The box was made of sandalwood. It was old-looking but ornate, with twin griffons carved into the lid. Kieran knew that it was the insignia of the Grey Wardens. At times when he felt alone, he had taken to coming into his chambers and just sitting on his cot with the box upon his lap. It was a beautiful day outside, and his little room was filled to the brim with a crisp spring's daylight. Though not yet noon, he had already taken care of his chores. From filling the troughs of the horses, giving them hay to graze on, and then cleaning the stalls of the stables, he had gotten it all done by himself. It afforded him a little more time to himself, which was what he craved these days.

An equinoctial breeze caressed his cheek, wafting up the fine, soothing scent of the sandalwood to his nose. It was a stark contrast to the stables and Kieran sighed and opened the latch. He lifted the lid and stared at the small stack of envelopes the box kept safe. They were old, the paper yellowed and a little dog-eared. To Kieran, they were among his most prized possessions.

They numbered a dozen, these letters from his father, and they were the sole connection he had to the man called Aedan Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden. Each one was different, obviously, and they were all written more than a decade ago. Before he even met the man. He had only been ten years old at Skyhold. Now, he was fourteen, and had not seen his father for three years. He had to go West somewhere, on a quest of great import. He had left him with the sandalwood box and told him to open it after his ship sailed away from the harbour.

He remembered that day. He remembered waving enthusiastically as the ship pulled away, then rushing back to his chambers so he could finally go through the contents of the box. Kieran hadn't known his father very well up until that point–at Skyhold, he had always been the funny man who took care of dogs and taught him how to sword. They weren't together for very long after leaving Skyhold, but his mother and father had sat him down to tell him the truth of his parentage.

Oh, how excited he had been. At the Orlesian court, he had seen fathers and sons at every turn. Whenever he asked his mother about it, she would get a little sad and tell him vague things about his father. To suddenly have him in his life, to see him and talk to him and hold his hand, oh, it had been marvellous.

But, he had gone, leaving only a box of letters and a promise that he would return. In the years since his departure, Kieran had read the ink off his letters. They were all very sad. Written by a man who didn't know if he would ever see his son. Through the letters, he had gotten to know about his father, it was true. He had even shown them to his mother, and she had read them, too. Hesitantly, at first, but always with a wry smile and a muted sigh.

Long ago, his parents had fought. They were still angry about it. That was all Kieran knew. Frankly, he didn't care about any of that. It was before he was born and it didn't matter. He just wanted his father back so he could have a proper conversation and get some answers regarding the many questions that had piled up. Kieran kept a separate part of his journal just to jot down a question he had for his father. They numbered 43 now. Oh, he would have a long talk with him, all right.

A mild knock upon his door made him sit up straight and close the box with a single motion. In doing so, his gaze met that of the most radiant person in the whole wide world. Her short hair was like fire, a red so deep he could lose himself just staring at it. Her eyes were the lightest emerald he had ever seen, almost mimicking the sea outside the walls. Garbed in a simple shirt and breeches, he was always fascinated by her wide, muscular frame. She dressed nothing like a noble, this Evelyn Trevelyan who, at sixteen, might as well be an adult and already out of his league, but whenever she entered his line of sight, it was like looking upon a single beam of moonlight that had made its ways through the casements on a dark and gloomy light. One couldn't help but be drawn towards her. Therein lay her nobility.

Kieran had been smitten with her since the moment he saw her three years ago, before he even knew what the word smitten even meant. Back then, she had longer, wavy hair, more freckles, and wore dresses. His father had brought him and his mother to Ostwick, in the Free Marches, and it was there that they had stayed since, incognito. The Bann Trevelyan was an acquaintance of his father in some way, Kieran hadn't asked, but nobody there knew him to be anyone important. He worked and lived as a page. His mother served as an arcane advisor, as she had been in Orlais, though she was less public with her appearances these days.

"My L-Lady," he stammered, setting the box down beside him and standing up. "D'you need me for something?"

Evelyn Trevelyan, with her arms crossed over her chest and her shoulder pressed to the doorjamb, smiled. Ah, but if that wasn't the most heavenly thing! It would not be remiss if a choir started singing in the background. In fact, it was a crime against humanity that a choir didn't follow her around.

"Kieran, how many times must I ask you to call me Evelyn?" she asked, amused.

Kieran found himself smiling back. This, at least, was familiar ground. He bowed his head slightly and answered, "At least once more, Lady Trevelyan. As always."

Evelyn, being the youngest child of House Trevelyan, was the closest to his age in the household. They had become friends. Not mighty close friends, but as close as their stations and roles would allow. She would often come to him and ask him to accompany her on outings–walks and such–or whatever activity she deemed to be more acceptable than the tasks her family set upon her. He was her escape, she had told him, and he had accepted his role happily.

"You remain utterly incorrigible," she remonstrated with a slight laugh. "But I came on important business."

"Important business?" Oh dear. "Er, is something amiss with the horses? I fed them not two hours–"

"Kieran." She pushed herself off the door jamb and took a step into his room. His room! "Relax! It isn't anything you did. I simply have some news I wanted to give you."

"Some news?" Kieran asked, the relief shining through in his voice. He hadn't done anything wrong, then. "Good news, I hope?"

"Oh, I should say so." Evelyn had her hands clasped behind her back as she walked around the little room. That could only mean one thing: some mischief was afoot and she needed a companion. "I have received word that a ship is coming into port today. It has been sighted. I, myself, have taken a spyglass and looked at it from the top of the manor house."

A ship? Kieran swallowed. Every time a ship was supposed to come into harbour, he would go. The pursuit of hope never ended, and Kieran always expected to see his father walk down the gangplank with a smile on his face. He had not been so lucky yet.

"Oh?"

Evelyn nodded. "Indeed. My spyglass is very powerful. It allowed me to see the name of the vessel and I knew I had to come fetch you as soon as I saw."

She was grinning now. Hope bloomed in Kieran's bosom like a kindling suddenly bursting forth into a bonfire at the behest of a strong wind. He watched her expectantly as she came to a stop in front of him, his hands fisted at his side. He did not believe in the Maker, but he was close to praying at that very moment.

"It is the Mistral!" Evelyn gushed excitedly, either unable or unwilling to keep the information to herself any longer. "It is your father's ship! I came to get you! You want to go greet him, don't you?"

There were moments in his life, rare moments, where he knew the obvious answer to a question but his body simply did not let him speak. His tongue curled up, died a thousand deaths, or simply went on strike. Kieran did not know which. He knew that he wanted to go. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to rush to the harbour and stand on the jetty to wait for his father. But, like his tongue, his feet refused to move, too. Having done the same thing many a time, fruitlessly, he knew not to get too excited. But it was the Mistral! It was his father's ship! Evelyn would have nothing to gain by playing such a cruel prank on him.

Would she?

"Are you…" He wet his lips, attempting to raise his voice from a whisper. "Are you quite serious?"

Perhaps she understood his plight, for she reached for his hand and gripped it tightly. Taking a step closer, Evelyn squeezed his wrist and nodded earnestly. "I am serious, Kieran." Then, she took a half step back, turned, and started to pull him along. "Now is not the time for dawdling! To action, man! Come, we shall take my horse and have you at the harbour in no time!"

Her touch was warm. There was something about that touch that affected him deeply. He knew it, of course, but here it was again. Her hand upon his, her back before his eyes, it was as if she were cutting through the currents so that he could swim in the calmness left in her wake. Tugged forward by her forward momentum, Kieran moved. His legs, dead to the world, responded to her voice, her touch, and soon he found himself running to the stables. Soon, he was running alongside her, his heart filled to the brim with glee. Her excitement and ardour for life was catching and, together, they sprinted towards the stables where Cheddar, the chestnut mare, stood awaiting a bath. Instead, Evelyn fit a saddle on her and made her ready to whisk them away.

Kieran hastily helped Evelyn up onto the saddle and, as he was working his way up the stirrups, he caught himself wondering, for a fleeting moment, whether he was dreaming. However, he was jolted out of his reverie when the horse neighed and reared up.

"Hey, where are you going?!" the stablemaster demanded but Evelyn paid him no mind.

"To the harbour, Cheddar!" cried she, pointing down the path leading away from the compound. Kieran latched on to her from behind. It was a necessity; he would be thrown off otherwise. The proximity, of course, was a bonus. "Show us the meaning of haste!"

Without another protest, the horse took off at a gallop. Kieran held on for dear life, but the buffeting winds could do nothing to douse the flame of hope that burnt brightly in his bosom.

There is a quiver in your heart, whispered the voice. It sounded concerned. Not unlike a worried mother asking her sickly child whether they want another blanket. You are afraid.

Standing on the deck of the caravel, Aedan watched the small crew lower the lateen sails of the foremast. The Mistral had been his mother's ship. Being a caravel, it was fast, small, and highly manoeuvrable. His crew numbered six hands, excluding the cook and the coxswain. Altogether, the ship hosted a total of ten souls, all of whom were accounted for. For his maiden voyage, Aedan considered it a success.

Neither the lashing of waves nor the pull of a maelstrom set your soul aquiver so, continued the voice. Yet, the closer we drift to land, the colder your hands get.

Aedan ignored it. The spirit that had made a home in his head was rather talkative. It was helpful, though. More than once it has warned him of threats he would not usually be able to perceive. It was like having eyes in the back of his head.

I wonder whether this land holds a threat worthy of your trepidation. You have my power at your command, as usual.

Aedan sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Over the years, he had developed a workable rapport with the spirit. Often, he had thought about Wynne in that time, about how she had worked with a spirit to help everyone around her. He missed her guidance. Especially now, with what he was about to face.

Ah, but you are a perceptive one. I sense that my reassurance did not bolster your courage. You do not need it, for it is not a threat that you can master with strength of arms.

The spirit was smart. Wicked smart. It was just as well. Aedan did not want to share his mindspace with a drooling idiot.

"We are sailing into port, Captain," called out the cox from behind, and Aedan turned towards him. "We should dock in a few minutes, sir."

"Very good, Marcus," he replied. "The sooner the better."

So saying, he turned back towards the port. Ostwick's double walls had withstood many an invasion over the years, and would no doubt continue to serve the city. He had been here a couple of times: only once after the Blight, though, when he had dropped Morrigan and Kieran off in the care of the Trevelyans. They were a good, upstanding noble house, with a long history of service to the Chantry.

It was this fact that rather irked Morrigan. She did not wish to reside in the halls of a family that produced Templars more often than a goat produced excrement. Her words. They had stuck with him. He had, however, assured her that it was the safest place they could be. Varric was a stone's throw away in Kirkwall, as was Hawke. Help would come to them if they truly needed it. They hadn't, thankfully. He would have heard of it otherwise.

The caravel came to a stop and a member of the port authority boarded to make sure they were carrying no illicit cargo. While the dwarf went down into the hold to check, Aedan glanced up at the crow's nest, where a hooded and masked figure sat ever vigilant.

"I'm going to leave you with the vessel," he cried. "You have food and water in the hold. Use it."

In response, he got a thumb's up. Good enough, Aedan told himself. They knew what they were doing. When the inspector came back to the surface, Aedan had to sign a few forms and pay for the space the Mistral would be taking up. Then, when the dwarf departed, he gathered his crew and gave out the silvers they were due. He even gave them a bonus, knowing that they would likely want to splurge while they were ashore.

I do believe I have figured out your dilemma, the voice informed him, making a comeback while Aedan picked up his backpack, quiver, and longbow. Vigilance hung from his hip, and he attached the quiver to his waist. He didn't have a squire to carry his things around.

While he was slinging his shield over his shoulder, he decided to entertain the spirit.

Oh, really?

Indeed. Upon reflection, I recollected you leaving behind your son and partner here in this very town. Your fear returns with your proximity to your son.

Aedan smirked. You knew all along.

I did not wish to presume, but do not give fear an inch in your heart, Champion, lest it take a mile. The child is your son. Do not fear him.

I don't fear him, Aedan answered, giving the caravel a last look. I long to be with him.

That is as well, for he is here.

At the spirit's words, Aedan snapped his gaze towards the harbour. There was some commotion far away, some manner of hullabaloo. The very next moment, a chestnut mare vaulted over the heads of a bunch of porters and galloped along the wooden jetty. At the reins was a young girl, weary a wolfish grin. Behind her, hanging on for dear life, was–

"Kieran?" Aedan exclaimed, alarmed at the sight. Then, with a hand on the railing of the ship, he jumped over it and landed on the wood, foregoing the gangplank. "Kieran!"

He had thought that he would get a little more time before this confrontation. At least until he walked into the city and up to the manor. Time enough for him to think of something to say. The sight of his son arriving atop a horse to come greet him was not something he had been expecting to see.

Yet, it was happening. The girl, who he now recognised to be the youngest of the Bann's children, calmed the horse and whispered something to Kieran. He nodded and hopped down.

For the first time in three years, Aedan gazed upon his son. He had grown taller. His form was still filling out, his face was still lined by the roundness of the child he was, though the sharper lines of the man he would become were slowly getting more pronounced. His hair was longer, too. He was wearing it in a low ponytail, tied with a blue handkerchief. Somehow, it suited him. As the boy slowly, hesitantly, took a few steps forward, Aedan felt the spirit speak up in the back of his mind.

Be not afraid, Champion. He is your son. Embrace him.

To think that day would come where he would have to take advice from a Fade spirit. Still, the words jolted him into action and Aedan, too, took a couple of steps forward. He couldn't think of anything to say, though. Try as he might, he could not pop anything into his mind worthy of saying. It was an alien feeling. He, of all people, never wavered on topics to discuss when the need was upon him.

But he was afraid. Not of his son, that was a preposterous notion, but of seeing him again. He had left him the letters, and now he wondered what the boy thought of him. He was a teenager, after all. Would he hate him? Would he accept him? The anxiety had made him nauseous far more than the rolling waves.

Before he could say anything, though, Kieran solved the problem for him. With shy eyes, the boy looked up at him and, with a voice so meek that he might have easily missed it to the waves, asked, "Father?"

One word. All it took was one word. With one word, Kieran had blown away all his anxieties and insecurities. He sounded so doubtful, so afraid and anxious himself, that Aedan forgot all about his own troubles. Instinctively, he wanted to reach out and wipe away all that was plaguing his son. In that moment, Aedan did what he had always done when faced with a problem: he acted.

Letting his longbow and satchel fall from his hands, he stepped forward, arms extended, and fell to his knees. Kieran must have caught his smile, for the grin that split his face would have blinded the Maker himself if He were out on a stroll somewhere in the vicinity. The boy closed the minimal distance between them in two bounds and threw himself into Aedan's arms, which he happily closed around his son to give him the tightest hug he had ever given anyone.

With his son in his arms, a sense of completeness settled down over him like a weighted blanket. He gave himself to the moment, letting himself lean into his son's embrace while he stroked his hair. There really was nothing to be afraid of. After all, this was his son.

"I love you," he whispered into Kieran's hair, feeling the boy sniffle and nod against his chest. "I'm here now, pup. I'm here now."

Beginnings didn't always have to be pretty, but they were important. A start was a sacred thing because it meant things would only grow from there. At least, that was what Aedan ardently hoped for. Here was a beginning to their tale as father and son, and he would be damned if he let anyone or anything get in the way again.