Chapter 8

There were whispers about the strange woman that had made herself known in the royal court - that she claimed to be the Elven Warden, the Tabris. Bannorn Shianni of the Elven Quarter of Denerim wasn't exactly sure what to think about all this. There had been no doubt her cousin was dead - before she was buried she had been laid out in the home she grew up in so people could come and pay respect to the dead woman. It had been twelve years since then. If she was alive, she wouldn't be suitable for viewing. The tomb had been repaired secretly, and lies spun about how her body had been returned in order to placate the elven population. Now it was as if Andraste herself had stepped down from the side of the Maker. It was strange reconciling the dirt-stained youth she had grown up with with the marble hero that lay in the Royal Park...but there it was. Now she walked through the streets of the Palace District with old Cyrion leaning on her arm. Since the death of his wife and his only daughter, he wasn't the same man. Then Soris had left to be with some human woman and that...No, she couldn't get angry at him. Sure, leave your sister and your uncle and your people to run off to Highever and...and...

Ugh! It didn't matter. That was the past and she couldn't begrudge him some happiness after Valora had been taken. She had never been found when the elves had confronted the Imperium about their illegal slave trade. With an army of Dalish behind them, and with the support of the allies of the Grey Warden, they had successfully negotiated a great deal of their brothers and sisters out. They even found Valendrian at the head of some underground resistance movement. He spent most of his time with Cyrion now while Shianni worked. Of course they weren't allowed to have any non-Denerim elves freed, and their negotiations had ensured that they would not seek the freedom of any other elves...But some few would slip away to the Dales, and despite the hands-off cooperation of the Elvhanen, the Imperium could never quite find their runaway slaves....

They soon arrived in the main hall of the palace. While the streets of the city were busy and full of life, this place was strangely quiet. King Alistair gave her a slight nod, gesturing towards a room off to the side. She spied a strangely dressed elf; she had seen him once before, with Syl. Wasn't his name....Zevran? He bowed to them both, holding open the door. Cyrion's grip was making her arm numb right now, but even she held her breath just a little.

And there she was, speaking to the resident Dalish ambassadors. As the door opened all three of them stood, bowing - the two elves walked past them, heads still reverently cowed. Sylrien definitely looked good for a dead person. She was dressed in a silk gown the color of the ocean on a foggy day, her hair arranged plainly around her shoulders. She didn't wear any rings or any jewelry...she was just there, looking at the surface of a table as her mind wandered. As they walked towards her she finally looked up and her face seemed to light up. It was the happiest Shianni had seen her since her wedding day, before everything that had...

Sylrien didn't speak, didn't bow or curtsy. She practically ran up to them, throwing her arms around them both, and kissing their cheeks and hugging them. "My daughter...My lovely daughter..." Cyrion muttered, holding the woman tightly.

Shianni had to laugh a bit, this was all just so surreal. "Well Cousin, you sure keep things interesting." "I know! Gods above, I feel like my heart is about to burst out my chest...Shianni, I am so glad - Father..." Sylrien swallowed hard, finally managing to break away from them.

"Where's....where's Soris? Is he...No, he can't be..." Cyrion spoke before Shianni could reply, anticipating the scalding comment from the young Bannorn. "He's happy, in Highever with wife and many children. You'll see him soon enough. But Maker, look at you! Skin and bones. So pale! Come, we must go eat and put some meat on you!" Shianni had to smile as Sylrien beamed up at the old man, holding his hand. For a moment she wasn't the Hero, and Shianni wasn't a Bann. They were just themselves for a few brief seconds, where the world hadn't rained down grief and turmoil on them. Though most other elves had turned to the old gods and the old ways, Shianni whispered a small prayer of thanks to the Maker for this reprieve.

Alistair remembered a night at camp when he couldn't sleep. Sylrien had been on watch then and he found that he had grown accustomed to her body tucked in against his own. It was hard to sleep when she was not nestled against him, a warm body underneath a few layers of blankets. After tossing and turning for a couple hours he decided to see what she was up to. He tried to move quietly; he didn't want to wake anyone. As he neared the fire he heard a sound - someone was humming. Sylrien was humming. He smiled to himself, rubbing his arms to generate some warmth. A few steps further and his grin grew wider. Sylrien was humming to herself and dancing along with whatever music played in her head. Alistair didn't wish to stop her - she had a dreamy smile on her lips, and despite her eyes being closed, she did not make a miss-step. But he must have made some noise, maybe stepped on a twig, because she stopped suddenly, opening her eyes and looking in his direction. As he blushed, she blushed, kicking at the dirt. "I make for a poor guard, I think. I was just-" "Oh no!" He started, stepping out into the firelight. "Let me...let's see..." He awkwardly put a hand around her waist, one hand taking her own. "La de de da......" Alistair was no dancer, but he tried to sing along to a tune, stepping in-time to the music as best he could. She laughed softly and tried to move with him, but Templars made poor dancers, and Grey Wardens even more so. He had ended tripping up on his own feet, sending the both of them stumbling to the ground. But he couldn't complain about her landing on top of him. They lingered there for a moment and he watched a smile grow slowly across her lips. On instinct, he placed his hands on both sides of her face, bringing her down to him for a deep kiss. After they finally broke the kiss, she whispered softly, "We should dance more often."

She was dancing now, too. They hadn't spoken, and this was far from a campfire in the middle of the woods. Now she was dressed like a lady, practically floating on the floor of the main hall. Now musicians played for her, and her partner was her father. For this moment she didn't have to pretend, she didn't seem to have the burden of greatness she had carried since she first became a Warden. Alistair was happy he could give her that. He took his wife's hand, kissing the top respectfully before leading her out to the dance floor. He smiled slightly when he looked in Sylrien's direction; he saw her clink her glass with her cousin, taking another deep draught of wine before rejoining the other dancers. Though Alistair had never managed to master dancing after all these years, he wanted be the man on her arm. He shook his head as he looked back to his current reality. He spied Zevran out of the corner of his eye, lurking behind the table where Sylrien and the other elves sat, watching her dance as well. Alistair frowned at the elf, before giving his wife a reassuring smile. He needed to get Sylrien out of his mind at least for a brief moment but there was nowhere to look. Nothing new, nothing of interest....She seemed to wake him up from a long sleep.

Then all of a sudden the doors opened, and a loud voice boomed throughout the hall, causing the musicians to stop and everyone to look towards the newcomer.

And then down at the newcomer. The dwarf blundered in, swearing and yelling, "Where is it? Where's the elf-girl?" Alistair grinned as he stood, gesturing the dwarf forward as the regulars at court bowed to the general. "Grey Warden! Let me introduce you to the general of Ferelden's armies: Shayle of House Cadash."