A/N: There will be this and an epilogue, then we are finished. Thank you so much for reading this far in this rather irregular tale.

Chapter Eleven
"I don't like to philosophize
I just want to tell a story."
**
He could feel the lump in his throat.

"I will." His voice was twisted by the situation and trying to hide the emotion not yet mastered in his short time as king. All he knew was that Salvia was still weeping without much sign of stopping. Seemingly out of nowhere, Alistair gathered the girl in his arms much more easier than it had been for the others to. She was warm, very warm, and he could feel her heated breath hitting his neck as her mouth adjusted, going through various stages of tears and almost breaking his heart.

Trija smiled weakly at him.
"Here, take this," she delved into her sleeve for something. "It...it might not look like much, but it's always been with me."
"The morning of my eighteenth birthday, a few days before my arranged marriage ceremony, I sat by the Vhenadahl. I wasn't looking for anything, I was just lonely. I looked to the sky and a beautiful, almost purple bird landed on my closest branch. We sat and stared at each other for a bit."
She held out a beautiful purple feather to him, the tips striped with silver.
"My mother always said that those particular birds circled the Alienage, and only landed when they saw a lonely little girl. I always thought it was just something she said, of course I never believed her. She was...not eternally capable of being pleasant. But, who knows? Maybe it shall bring you good luck. It did for me; I found you."

The sun was muffled being a thick layer of fog, representing his head as he tried so hard to clear it and think straight for just this second.
"I don't know what to say."
"Take it with you," she almost demanded softly. "Please."
Alistair reached out hesitantly to take the feather, realising that his daughter had softly stopped crying, intently listening to the story.

Trija gently trailed her hands to the back of his neck to embrace him one last time. Alistair felt pathetic.
"Please don't do this," he pleaded. The woman gently placed a lingering kiss on his cheek, pulling back to look at him sadly.
"I'm sorry."
She kissed Salvia's cheek too, gently causing the girl to begin crying, yet this time sobbing softly. He was once again struck by how one so young could possess such depth to her emotions.

Trija gently prised the arm belonging to Salvia that had fallen onto her shoulder, almost having to place it back for the girl.
"Don't worry," she said almost silently. She placed the feather into the girl's open palm. "I love you. Both of you." She smiled a watery smile.

"Now off you go." Trija couldn't quite fathom that the words had issued from her own mouth, and that she could manage them, yet she understood her choices even as they started to walk away from her.

Her mother was always terrified of crying in front of her. That is, the time she would actually spend with her daughter. Adaia was always scared to commit to her family. Not Trija; she would do anything for hers. And she had.

"Mum..." Salvia whimpered, looking over her shoulder awkwardly from in front of Alistair.
Trija raised her hand in a wave. It was impossible for the little girl to make out her expression from where she was, even as her mother shrank in the distance as they pulled away from her.
Her tears were thick and fast now, and hot against her clammy skin.
"Goodbye." She sniffed, waving her palm. She looked up at the man with her, and found a slight comfort as he smiled wanly down at her.

The old woman felt the wiry hair on her head, pulling the strands so they hung straighter around her cheeks. She gently cleared her throat for the talking she would have to do. She had fallen asleep in her chair again. She gently stretched her limbs, stiff with rheumatism before heaving herself out of the solace of her plump armchair. Another dreamless sleep.

As if almost on some ungiven cue, the door to her home was gently pushed ajar. She smiled. After a good few seconds, it opened.

"Particularly shy today, hmm?" She beamed at the child. He took a few moments to nod hesitantly, his timid nature taking control.
"Well, come in, come in. The rest of them can, too." She laughed, pausing for a few moments to cough soon after. The little boy grinned in triumph, letting the rest of his friends follow inside the house.

The old woman was back in her chair again, grinning down at them all. "Well?" She offered. Silence. One of the less painfully shy children spoke, a little girl with blond ringlets.
"There's a new ship at the Waterfront. It's huge and beautiful. My Daddy told me it's a gift for one of the royals."
The old woman nodded slowly. "That, my dear, is no ordinary gift," she mused, rather enjoying their unconditional attention. "The King had that made for the Lady Salvia. My sources tell me it's for her to explore in the search of whatever she may need. Rather as beautiful as she is."

The little blond girl blushed and grinned at that, but some of the young boys made "yuck" noises, resulting in elbows in the ribs from the few girls there.

"Well, my Dad said it's haunted, and that the Lady is cursed." One of the little boys piped up.
The old lady searched for the voice in the crowd.
"Ah, there is a story about that," she lowered her voice dramatically, all the children leaning in to listen closely. "They say that the late Queen could not bear children, and Andraste herself placed the Lady Salvia right on the doorstep of their Royal Majesties." They were all listening intently this time.

"But there's also a rumour that the Hero of Ferelden herself haunts the man who chose duty over her so many years ago. They say that when the elves were building the ship, every full moon a misty and beautiful ghost would glide past the boat, lamenting her lost love. They also say that she glides around the old Alienage, and poses in the form of an elderly elven maiden to talk to the lonely little girls sitting by the Vhenadahl."

The little girl with ringlets gasped, causing all the other children to jump.
"But the more common rummour is that the Hero lives in the Vhenadahl, and will come out if the Lady Salvia ever dares thinking of marrying."
Surprisingly, the little boys of the group did not hide their amazement. The shy one who had been first inside spoke up.

"And-and has she?"
The old woman narrowed her eyes to the ceiling, lost in thought.
"Not yet."

They sat in silence for a few seconds, just pondering on the matter. Rain began to fall. After the sounds of the rain deepened, a few of the children sprang up from the floor.
"Oh, bother. My Mum'll kill me being out in the rain again." The quiet child spoke. The elderly lady beamed.
"I guess you'd better go and get in the rain, then." She laughed. Some of the children eyed her suspiciously, the more shy ones hiding their admiration.
"Yeah..." The little boy trailed childishly. Some of the children giggled to themselves, some of them were silent, some of them even whispered to each other, mentioning words like "witch" as they left.

Watching the door close in its frame gently, the woman sank deeper into her plushy chair. She brought up a hand to massage her temple as she listened to wind howling outside.

"Kerren," came a voice from the back of the room. She hadn't noticed she had been there the whole time, grinning at her after all these years.
"My dear!" Kerren boomed, wishing she could spring from her chair. "You look...no different!"

The elf chuckled. "Oh, Kerren. You know I look terrible. But that was a nice story you told, there."
It was Kerren's turn to chuckle. "Ah, thank you very much. I wish I could say I invented them, but you know the rumours."
The other woman nodded as she sank into a chair near Kerren's. A lengthy and companionable silence fell between the two.

"Kerren?" She questioned at the woman's stillness.
"Oh, my dear," her voice began to crack. "I don't think I shall live much longer."
The tears were already streaming from both the elderly and the middle-aged woman's faces as the latter knelt in front of Kerren's chair.

"I'm here." She offered weakly, lacing her hand into the elderly woman's.