've met Sarethia, the elven woman who has overseen Highever's Alienage since before I was born, a handful of times. She has never struck me as the sort of person who would have time for studying the past, let alone interest.
"Gods, no," Iona says. "She never knew what to make of me, pestering her for bits of history. But I don't know if it's common elsewhere. Every Alienage I've been to is different, and I've been told they are much different in Orlais. Much worse."
"What about Denerim? Are things – are they bad there?"
In recent years, whenever we've spoken of the place elves hold in Ferelden society, or the details of life in the Alienage, I've felt a marked sense of discomfort that I don't recall from our younger days. Every time I acknowledge the ugly realities that face Iona daily, even in passing, I can't help feeling that I'm also poking at the wounds of four years ago, which must still be raw today when dragged to light. Worse still, I feel as though I am prying into difficulties about which I haven't the right to ask, since I've not shared in them. Even now, when I ask how bad conditions are in the Denerim Alienage, I'm acutely aware that I have no personal frame of reference. I was born to privilege, and live the life of nobility.
When I've tried to talk with fishermen or soldiers or blacksmiths, it's often been painfully apparent to me that they live a life I cannot comprehend, and I a life that they envy and resent in equal measure. Their eyes silently accuse, or judge, or idolize, or sometimes all three. And whatever differences separate me from those men, how much more so is my experience divorced from Iona's?
If she feels the same discomfort with these questions, however, she's never given any indication to me. I've never seen that judgment in her eyes, nor the accusation, and certainly never the idolatry. She rarely goes out of her way to reference to our vastly different stations in life, unless it's to tease me.
"It has its share of good and bad," she says, in answer to my question. "It's so much bigger than the Alienage here, it's hard to compare. No one in Denerim stands up for us, not like your parents do, but I think the humans there – well, there's so many of them, and so many of us, that it's almost like we're all anonymous. We leave them alone, and for the most part, they leave us alone, too."
"For the most part?"
"For the most part," she repeats. "Every now and then, the worst of the shems come into the slums, looking for trouble." Shem is an elven pejorative for us humans. "It's usually packs of nobles," she explains, "and they're always drunk and always young. They'll prowl around the gates, or on the market bridge, and try to provoke an excuse for violence. I haven't seen it myself, but I'm told they're mostly cowards trying to show each other up. The elders know how to handle them, and I'm told the city guard are actually quite fair to us, so long as we remember our place."
She says it so matter-of-factly, like the weather. Mind our place.
"And if someone forgets 'their place?'" I ask, trying to be mindful of the unearned bitterness in my tone.
"Oh, look at you," she says, shifting again, so she's laying across my chest, our legs tangled, noses almost touching. She flicks her thumb against my chin affectionately. "I won't lie, it's a bit adorable that it makes you angry. But life is what life is, Liam. You know as well as I do, we all have our places in the Maker's dance, fair or not, and we all learn the steps if we want to keep dancing."
Even as she speaks of acceptance, there's sadness in her eyes. I want to argue with her, but what would I say that she doesn't already know? Nothing I could say will change the realities in the Alienages.
"Are you safe, at least?" I ask at last.
"You really are adorable," she says. "And, yes, we're safe. People blame the shems when beggars or prostitutes go missing, but in the Alienage, we're more apt to be robbed or cheated by our own than attacked by shemlen."
"We maybe have different definitions of safe," I suggest, and she laughs.
"No! Honestly, it's safer than most of the other districts in Denerim. The Alienage is not a prison, Liam. The walls protect us more than they keep us inside, and the hahrenand the vhenadahlshelter us. We dance, we sing, we've even been known to drink. And we look out for each other. And I think we appreciate it more than most humans do. Not your family, but…Maker bless them, Landra and Bann Oswin? They have everything, and they appreciate nothing."
"Well, you know what I think of Landra."
"Please," she says. "You didn't have to carry her all the way to the library tonight." She giggles. "I don't think she'd have minded if you did, though."
"Oh, no," I laugh. "She wants Aeron, not me."
"She has better taste than I do," she teases. "She is a sad old drunk, sometimes, but she does have a good heart, Liam. When we first moved to Denerim, she offered to let my family live in her manor. I forget what she offered to call us, but she'd have given papa some sort of important title to justify us living there."
It's always irritating, learning the good deeds of people I can't stand. "I didn't know that," I say.
Iona nods. "When she made me one of her ladies in waiting, she asked again. She asked me and Amethyne to stay with her. She said we didn't have to, of course, but she said she's quite fond of us, and wants us to be safe. I tried to tell her the same thing I'm trying to tell you – the Alienage is the best place for us. Not just because it's safe, but because I want Amethyne to know what it means to be elven. As much as possible, at least."
She is quiet for a minute, staring past me, out over the city, I think. I tighten my arm around her, to let her know I'm still listening.
"So much of who we are has been lost," she says slowly. "But Hahren Valerian and the other elders work hard to preserve what's left. They speak the old tongue, and there are shrines to some of the old gods underneath the vhenadahl. My daughter doesn't have to scavenge through old archives to learn about the Dales, or Arlathan, or the gods."
"It sounds like Denerim is a good fit for you," I say. "I'm glad."
"If it weren't for you," she says, and kisses me again, "I might wish I'd been born there."
"And Amethyne – does she like it, too? Learning about elves?"
"She's barely four," Iona points out. "She likes cookies and dolls. Everything else is just what happens in between naps and snacks. But…it is absolutely precious to hear her trying to speak elven. She has such a lisp!"
I laugh.
"And how about your daughter," Iona asks, flicking my chin again. "How is dear old Madra?"
"She misses you. But I think she's a little like what you said about Amethyne – she mostly just loves snacks and naps."
"It's good for her sake you're turning the Wardens down," she says. "Poor thing would've been lost without you."
"Oh, she'd have come with me," I say. "Whether I wanted her or not. Mother would never let me leave her behind. Or Nan, for that matter."
"That sweet dog, a Warden?" Iona sounds skeptical. When she left Highever, Madra was still a puppy, all feet and fat rolls, slobbering on anyone who would pick her up.
"Oh, she'd make a better Warden than me," I say quickly. "You should've seen her tearing into those bog rats. She's Mabari; she's got war in her blood."
"If you say so," Iona says, and then suddenly dissolves into a fit of giggles.
"What?"
"Barkspawn! You could call her bark spawn. If she were a Warden!"
It takes a second for the pun to sink it, but when it does I start to laugh too, and Iona repeats the name, and the more we laugh, the harder it is to stop. Maybe it's the wine, or the lateness of the hour. Maybe it's the relief after missing each other so much, for so long. Or maybe it's just a good pun.
When silence finally falls again, both our faces are streaked with tears and my sides ache. I'm still smiling, and so is Iona. She rests her head on my chest, and for a time, neither of us speak, content to feel each other breathing and listen to sounds of the night.
Eventually, when the silence has gone on long enough, I whisper in her ear that I love her.
She twists onto her elbow again, and stares at me without answering.
"Do you want to be the Teyrn?" she asks at last.
"If it's my duty."
"Thank you, Ser Cousland, for the illuminating answer." She's mocking me, obviously, but not unkindly. "Duty and all that, I know. But, is it something you want? Would you rather have been a Warden?"
I lay my head back, staring up at the sky, breaking eye contact as I search for an answer. Finding an answer for Duncan's offer was not easy, but not because of any burning desire to be a Warden; by the same token, remaining in Highever seemed the right choice only because it was the best fulfillment of duty. But that is only a repetition of my family's credo, one that Iona has already teased me for choosing as my answer.
In the midst of all the day's hubbub and confusion, the only thing I'd really wanted was for the world to stop changing around me. Beyond that, the question of what I desire is functionally moot.
In a perfect world, though, what would my life be?
"I'm not sure," I say, meeting her gaze again. "They're two paths, I suppose, among many. You can laugh, and I know my family clings to the notion of duty a bit tightly, but I chose to stay because it seemed like the better service to my people, not because it seemed like a nicer path to choose."
She nods once, but doesn't say anything.
"Honestly," I say, "there's only one path I'd want to walk, and it's not a path we can choose."
A sad smile plays across her face. She knows exactly what I mean.
Something crashes behind us, near the center of the keep's roof. Almost immediately, Aeron's voice booms out: "Put your clothes on! Put your clothes on, for Maker's sake!" His words slur slightly, but otherwise he sounds as boisterous and cheerful as ever.
"We're wearing clothes, you daft tit!" Iona calls out good-naturedly, pushing herself up and twisting to look for Aeron. They've always had an affectionately adversarial relationship.
"Iona!" he calls out, delighted. "Sweeeet I-ohhhh-nnnaa!"
When she and I first fell for each other, Aeron used to tease me by calling her Sweet Iona behind her back. Typically, he soon moved on to addressing her as such to her face, and the nickname has stuck, at least where Aeron is concerned.
"You big lout," she says, rising, and they embrace.
"It's good to see you," he tells her, and then releases her from his bear hug and kisses her on each cheek. "I was afraid Liam was up here with some nasty harlot. Imagine my delight to find him with you!"
"You're keeping him away from harlots, I hope?" she asks.
"All the harlots are mine," Aeron says. "So, yes, you could say that I'm keeping them away from him, at least."
"Well, you have my thanks, I suppose?" Iona says.
"Speaking of harlots," I say, "what are you doing up here? It's your last night as a non-Warden. You should be knee deep in liquor and loose women."
"I brought the liquor with me," Aeron replies immediately, lifting a corked bottle in each hand. "As for loose women, there was no chance of finding any of them with the Wardens. Some of them all right, but Landra's nephew? He had all the personality of a burlap sack full of old cotton."
"Oh, Maker!" Iona exclaims. "Isn't he dull?"
Aeron laughs. "That's a kind word for it."
"So you won't be chasing skirts with Ser Jory, then?" I ask.
"I won't be chasing anything but darkspawn with that man. He defines earnest."
"You sure you still want to join?" I ask, teasing. "You do love those skirts..."
"The Wardens don't require vows of celibacy. I checked. Besides, I can find those loose women anywhere." His goofy grin turns suddenly sincere. "But I don't know the next time I'll have a chance to drink with my two oldest friends. It's an easy choice."
I barely have time to be touched before he turns to me.
"Besides," he says, "I had to know – do you have an answer for Duncan?"
...
It's harder to explain my decision to Aeron than it has been to anyone else, and the foggy buzz of the alcohol isn't helping either. Still, I have to try. The three of us lean against the stone battlements, Iona on my right and Aeron on my left, and I stumble through my explanation, half-apologizing every step of the way, having to force myself to meet his eyes. He listens unquestioningly until I tell him about Mother's disclosure on the walls – and then he breaks into an enormous grin.
"You aren't seriously telling me you're surprised, are you?" he demands happily once I've finished. "You are such an ass! How could you not know?"
I'm not surprised he's excited, but I'm baffled as to why he thinks I should've known. I try to explain this, and he just laughs me off.
"Too modest," he tells Iona, as though I'm not present.
"You're not disappointed?" I ask.
Aeron looks at me like I've sprouted antlers and braided my nose hair. "Disappointed?"
"That I'm staying here."
"Fuck no," he says, a bit incredulous. "I'd only want you to join if it was what you wanted. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'll miss you – especially if they're all as serious as Jory and Duncan and that lot – but –" He glances to either side, searching for the right words like he might actually find them floating in the air. "Well, hell. If anything, I should be apologizing to you."
"To me?"
"He really is dense," Aeron says to Iona, but there's an unexpected vulnerability in his voice. He turns back to me. "Yes, to you, Liam. I'm not sure you how you missed it, but I've known for a long time that your parents would choose you. How could they not? Listen, I love you like a brother, so don't take this wrong, but you're not the best warrior. You don't think tactically, like Fergus does, and you're definitely not as charming as me. And you're a pretty good manager, but you're nowhere near as good at counting beans and moving chess pieces as your father."
"Oh, yes," I interrupt sarcastically, as Aeron pauses for breath. "When you put it like that, I really should've seen this coming."
"Would you shut up a minute and let me talk for a second?" Aeron snaps, like he always has to struggle to get a word in edgewise.
Iona and I both laugh, which puzzles him for a minute. Then he nods grudgingly.
"All right, okay, I deserve that," he says, "but, seriously, listen to me. You know you'll make a great Teyrn? You love this place. You love the land, the castle, the people, more than anyone I know."
"Sure," I acknowledge, "but so do you. So does Fergus."
"No, I love you," Aeron says. "You and your family. Fergus loves his family, and drinking, and maybe his men. He and I, we're pretty similar that way. I sit through all those fucking petty courts and dick measuring contests and arguments about who has tastier grain because it's my job, and because you're my friend. Fergus doesn't even go to them anymore. You? You actually give a shit."
I'm a bit dumbfounded. I've never felt like I particularly cared about any of those duties, but I suppose I've always taken them seriously, no matter how much they bored or irritated me. Maybe that's the same thing, then?
"Hell, it's probably the worst thing about you," he presses. "It's also the reason I ought to apologize to you for joining the Wardens."
"You don't need to-" I start.
Iona puts a hand on my arm, and I shut my mouth.
"No, I do," Aeron said. "I wish you'd come with me, only so I wouldn't have to worry about you. You're your own worst enemy, sometimes. It's like your parents branded this whole notion of duty on your forehead the day you were born. This place will eat you alive if you let it, Liam, and I'm afraid you will let it."
For some reason, a lump rises in my throat. This has not been a good day for stoic manliness; I feel like I've been on the brink of tears, on the verge of panic, and in the clutches of doubt more today than in probably the whole rest of the year. And that doesn't even take into account Iona's presence, or her body pressed against my arm as I lean on the stone wall.
"A big part of me thinks I should stay here," Aeron says. "So that's why I feel like I should apologize to you."
"So why are you going?" I blurt, and realize belatedly that this question – far more than the own questions of worthiness or self-determination that have plagued me throughout the day – is at the heart of everything.
More of my feelings must have crept into my words than I intended, because Iona squeezes my arm tight against her, protective or comforting, and I see a flash of pain pass across Aeron's face. His expression cuts me to my core. What right do I have to question his choice?
"I'm sorry," I say, "I didn't-"
"No, it's okay," he says. "I – I'm not going to lie to you, partly I want to go because, well, why wouldn't I? Fighting is the one thing I'm really, really good at. Well, fucking and drinking, but those aren't of any use to anyone else, really. You can do so much for your people, Liam. But me – I love you like a brother, but all I'll ever amount to is your bodyguard, and your friend. And I'll always be your friend, I swear it. But being a Warden – yeah, it's an adventure – but it's the highest service I can render. You can do so much good here, but for me, this is the most good I'll ever be able to do."
He looks down at his feet, bashful in a way I don't recall ever seeing him. He kicks the wall.
"Does that make sense?" he asks, looking back up, meeting my eyes almost pleadingly.
I nod, and then begin to chuckle, because the alternative is probably a sob. "Yes," I say, "except that you're an idiot for thinking you have to apologize."
"Well, fuck you, then," Aeron says through his own laughter. He wraps me in a bear hug – incidentally, the only sort of hug one can get from Aeron.
As he does, Iona sighs and rolls her eyes. "Boys," she mutters, but not without affection.
For maybe the next hour, the three of us stand against the battlements, passing the bottles back and forth, looking out over the courtyard that used to be our entire world. We laugh almost without pause as we revisit old memories and retell old stories, and more than a few of the tiny figures moving across the grass below us look up, puzzled, as our laughter echoes down to their ears.
That familiar sensation – the desire to freeze time, pausing its progression indefinitely to savor the perfection of this moment – the same sense of comfortable belonging that I felt this morning, in the kitchen – permeates the night air, almost crushing my heart with its intensity.
We have neared the bottom of both bottles, and the middle of the night – not to mention the depths of drunken nostalgia – when Aeron raises his high in the air.
"To the lot of us," he says. "May the Maker bless you with happy lives and many little children, bastard-born or not!"
Iona has the other bottle, and has to stand on her toes to clink her bottle against his.
"And to you," she says. "The biggest ass I know. Maker bless your blade with the blood of a thousand darkspawn!"
Upon being called an ass, Aeron dissolves into laughter, and they both knock back deep swigs.
Iona passes the bottle to me, and I raise it as well. Typically, I've got no jests, nor anything particularly eloquent.
"Like you said, to the lot of us," I say. "Back here again." I lift the bottle, and clink it against Aeron's as well. "If only this were all of life."