There was something oddly beautiful about the village of Redcliffe. Rastaban wasn't sure if it was the ingenuity of the cobbled together buildings that spilled over into the docks, or that it was that they were permanent structures. It was probably the placement. Most of the village still slept as the sun rose, so it was that sort of quiet that peacefully saturated deep into his bones. The waters of Lake Calenhad glittered with sunlight and the buildings looked almost gold for a moment as the sun climbed the sky. Rastaban liked to think that the sunrise was for him and him alone.
It was a quiet that shamefully could not last. People began to stir and so did the dragon. The qunari had begun to watch him a little closer, but aside from Sten, Rastaban was fairly certain that no one else had yet to notice his struggles.
So he sat and let his legs dangle over the side of the dock. If he had been taller, he could have dragged his toes along the water. They couldn't possibly stay in Redcliffe for very much longer. There was an itch that was making its way so deep beneath his skin that he couldn't scratch it away. They would have to travel to his people next, he was curious how many insults would be visited for the sake of diplomacy, he wondered what Marethari would say.
Come.
Unite.
On the dock of Lake Calenhad, there was nothing for him to beat his head against. Rastaban shook his head until he couldn't see straight.
Gather.
Overcome.
There was a time, that felt like an eternity ago, where Rastaban had just wished someone could step inside his head. There were things that appeared so obvious to him, the absolutes in the world, that he couldn't understand why Tamlen didn't agree or wanted to explore them further. Rastaban found himself grinning. It would seem his wish was granted, albeit with an archdemon instead of good friend.
The Calling wasn't so much a compulsion, he decided. He knew that returning to Urthemiel was a death sentence. He didn't want to join the dragon. Perhaps wardens responded to the Calling simply because they were sick of the archdemon's incessant chatter. They just wanted the Dread Wolf to shut up.
Blood.
Rastaban cocked his fist back and sucked in a breath of air. The presence of Adele's shadow prevented him from bashing himself in the temple. He exhaled and forced his hand down to his side. Appearances were important and he could always brain himself later.
"Donal woke up," she said. "I think that means we'll be able to leave, soon."
She was so soft. A wisp of a woman with pale gray eyes. If he dug his fingers into her arms, what kind of marks would it leave? "So the fool can live to be a martyr some other day," Rastaban ground out. Those weren't his thoughts, he didn't like how they danced through his skull.
Adele sat on the dock and crossed her legs. He could see the outline of pointy ears poke out from her ratty hair. "The bann has put the maleficar back in the dungeon until the arl recovers. He's asking for us to seek out miracles, now. I don't know how I feel about chasing after myths that may not exist."
The hollow of her throat was exposed. Maybe he imagined it, but he could have sworn he could see the flutter of her pulse along her neck. He could tear it out with his teeth. Rastaban glanced away from her and stared at the lake. "You didn't strike me as one to have a crisis of faith, da'len."
"I'm not," Adele said. "I mean, I don't think I am. Just, it seems kind of silly to cross our fingers and run after fairy tales when we probably have a Blight on our hands."
"We without a doubt have a Blight on our hands!"
Her eyes widened and no words left her open mouth. She breathed in and tried again, but he could feel his impatience growing. The whispers, the non-stop digging, if he could distract it, talk over it, maybe then he could postpone whatever Urthemiel had in store for him.
"You mentioned the vallaslin, before," Rastaban said. "How much do you know about them?"
Adele shrugged. "Blood tattoos, I guess. They're significant, aren't they?"
"A coming of age," he told her. "For those who have proved they are adult. The keeper handpicks a patron god or goddess that will look over us and the markings on our face reflect that god."
Rastaban stroked the line that started at his forehead and trailed down his nose. "I was so convinced that our keeper would bestow Elgar'nan's mark upon me. It came as quite a surprise when I woke and saw the symbols of Falon'Din upon my brow. It became a joke of sorts, especially after my friend Tamlen received his vallaslin. He was chosen to bear the mark of Dirthamen and that probably doesn't make a great deal of sense to you, but Dirthamen was the twin of Falon'Din."
"Rastaban?" She said his name. Yes, that was who he was. Rastaban Mahariel. No blasted dragon could take that from him. Not without a fight.
"Hmm?"
"I think this is the most I've ever heard you speak," Adele said. "Just, what I mean to say is... Why are you telling me all this?"
He wondered how much time he had left. Months? Weeks? Days? Rastaban smiled. "Hahren Paivel told me once that even when people pass on, they can live through the little pieces of themselves that they've shared with others. If you can understand the vallaslin that a Dalish wears you are that much closer to understanding that person."
She shifted to face him. Gods, her arm was so pale next to his, so breakable. He needed to keep talking. "Who was Falon'Din?" Adele asked.
"Child of Elgar'nan and Mythal," Rastaban said. He looked down, away from her face, but could still see that delicate hand. It was a test. If he could view it as a test, then he could overcome it. What would Hahren Paivel think about him sharing the stories of their gods? Rastaban liked to think the older man would have approved. "Death and fortune. That's what Falon'Din reigns over. He collected a sickly deer in his arms and carried it to the Beyond. He's been tasked with guiding the dead across the Veil ever since."
Adele was quiet enough for him to hear the hum of the dragon. "What am I then, you suppose?" she said. She laughed, then, a soft chuckle. "The deer, maybe."
"Mythal, I hope not." He laughed. At least, he tried to laugh. He hoped it sounded like a laugh.
"Rastaban?"
"Hmm?"
"You're shaking."
"I know."
Her hand was cool against the burning skin of his arm. He tried to pull away or maybe he was just shuddering. Her thumb gave long, comforting strokes along his forearm until he could will his breathing back to a normal pace.
"It's a new day," Adele said. "It will be okay."
"You can just say that," he breathed. "And sound so certain."
That made her smile. "What's the alternative?" she asked. "We're still alive. That has to count for something."
Yes, it did. He was still Rastaban Mahariel of the Sabrae Clan. The archdemon's claws may have sank deep into him, but he was still himself. Urthemiel would have him, eventually, but not today. Today he was Rastaban Mahariel and today he was determined to fight.
The sunrise was beautiful, Redcliffe Village was beautiful and the day would be beautiful. Urthemiel continued to talk and Rastaban Mahariel ignored it.