Apologies for the long hiatus, but this year of college is turning out to be quite the wacky ride, even for me. My exams are over and right at this moment I should be writing a book review on international relations, but the review from waterpeach4 inspired me somewhat in terms of this story, so I decided to go along with it and ended up writing all of this chapter's dialogue in two sessions. What's more, Samsara will also be revived from the beyond and continued, along with my other unfinished fic, Serious. I will have some time on my hands to see to the finish of that, at least.

Oh, and while I've mostly decided how this fic is going to end, with the chapters planned at all, feel free to contribute with your opinion about who should win the love… square?

o.O.o

Beyond Ever After

o.O.o

The conversation was being carefully watched from several angles, not that either woman knew such a thing.

The most inconspicuous observer was ironically the most obvious; a lone mabari warhound, pretending to be enjoying a nap near Nimue's feet. Though his preferred method of communication was somewhat different than that of those around him, it detracted nothing from the creature´s intelligence. Right now, it was almost entirely occupied by rethinking the possibility of success of his bet on the clown knight when it came to winning his elf´s favor.

This was a most troublesome thing, considering how much was riding on this simple wager. The roast beef dinners were incidental, though important on the long run – what mattered was the opportunity to gloat, which was golden in any case. But perhaps he had somewhat underestimated the clown knight´s ability to make his elf happy. He was hardly making any effort at all recently, which was irksome at best. And his elf wasn't responding with wariness and twitchy anger, but tired smiles. Something had changed.

Back at the start, when it had been just the four of them, his elf had been different. She had jumped at mere shadows, displayed a pup-like wonder at the world and put a barrier of wariness between herself and any companion except for him. Now that the barrier was dismantled, things were different. Stable.

The new clan leader was speaking with his elf now, even allowing the red-maned bard to remain within listening distance. The compact between them had apparently been sealed, as the hound understood quite clearly when someone was making an oath. They had accomplished yet again what they had come here to do, with some relative ease.

Relative. Out of the combatants, his elf looked the worst, to put it politely, and they were now attempting to convince her to accept armor of Dalish make to replace her tattered robes. Finally, it was the older mage who came to scold her, like a mother would its pup, and they retreated into one of the wheeled contraptions the elves apparently lived in. the bard was denied entrance, though, and by the older mage no less, hoping to further her persuasion about marrying the hound noble.

Rabbit wouldn't mind that, truth to be told. If they were to live in a castle half as spacious as that in Redcliffe, with their bellies always full, there were no complaints to be had. However, such a thing seemed distant as the sky itself. Right now, the grumpy elves were less gloomy and were allowing them every meager luxury the camp possessed. It wasn't much, but in comparison to their usual search for food, it was a downright banquet. It was tough, living up to the memory of Highever Castle and the royal treatment the hound had once been subject to every day, but it was definitely a step up.

Of course Rabbit wouldn't hold any decision against his elf and follow her in any case; he was simply thinking of the more basic matters that needed attending to if they walked away from this fight.

Like that when all was said and done, they were homeless, save for the qunari, the elder mage and maybe the clown knight. The mabari didn't really think most of them thought of the implications of this, but then again, most of them were far too wrapped up in their own basic emotions to think about practical things.

The red-maned bard had a nice technique of scratching behind his ears and she did so with joy, rather than because of necessary persuasion. She sat down on the grass next to him, a hint of thoughtfulness in her smile.

"You will have to fill me in on what you saw in that ruin." she said sweetly, for once not staring into the distance with a look of melancholy. "The others have been somewhat preoccupied with Nimue's health to bother with such trivialities."

Of course, given that his elf preferred to fight from a distance and had quite a number of competent meat shields by now to slow the progress of anyone who intended to attack her with fang or claw. Seeing her with any non-magic induced injury was as much a concern as it was a surprise. Except for those with sense, like him, who had argued even before that stealth was impossible for even a small group and that thus the presence of the whole pack was more desirable. His elf was many things, but a hunter was not one of them.

Still, the bard looked remarkably blasé about the situation now, as if her initial shock had faded and now tattered robes and a little blood was next to nothing.

Leliana's lips pursed in a mild pout, but she hardly looked too offended. "I was very concerned and you know it." she chided. "Having only a small number of people go instead of all of us is hardly a viable strategy with the kind of battles we usually get into." Yes, there was a hunter, hidden beneath a few shawls. "Fortunately, the only surprise about the entire thing was that Sten was the one taking charge of retrieving Nimue. I've known he has a softer side for a while, but he usually tries to deny it." she pondered, twirling her short braid around a thin finger.

It had begun mostly since the qunari's sword had been retrieved, but Rabbit didn't necessarily think that he would have been any less annoyed with indecisiveness before. However, anyone who sympathized with kittens certainly wasn't an opponent to be taken lightly, which was exactly what Rabbit pointed out.

"Oh, of course it doesn't make him any less of a warrior." That wasn't necessarily what the mabari meant, not that it wasn't completely true. "I'm just saying that a few months ago, he would have likely told you all to simply walk off your injuries. That would have been somewhat difficult in her case."

The huntress observed as his elf was apparently being offered some armor to compensate for her destroyed clothes. It was a transparent ploy to cover up her different scent with that of the Dalish, to make it seem that she was one of their own, but despite this, Nimue was clearly in no shape to reject this. She didn't see it anyway; Leliana did, her brow crinkling a little as she wondered if a human would have been offered the same. Under the new Keeper, possibly. It was nice of them, but they probably felt responsible, so part of it had to be guilt.

The mabari at her side whined a little, and the Orlesian's eyes followed the direction of its nose. Morrigan had clearly caught the implication and was offering a hefty sneer over their leader's shoulder even as she continued observing Wynne's steady healing of the injury. She had offered quips here and there about Nimue's inability to entirely discard the appearance of a Circle mage even after they had gathered enough money to purchase more magically potent clothing. But the mages, for their imprisonment of mind, had some strength. Being accepted this way by what she clearly viewed as the weakest of their groups of allies obviously wasn't to her liking.

On the other hand, Alistair, who was hovering around anxiously, was obviously making the equation that the elf minus torn robes plus Dalish armor equaled… well, his thought process was simply very clear. Leliana stifled a giggle, for a moment at least.

"I'm sure that's true." she smiled, regaining her composure. She gave the mabari's ears another precise scratch, but there was intent in her face as she leaned forward. "Now, why don't you tell me about this competition you have going on with Shale and Oghren." Rabbit growled quietly. Sneaky, then. He should have suspected. "Oh, you are surprised? Sweetling, I was not a bard simply by virtue of my skill with the mandolin. Not that it didn't help of course." Leliana admitted, "But come now. Your innocent cuteness works wonders on the uninitiated, but I've had some experience with this skill before, so it's wasted on me."

Drat, so much for that strategy. But given the bard's machinations – and oh yes, the mabari knew well that the bard didn't hesitate to be more active in her sneaky business than he did – he wasn't so sure that revealing the cards to another player was wise. Even if the player was not actually in the game.

Leliana was also known for a mean game of Wicked Grace, and though she had never actually played against a dog before – though it no doubt would be fascinating to try – she knew wariness and doubt when she saw it.

"Have no fear. We are on the same side in terms of interests and I have no reason to betray your secret." she explained, petting the charming creature again. "Besides, I doubt any of the three of you thought to include any kind of secrecy clause, so you have no reason not to include me in the game. We should have enough privacy here and I doubt Wynne will let your mistress go without a thorough check-up." she added, when it became more obvious that the dog was relenting.

It would be a tough interrogation, but she had gotten through worse. Admittedly, she hadn't thought that Ferelden would be so similar to Orlais in places, but she was willing to take what she could work for.

In the meantime, Nimue's leg had lost most of the blueish welt around the almost-fresh injury, but the blood on her clothes was still making her queasy, even if it wasn't hers for the most part. Battles always felt more real when wounds were involved.

The elf disliked pain; there was nothing artistic or meaningful in it. Especially when it was her own. This instant of foolishly taking a page from Oghren's book would cost her dearly – and what had even possessed her to think that this would be a remotely good idea, she wondered. She didn't know how reliable phylacteries containing ancient essences of warriors really were.

Honestly, there were moments when she disagreed with or even disliked Wynne, but this wasn't one of them. Even if it healing magic felt kind of like fingers being gently scraped across her skin – in a way, very odd – she was willing to tolerate it perfectly well if it took away the pressure trying to bring tears to her eyes.

Wynne's hands eventually stopped glowing just as the newly named Keeper finished with her layout of the Dalish mobilization strategy. All the while, Alistair had remained nearby, looking at her injury with an anxiety that oddly only fueled a touch of anger in his expression. At what, that was difficult to guess.

"I would recommend rest, but as that is not entirely possible in our situation, we can start with something simpler." Wynne was willing to settle, which was saying something. Were he not disturbed by the intensity of the wound and its healing, Alistair might have made an outraged yet witty comment. "If you like, I can help you wash and change."

"I can have a tub of water brought into one of the aravels, if you like." the Dalish keeper offered, clearly enjoying the display of magic so different to her tutor's. She, too, was a contrast to Zathrian, with no trace of the former's steel marring her voice.

All in all, Wynne approved of the change.

"Thank you, that would be most helpful, Lanaya. Are you okay with that?" she added for her patient's benefit.

"Yes." Nimue smiled a little, even if she knew that a choice in the matter was actually out of the question. "Being pampered for a little while doesn't sound so bad."

"Do you need help? I'm not sure you should apply pressure on that leg, magic or no magic."

"I think I can handle this, dear." All things considered, Wynne approved of Alistair. He was a kind lad, entirely suited to the kind of happy ending both these children forced to grow up deserved. Of course, as fate didn't operate on just deserts, she didn't have to either. "Your offer is appreciated, but I somehow doubt Nimue is quite so eager to be seen by you while naked. Besides, you might get your armor rusty."

Children, really; they weren't old enough for this kind of talk if they couldn't handle a simple statement without a serious case of visible embarrassment. Fortunately, Morrigan had chosen to slither away with a simple roll of her eyes once it became apparent the templar wasn't going anywhere, which prevented some scruples.

The Wardens, however, were tied in the competition for reddest face of the day.

"I-ah-I- not that-"

"Hey! I didn't mean- I mean – what I meant was- I'll just dig myself deeper no matter what I say, won't I?"

The old mage smiled kindly, privately enjoying the little jab. The effect would have lasted longer if she hadn't managed to accidentally catch a glance of approval from where Zevran was going through the selection of potential ironbark items they could get from the crafter. "You can take care of her staff for the time being. The wagon doesn't appear to be that big, so it would get in the way."

"I can do that!" Alistair brightened up. The recurring shyness was endearing, though. "I mean… if you don't mind, Nimue."

"Why would I mind? I-it's just a staff, in the end." the elf added, a bit puzzled, but still beet red around the cheeks. "I can get by without it."

"I know that, it's just that you know I'm not the most trustworthy person when it comes to safekeeping. At least, I wouldn't be if anyone actually entrusted anything to me."

"It's all right. I think you can manage."

"Well, I suppose it isn't as if I could set off magic with this thing… right?" the templar's voice turned a little meek. For all his fascination with magic, it couldn't be said that he knew much about its functioning. That he turned to Nimue for guidance than to her told Wynne just about everything she already knew. "There isn't… so I can have a look at it without risking a sparkly and colorful demise?"

"I'm fairly sure you wouldn't be able to kill yourself with a single surge, even if there was a way of such a thing happening." Wynne noted kindly, unwilling to tease much more. "Now come. If you really have such a burning need to make yourself useful, you can carry the armor inside and take the staff then."

"Right!" The armor wasn't at all heavy, though, and given Wynne's grandmotherly appearance, Alistair didn't know if this division of labor was in any way fair. "Wouldn't it be easier if I were the one to carry Nimue?"

The elf's face hadn't even had enough time to cool down before it once more shone like a freshly sealed phylactery. "I need to get used to walking like this a-and I think it's okay to walk again…"

"It is." Wynne nodded, offering the reassurance asked for. She helped the other woman get her leg down on the ground and placed her hands at a proper angle to help her get up. "Slowly, of course."

"Bad idea, I get it." the young Warden muttered, gathering up the armor delicately. "Let's just pretend I'm just mumbling nonsense like usual and get this over with, why don't we?"

The senior enchanter smiled, not missing the way Nimue tried her best to have her hair cover up as much of her face as possible, to the point of coming close to a werewolf resemblance. "As you wish, Alistair."

o.O.o

The process took much longer than either woman was used to, but it certainly helped that the awkwardness level was lowered to a minimum between them. Mages were used to each others' presence and this kind of relatively domestic atmosphere went a long way in establishing comfort, even when nudity was involved.

Even with bulkier robes, the elf had a frail build. Without them… well, she certainly wasn't the image of a frontline fighter. The older woman had been rather frightened, seeing her charge to the thick of things back in the ruins.

"You really shouldn't have taken a powerful blood mage on your own like that." Wynne was merely testing the effects of her handiwork now, but the young elf still cringed a little bit when slight pressure was applied near where her recent injury had been. "That sylvan could have taken off a limb instead of just tripping you."

"Yes, well, I'm the child of fortune, aren't I?" A further poke, and Nimue winced once again. Somehow, having her leg laid down in a horizontal line was more painful than limping or even being a limp rag doll in the surprisingly meticulous grip of a clench-jawed qunari. "With luck, I'll be able to slay the archdemon with my indescribable clutziness, ow!"

"It's still a bit tender, I see." Wynne scrutinized the wound carefully, readjusting part of the bandage. She supposed the Dalish armor was good for one thing, this being that the leg bracers managed to serve as a good splint substitute. The leafy motives and earthy tones were quite nice, but something about the costume was unnerving to the mage. Costume – she couldn't really see it as something real. "Right now, you should be getting rest, not traipsing around like this."

Like one of the Dalish, just ready to receive the tattoos they were so fond of, to make up for the lack of elaborate patterns on her bodice. That would be the kind of thing Zevran would be interested in, no doubt; Wynne was more than certain that the so-called ink application ritual the Antivan had begun to describe was simply an invention for the "benefit" of their overly trusting templar, but that had no chance of lessening the effect of what the armor didn't conceal combined with the light flush caused by residual pain. And, given the potency of that mixture, it was likely that the rare instant of leadership initiative from Alistair would be the last coherent plan from that end.

"Because the Blight can be called off so easily until my leg mends." Of course, the less appealing side of the object of their attention that surfaced apparently when injured could somewhat lessen the effect of the mind-melt.

"There's no need to be glib, dear." Wynne frowned, but deemed the job satisfactory. She had been concerned that something like this might happen sooner or later, given the tendency of this ally-gathering business involving more fighting than negotiating, but it was still a little disturbing to see such a severe hit landed on their leader. "That is one of the less pleasing traits you have picked up from your entourage. How does this feel?"

Nimue lowered her leg from the stool it was poised on, eyes kept on the hands moving it. The magic made the limb feel thoroughly stiff, almost as if it had been regrown from scratch. Which would have doubtless been more difficult to achieve, mind you, but the elf had the feeling she knew what such a spell might feel like now.

"Better." She supposed, anyway. "Better. And we have everything we need now. No more treaties to be enforced." Which was kind of scary, now that she thought about it. "Just off to Denerim and then…"

"You are ready for it." Wynne had to attune the level of encouragement in her smile into subtler levels than she usually used. Then again, this was an expression usually reserved for Alistair, given his record in terms of nervous breakdown count. "I would not say so lightly, but you are ready. I know the political game is largely different from most things we've done up till this point, but I believe you will do well. It can be good practice for you as well, you know."

"Practice? For talking the archdemon to death?"

Though there was a certain likeness developing between the two now, Alistair and the girl. Considering what she needed to speak about, Wynne wondered if this was a good thing. "You remember what Aneirin said? About the Circle?"

Judging by the sudden exit of all bitterness-tinted wit, Nimue remembered more than well. Her movements were sharper, in a harsh way, and she forgot herself and actually tried to cross her legs in an obvious defensive posture before the pain reminded her of her limitations.

"I'm not the one." she said simply, biting back further words. "It won't be me, Wynne. I'm sorry." She wasn't, and it showed in her voice.

The older mage was still a little taken aback; the elf had seemed a little more uncertain about her decision than this. This was rather sudden. "So you've decided to marry Lord Teagan."

Nimue's forced hardness vanished as if someone had snapped their fingers; the almost-crimson flush returned to paint broad strokes between her ears. The way she fiddled with her hair to tie it back in a messy knot revealed the entire map. The elven resemblance – well, the prominence of her race's characteristic traits, anyway – was rarely as prominent as it was now, with her hair out of the way.

"I- no, I-… I don't know." Her voice was like a hushed sigh.

And there was the less surprising answer. The senior enchanter didn't even know why she had expected something different at this point. She would have to have a word with Alistair about spreading bad influence later on.

"You can't put of making that decision forever, Nimue. You have some time yet, true, but you will have to make up your mind soon." And with each day, Wynne doubted the other mage had any true desire to once again fit into a pre-made box of a role, no matter how pretty the package might be on the outside. And perhaps she was coming to understand just what marriage was, and how ill-prepared for it she was. "The offer to rebuild the Circle could be your way out, if you wish it."

But she had made a misstep; the docile eyes turned indignant. Defensive, again. "You think I want a way out?"

"I don't know. You'll have to tell me." Wynne countered patiently, sitting down on the now vacant stool. Her own powers were extensive, but telepathy wasn't one of them. And, of course, after years of dealing with apprentices of various arrogance levels, she could deal with a single reluctant student. "You've been spending quite a lot of time with Zevran lately." It was sort of an accusation and Nimue took it that way, but her elder didn't allow her to speak. "When you're my age, dear, it takes far less time than you might think to make connections. I'd advise you against taking that course of action, however."

"What course?" Nimue barked out. She usually didn't snap so automatically, but the entire situation was getting somewhat ridiculous. With the Blight, the political implications of uniting such diverse groups into an army and trying to keep a group of very diverse fighters from tearing each other's heads off, she would have thought such things were the last thing people thought about. Well, some people, at least – and Wynne was definitely one of those people. "So a few conversations must inevitably lead to… I can make my choices on my own and live with the consequences."

"It's time to make one, then." the human countered with a touch of iron. Convincingly altering between stern and kind was a difficult job, but Wynne had more or less been banking on the fact that no one else would try this tactic on Nimue. "You can't keep banking on the idea that you might not survive to put your life on hold. Not all paths inevitably lead to destruction, and there are battles awaiting that can be fought with different weapons."

The knot was tied and all that was missing was a bow and quiver; the Dalish mask would be complete. "I don't want to keep fighting forever." the elf said, but it was a vague and ineffectual answer.

"You will always be fighting and you know it." Wynne didn't say this unkindly; it was simply a fact. The world didn't work the way fools and children believed it to. "A Grey Warden can never rest, even in times of peace. Your calling-"

That was the wrong thing to say. Even defense could be pushed a little too far.

"My calling will come in a number of years, and that will be a duty I'll neither relish nor avoid."

"Nimue, I'm being serious."

"And I'm not?" There was a hint of Morrigan in her as well, but even with this influence from both sides of the politeness spectrum, there was something in the words that was distant from either of them.

"I'm not certain you are. Half-hearted and vague treatment of those who care about you will only drive them away in the end. And perhaps that is what you want, in a way." Confused eyes were turning into glaring ones, either due to hurt at the suspicion or shame that she had been properly read. "For no one to be tied to you because you believe it will only hurt them in the end. You treat the future as inevitable for frivolous instead of objective reasons."

"Enough." The elf moved swiftly, too much so. Her cheeks were a little green, but she didn't wobble the way she did when attempting to walk right after the incident. Standing up gave her the illusion of higher ground, which was a sufficient confident boost for her to continue. "Enough of that. I am not empty and I don't want to be cruel! I want to be free! I didn't want to be a mage, but I couldn't escape it. I didn't want to become a Grey Warden, but I was made to do it. But neither of those things will be the sole determinant of my life!"

Wynne had suspected these things to some degree; Nimue had never made a great statement about wanting to save Ferelden because it was the right thing to do. But she was also putting words into her mouth now, letting out things no one had likely ever asked her about. "Do you really believe that running off to marry will change that?" she countered gently.

Nimue looked confused again. "I thought you supported the idea. That you wanted for me to consider the idea." The elf had all but forgotten about her injury in light of genuinely not understanding the purpose of the question. "Does it seem so alien that perhaps I want to marry Teagan because of him?"

So it was coming out, then, word by word. This made things a little easier, even if the accusation stung a little.

"I don't doubt your capacity to care for people, even those you barely know. I never said you were empty or that you have no control over your own fate. But there is more to marriage than love and more to you than the good lord realizes."

"More than a Grey Warden?" The ironic echo of her words was back to haunt her. But Nimue wasn't the type to throw salt into the wound; her way was to ignore the enemy after delivering a crippling strike. "I thought there was no such thing."

She was brushing past the red-headed bard in the doorway, barely even noticing the pain of her slight limp or the questioning look sent her way.

"Nimue-"

"Let her go, Leliana." Wynne emerged afterwards, without pomp or outrage. But the accusations had managed to dig deeper into her than she would like to admit.

She would see the Circle restored, reformed into a place where apprentices such as Aneirin would no longer have to fear for their lives without cause. It was rare that a mage was given the power to move free of its restrictions, enough to make others see that there was good to be gained from their powers, aside from the potential for great evil. The symbol of a mage being crucial to Ferelden's salvation had more power than she perhaps realized.

What hurt was the accusation that Nimue as a person mattered next to nothing to her, which was far from the truth. She just didn't think that separating the two into different entities was possible under the current circumstances.

The bard hadn't yet gotten to that point, as her eavesdropping had afforded her to sneak a peek at only about three thirds of the mumbled conversation. "But Wynne…"

The elf was not looking back, not once, already moving to sort out some of their less essential business with the elves. Leliana didn't know what was odder; to see the two Circle mages that usually got along quite well not talking or the fact that switching from a somewhat demure to a nearly Morrigan-esque got simply mild pride that their hero was moving closer to crowd.

"I usually have to deal with young people thinking they're invincible, not fatalistic. I'm disappointed in her, though." Wynne admitted, which was not an easy thing for her to do. "I'd not had thought her selfish enough to believe she can simply walk away from all she has in her life without consequence."