"I don't know what to do about this any more
You know sometimes I forget I'm alive
And then it hits me in the night
When I realize it's
Too dark and it's too light
And it's too loud and it's too too bright
And it's too hard
Too long to be on your own."
"Let It Go" ~ Saint Saviour
The thin drizzle cast a grey pall throughout the garden, the moisture weeping down the arcade's stone arches. The mage sat uneasily, hugging her sides, as if to contain the sorrow from spilling out. No matter how much time had passed, regrets remained sharp, the mere difference between the onset of the pain and the current ache being the familiarity of it.
Fiona knew the Inquisitor had meant the gesture as a reassurance to her and the former rebel mages, but showing her that letter from King Alistair stirred a murky riverbed and now she was agitated, overwhelmed by all the debris that swirled up into her memory.
"He is not unreasonable," Evelyn had said earlier. "I believe his and Queen Anora's angry behavior towards the mages at Redcliffe was a hasty reaction to the circumstances."
The king was a grown man, but he had been but a little mewling bundle in her arms years ago. It was hard to believe.
And what had he said to her when he met her in Redcliffe?
So much frustration in his eyes and barely contained anger in his voice. He said he'd wanted to help…but he couldn't. Not after her actions. He'd found it all a great betrayal.
Just how much of a betrayal would he find it, if only he knew the truth?…she sighed.
She had never intended for any of it.
Fiona had marveled at him, bewildered, many years ago. He is perfect. She would never forget the tiny hands that grasped at her finger, the long-lashed eyes that blinked sleepily at her face, and pink lips that puckered and cooed at her breast. She had suppressed the waves of tenderness those moments had brought her. She had to. It was the only way she could possibly allow herself to place her infant son in his father's arms, severing her ties to him forevermore.
She had sallied many times against the inevitable in those early days, her mind plagued with worry and the impossibility of her circumstances.
Haven't I done the unimaginable before? she had concluded. Hadn't the Taint abandoned her, her lease on life renewed?
Yes, she had once thought defiantly, exhausted, and sleep-deprived, the baby in her folded arms finally at ease. I will raise him. My son.
Her gait had been less assured when she met Maric on that last night. She kept repeating her plan to herself, with urgency and a single-minded determination. She had found a brief respite, a semblance of happiness with Maric, and he with her, but a king and a mage did not have enough power between them to transform a broken reality, she had realized sadly. What transpired between them would have all been a mere dream-like memory, except that it had worked a magic of its own, in the shape of their child.
"What I want is for him to be human. I want him to be fully human and not in line for your throne, not competing with your other son and tied to this royal blood that has brought you nothing but grief. I want him to have a fresh start." That had been her final request from him.
It's for the best, she had whispered to her tiny son. What have I to give you, my little one? Nothing but a legacy of suffering and hatred and contempt. Find your own wings, had been her prayer.
"Will I see you again?," Maric had asked of her nevertheless, even as she retreated, fading from his life. Perhaps he sought to assuage her fears, but all she saw were his own.
"If the Maker wills it," she had replied, a trace of disappointment in her voice. Whatever that will may be; His and mine never seem to align.
For if they had, she told herself with quiet anger, peering into the desolate rainy garden, Alistair would not be subject someday to the Calling. If they had, he wouldn't find his head burdened by the weight of the crown.
She had always wondered why Duncan had brought Alistair into the Grey Warden fold. Perhaps he believed that he, too, perhaps through his mother's blood, would somehow escape the Taint? On darker days she believed it was simply the collection of a debt.
She sat back and closed her eyes, the coolness of the morning oddly soothing to her feverish thoughts. Around her she could hear hushed voices in conversation and nearby prayers offered before the statue of Andraste in one of the alcoves off the arcade.
It's the Maker's will, her sarcasm vivid, as the chanting to Andraste grew louder and more grating on her nerves.
Was it worth it? Any of it?
Melancholy overcame her. The healing of the heart could not be counted among all her gifts and powers.
Cole peered over his shoulder, his field of vision narrowed by the brim of his wide hat.
They batter old bruises, thoughts that trap and seize her. He watched the slender woman lean her back against the wall. He wished to go and comfort her, but he was careful in how he approached mages.
They do not let me fade away as easily, I linger longer in their mind's eye.
And that wouldn't help her at all.
Just then the boy's hand tugged insistently at his shirt.
"I'm bored," the child complained. "Can we go now? There's nothing to do here."
"Do you see that lady over there?" Cole asked in a low, conspiratorial voice. The boy crinkled his nose and his eyes momentarily searched the arcade across their way. "Maybe she can do what we were trying to do," he continued.
The boy beamed an excited smile.
"Really?"
"I don't know!" Cole admitted. "You need to ask."
Cole watched as his little companion sauntered over to the mage, observing as he stood before her, staring at her stillness. She stirred, aware of his closeness all of a sudden, her light grey eyes taking in his form.
"Hello," he said with a calm confidence.
"Hello," she found herself replying.
"Can you lick your elbow?" he wondered, wriggling onto the bench, next to her.
"No," she offered a bit disconcertedly. "I don't think it is possible."
He nodded with a gloomy understanding.
"I know. I've been trying all morning."
He stared at her face again.
"Can you do this?" He stuck out his tongue rolled into itself from both sides and blew.
She tilted her head, amused by the boldness of the young, budding conversationalist. A twinkle of mischief surfaced in her eyes and she found herself slyly sticking her tongue out in a perfect roll. The boy grinned, very satisfied with what he witnessed.
"Not everyone can do that, did you know?" he revealed, delightedly. "My mother can't do it! She ends up spitting all over and getting very cross at me," he confided.
"Then your father must be able to do it; it is a hereditary skill, although I cannot imagine its purpose…" Fiona stated matter-of-factly.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Fiona," she replied, slightly mystified by the child's interest in her.
"Nice to meet you. My name is Kieran," he informed her with great ceremony. "What else can you do?" he continued, barely contained curiosity in his voice.
She chuckled, entertained by his innocent impertinence.
Cole waited for Kieran nearby, giving the pair as much time as they wanted, the boy and the woman exchanging stories and laughing together by the rainy garden.
A/N: Fiona's dialogue line on wanting Alistair to be raised as a human child, Maric's question and her response are straight from David Gaider's novel The Calling. I haven't read the novel- just the passage that Google Books let me peek at. I didn't realize Alistair was really Fiona's son until after playing Inquisition, when I was intrigued by her interest in him. Suddenly that scene after the time-travel episode in Redcliffe became heartbreaking.