Thank you again to everyone for your reviews, alerts and favourites. Windyshoes - I tried to reply to your review but your PM feature was blocked. So thank you!

~o~O~o~

Following an impressive display of co-ordination and teamwork from the keep's staff, the barely-conscious Nathaniel was brought up from the basement using rope and with the help of a couple of burly soldiers, who rolled him onto the stretcher and quickly transported him to the keep, where Anders and Varel were waiting. As they entered, Anders departed to check on the men who had had contact with Nathaniel, to ensure that none of them had also been tainted.

Varel rushed forward as the stretcher was brought into the ante-room off the main hall, alarmed by Nathaniel's appearance. "Be careful!" he urged as the soldiers lowered the stretcher to the floor. Nathaniel groaned and mumbled something incomprehensible.

"He's delirious," Caroline explained. "He's been asking for his mother."

"C-Carrie? Is that you?" Nathaniel called out desperately, his voice fearful as he thrashed around on the stretcher. "What are you doing here? Where are we? Is Mother here?"

Caroline knelt next to him and swallowed down the lump in her throat. "I'm here, Nate," she answered, her hand hovering over him, but stopping just short of touching him.

"Mother? Where's Mother?" he pleaded, blindly clutching at her arm.

"She's not here at the moment," she answered as a tear slid down her cheek.

His head turned in the direction of her voice and he slowly opened his eyes, which were completely covered in an opaque, grey film. Varel cursed under his breath and moved to a table behind him, picking up a silverite goblet. "There's no time to lose, Commander," he said gravely. "I think we can dispense with the usual words spoken before the Joining. Please, clear the room!" he instructed the soldiers, thanking them as they left, the last one closing the door behind him.

"I-I can hear you, but I can't see you," Nathaniel said, his voice breaking. "What's happening to me?"

"I'm right here," she replied, taking one of his hands as she struggled to keep her own voice steady. "I'm not going anywhere."

Nathaniel weakly raised his other hand and moved it toward Caroline's face and then, betrayed by his enfeeblement, his arm fell impotently onto his chest, and his eyes closed.

Varel squatted next to Nathaniel and, with Caroline's help, sat him up, with Caroline sitting behind him for support. "Get ready for him to struggle, Commander," he advised. "Nathaniel!" he bellowed, startling the young archer into semi-consciousness. "Open your mouth!" he commanded.

"Who?" Nathaniel replied listlessly upon hearing the strangely familiar voice.

Varel seized his opportunity as soon as Nathaniel's mouth opened, and forced it further open with one hand, while tipping the contents of the goblet into Nathaniel's mouth.

"Seneschal!" Caroline exclaimed, shocked by his roughness.

"I cannot be gentle, Commander," Varel explained. "He's going to fight us and try to spit it out. We can't delay."

As Varel predicted, Nathaniel immediately began struggling and kicking out his legs. Caroline held his arms, while Varel forced Nathaniel's jaw shut and pinched his nose. Nathaniel's legs began to thrash wildly and he made several muffled protests. "Swallow it, Nathaniel!" Varel cried.

Noticing the bob of Nathaniel's trachea, Varel immediately released him. Nathaniel sprayed the remainder of the contents of his mouth, narrowly missing Varel's face, and slumped, unconscious, against Caroline, who gently lowered him to the floor.

"I'm so sorry, Nathaniel," Varel said thickly with sorrow in his eyes. "It had to be done."

Caroline looked at Varel curiously; she knew him as a stoic, unflappable and dignified man, and the emotion in his voice surprised her. "He means a lot to you, doesn't he?" she asked softly.

Varel glanced at her, and then looked back at Nathaniel. "He was once like a son to me, Commander," he confessed in a whisper. "When I worked for his father he would often confide in me. Well – that was a long time ago. I doubt the sentiment is reciprocated now."

Before she could ask Varel to elaborate, Nathaniel started trembling violently as his body was racked with convulsions. Caroline and Varel held him down gently but firmly. "This is it," Varel said heavily. "Maker help him."

After a few minutes, Nathaniel stilled, and Varel watched him carefully. "Come on," he urged. Caroline held her breath and her eyes darted between the two men. "Come on! Breathe!" Varel implored.

"Maker be praised!" Caroline exclaimed as Nathaniel's chest finally rose. She sat on the floor and drew her knees up to her chest, covering her face with her hands, and Varel stood before turning away from her. They remained silent for several minutes, keeping their thoughts to themselves, until a knock came at the door. Varel walked over and opened it.

"Begging your pardon, Seneschal," said one of the keep's soldiers, "but we've come across some correspondence of Arl Howe's that the commander might want to take a look at."

"Commander?" Varel asked. Caroline clambered to her feet and approached the door.

"Very well, I'll take a look," she said wearily.

"I'll stay with him for now, Commander," Varel volunteered.

"Are you sure? You've hinted that he might not be happy to see you."

Varel shook his head. "None of that matters now, Commander, now I know he's safe."

"All right. Thank you," she said, squeezing his arm. "I'll be in my office. Will you bring him to me when he wakes, please?"

"Of course, Commander," he answered.

"I'm going to send Anders in to clean up his face and heal those wounds," she announced. "I doubt he'd let Anders do it while he's conscious."

"Very good," Varel replied. "I'll see you shortly."

Caroline nodded and followed the soldier down the corridor. Varel closed the door and sat on a small bench next to where Nathaniel lay, wondering how the young Howe would react to him when he awoke.

~0~O~0~

30 Firstfall, 9:29

My lord Howe,

Some of the men are not pleased with your plan. They will incite others against you. For the plan to succeed, our forces must be united. If word gets out, if even one of them informs Cousland, it will be your head on a plate. I say this with all due respect, ser.

Your captain,

Lowan

For the past two years, Caroline had wondered if what had happened at Highever had all been a terrible misunderstanding. Had Howe's men been given the wrong orders? Were they Howe's men, or were they intruders masquerading as such to set Howe up and incite war between the two families?

She had simply never allowed herself to acknowledge that Rendon Howe – as much of a lowlife as he was – would betray her father, and her family, in such a brutal and final way. She had never been able to comprehend that the man who had chatted amiably with her in the great hall that morning – along with her father and her predecessor, Duncan – had been able to look her in the eye and smile at her while planning her destruction. Even when she had confronted him, deep in the bowels of the Arl of Denerim's estate, he had refused to admit to his complicity in her family's slaughter, but instead had only cruelly hinted at it.

Here in her hands, however, she held irrefutable proof that Howe's plan had indeed been pre-meditated, and she wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that. Although she had known, deep down, that it had been a possibility, the full extent of Howe's depravity now beset her from all sides and gripped her, refusing to let go. She stared, unblinking, at the letter, not really seeing it at all, a solitary tear meandering its way down her cheek.

There were several more letters from Lowan to Arl Howe, all dated between Kingsway 9:29 and Guardian 9:30 – spanning almost six months. Lowan's protestations and disgust had become more strident with each and every letter, until they stopped – the last one was dated 11 Guardian, 9:30 – a week before the 17th.

17 Guardian, 9:30: the day the illustrious and noble Cousland house fell. There would be no more Couslands, now – her brother Fergus, after losing his beloved wife and son to Howe's men, had vowed never to remarry and, as a Grey Warden, Caroline knew that she would never bear children. Howe had done so much more than take her family – he had also taken her life, or her life as she had thought it would be; her plans, her dreams and her hopes had all been chewed, spat out and crushed underfoot with every thrust of his men's swords.

"Commander?" Varel asked softly, peering around her office door. "I knocked, but you didn't answer."

"Sorry, Varel, I didn't hear you," she said. "Come in."

Varel entered and stood just to the side of the door, looking down the corridor. "He's coming," he announced.

She remained seated and watched the doorway, involuntarily tensing and wondering if Nathaniel would remember what he'd said to her during his delirious state.

He walked in, tall, proud and defiant – patently ignoring Varel – and stood directly in front of Caroline's desk, folding his hands behind his back and fixing her with a supercilious look. Anders had done a fine job; not only had Nathaniel's injuries been healed, leaving only a few bruises on his face, but he had been cleaned up and changed into fresh civilian clothing, albeit a hideous orange and black tunic and slacks that did not suit him at all. His long, black hair had been unbraided and combed, and it tumbled down his chest and back, twisting into loose waves at the ends.

Nathaniel squinted a little in the light of Caroline's office – she had a large window in there and, after four days spent in near-blackness, his eyes were still adjusting to daylight. As he stood in the bright light of the window, Caroline saw him – really saw him – for the first time in eight years. He had not aged well; deep worry and frown lines were carved into his forehead and the bridge of his nose, and several scars defaced his cheeks and neck – a particularly large, nasty one ran from his left eye to his mouth, obviously the legacy of a sharp blade.

His skin was weather-beaten, dry and inflamed, and dark shadows sat beneath his eyes. He looked much older than his twenty-four years. Nathaniel had never been classically handsome but, at least when he was a teenager, he carried an aura of innocence and a sparkle of enthusiasm and fierce intelligence in his silver eyes. Now, as he regarded her coldly, his face told an altogether different tale: one of bitterness, anger and loneliness from his past, and a mulish refusal to acknowledge his fear and uncertainty over his future.

As she watched him, his features seemed to shift slightly. She blinked, blaming an errant ray of sun that had fallen across her eyes but, as she looked at him again, there could be no mistake: before her very eyes, his chin receded, his eyes moved closer together and darkened, and his nose grew larger and even more crooked. His long hair retracted into his scalp and a short, grey style took its place. She looked away and pretended to busy herself with some papers; Varel, uncomfortable with the protracted and charged silence, cleared his throat.

"I'm a Grey Warden, then," Nathaniel said in a hoarse whisper, the after-effects of being choked by the hurlock still apparent. "Well, well, how ironic. What's the first order of business, then, Commander? What exactly do you Grey Wardens do? Should I go out and murder someone's father, perhaps?"

"No," Caroline answered without looking at him, refusing to be drawn into another mud-slinging match. "We kill darkspawn. We're going back down into the basement later today with a dwarven smith. Apparently there are some ancient fortifications down there which-"

"Do I get any say in this?" he interrupted. "I never asked to be a Grey Warden."

"The Joining saved your life," she replied, still not meeting his gaze and shuffling papers, irritation creeping into her voice. "You could at least show a little gratitude for that."

Nathaniel laughed; a humourless, rancorous crackle that didn't trouble his eyes to crease nor his mouth to upturn. "Thanks," he spat with cutting vitriol. "May I go, now?"

"No, I haven't finished with you yet."

Nathaniel picked up the chair that sat on his side of Caroline's desk, moved it over to the window and slumped down onto it, glowering at Caroline. "Well?"

"You've been assigned quarters on the first floor, the third room to the left of the staircase," she informed him. "I suggest you get some rest. We'll be departing for the Deep Roads after supper."

"Well, thank you kindly for assigning me quarters in my own home," he replied tartly.

Caroline finally met his eyes, and was relieved to see that he now looked like Nathaniel again. "Vigil's Keep was granted to the Wardens by King Alistair," she reminded him.

"Something else he stole from me, then," he said in a caustic tone that made Caroline's stomach tighten: had she detected something else in those words, or was she imagining things?

"I never wanted to live here," she protested. "Everywhere I turn there's a portrait of your father, or something to remind me of him. I suppose we'll all have to make the best of it."

"Why don't you go back to Highever, then, if you hate this place so much?" he snarled, suddenly enraged by the mention of his father. "There must be plenty of room there, now."

Caroline slowly rose to her feet and stared at him, aghast, and a red-faced Varel stepped forward. "Nathaniel, you've gone too far!" he barked.

"Don't worry, I'm leaving for my quarters," he sniped, rising to his feet and casting Varel a hateful look as he reached the door.

"What happened to you?" Caroline asked quietly as Nathaniel opened the door.

"What?" he snapped, turning back to face her.

"What in Thedas happened to turn you into such a… monster?"

Nathaniel's face dropped and, for a second, doubt flickered in his eyes. He then turned away, opened the door and exited, not bothering to close it.

~0~O~0~

Vigil's Keep, 9:32

Nathaniel sighed quietly, shame burning his face as he snapped out of his reverie, finding himself sitting in the Great Hall, staring at Caroline's office door. She could have had him horse-whipped for his comment about Highever, and he would have deserved it, too, but she had kept her dignity and grace and had, in a way, attempted to reach out to him. It was only recently he'd been able to see that, though.

He'd been a Warden for almost eight months, now and, to his great surprise, he found he'd grown to like it, even to feel proud of it. The first few weeks had been difficult, to say the least – and there had been no one but him to blame for that. He'd rejected any attempts at friendship from the others, and had done his best to be a thorn in the commander and seneschal's sides. Caroline and Varel, apart from one or two exceptions, had on the whole been patient with him; Anders and Oghren, however, had been openly hostile and had not flinched from telling him exactly what they thought of him. Not that he could blame them for that, he reflected wryly.

Times had changed, however; he now counted the dwarf and the mage among his friends, and had made a point of apologising to Anders for striking him after he'd tried to save his life, even though that apology came three months after the event. Anders, as was his way, had laughed it off and informed Nathaniel that he punched like a girl, and that he'd only fallen to the ground to spare Nathaniel's pride. Nathaniel had in turn congratulated Anders on a very convincing display of falling to the ground and whinging – like a girl.

He'd given Caroline the hardest time of all, and she'd deserved it the least. She'd shown him nothing but patience, kindness and understanding since they'd been reunited which, initially, he had bitterly rejected and lashed out against.

The events that had led to him and Caroline gradually repairing their destroyed friendship had all occurred in a short space of time. To his utter delight and surprise, his old friend Samuel had returned to the keep after a leave of absence to visit family at Denerim's alienage, where he and many others had helped to rebuild it after the Blight. Nathaniel had simply assumed that Samuel had been lost during the darkspawn attack, and when he learned that his friend had returned home, Nathaniel had spent an entire day in the gardens with him, catching up and helping the aging elf with his duties. Samuel had informed him that his sister, Delilah – who Nathaniel had lost touch with – was living under his very nose in Amaranthine, and had married a local merchant.

Nathaniel knew that Caroline had planned another trip into the Deep Roads that day, as, two months after he had been made a Warden, the last of the cave-ins had been cleared, and steps were being taken to seal off the tunnels beneath the keep for good. Expecting her to refuse, he asked her if he could go to Amaranthine to visit his sister anyway, and had been taken aback when Caroline had told him to send Delilah her love.

While he was gone, Caroline, Anders and Oghren had ventured into the crypt beneath the keep and, after a protracted fight against various undead creatures, had found various keepsakes and valuables belonging to the Howe family – including a beautiful but aged bow that had been snapped in half. Upon closer inspection, Caroline found the Howe crest on its underside, and took it to one of the Dalish archers at the keep, asking if it could be repaired. The tattooed elf's face had lit up and he told Caroline that mending such an exquisite bow would be a privilege, and that he would have it ready in a week or so.

A very quiet and sombre Nathaniel had returned from Amaranthine later that day, and had retired to his room immediately. Anders, never one to mince words or to shy away from a fight, had knocked on his door and asked him why he'd taken to skulking in his room again, like he had when he'd first been made a Warden. To his surprise, Nathaniel had not bitten his head off, nor had he told him to mind his own business as Anders had expected, but instead had told the mage – very politely – that he wished to spend some time alone, and had apologised for his rudeness.

Disarmed and somewhat confused, Anders had informed Caroline of Nathaniel's strange behaviour, and she'd explained that he'd been to visit his sister, and that perhaps some unpleasant memories had been stirred up for both of them. Little did she realise that Delilah had in fact informed Nathaniel of their Father's evildoing during the Blight, and was of the opinion that he had deserved his fate.

After a few days of Nathaniel keeping to himself and barely speaking to anyone, Caroline began to become concerned, and had asked him what was wrong.

"Nothing," he'd replied unconvincingly.

"Something's obviously troubling you," she'd said cautiously, afraid of pressing him too hard. "Was Delilah well?"

Nathaniel's head had snapped up at the mention of his sister, and for a second, an excited gleam appeared in his eyes; he then cast them to the floor. "Actually, she's expecting," he'd said quietly. "You know – a baby."

"Really?" Caroline had asked excitedly. "That's wonderful, Nate – you'll be an uncle!"

"Wonderful?" he'd answered doubtfully. "What kind of life do you think that child will have, being born of a Howe?"

"What do you mean?"

He'd sighed and closed his eyes. "I-I don't want to discuss this…" he'd said, turning away from her.

"Nate!" she'd called.

"…at the moment," he'd finished, before continuing on his way.

That evening, he'd gone down for supper and, although he'd sat on his own and hadn't uttered a word to anyone, Varel and Caroline had discussed what Nathaniel had said to her, and they both agreed to give him some space.

Nathaniel had participated in all of the Wardens' forays into Amaranthine and the surrounding areas during that time, had followed orders and had despatched darkspawn with deadly precision, but at all times remained taciturn and unwilling to engage in conversation, only speaking when he had to, and then only with a brief word or nod. Caroline had requested of Anders and Oghren that they desist with their barracking of Nathaniel, at least until she'd worked out what was troubling him, and was relieved that they'd agreed, albeit reluctantly.

The Dalish archer at the Keep had been true to his word, and had repaired the Howe bow in little over a week. He called Caroline over to his post one morning, and had presented her with the aged but beautifully-crafted recurve bow, and had jokingly held onto it as she'd tried to pull it away from him. She'd been delighted with his work, and had doubled his ale ration for a month as a reward as, at the time, most of the money from the arling had gone into the restoration of the keep.

Caroline had taken the bow to Varel to ask his advice.

"Is that the bow you found in the crypt?" he'd asked, to which she had nodded.

"I was thinking of giving it to Nathaniel, but…"

"But what, Commander?"

"Well, this bow has the Howe crest stamped onto it, and something tells me he's not too proud of his family name at the moment."

Varel took it from her and examined it. "I remember this bow," he said quietly, "and I remember how it got broken, as well." Caroline waited for Varel to continue, noticing the grim line of his mouth. "That bastard," he began.

"Are you talking about Howe?" she asked, referring to Rendon Howe; she and Varel never called the former arl by his first name, as they could not bring themselves to say it. Varel nodded in reply to her question.

"This belonged to Padric Howe, Nathaniel's grandfather," he explained.

"Padric Howe?" she'd asked in confusion. "But I thought Howe's father was Tarleton Howe?"

"He was," Varel elaborated, "but after Tarleton was hanged for treason, Nathaniel's grandmother remarried. Howe never accepted him, and tried to get out of seeing them when they visited. Nathaniel took a shine to him, though, as he was an archer, just as Nathaniel hoped to be."

Caroline nodded and took the bow from Varel, taking a closer look at it. "How was it broken?" she asked.

Varel sighed and shook his head. "When Nathaniel was in his early teens, Padric disappeared – I don't know why, and it was never discussed," he said with a shrug. "He'd left that bow at the keep for Nathaniel to practise with; he'd become quite a proficient archer by then, but without his father's knowledge."

"Howe disapproved of him being an archer?" she asked.

"Yes. He disapproved of pretty much everything Nathaniel did – he was all for Thomas," he answered. "Well, Howe eventually discovered that Captain Lowan and a few others had been teaching Nathaniel archery in secret, and he stormed across the training field one day, snatched the bow off him and snapped it across his knee. Nathaniel got his daily bollocking from Howe and Lowan spent a week in the dungeon."

"What?" she exclaimed in horror.

Varel snorted. "Believe me, Commander, that was Howe on a good day." His eyes fell to the desk and he seemed lost in thought for a few moments. "Anyway, I think that Nathaniel would appreciate having that bow back," he opined. "He was quite fond of Padric."

Caroline nodded. "All right," she agreed. "Can I have the office to myself for a while?"

"You don't need to ask my permission, Commander," he chuckled. "I'll go and stretch my legs. How long do you need?"

"I can't see him giving me a tearful thank-you speech or anything," she said wryly. "Half an hour, at the most?"

Varel nodded once. "In that case, I'll go and have a quick spar," he declared, and exited the office with a small bow.

She examined the bow once more, marvelling at its craftsmanship, and placed it reverently on the desk before heading outside to where she knew she'd find him.

Sure enough, he was alone on the archery range, sitting cross-legged on the ground, re-stringing his bow. He looked up warily as she approached before turning his attention back to his task.

"Yes, Commander?" he asked quietly without looking up.

"You don't need to call me 'Commander,' you know," she said in an exasperated tone.

"I think it's appropriate," he answered, aiming the bow away from her and pulling back on the string to test its strength.

She sighed and watched him for a moment, her gaze settling on his luscious black hair, which any woman would kill to have. The last time she'd seen him before he left for the Free Marches, his hair had been closely cropped and she simply couldn't get used to seeing him with long, flowing locks, although that wasn't to say she disliked his new style.

"Did you want me for something?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Hmm?" she mumbled.

"You were staring at me."

"Oh! I'm sorry – I didn't mean to. I was waiting for you to finish what you were doing. Uh, may I see you in the office?"

"What's wrong with here?" he asked, his eyes narrowing a little, but there was no hostility in his voice.

"Well, I have something for you," she said, walking away. "It's in the office."

He watched her leave and frowned heavily, trying to think what she would possibly give him. A knife in the back, perhaps?

He closed his eyes and sighed, a heavy feeling settling over him. He'd been suspicious of other people's motives for so long, it had begun to wear him down. He thought back to a happier time, as a youngster, when his mother was still alive and he'd felt part of a family… loved. Nathaniel had a gentle, compassionate and idealistic side to him – which these days was all but lost – which he'd inherited from his mother.

His bitter and jaded view of the world and everyone in it? His loneliness, longing and regret? The deeply entrenched, biting shame that constantly fed off him, slowly sucking the life out of him? They had come from someone else entirely.

Lately, he'd felt some of the old emotions – the ones he hadn't felt since his mother's passing – emerge, and he had to admit that they scared him. He'd been alone for so long that he wore his loneliness like a suit of armour; it had always protected him and had never let him down, like so many people had during his life.

And he wasn't sure whether he was ready to remove that armour yet, to leave himself completely vulnerable. Armour would deflect a knife in the back, after all.

He wearily pushed himself up and trudged over to the main keep, surprised by the brief flutter of excitement in his belly. He walked up the steps, through the huge halls that led to the offices and anterooms, finally arriving outside her open door. She was standing in front of the desk with her hands behind her back.

"Come in!" she encouraged.

He slowly entered the office, glancing around as he stepped nearer to her.

"I don't have the place booby-trapped, you know," she said with a half-smile.

"So I see," he replied evenly, standing upright with his hands folded over his groin, his legs slightly apart. "I have checked."

Was that a joke? She wondered, scanning his impassive features for a hint; a creasing around the eyes, a quirk of the mouth, an upturned eyebrow?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"Well," she said, clearing her throat. "While you were visiting Delilah," she began, and his eyes plummeted to the floor. "We ventured into the crypt."

He gawked at her for a second and then, gathering himself, the mask of indifference settled over his face once again. "What did you find down there?" he asked.

"Oh, several undead, reanimated Avvar skeletons, that kind of thing," she replied casually, noticing a frown creep onto his brow. "And this," she said, reaching behind her and producing the bow, which she held out to him.

Nathaniel's frown deepened, and his eyes darted between the bow and Caroline's face several times.

She took a step nearer to him. "It's for you."

His eyes fixed upon hers, and he gingerly took the bow off her, almost as though he expected it to explode at any moment. He finally looked down at it and gently stroked along its length. "This has been repaired," he observed quietly.

"Yes, Emrys repaired it for you. I think he did a fine job."

"You… told him to fix it?" he asked, and she nodded. "Why?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Because it was broken."

"But… why would you give it to me?" he asked, still running his fingers along the bow.

"It belongs to you, doesn't it?" she asked leadingly, hoping to prompt him to open up a little.

He shook his head. "Actually, it was…" he paused and took a deep breath. "Yes, Emrys did a fine job," he agreed. "Thank you." And, with that, he turned and left the office without another word.

Although that was pretty much the reaction she'd expected, Caroline could not help feeling disappointed. He was still so closed, so insular; at one time they'd told each other almost everything, although he had never once spoken about his father to her. She had hoped that seeing the bow again might have encouraged him to talk about his family, or himself, or, well, anything. If anybody needed to talk to someone, it was Nathaniel, and Caroline had optimistically hoped that that someone could be her.

She closed the door with a sigh, feeling somewhat deflated.

Later that day, after supper and, after first ensuring that Varel would not be using his office, Nathaniel approached Anders, Oghren and Caroline separately and asked them to meet him in the office, promising not to take up too much of their time.

Caroline made her way there out of concern; Anders and Oghren, out of morbid curiosity. Nathaniel waited patiently as they arrived, and closed the door after Anders, who had arrived last.

Nathaniel invited them all to sit down; he stood stiffly and cleared his throat.

"I owe you all an apology," he said quickly, looking at the floor. Anders shot a glance at Caroline, who pretended not to notice. "I, um… I've come to realise that I may have been wrong about a few things," he admitted in a hushed tone. "Well… many things, actually."

He fell silent for a short while as he searched for the right words. The other three Wardens waited for him to speak; Caroline and Oghren sat still with their arms folded, while Anders fidgeted and huffed impatiently.

"I don't expect your friendship, nor do I deserve it," he said finally, "but I will endeavour to be less insufferable than I have been of late. Well, that's all I wanted to say. Thanks for your time."

Noticing that none of them were making a move to leave, he nodded once and left the office, leaving Caroline, Oghren and Anders stunned and speechless.

Naturally, Anders was the one to break the silence. "Well, that's a turn up!" he exclaimed, "Ser sulky-pants wants to be my friend! Is it even possible to be friends with someone who looks like he wants you dead every time you open your mouth?"

"That's not just him, Anders. That's everyone," Caroline quipped.

"Ha ha," he said sarcastically. "I mean it, though – he's spent the last couple of months looking down his nose at us, and if he only scowls at me, then I know he's in a good mood. I'm just supposed to forget all that, am I?"

"The kid's got balls, though, to stand in front of all of us and say what he just did," Oghren stated. "He deserves credit for that, at least."

"That's right," Caroline agreed, leaning forward in her chair. "Look – Nathaniel hasn't had it easy. His father was a sociopath; his mother, who he was very close to, died when he was young, and then his father made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with him and sent him abroad against his will. When he finally returned to Ferelden, he discovered that his home had been given over to the Grey Wardens, who he'd learned had been responsible for his father's death."

Anders folded his arms and huffed. "Well, you'd think he'd be grateful for that, if his father was such a bedlamite."

Caroline looked at him sternly. "All right! I'm just saying," he replied, holding his hands up.

"Give him a chance," Caroline pleaded. "He has nothing, no home, no friends. His family name is black, now, thanks to his father. I'm not asking you to be best friends with him – just to, well, not be enemies with him, that's all."

Oghren rose to his feet with a grunt. "Let's see if the boy can hold his liquor," he announced.

"What, you want to get him pissed?" Anders asked in dismay. "What if he turns out to be an aggressive drunk? He'll stick a knife through your eye quicker than you can fart. And that's quick for you," he said pointedly to the dwarf.

"I'm a mage," Oghren said in a mockery of Anders's voice. "I walk around in a dress like a fairy. I'm scared of everything."

"Scared?" Anders retorted, also rising to his feet and gesturing towards the door. "All right, but you're going into his room first. And that's not me being scared, just… practical."

"Practically terrified, you mean," Oghren said in response as he left the office.

Anders frowned at him before looking at Caroline. "You coming?" he asked.

"No, I think I'll let you boys have some fun," she replied. "Anders – he's a good person. He's going to be hard work, but I think it'll be worth it."

Anders nodded and sighed. "All right, I'll give him a chance, but only because you asked so nicely," he said with a wink.

"Thanks, Anders," she grinned as he left the office.

~0~O~0~

The following morning, Caroline, Anders and Oghren sat in the dining hall, eating breakfast, and she asked them how last night had gone.

"Well, I'm happy to report that he's not an aggressive drunk," said Anders around a mouthful of toast.

"Oh? Then what sort of drunk is he?" Caroline asked.

"He's a chatty one," Anders replied.

"You can say that again!" Oghren agreed. "He was a little leery at first, but after a couple of tankards of Oghren's moonshine, we couldn't get a sodding word in edgeways!"

"Really?" Caroline asked in amazement. "What did he talk about?"

Anders and Oghren shared a glance and sniggered.

"What?" she asked sharply.

"Well, you, mostly," said Anders. "It was 'Caroline this, Caroline that.'"

"What sort of things did he say?" she asked anxiously, fearing that Nathaniel had been indiscreet about their secret meetings when they were younger.

"Oh, it was nothing inappropriate," Anders said, waggling his eyebrows, "but he just wouldn't shut up about you, that's all. We even managed to get him to smile a couple of times – either that, or he had wind."

"Well, it's understandable," Caroline stated briskly. "After all, he probably knows me better than anyone else here, save Varel."

"Heh, whatever you say," Oghren mumbled, sticking his fork into a sausage.

"Well, it made a pleasant change to hear something else come out of his mouth besides 'yes' 'no' or 'sod off, mage,' anyway," said Anders.

Deciding she was going to ignore them, Caroline looked around the hall for an excuse to change the subject, when she spotted him: he stood at the entrance of the hall, looking around uncertainly. His eyes briefly wandered over to their table, and he quickly looked away, heading for the kitchens.

"Hoy, Nate!" Anders bellowed across the room. Nathaniel stopped in his tracks and appeared to stiffen. "Come and sit with us – there's plenty of grub over here!" Anders invited, and Nathaniel slowly turned around and headed towards them.

"He hates me calling him Nate – I found that out last night!" Anders whispered to Caroline. "What?" he asked as she frowned. "I've got to have a bit of banter with my friends, haven't I?"

Nathaniel arrived at the table and hesitated for a moment before taking a seat. "Morning," he said quietly.

"Morning, Nate," Anders said cheekily; Nathaniel pursed his lips and shook his head, scowling at the mage.

"Good morning, Nathaniel," Caroline said with a smile. "It's nice to have you with us." She poured him a mug of tea from the pot and passed it over to him.

Nathaniel nodded. "Thanks," he replied, taking some toast and bacon from the tray on the centre of the table.

~0~O~0~

All of that had happened six months ago, and Nathaniel had come a long way since then. Caroline had been right: he had been hard work, and at times the four Wardens had travelled a bumpy road, but gradually they had become more at ease with him, and he with them. Anders and Oghren still ribbed him mercilessly, but there was no longer any rancour or malice in their words; Nathaniel had even started to answer back with a few choice words of his own. He still found laughter hard to come by, though, and often thought with shame of his father and his actions during the Blight, none more so than the slaughter of the Cousland family.

He had a curious relationship with Caroline, now; although his feelings for her burned as brightly within him as they always had, she did not appear to reciprocate – although she was very friendly and kind to him, she had never given any indication that she still had any romantic feelings for him. He assumed that she still held a torch for Theirin, and had convinced himself that things would never be the same between them again, and that he would forever have to keep his feelings hidden.

That was, until three days ago.

He and Caroline had had a long talk about his father. She'd tried several times to get him to open up about his childhood and his relationship with his father, but not until recently had he been willing to talk. Although she'd finally convinced him that she did not blame him for his father's actions, that didn't make his guilt any the less.

Between them, they'd decided to remove all traces of Rendon Howe from Vigil's Keep. Portraits were taken down, and the former arl's personal effects destroyed. Nathaniel went to his father's old study, which was no longer used and had been locked up, and had spent almost an entire day going through Howe's old correspondence. He came across several diaries and written accounts of his father's various shady deals and plots. Nathaniel could scarcely believe that he was in any way connected with this man; it was obvious from his writings that his father had been insane and paranoid.

He then happened upon some locked chests and, picking the locks with ease, began to sort through their contents. He found several stacks of letters, tied together with string, and his blood ran cold as he immediately recognised the writing upon them. Cutting the string with a dagger, he frantically pored over the writing on the front of the letters.

It was his writing.

Lady Caroline Cousland
c/o Castle Cousland
The Teyrnir of Highever
N. Ferelden

"No… no… you couldn't have…" he whispered, setting the pile aside and picking up another with different handwriting on the front. He inhaled shakily as he removed the string, and unfolded one of the letters.

6 Justinian, 9:25

Dearest Nathaniel,

I continue to write even though I have not heard from you. During a recent visit to Vigil's Keep I enquired after you, and your father told me you were safe and well, but were travelling around a lot. That is a comforting thought, at least. I will keep writing in the hope that you will receive one of my letters eventually.

I expect you have heard the dreadful news about our beloved King Maric. I hear that General Loghain is inconsolable, and that your father has been spending a lot of time with him to help him over his grief. A Landsmeet has been called, and it is expected that Cailan will succeed his father, but some of the nobles are wary of his tender age, and yet more are calling for my father to take the throne. I do not yet know what will happen; this is a very uncertain time for Ferelden.

I am well, as is the family. Mother and Father send their greetings to you, as always. Little Oren turned one this week – he's so adorable! He calls me 'Auntie Caroline' although he doesn't pronounce my name properly! Auntie – that sounds so strange, and makes me feel so old, but I don't mind at all!

I do hope you are well, Nathaniel, and that I will hear from you soon. Not a day goes by when I don't think about you. I keep the letter you gave to Samuel on me at all times – I tuck it beneath my bodice so it's always next to my heart. Sometimes, at night, I look up at the moon and wonder if you, too, are looking at it. Perhaps if you get this letter, you could do that at night, and so could I, and in at least some way we would be connected. (I'm dreadfully silly, aren't I?)

As always, my dear, I send my love to you, and hope that I will hear from you soon. I love you.

Carrie.

Nathaniel screwed his eyes shut and placed his hand over them, barely able to assimilate what had happened – his father had somehow intercepted their letters. In the Maker's name, why?

He gasped, suddenly finding himself breathless, and took several rapid breaths as tears streamed down his face. He angrily dashed them away, and started to read through the rest of the letters; there were hundreds of them.

He'd spent hours, sitting on the floor in his father's study, reading and sorting the letters into chronological order. They had all been opened; by his father, no doubt. After he'd finished reading them, he stood and paced the office in a daze. Should he tell her? He and Caroline had become friends again over time, and his discovery may have complicated matters. What would he say if he did tell her? Sorry? How could that possibly make up for it? How could Nathaniel ever make up for everything his father had done to her?

He had finally collected himself, locked his father's study and made his way towards her office, having no idea what he would say to her. On his way there, however, he'd noticed several members of staff rushing around and had asked them what was going on.

The king had arrived for his monthly visit – a day earlier than expected, and was in Caroline's office. Deciding he wanted no part of it, Nathaniel had raided the kitchen and taken some food up to his room, where he'd spent the rest of the day.

The king had stayed for three days and, although Nathaniel had seen Caroline during that time, much of her time had been taken up by Theirin and he hadn't had a chance to see her alone, until now, just after the king's departure.

And now, sitting just up the hall from her office in the dark, still he hesitated. What was he going to say to her?

Her door opened again, and she turned and locked it. Was she going to bed? He knew she'd had a long day, and didn't want to add to her troubles, but his feelings were bubbling inside him, and he so wanted to tell her. He held his breath, still uncertain of what to do, as she headed in his direction.

She paused at the entrance to the hall and scanned the room; she obviously couldn't see him, so why had she stopped?

"Who's there?" she called, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "I know someone's there," she said with a sigh. "Is that you, Anders? If you're thinking of jumping out and scaring me, don't bother. I'm not in the mood."

Then he realised: she could sense his taint. There was no hiding from her. "It's only me," he said quietly, leaning forward, hoping not to make her jump.

"Nathaniel?" she asked, squinting to make him out in the gloom. "What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?"

"I think I must have dozed off, or something," he mumbled.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked with a shiver, rubbing her upper arms with her hands.

"I'm bloody frozen," he answered with a mite of amusement in his voice.

"Well, go into the office," she suggested. "Anders got a nice fire going in there earlier – I'm going to make some tea."

"I'll make the tea," he offered. "You go back to the office. I'll be in shortly."

"You're a gentleman," she said with what looked like a forced smile, and she turned and headed back to the office, but not before Nathaniel had noticed the strain on her face.

After filling the kettle and placing it on the hot plate, he glanced down the hall at her door once again and remembered how tired she'd looked, and the weary timbre to her voice. He opened his mouth and rotated his jaw; it ached from being clenched since she'd gone back to the office. That bastard Theirin! He always leaves her feeling like this! He placed the heel of his hand in between his eyes and tried to massage away the beginnings of a headache. She doesn't… she doesn't still love him, does she? After the way he treated her?

He hated seeing her this way. She was always the one with a bright smile and an inspiring speech, ready to lift even the weariest and most jaded out of the doldrums. She was the problem solver. She was always there when she was needed and she was always strong for everyone.

But who was there for her? Who lifted her spirits? Who was strong for her?

Nathaniel knew that he was no Anders. He'd seen the mage, on many occasions, make Caroline cry so hard with laughter that she'd drooled, and had had sore stomach muscles for days afterwards. Nathaniel knew he couldn't do that. Anders was the ozonic, exhilarating, tangy sea breeze that whipped around the ladies and cheekily blew their skirts up over their faces, while Nathaniel was the silence and stillness before a storm broke, the rumble of distant thunder, and the forbidding black clouds that roiled and seethed overhead. So, lifting her spirits, he gladly left to the mage.

But he could be strong for her, he knew that. He could be there for her. He could protect and defend her like no other. He would give his life for her, and he would take the life of anyone who ever tried to hurt her. He owed her everything – she was everything. He loved her. He wanted her. He wanted her to be his.

Tonight, he resolved, he would finally tell her.