Chapter 2- Departure
Aithne sat at her desk contemplating what lay ahead, fingers curled around a steaming mug of tea. She had packed her things and spent a restless night listening to the rain pound the glass of the window as thunder rumbled across the bay — the weather fit her mood. The violent storm and generally unpredictable fall weather meant no ships would be leaving harbor in the near future. Unwilling to delay for the weather she had spoken to Arl Eamon early this morning and arranged for two horses. The old Arl had been painfully sympathetic when she told him her plans. He had also, much to her shame, looked relieved.
All that was left to do was wait for Alistair. He was conscientious about the bureaucratic end of running the kingdom on the rare occasions that he was in Denerim. She would not have long before he appeared to address business. All of the papers were organized; finances, garrison strength, warehouse stores and diplomatic issues. In truth with Eamon and Leliana to help he would not find it hard to do without her.
Alistair finally appeared, later than usual and with a buoyancy that had been missing for some time. "Good morning. Hard at work already, I see." His grin was replaced by wariness after a moment to assess the elf in front of him.
"Good morning, my Lord." Her even tone belied the shadows in her eyes. "I have the accounts ready for your review. There are some new trade negotiations from the Free Marches that arrived this morning."
Alistair bypassed the business at hand, perceptive of her distress. "Aithne, I don't know what to say. I am not sorry, the kingdom needs an heir." He ran a hand through his hair, struggling with what to say. "I am King of Ferelden. Maker's Breath, you put me on the throne. If there had been any other choice, you know I would have…"
She cut him off. "I know, and I am happy for you and Rothana. We agreed long ago that this was for the best. It's just that, well, I have to go. You can't have a real marriage with me here. I never should have stayed." There, she had said it, badly, but it was said.
Alistair came around the desk and stood before his first true love. "I never wanted to hurt you. You have to believe that. I never wanted to be king, never thought we would survive the blight." Voice husky, he took her limp hands.
"I believe you, always." Aithne took a deep breath. "Zevran and I are going today, I don't know where. It is the best, the only chance for any of us. I… I hope that you will come to love Rothana as you love me. She deserves that. Be a father to your child. That is more than either of us had. Eamon knows enough about all of this to help you manage." She gestured at the piles of papers. "Leliana is staying here too. I…I…, thank you for everything." Giving his hands a gentle squeeze she stood and fled the room.
Rothana found him there hours later, a tattered notebook open, the remains of a rose dried in its pages. Tears had dried on his face and he stared vacantly into the fire. "Alistair," she said gently as she placed a soft hand on his shoulder.
"She is gone." The anguish in his voice tore her heart. "She said I could not be a proper husband or father with her here." He turned to his wife and she gathered him to her. "She was right. I am so sorry, but she was right. I have treated you poorly and neglected Ferelden, all for something that could never be. Can you ever forgive me?"
Looking down at her husband, bereft of his usual strength and so lost, Rothana's heart, carefully locked away from all of the pain of their marriage, opened again. "Of course I forgive you Alistair. Shall we make another start, just you and I?"
Zevran was waiting when Aithne reached her chamber. Hard as steel and fragile as glass he thought, seeing her drawn features. "The horses are saddled and ready, shall we go?" Seeing her questioning glance about the room, he added. "Your things are already in the saddlebags." He gently set her traveling cloak about her shoulders and pulled the hood up. "You always pick the worst weather to travel in, must be your stoic Dalish blood."
"You have Dalish blood too." Aithne struggled to engage in their normal banter.
"Ah yes, but I was raised by whores, they have better sense. Stay inside where it is warm and dry in foul weather. Of course, it is hard to look your best when freezing and soaking wet, bad for business. What woman will look at me by the end of the day, dripping and smelling of horse?" Zevran did his best to look pitiful.
"Oh Maker, will I have to listen to this all the way across Thedas?" Rolling her eyes Aithne left the room. Even in the worst moments Zev could always make her smile. Twenty minutes later they trotted out of the gates of the palace headed for the north road. She did not look back, did not want to know if he had watched her go.
Aithne rode numbly, heart aching, unmindful of the freezing rain or the mud that splashed onto everything from their horses' hooves. The weather seemed to have silenced Zevran so she was alone with her thoughts. Why had she fallen for a human, a bastard prince no less, in the first place? Remembering their first meeting and his unexpected kindness, his devastation those early days after Ostagar, their desperate struggle to gather allies against the blight, the gift of the rose; she blinked back tears. He was everything she had not expected of a human, and he had stolen her heart. Then there had been those frantic years rebuilding after the blight. She had thrown everything she had into restoring Ferelden, not just for him but for all of its citizens. That perhaps had been the only good to come out of the pact with Morrigan. Memories and regrets chased around in her head as the miles flew by.
"Aithne," she was jostled out of her stupor as Zevran grabbed her horse's bridle. "I swear, we could have been ambushed by darkspawn and you would not have noticed. We need to stop at the inn here. I am cold, wet and hungry and the horses are tired. The sun is going down." She looked about, noticing they were about to ride out of a small village.
"Sure, Zev." What did it matter where they stopped?
Zevran guided their horses back to the small tavern he had seen. Maker willing there would be a room they could rent. Likely they would have to sleep in the stable, he thought glumly. They tied their horses to the rickety fence, took their saddlebags and went in. It was warmer, Zevran would give it that. The tiny village tavern did not have much else to recommend it. It was a small room, only four scarred tables, redolent of smoke and spilled beer. The few patrons turned to stare as they stepped inside, he kicked a half chewed bone out of the way as he crossed to the barkeep. "I would like dinner for two, stabling for our horses and a room if you have one." He pulled a few silvers out and laid them on the counter. "More if you can provide hot water for a bath and someone to rub the horses down."
The barkeep hesitated for a moment, and then decided that chasing off two heavily armed elves with silver to spend was probably not wise. "Aye, there's a room in back. "Lisbeth will show you." He waved at a dark haired girl pouring beer. "No bath, but I can send ye some hot water and find a lad for the horses."
Zevran dropped more silver on the counter, "Hot water will be fine. The horses are out front." Turning to follow the serving girl he shook his head. He must be crazy, riding across Ferelden with winter coming, all for a woman who loved another man. The Crow assassin would have left years ago for warmer climates and warmer women.
Surveying their room with distaste Zevran was forced to admit that he had gotten soft. A private room with its own hearth would have been a luxury many times in his life. Now the tiny, dusty room with the straw mattress and rickety table seemed meager accommodation. At least they weren't camping in the rain. Checking his saddlebags and finding his spare clothes only a little damp he proceeded to strip off his muddy attire.
Aithne turned her back on Zevran to fumble with her own wet clothes. Feeling her face grow warm she wondered why it should bother her to change in the same room with him. During the blight they had certainly seen as much of each other when bandaging wounds. Of course, with Zevran it was entirely possible that he was not wearing any small clothes, you never knew with him. Her blush crept higher and she was glad the only light was from the erratic dancing of the fire. Pulling on damp, but thankfully not muddy clothes she called, "Zev, are you dressed?"
"I hate to disappoint a lady, but yes." His rich Antivan accent sounded close to her ear as he stepped past her to hang his wet clothes on pegs by the fire. "I am always willing to please though," he grinned and started to remove his shirt.
"Zevran!" She hissed, "No, I didn't mean…"
"Alone with the finest lover in all of Ferelden and what does she say? No. You have wounded me." His amber eyes alight with mischief he threw himself into a chair clutching his chest.
Exasperated Aithne shook her head. "For my own sanity I should have fed you to a dragon." Hearing a knock at the door she opened it for the serving girl.
"I 'av your hot water for ye. Dinner 'll be up in a minute." The girl set a pitcher of water and two clean cloths on the table. Nervously eyeing them she backed out of the room.
"Well, at least the mud comes off better than darkspawn blood." Aithne sponged her face with the warm cloth. "I will never forget the stink."
"Nor I," Zevran replied suddenly sober. Watching her wash he remembered clearly all the times when it had been her blood, not just the blood of their enemies. He hastily finished his ablutions; that was not a subject he cared to dwell on.
The girl returned with a hearty stew, crusty bread and mediocre beer. They ate in silence. Hard riding in the rain had sharpened their appetites to a fine edge. At last warm and full Aithne turned to contemplate her armor. No help for it, it needed cleaned and oiled tonight. She let her eyelids sag for one delicious moment before turning to the task at hand. There was a peaceful rhythm to cleaning and oiling armor and weapons and she let it soothe her as they worked.
Zevran finally broke the silence. "Where shall we go? Not to dismiss the fun of traveling all winter in the mud and snow, but perhaps we should have a direction? Somewhere with more sun I hope."
"I remember you promising to show me 'the beauty of Orlais, markets of the Free Marches, the wonders of Antiva.'" Aithne scrubbed industriously at a bit of mud embedded in a drake scale glove. "In truth I have no idea, out of Ferelden. At one time I might have said Weisshaupt but they are still making enquires about the Archdemon. Maybe we should look for Morrigan."
"Orlais it is then, at least for now." Oiling his longsword Zevran glanced at her under his lashes. "I know you and Alistair made a deal with Morrigan to survive the Archdemon. Might I enquire as to the nature of the agreement?"
Aithne blushed for the second time that evening, bright red if the heat she felt was anything to judge by. "Um, well," taking a deep breath she went on. "I suppose if we are going to look for her you have a right to know."
Zevran raised an eyebrow but did not interject. Now what could she have to blush about?
"I never told you about the Joining, about how they make a Grey Warden. It is supposed to be secret but it involves how an Archdemon is killed." Remembering the shock and sorrow of that day she found it difficult to continue. "We drink darkspawn blood that has been altered by magic and lyrium, I don't know exactly how. The blood taints us, makes us akin in a way, to the darkspawn. That is how we sense them. That is also how we kill an Archdemon. If someone besides a Grey Warden strikes the final blow the Archdemon's soul simply travels to the nearest darkspawn and it arises again. If a Grey Warden strikes the final blow the Archdemon's soul is destroyed," her voice trailed to a whisper, "but so is the Grey Warden."
"But I was with you. You struck the final blow. You are still alive." Zevran's voice dropped in horror. "Does that mean that the blight is not truly over?"
With an ironic laugh Aithne continued. "Oh, it is over, there is no doubt. At what price however, I don't know. That was Morrigan's deal. She had a way; perhaps it was blood magic, perhaps something older, to transfer the soul of the Old God to an unborn child at the moment of the Archdemon's death. The child however had to be fathered by someone who had recently acquired the taint. This was the only way for the Old God's soul to be freed of the darkspawn corruption. Riordan was too old, had been tainted too long."
It took him a few minutes to digest all she had said. "That means Alistair…"
"Yes, I talked him into it. I should have died that day. What is worse is that I'm not sure I wouldn't make the same choice now." Looking back up, green eyes burning into his she continued. "For a long time I thought I chose just to save myself and the man I loved. That isn't really true. I asked Morrigan why she would do this, risk herself, risk another blight. She told me that some things were worth saving. Perhaps the soul of an Old God is one of those things. There is so much that has been lost in this world. We as elves know that better than any other race."
Dropping eye contact she turned and stared at the fire. "The worst thing is that I do not know what Morrigan intends with this child, this Old God. I trusted her as someone who sees the wilds as the Dalish do, as a companion, as a friend. I hope it has not been a mistake that all of Thedas will pay for."
Zevran was silent a long time. This was no minor issue to be turned aside by glib humor or suggestive comments. His life as an assassin had never prepared him to deal with this. He did not know what to say, did not even know what he thought should be said. Prior to meeting Aithne he had never worried about a blight, elvish history, moral right and wrong or anything outside himself. Their quest to kill the Archdemon and later his time in Denerim had introduced him to these things, yet it was still a struggle to step outside himself and see the bigger picture. He emerged from his contemplation to realize she was sitting still as stone, back to him, as a prisoner waiting to be condemned.
Rising to his feet he came around the table to face her. He reached out, fingers tracing the tattoos on her forehead. "You never told me what these meant. I know they have something to do with our ancient gods but I don't know what. I never really thought of gods, elven, dragon or otherwise. I have always prayed to the Maker for my sins, but perhaps that is more habit than anything." His deep voice continued soft and soothing as one would gentle a wild creature. "I don't know if your deal with Morrigan was right or wrong, but I do know that it is done. We can find her, maybe influence what happens to the child, but no amount of self recrimination will change what has happened. Aithne, no matter what occurs, know that I will stand with you. I gave you my pledge long ago and I am honored to keep it now."
"Truly Zev, you do not think I am horrible?"
"Remember, you are asking an assassin, but no I do not think you are horrible." Looking down at her in the firelight he wanted to say 'no I think you are beautiful', but wisely kept it to himself. Now was not the time. "Come to bed. I suggest we use our bedrolls unless you want to wake up itching." He gave a wary glance at the straw mattress in the corner, no doubt inhabited by fleas, bedbugs and numerous other vermin.
"I'll check to be sure the horses are settled first." Aithne slipped out the door, needing a few minutes away from the fugue of the tiny tavern, outside where she could breathe, outside where Zevran's warmth was not so close.
By the time she returned their armor had been put away and the table and chairs had been placed atop the unsavory mattress. Zevran lounged in his bedroll, hers lay empty neatly next to his. "You are heartless you know, drag me through the mud all day, then leave me alone in a cold damp bed." He gave her his best 'come hither' glance.
"You should have tried it on the barmaid." Aithne firmly turned her back to him as she climbed into her own cold, damp blankets.
Contemplating the injustices of unattractive barmaids and uncooperative traveling companions Zevran settled it for what he suspected was the first of many uncomfortable nights.