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Bond of the Grey CH 17 Home

Caoilainn and Alistair return to Denerim. (Some mildly NSFW at the end) Ferelden forces woke to another foggy morning summoning the armies to march. Dreary weather persisted and wet grass promised muddy boots on their way back to Highever and Denerim. Cold wind blew from the northeast carrying salty notes from the Waking Sea. They followed the Wardens’ path from the day prior.

Days dragged, rocky terrain gave way to the thicker forest around Orzammar. As ordered, the troops moved aside, allowing room for any passing dwarven caravans. The Imperial Highway made for a welcomed sight to the Ferelden soldiers and the King and Queen.

Uneventful days stretched on, identical camps made in the Ferelden countryside night after night as they traveled through the brisk Coastlands to Denerim offered little change. At a halfway point on the North Road, the Highever fleet split from the royal army and continued further north to Castle Cousland. Caoilainn gave a letter for her brother to their general, thanking Fergus and his men for their time.

The King and Queen rode separate horses side by side; pleasant conversation interrupted by short-lived tiffs, caused by shorter-lived tempers, resulting from the stressors of travel. The couple spent chilly Ferelden nights together in the King’s tent.

A few nights from Denerim, the King and Queen slept on a sizable cot in the royal tent. It had been a quiet day of travel with clear weather and no signs of bandits. A blanket of stars covered the Coastlands, distant clouds hinting at morning rainfall.

Caoilainn sat up, gasping; she reached for her throat, clutching for air.

The large heap of blanket and body next to her stirred and mumbled. “Nightmare?” Alistair’s question voiced from habit, unsurprised with his wife’s restless state. But a moment passed, she didn’t respond, and he sat up with her. “It’s wasn’t the Calling,” he stated, his tone lingering with uncertainty, “was it?”

Shaking her head, Caoilainn laid back down. Alistair on his side extended an arm over her torso. “No.” She rolled on her side to face him and his hand slid to the curve of her hip. Though she couldn’t see his face through the shadows, she observed subtle movements of his features in the dark. Caoilainn’s arms curled into her chest and she scooted closer to the warmth of his large frame. “I dreamt we had a baby.”

“Oh,” he made a quick reply from surprise, and his body tightened. He paused before saying more. “Was it a good dream?”

She moved even closer, pressing her cheek against his chest. Caoilainn hummed confirmation and sighed. “It was. But my cycle hasn’t returned, I don’t know when a baby will even be possible. If it’s even possible.”

As occurred for all Grey Warden women after surviving their Joining, Caoilainn’s menstrual cycle became sporadic and eventually ceased. Morrigan had reported even with the cure, their organs may not heal enough from the damage caused by the taint to conceive.

Alistair gave an exhausted yawn; his fingers traced a long line from her hip to her cheek. “We have plenty of time to find out… and positions to try.”

“Alistair! You’re incorrigible.” Caoilainn scolded, chuckling as she pushed him away, but he pulled her in with success. She tilted her head back, glancing up to kiss him but his rough chin brushed her cheek. “And you still need to shave this mess of stubble.”

“The beard stays, my Queen,” he replied; she heard the smile in his voice. “And I will do filthy things to you with it when we get back to the palace.”

Cloudreach 9:42

Days later, they reached Denerim in the early evening. City gates opened to the royal convoy and military forces rode around to a separate entrance to the capital, putting their horses in stables and shedding armor from the ride. Merchants yet to pack for the day and clusters of shoppers stopped to watch the King and Queen trot through the cobbled courtyard. Townspeople eyed one another, surprised looks passed between them, startled to see the no-longer-missing Queen beside Alistair.

When they reached the palace, the couple descended from their horses; the creatures taken by attendants to lead them to the stables. Caoilainn stared up at the entrance to the palace. Giant doors glared down, imposing reminders of her failure and abandonment of the kingdom, her king. Lost in unpleasant memories, she forgot Alistair stood beside her until his hand grazed hers. Fingers weaved, he squeezed her hand.

“Are you all right?” He glanced to the side, scanning Caoilainn’s wide eyes held at the doorway.

She made a small hum in reply without breaking her gaze straight ahead. Chin up, tits out. With a deep breath, her posture straightened, and she stepped forward with Alistair. The doors creaked open, revealing the interior of the palace. A long hallway covered in color, beams supporting the ceiling draped with Theirin banners and the walls lined with sigils of the country's bannorns and arlings. Large wooden doors staggered down both sides of the hall, some leading to the outside and others further inside the castle.

With a shared glance, slow strides carried Alistair and Caoilainn through the empty great hall. It looked the same as Caoilainn last remembered it as if nothing had changed in the five years she had been absent. She took a step from him and old feelings returned. Unsettled, stir crazy at the sight of stone walls and wood beams, house colors insinuating admonitions of her treachery. She paced down the hallway, stopping at the stairs to the altar at the other end; the place of their wedding and coronation. Her eyes fell on the Andrastian shrine.

Alistair watched as she walked away, curious of the thoughts running through his enigmatic wife’s head. But the thoughts ended. In a swift turn, she blurted, “I need work.”

He heard the plea behind her declaration. Desperation for something to keep her occupied cast into her relentless work ethic. There’s a surprise, his sarcastic thought melted to an endearing grin.

“You’ve been back all of five minutes and you already want to start work?” His tone lingered on the last word and he walked to her. “Scratch that. Silly question. Of course you do, my tenacious Queen. And that was part of our agreement.”

Alistair’s hands found her hips; Caoilainn’s brows made a delicate bunch, begging him to understand her need. “Have you considered my offer to lead your army?”

“Oh,” he chuckled, “an offer, was it? It sounded more like a demand. And I have thought about it, but I’ve yet to set up a meeting with all of my advisors. Since, as I'm sure you're aware, we just got back.” Alistair sighed, his hand finding his forehead. He glanced away before looking back to Caoilainn. “I don’t think they will approve. The army is only sword and shield and there are only a handful of women.” His response vaguely explained his hesitation.

“And?” The furrow in her brows intensified and her lip raised. “I’ve led all combat styles… and men. You know I'm more than qualified. And perhaps it’s time to consider adding some variety to your militia. Maybe even more women. That is, if you're willing to drop the status quo.” Sarcasm lined her tone, but she shook it off, focusing on her request at hand. “I can handle the pushback, Alistair.”

Alistair’s lips pursed before he gave a close-lipped smile; his hand came back down to her hip, drawing a line on her waist through the fabric of her tunic. “It won’t be easy. You will step on the toes of men who’ve served Ferelden since before we were born.” He referred to lieutenants and generals in his army who had been serving for decades and would not be receptive to a new leader.

Dusky light filled the room, lit braziers crackled low light through the hall. Red and gold carpet lined the expansive and empty hallway- the same hall she walked on her wedding day- stretched from one side of the royal couple, and the altar where they married stood at the other. A breath of space between them, Caoilainn dropped to one knee. From a knelt bow at the King’s feet, the Queen’s fist crossed her chest. Alistair's brows furrowed in confusion, and he opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

She stared at his boots; her voice, poised and confident, rang through the hall. “I, Caoilainn Theirin, Queen of Ferelden and servant to her country, will uphold the oaths of fealty I have given you, the kingdom, and our marriage.” She paused, breathing as she chose her words. “Should you, Alistair, son of Maric, use me as Commander of your army, I swear to strengthen your forces and protect your throne.” She looked up. Brows creased, her intense silvery-blue stare found his hazel. “Please. Let me serve you, my King.”

Taken aback by her propriety, baffled by her willingness to bow outside the bedroom, Alistair's widened eyes adjusted, realizing it was his turn to speak. He grinned; bashful cheeks reddened, hidden by the dim light until he regained his composure. His grin remained. “How could I possibly say no to that?”

She stayed at his feet, brow lifting as her lips pulled into a smile, but she remained silent.

“All right, all right,” he chuckled, shrugging his shoulders as he looked down at her with adoration. “Unless the advisors give me a valid reason to rethink this decision, I will make it happen, my Queen.” He suspected there would be resistance; appointing Caoilainn to Commander would arise allegations of nepotism, but her irrefutable success as Warden Commander spoke for itself. Any who disputed her competence would only do so out of a fear of change rather than favoritism. As far as his advisors knew, her reason for leaving the palace resulted from the Wardens needing her.

Alistair’s head tipped up, ushering Caoilainn to stand. “As much as I am enjoying your courtliness, I’d like you to rule beside me, not beneath me.”

Caoilainn rose to face him and the pair turned to the altar. A quiet recommitment to theirs vows to one another, they breathed together in solitude before returning to royal life.

Alistair wandered to the kitchen to discover what would be offered for dinner that evening so he could demand samples by right of the King. Caoilainn ventured into the palace, familiarizing herself with the stone halls, rooms occupied by serving staff on the lower floors and on the upper, unoccupied rooms for visiting guests. When she finally reached their bedroom, she noticed his belongings from the trip delivered outside the door before she opened it.  

Her heart sank. Void of all remnants of Caoilainn, her books, vanity, and desk missing from the room. His scent permeated, like sweet grass and  burning wood, reminding her of the campfires they spent so many nights beside. The same since she met him, unaltered by his years alone as King. He had the drapery changed; dark red cloth adorned the windows in place of the floral-patterned, ivory-colored fabric she had picked. He had even replaced the bed they once shared. The room was simple: a large coffer opposite a bed with a chair in the corner. Cautious steps took her to the wardrobe to find all her clothes removed. I hope he didn’t throw all my things away.

She turned to the bed. It was massive; wood stained a deep mahogany framed the mattress, and four posts rose from the corners encasing the place she would now sleep nightly. A guilty pleasure: black silk sheets covered the cushion, nothing like the neutral tone of Highever weave Caoilainn selected so long ago. The eerie sensation, feeling unwelcome in her own room passed when she looked closer at the headboard. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw roses etched into the wood.

She continued her journey, wandering through the wing of the palace with the King and Queen’s private rooms.  A few doors down from their bedroom, she spotted her chest of belongings outside another doorway. The room had formerly been for storage, but when she opened the door, she saw it had been cleared. The stone walls adorned with blue and green tapestries marked with laurels, the Cousland sigil. A daybed sat near a window next to her filled bookshelf. Their old chest of drawers sat at one end of the room, undoubtedly filled with all her missing vestments. Her perfume and hairbrush rested on the surface of her vanity at the opposite end. And in the middle, her desk. Letters lay neatly stacked on one corner of the empty desktop. A blanket of dust covered everything; Alistair had not been in this room for many years.

Fleeting thoughts of Alistair’s banishment of all things that had retained her essence dissolved entirely; she sighed in appreciation of this room as her own amidst what they shared. Lingering heartache of leaving the Wardens fueled anxiety surrounding new responsibilities as Commander and Queen, but for this brief moment, she absorbed the thoughtful attention Alistair had put into this room. Her eyes stung from guilty tears; she blinked them away, determined to appreciate this gift.

Expecting to find something unopened from Weisshaupt at the top of the stack, she browsed through letters at her desk. All of them had been opened, the most recent letter dated from two years ago. Any resentment for having her mail read without her permission fled; Caoilainn’s understanding of Alistair’s compounded frustration made his decision to read through her letters unsurprising, if not expected. She found nothing of importance as she browsed through. Well wishes, name day celebrations, and invitations to noble gatherings around the realm. The absent Weisshaupt letter created worry; she would check with their messenger the following day.

But the hour grew late; certain Alistair had either started dinner without her or sat impatiently waiting provided motivation. She opened the wardrobe, hoping her clothes had not been eaten by moths. Optimism not in vain, her clothes held through her years away. Dresses varying in colors and fabrics lined the drawers of the coffer as well as clean tunics and smallclothes.

She cleaned in the washroom down the hall and donned clean clothes before heading down to dinner in a dress of red and gold, different from the Warden regalia she had worn with pride for so long. With a glimpse in the mirror of her vanity, she startled to see the woman staring back. A Queen, not a Grey Warden. Armor absent, replaced by a flowing gown. Mixed emotions swirled within. The look suited her well, and she knew Alistair would approve.

Sitting in a foyer near the stairway, Alistair rose when he heard soft steps. All the fleeting memories of jealousy and distrust subsided as he watched her looking the opposite direction toward the dining hall in expectation. Graceful contours defined by the red dress clinging to her. Alistair’s eyes followed Caoilainn with gratitude. Her poised frame, well-trained and toned from combat practice wore the dress with class. And he knew she preferred armor to gowns. The gift of witnessing her in this attire did not go unnoticed. His lovely, strong-willed wife, out of her element and in pursuit of him for once; he considered remaining quiet so he could observe her longer.

“Maker’s breath.” His voice broke the silence. She made a small gasp and turned to him. “I am a lucky man.”

She exhaled in relief, and her lips tugged to a grin. Blue eyes sparkled in the braziers’ light; alluring shadows cast over the smooth curves of her face. She took his arm when he offered, and the couple walked to the dining hall together. Plans for the following day discussed over their meal, underlined by flirtation about their plans for after dinner; Caoilainn’s worry about Weisshaupt and the Wardens pacified by Alistair’s pleasant company.

        Art by xla-hainex

 Mutual attraction survived the cleansing of the taint; libido no longer propelled by constant, aching hunger only heightened arousal and anticipation.

“My Queen,” he addressed her with a smile, closing the door to their bedroom behind him. His tempting timber resonated love and desire with two simple words.

Long, elegant strides took Caoilainn further into the bedroom, his room. It represented him in his confident masculinity, sentimental hints available for those who understood. Earlier fears of being exiled from his life felt foreign in the wake of Alistair’s warm welcome into his space, his heart.

Her brow arched, Caoilainn glanced over her shoulder to meet his searching gaze. A man stared back: tall, handsome, kind, and yearning. The message she received from his eyes prompted her turn. She curtsied with purpose, engaging in the practiced dynamic built between them in private, and echoed, “my King.”

Caoilainn’s deliberate submission taunted him; tactful and coy application of her nobility took his mind to bawdy places. Images flitted of the lewd things he'd like to do with her, to her. But the thoughts were preemptive; Alistair reigned in his lust, determined to find patience and show his wife veneration before acting on sordid desires.

A glimmer in her stare as she waited for him suggested she had similar fantasies of her own. Their unspoken agreement to savor this evening compelled composure. 

Disciplined strides took him to her, his gaze locked with hers without losing peripheral appreciation of her shape. Fabric cascaded from her graceful curves but her stature, dutiful but open, vulnerable, and willing made his love burn stronger. The long-standing urge for this particular woman sustained. His hand found her her cheek, softer edges of the back of his digits uncurled as they traveled to her hair. She shivered and closed her eyes, relishing in his touch.  

Alistair leaned his head by hers; a smooth, warm tenor floated to her ear, “I adore you.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Unprepared for the poignant selection of words and their impact, Caoilainn blushed in a flustered daze. Inhaling to slow the beating of her heart, absorbing the affection he gave so freely. She tried to tame her modesty. Collecting herself, demure reactions melted with her poise and reciprocated his love. Her palm touched his elbow, keeping him close. She whispered, “I'm grateful for you. I'm yours, Alistair.”

Rough digits threaded further through her tresses, encouraging the weight of her head to rest in his palm. His other hand curved around the small of her back, supporting her as she leaned. He leaned with her, soft lips surrounded by patchy stubble pressed her mouth. Breathing her in, the faint perfumed scent of jasmine and honeysuckle complemented the lavender of the soap she used.

A closed-mouth moan into his lips, Caoilainn succumbed. Appreciating all aspects of him, even his facial hair tickling her skin. Easing back, waiting for his direction, the blissful kiss stretched until the slightest pressure separated her lips. Tongue caressed tongue, a gentle motion firm in its execution. She met his kiss with equal intensity. Well-established trust ignited wanting heat, tingling energy coursed through her body.

He stopped with reluctance. His willingness to remain a gentleman waned; breeches growing tight and uncomfortable -he wanted her. To take her in all her willing passion in a rushed interchange. But they had done that many times in their journey back to Skyhold; recent intimacy on their way back to Denerim withheld intercourse as they recovered from their cure. Hurried contact would not serve the King and Queen; abandoning the significance of the first night back in the palace, and the new terms to their relationship, rules formed to assure its success. Both wished to maintain the meaningful symbolism, another layer of the consummation of their new life together. Their evening of courting contributed to their amour, pure and uninfluenced by the tainted connection.

“This dress looks lovely on you,” he said, creating space between them.

“I’d look better without it, my King.” She smiled, her words unimposing. An offered image for his mind rather than a demand or request.

“I can’t argue,” his grin widened causing creasing lines to form around his eyes, gaze darkened by lustful motives. “Let’s do something about that then, shall we?”

She gave a small nod and turned around, revealing muscled shoulder blades peeking out of the lines of her dress. A lengthy ribbon wrapped up the center through small slits from the curve of her back to the dress’s neckline, tied at the top. How did she get this on herself? He wondered for a second before he loosened the laces. Patient hands completed their task and helped her from her dress, draping it over the coffer.

She wore lacy lingerie given as a gift, more for himself than for her. Stunning, enticing, the sight of the delicate fabric on her fair frame made his blood flow. His breeches grew tighter, but he bridled his drive and gave her an order.

“Lay down,” his loving direction joined the tilt of his head to the bed behind her.

Her lashes fluttered, pupils dilating; the pink glow to her cheeks returned. She murmured, “yes, my King,” and did as he said. A few steps backward carried her to the bed, excited to learn of his plans for the evening, the filthy things he alluded to a few days prior. She slid on the smooth sheets, her arms helping her maneuver to the headboard. Palms pressed against the mattress, she leaned against the headboard. The slight curvature of her spine defined her flowing form.

As it always did when he made her wait, guessing his next action, her heart raced. He turned around to the chest of drawers and removed his outer layer of armor, placing his fur lined leathers next to her dress. His rounded back reached over, gathering something from another compartment of his coffer. The tunic he wore teased her; revealing shadows of his superb musculature. Yearning heat between her legs provoked satisfying discomfort, subtle wriggles attempted to abide her arousal. Deliberate to keep whatever he did out of her sight, she delighted in the torture he delivered with his disciplined control.

After picking something off the floor, he took a casual turn and stepped to the bed. Reserved enthusiasm, he blinked slowly, locking eyes with her again as he sat down, setting a coil of rope and a blindfold beside him.

Her eyes widened and her brows creased, but her expression relaxed with a breath. Waiting continued, she returned her stare to his.

“Is this what you want?” An even tone inquired, confirming her willingness to engage in this form of their lovemaking despite knowing the answer.

The eager leap of her stomach settled, but her excitement remained. Brimming with curiosity to learn his intent for her, she studied him, his features. The strong, square jaw, sloping nose, and reddish brows of her partner indulged her delay without burden. His calm and unconditional love soothed her impatience.

“It is, my King.”

[etaeternum]

Pranks

Bond of the Grey Ch 16 Pranks

Sera offers Hale a distraction. Trigger Warnings: Lots of drinking. Blackout drunk. Implied dubious consent. Implied/ referenced child abuse. Hale’s head throbbed, and she whimpered. Alone and waking up to a queasy pit in her stomach; her insides turned and even with her eyes closed, she felt the room around her spinning. The light burned her eyes when she opened them and she didn’t recognize her location; a modest room with pillows by a windowsill. The location of the sun low in the west revealed she’d slept until late afternoon. She put her hand over her eyes. How’d I get here? Fuzzy pictures of the night before fluttered through her mind.

“I knew you’d be a fun one!” Sera’s chimed before she chugged her drink, slamming the mug down on the table. She yanked Hale from her seat and ushered her upstairs and through a door on the upper level of the tavern to the outside. “What’s your name?”

A hint of annoyance coated Hale’s tone, “Hale. D’you bloody-well feel like telling me what we’re doing?”

With a jovial laugh, Sera pushed Hale onto the battlements. “Easy. Pranks. You’re in a sour mood and pranks make people happy. ‘Less you’re the one being pranked then you might not laugh about it right away.”

“Pranks?” Flat affect sounded Hale’s disinterest in Sera’s proposition.

“Yeah, pranks,” Sera slapped Hale on the back. “It’s simple. Just a few surprises her and there to some unexpecting prigs. They won’t know what him ‘em.”

“I don’t get it,” Hale’s face contorted in unamused confusion. “Ain’t no loot or coin in pranks. What d’we get out of it?”

“A good laugh is all. And a distraction.” Sera’s hand found her hip as she scolded Hale. “Look, you’re the one whinging about your ‘them’ problems. I’m just giving a fun alternative. You want in or not?”

Hale looked to the ground. Alanna ain’t gonna like this. She nodded. “Right, yeah. I’m in.”

Slow movements let Hale sit up; the pounding in her head worsened with the tingling of air around her. Noise of talking and music from outside the door vibrated her skull. Another snippet of a memory of the prior night followed.

“General Tight Arse’s office,” Sera announced as they opened the door. “A real stingy wanker. Thinks everything’s gotta be perfect. This’ll be an easy one for your first prank.”

The warmth of her drink made her head light; she slurred her words. “I seen him looking at my cousin.” Silent paces around the room, she examined his office with skepticism.

“So you’re the Inquisitor’s cousin then?” Sera’s head rose up from under Cullen’s desk, her brow raised with curiosity. “Think Cully-wully’s got it for her. And I think she’s got it back.”

Hale turned the maps on Cullen’s desk upside down and moved an inkwell to the opposite side as Sera spoke. With the news about Alanna and Cullen Hale gagged. “Ugh. Gross. Don’t wanna think about that. Alanna’s just telling me some shite,” She stopped and offered her impression of Alanna by producing a tipsy combination of common tongue and elvhen. “You mustn’t give yer vhenan to one who can’t hold it.”

One eye closed, Sera’s face scrunched as Hale stammered through her impression. “Well, I don’t think her vhenan is all he’s holding.” A long, snort filled giggled suggested Sera’s entertainment with her own joke.

Alanna’s intended lesson blurred in Hale’s hazy memory; undefined emotional weight rested on Hale’s shoulders but in the lack of clarity, she couldn’t place the reason. Hale looked around the room, steadying her hands on the bench. A pit in her stomach lurched, taunting her with discomfort. She realized she stood in her small clothes. Her binder gone, gambeson missing.

Assuming the tunic on the floor to be hers, she pulled it on and found her leather breeches. Foggy images of sneaking with Sera, passively disrupting the peace of Skyhold by reorganizing belongings, planting unwelcome surprises for victims the next morning- interspersed with rounds of drinks cycled through Hale’s memory, stopping at a specific recollection.

Light strides carried them down the stairs into the courtyard. Giggling. Sera stopped in thought. “Let’s do a tricky one.” A fluid motion, fast friends formed through juvenile hijinks, Sera grabbed Hale’s hand to pull her toward the great hall. Sera’s fingers, hardened and raised in select spots from drawing a bowstring, caught Hale’s attention.

“You shoot!” They took a few steps together and Hale stopped, stating her observation while touching the callouses on Sera’s slender hands. “I do too. My fingers stay rough from all the pressure.” Hale put her ring and middle finger against Sera’s digits to prove her point. Long fingers and defined knuckles, soft in some places and rough in others grazed Sera’s opened palm.

Blushing, the contact sparked Sera’s awkward giggle. “That’s what she said. … All right. Enough of the fingering bits.” She took her hand back and touched the tough patches of her own fingers.

“Said no lady fucking ever,” Hale snickered at her perversion until her eyes landed on the tavern. “Need more beer before we go at it again.” Unsure if Sera heard the accidental innuendo, Hale locked eyes with the other archer. They doubled over, chuckling before strolling the short distance to the tavern.

“Oh!” Sera yelled in understanding as they entered the wooden doorway. “I got it! Because… because lady bits!”

Feet dragging, Hale crossed the room, wincing at blaring afternoon sun shining through large panes; she shielded her eyes. Still patching together the night before, trying to recall how she wound up nearly naked in a room she didn’t recognize. The distant smell of cooking meat and the thought of its corresponding grease appealed to her nauseous insides.

As they drank multiple pints of ale Sera listed her opinions of key members of the Inquisition, all eligible victims of their antics to come. Ensuing laughter echoed their discussion considering potential pranks and the appropriate insects to use for each target.

“That one. He writes stories,” Sera pointed to the dwarven man still throwing daggers in the pub. “Varric’s fun. But he’ll get a kick out of it, so it means it takes more to josh him.”

The pleasant fuzziness of the effects of alcohol spread through Hale; her movements exaggerated and slow. She scanned the dwarven man’s stature of confidence amidst his taller peers. “Looks like the type who gets along with lots of people.”

“He does,” Sera gave an absent shrug before she upturned her tankard. She set the empty mug on the table. “Means he misses lots of people too. Got it, earwigs. Wait, no! Bees! Bees in his... books. Yes!” She slammed her hand on the table. “Frig! I’m fresh out of bees. Hm...That one there,” she pointed to the stern looking, warrior woman. “Cassandra. She’s an uptight prat, but she reads Varric’s books a lot. Let’s put crickets in… The Bull!” She exclaimed as her eyes found the large qunari in the back of the tavern.

Hale's gaze followed Sera’s; the man still sat at the table in the corner with his comrades. The group appeared more intoxicated than when Hale saw them earlier. “Don’t think that prank’ll go so good.”

“Not crickets in the Bull, weirdy,” Sera playfully scoffed as Hale drank the last of her beer. “He’s a good mate. Thinks too much but his Chargers listen. Could wait ‘till he’s sleeping and put lard in his bedsheets. Ew… slippery Bull parts.” She cackled in disgust.

Hale chuckled at the thought until her eyes blinked slowly, feeling the tiredness caused by a long day of emotion and night of drinking. “I know who I wanna prank.” She leaned over the table to Sera. With no reference for personal space, their foreheads nearly touched. “... Alanna.”

“Piss off!” Sera fell back in her chair with laughter, appearing more than amused with the proposal. But she stopped after a moment, centering to see Hale attempting a serious frown. A mischievous grin pulled at the corners of Hale’s lips. “You’re right loony. But I’m in. Everyone's an equal, yeah? But if I get asked tomorrow, I never even met a Hale LaElven.”

The pair left the tavern and stumbled through the courtyard into the great hall. Snickers prompted mutual shushing and incited more laughter from the other, continuing their entire trip to Alanna’s room. But as they opened the door, they grew quiet. Steps became stealthy, they tiptoed up the stairs. The luminescent moon lit the area; showing Alanna under a pile of blankets sleeping alone.

Sera and Hale peered around the room to decide on their best method of pranking. Silent communication, pointing and hand waves, downward facing thumbs suggested either woman’s disapproval. But as she moved to examine the area around Alanna’s desk, Hale picked up her bow and quiver. The arrows rattled, noise causing the duo to freeze, breath held, waiting to see if Alanna would wake. The Inquisitor rolled in her bed but didn’t rise. Sera and Hale exhaled in relief.

Resuming her perusal of the desk, Hale spotted the inkwell. An idea came to mind, and she waved at Sera to gain her attention.

A voice broke the silence, “Hale? What are you doing?” Sitting up in bed, Alanna looked at Hale; Sera stood at the other end of the room, out of the Inquisitor’s line of sight.

“Run!” Sera whispered with a cackle as she sped across the room and the down the stairs. Heart pounding, Hale followed, giggling in fright as her legs carried her back into the great hall. She followed Sera, unsure of their destination, into the tavern and up the stairs. Sera opened the door to a small nook, leaning against the back and yanking Hale around the other side as she entered. Body weight slammed the door and caused Hale to crash into Sera. Hands landing on Sera’s shoulders, Hale braced herself for impact. Fear immediately subsided, loud laughing released from both women. Hale didn’t flinch at the natural movement of Sera’s hands around Hale’s lower back. But both slowed their laughter.

Grey eyes met green. The smoky stare of Hale's new counterpart stirred a familiar drive. Bodies pressing against the door, Hale noticed the tempting fullness of Sera’s lips in such a close proximity. The huntress closed the breath of space in an instant. Hale’s fingers tangled in the messy blonde hair of the other archer, pulling her in. A hurried hum and Hale’s waiting mouth found Sera’s; she reciprocated the kiss with a grunt. Her stretched digits slid down the small of Hale’s back, squeezing the plump curve over the muscle of Hale’s ass with open palms. Rushed, Sera took Hale’s swollen lower lip between her teeth and nibbled before Hale’s tongue slid against Sera’s.

But in unison they stopped and Hale pulled away.

“Nope. No.” Sera mumbled through an uncomfortable giggle.

“Yeah, no. “ Hale agreed, her hand meeting her forehead. A confused look spread across her face. “That was like… kissing myself.”

“Right. Not for me.” Pushing off the door, Sera took two large steps to the bench covered in pillows. “Sorry Foxy, I’m not my type.”

“Friends?” Hale joined Sera on the bench.

“Yeah, friends.” Sera stretched her legs and yawned.

Relating Sera's tiredness to what Hale felt in her own body, Hale jumped up, attempting to spark a second wind of energy. “No yawning!” She exclaimed as she reached into her pack and grabbed the bottle she stole from earlier. “I’s gonna save this for… something. But let’s finish it and shoot things.”

Sera agreed, and the pair took their bows and quivers to the rooftop by Sera’s room. The stillness of approaching dawn amplified the sounds of their movement. Between sips of liquor, they shot arrows at the targets in the courtyard and continued their conversation.

Blurred eyesight tried to focus and Hale loosed an arrow. It missed its target, and she swayed. “So what's yer type then?”

Sera drank directly from the bottle and passed it to Hale. “Bigger.” After a few tries, she pulled an arrow out of her quiver. “Mmm. Qunari. Those Tammasarwhats, though.” She made a low giggle. “Because woof.” Glassy eyes gazed in the distance and after a delay, she looked to Hale. “You?”

Hale took a large sip of liquor. “Archers.” She tried to wink at Sera, but held her eye closed longer than intended. “But humans. Older ones… way older.” She hiccupped and handed the near empty liquor bottle back.

Another extended, rumbling giggle flowed from Sera. “Right. Daddy issues. Funny, innit? So… who holds your vhenan then?” She finished the bottle as Hale made one more attempt at shooting the target; the arrow fell to her feet before she could release it.

“No one,” Hale gave a prompt response and picked up her fallen arrow, sticking it back in the quiver. “Not anymore.”

After finishing the bottle of liquor, Sera chuckled. “Lying shit. It’s all right, I know what’ll make it better.” Careful movements, long pauses brought Sera back into her room, she pulled Hale in after her. “You need more beer… and ice cream… and cookies.”

Hale gave a sad smile and nodded, agreeing with the strange combination of comfort foods as she stepped into Sera’s room. But a more entertaining thought entered Hale’s mind, the twinkle in her eyes returned and her grin suggested mischief. “You know… friends can still roll around.”

Hale’s palms found her eyes, and she made a loud groan; unable to recall anything beyond that point, she made assumptions based on the state in which she woke. The recalled conversation explained the emotional weight on her shoulders. Nate. Anger swirled with sorrow, the singe of heartbreak taunting her nausea and magnified by a pull to something no longer present, long gone from Skyhold. The bond. She recognized the withdrawal from her native group of Wardens with no need for visual confirmation. They would return home to Vigil’s Keep without her.

The emptiness hurt, pain multiplied by Nate’s inclusion in the loss. Abound with regret and furious with her own immaturity, tears welled, hurting her eyes; she rubbed her fists against her lashes to dispel the discomfort. Her headache intensified the unpleasantness of crying. Defeated, a frustrated growl escaped the huntress; her hands came down, pushing off the bench to stand. Hale stormed off to find food.

  9:12 Dragon- Vigil’s Keep

“Boy, you’re more stupid than your mother. Can you do nothing right?”

Nathaniel learned to remain quiet when his father asked that question. Any attempt Nate made to defend himself ended in punishment, often with pain and always without dinner.

Rendon’s eyes widened, a wordless way to rush Nathaniel into obeying an unspoken order. Nate realized the cue and connected it to the appropriate demand; he brought his father his coat. “Sorry, sir,” Nate murmured, handing it over.

“Remember, Nathaniel, boys who flounder their responsibilities do not grow into powerful men. Don’t mumble and do not waste my time.” Rendon donned his coat and left the large door of the main building of Vigil’s Keep.

 Frosty mountain peaks beckoned the army through craggy passes, allowing the Grey Wardens to reach the foothills near Orzammar before nightfall. By foot they moved, weaving through the space with ease. The Wardens traveled quickly on their own; the restrictions imposed by surrounding armies no longer present as when they joined the Inquisition.

Despite Nate’s acceptance of his father’s treachery and manipulation, crimes against the Couslands and Ferelden as a whole, the lessons Rendon taught still rang through Nathaniel’s mind; particularly when feelings of inadequacy arose as they had been since Hale left his tent the previous night. That morning when they packed, the scouts had run to him informing of Hale’s departure and urging him to do something.

“Commander Howe!” Damia called to Nathaniel; another Warden aided him in collapsing the Commander’s tent. “Warden Commander! It’s Hale. She’s gone. She went to Skyhold last night and hasn’t come back.”

The news stung his eyes but his arms reached above him, taking down the pavilion sides. Out of Damia's sight, he took a breath and blinked before looking to her. “It’s her choice to stay.”

“Commander, please, you need to go get her. Hale wouldn't listen to me.” Damia pleaded, imploring him to take action. And he wanted to. The deep-seated and desperate inclination had gnawed at him since he woke from his dream, but the distant voice of his father’s shame and nagging won over. Can you do nothing right?

“We know she’ll listen to you,” Gunnar offered, his brows wrinkling with apprehension. Lisbeth, Ashiwyn, and Saeris nodded beside him.

“Wardens,” Nathaniel replied, the sharpness of his tone resounding his dissatisfaction. “I may be new to this position, but the last time I checked, the Commander gives the orders, and not the other way around.”

Upset with his response, the scouting group had stormed off and insisted on giving Nathaniel subtle cold shoulders for the rest of the day. They grew silent whenever he neared and followed his orders with glares and curt replies of ‘yes, Commander.’

Other Grey Wardens complained about the disruption in the bond the previous day. The vacillation still reverberated for the army. Unaccustomed to changes in a facet of their union so innately consistent wrought undefinable fear. Nathaniel answered superstitious inquiries with vague responses, assuring his certainty of a letter from Weisshaupt when they returned to the Keep.

Weighed down by pressure, overwhelmed with new responsibility, and racked by an undeniable longing for the Huntress, Nate isolated from the Wardens. The desire to be alone with his thoughts, to escape the incessant questions from what was now his army motivated him until they stopped for the night. After they set camp Nathaniel went to bed without eating.

[etaeternum]

Reprieve

Bond of the Grey Chapter 15: Reprieve

Hale visits Alanna and meets some other members of the Inquisition. The Wardens leave Skyhold. Damia followed Hale when the huntress announced she would stay at Skyhold. Aware of the classic signs of heartbreak in Hale’s actions, Damia begged her to forget about Nathaniel. She reminded the young Warden of their pledge to each other: ‘ Grey Wardens for life,’ and the oath Hale gave at her Joining. But the huntress kept on her path to Skyhold. Jaw clenched, she had refused to confirm Nathaniel as the cause of her anguish.

Hale jogged across the drawbridge into the stronghold. Angry with herself for falling trap to feelings she didn’t understand, furious with Nathaniel for dismissing her and their time together as meaningless. Whatever it was. An aching hollow formed in the wake of his rejection, her loving confession declined with no fulfilling explanation. ‘I don’t feel the same.’

The Skyhold courtyard felt foreign. She had been there twice before; once prior to the battle to visit her cousin and again when they returned. Recalling the steps she took to reach Alanna, Hale made her way to the War Room. Out of place, uncomfortable, she tiptoed through the great hall and took the second door on the left. Following the hallway into an office. A council member, the one who writes everything, greeted her with a gentle voice.

“It is so nice to see the Inquisitor’s cousin. It's Hale, yes?” Josephine inquired from her desk, standing and walking around to greet the young Warden. She put out her hand in an amicable greeting; Hale stared at Josephine’s extended palm with a cocked brow.

“Yeah,” cheeks still blanched and eyes red from crying, she watched the woman with skepticism. “Need to talk to Alanna.”

“Of course,” the Inquisition ambassador’s raised arm abandoned the attempted handshake and gestured to the door Hale came through. She guided Hale back out the way she came. “At this hour she’s in her room.”

Hale followed Josephine back into the main hall toward Alanna’s room. Her eyes explored the levels of the building she walked, noticing the scaffolding leading up to higher floors. Activity echoed through the stone walkway from guests in the hall, all characteristics of Skyhold she hadn't noticed prior. Josephine traveled to a door at the end of the hallway and knocked. A ‘ come in’ responded and Josephine ushered Hale through the entryway. The ambassador did not follow and instead returned to her office, bidding Hale farewell before she left.

Tentative steps took Hale up the stairway, curious, confused. Despite the darkness, flickering light gave guidance. The stairwell seemed incomplete, walls exposed beams and gaping holes. It surprised Hale, assuming one with the title of Inquisitor would be entitled to more niceties.

But as she neared the top of the stairs, she scanned the bedroom. Fancy. And the view of stars twinkling over mountains outside tall windows made her jaw drop. Moonlight shone through the panes into the quarters.

“Hale?” Alanna’s puzzled voice interrupted Hale’s reverie. The Inquisitor sat at her desk in a corner of the room, a lit lantern brightening her workspace. “What are you doing here?”

Reluctant, the huntress’s eyes traveled to the floor in front of her. Ashamed, prepared for her cousin’s lecturing she announced her intention, mumbling, “thought I’d stay here… left the Wardens.” Her pack dropped to the floor; her bow tapping the hide of her drum as it fell.

“Oh, Hale.” Alanna stood and walked to her cousin. Sympathetic eyes searched for answers; Alanna’s hands found Hale’s. Looking up to her taller relative, she inquired, “what happened, asa'var'lin ? A ssan’panelan nuem ma, vin? ” (The archer hurt you, didn’t he?)

What had been a temporary reprieve from Hale’s rushing tears ended as Alanna asked questions. Hale’s face scrunched, muscles expressing the sting of memories she had to reflect. The tumultuous history of the women set aside in Hale’s need of support as she admitted her hardship. Her neck craned to look at the ceiling as she recapped her misery. “He fucking ended it! The Queen made him Warden Commander and then he said… he said we had to end it.” She walked away from Alanna, pacing with inner debate to share more information. Halting, she faced the Inquisitor. “I told him… I said I fucking loved him, Alanna.”

The news of Nathaniel’s elevation to Commander came as a surprise. But rather than inquire, Alanna decided to gather information from Leliana about the Queen’s resignation and her first Lieutenant’s promotion the next morning.

“ Ara’fenor,” (my dear) Alanna cooed and inched toward her bed, sitting on the edge as she viewed her cousin. She patted a spot next to her for Hale to sit; the huntress remained standing. “It’s safer for you here anyway. Ar eolasa din gonathe ma, Hale. Ma nadas’tel sul'ema mar’vhenan esh'ala din’elana emathe ra.” (I knew he wasn’t worthy of you, Hale. You mustn’t give your heart to those who cannot hold it.)

Images of Nathaniel rose to her mind. Grey eyes, concerned with her well-being when he saw her injured, hurt physically and emotionally; when she screamed into the mountains and he stood beside her. It only magnified her crestfallen confusion. Hale stood in angry daydreams, troubled by their inconsistencies.

“I’m relieved you decided to stay, asa'var'lin”(cousin). The Inquisitor continued, calling the huntress from her wandering mind. “Sael’rajelan harel em unshivas ama ma eth o’nuem. Banalla Rasdalelanis o’Radalas ea’harellanis.” (The first to the Commander deceived me when he pledged to keep you safe from harm. The Grey Wardens [lit. Darkspawn Killers] of Ferelden are liars.)

Turbulent feelings preoccupied with heartbreak, Hale’s willingness to reproach Alanna’s use of elvhen vanished. Though the huntress gave a blank nod, Alanna’s accusations hurt. A Warden herself through blood, regardless of her distance from the order, the insults attacked those with whom she bled in battle, drank and laughed with in camp. Fewer she bedded, intimacy fed appetite for camaraderie- or more, as with Nathaniel. She wondered what it would feel like to be without them. Too dejected and stubborn to face Nathaniel after being shunned, Hale refused to consider returning to the Warden encampment.

Now that she connected to the Warden bond, she felt her distance from the larger force. The taint pulled her to them even though she was still a young Warden. She was certain it would be difficult the next morning when they left. When Nate left. But she sensed a soft hum of the Orlesian troop saved from the corruption of Corypheus and survived the Arbor Wilds battle. Fewer in number, the same blood ran through them as with her.

Hale didn’t respond; unwilling to agree with Alanna, but unable to form an argument, she turned to look out the window.

“You can sleep in my bed tonight.” The Inquisitor used the common language, in case Hale’s silence resulted from the native tongue. Her hand raised to the oversized sleeping place. “Josephine will find another room for you tomorrow. You can stay here if you want, I’m going to finish work before sleeping. Or there’s a tavern downstairs if you’d rather.”

“Yeah,” Hale gave a quick reply. “Been to the tavern. A drink’ll be good.” She had a bottle of stolen liquor from the Herald’s Rest in her pack, but time away from Alanna’s judgment of the Wardens appealed to Hale.

“Tell the barkeep you’re my cousin and have fun, Hale. Be safe. And please be quiet when you come in.” Alanna pushed off the bed and walked back to her desk. “I have meetings with Leliana and Morrigan tomorrow morning.”

Hale’s eyes widened, surprised by the ease Alanna permitted her to leave. Years of her cousin’s kind but overbearing demeanor deviated in this busy but easy-going Alanna. With her pack slung over her shoulder, Hale ventured from the Inquisitor’s room to the tavern. Curious, she peered around the large space, examining the stronghold as she walked. Alone, a state Hale once found so familiar now abnormal after being surrounded by fellow Wardens. They had become family where she had none. And tomorrow they would be gone. The fleeting experience of being part of something meaningful would permanently leave her life at daybreak.

A sign hung over the door of the tavern. A crowned woman radiating light and carrying a swathed body. Fucking Andraste. Hale rolled her eyes as she pushed her way into the pub. Energetic, lively, the space occupied by warm bodies, some dancing, throwing darts, most sitting in conversation over drinks. The activity in the tavern opposed the silent courtyard she walked from. Wary of the crowded location, she held her pack tighter and walked to the bar. After giving her name and relation to Alanna, she procured a tankard of ale without charge from the dwarven bartender. Hale set off to find a place to sit alone.

Patrons milled, animated with pleasant conversations. Hale observed them, intrigued by the peculiar collection of individuals within the bar. A large qunari headed a table of counterparts of different races. Noise erupted from a game of darts at the other side of the room, the leader appeared to be a rough looking dwarf who also seemed to be winning. Near them, the blond Inquisition Commander sat with a short haired woman, a stern-faced warrior. Hale had noticed the Commander eying her cousin on more than one occasion during Inquisition council meeting both in the War Room and before the Arbor Wilds battle. The second floor of the tavern was filled with patrons she couldn’t identify.

The thud of something dropping behind her preceded a sing-song voice in an accent not unlike her own. “A Dalish bitch tits says what?”

Hale’s head turned to see a tall elven woman stand upright as if she jumped from the upper story. “Fuck off,” Hale shook her head and turned to drink her beer, sipping in dismissal of the blonde intruding her solitude.

“Oh!” The elf chuckled, entertained by Hale’s callous reply. “A grumpy one, is it? Don’t sound elfy-like neither. Tell me, what’s a Warden like you doing in a place like this?”

Brow furrowed,  Hale looked down to see she still wore her Grey Warden armor. In her inward reflection, she had not considered taking it off. The sight of the blue and white, accented with silver studs on the chest and griffons at her shoulders sparked emotion. She blinked the feelings away and stared at the speaker. The blonde elf crossed her arms, standing with a hip leaned against the table.

“Not a Warden anymore,” Hale answered; frowning, her eyes scanned the woman; she appeared to be around the same age as Hale, hair cut uneven in the front. “Do I know you?”

“Dunno. Maybe. Name’s Sera,” the woman announced, shrugging her shoulders before gesturing to herself with a hand to her chest. Sera moved to sit across from Hale and waved her arm for a drink from the bartender. “You,” she pointed, grinning as she met Hale’s gaze again, “look right pissed. Boy troubles? No… better: girl troubles, innit?” She winked.

Baffled by the forwardness of Sera’s interrogation, Hale’s eyes rolled in discomfort with the subject. Both. The honest answer withheld for sake of privacy. “Shove off, yeah? Ain’t yer fucking business.”

“Shame,” Sera shrugged again, taking her drink from a barmaid as she passed. “Know some clever ways to have fun in Skyhold. Might help you get your mind off him… or her. Them.” The feet of Sera’s chair scraped against the wood floor and she stood.

The woman took a step away from the table. “Wait,” Hale called. Sera turned to see Hale’s tankard upturned, her throat rippling with each chug of the ale she swallowed. An empty tankard clanked on the table. “Fuckin’ show me.” Maybe these Inquisition arseholes won’t be so bad.

  “You’re a shite liar.” The huntress grinned, soft steps taking her across the leather rug to him; she climbed onto his cot.

“I know.” He moved to make room, eager for her to join him. He smiled, appreciative of the smoothness of her lean frame sliding against his bristled skin. “I love you, Hale,” he admitted, eyes searching for hers, hoping she heard before finding the Fade.

She blinked, looking up to him; her hand caressed his cheek. “I know,” she whispered. Her lips brushed his ear before she made a playful nip at the lobe.

Rain and flowers, a hint of pine; he closed his eyes and breathed her in. The huntress settled alongside him. Warmth, legs entwined, the rise and fall of her chest in sync with his own. Muscular arms, slender but toned clung to his sinew, craving closeness despite the broken love he offered.

Movement outside his tent woke Nathaniel from his dream. Daylight approached for another day of marching back to Vigil's Keep; grey sky moist, projecting thick fog into the camp. He rose to an empty bed.

 “I’m going to watch them leave.” The somber sound of Caoilainn’s voice disrupted Alistair from his sleep. Nearing daylight, the room was dim. Sleepy-eyed, he blinked and gave a heedless nod. “I love you,” she whispered before kissing his forehead.

“I love you ,” he yawned. Smiling, he rolled to one side and dozed back into sleep.

Quiet steps took Caoilainn from the room. She wandered through the near empty Skyhold training yard and climbed the steps to the ramparts. Heavy fog clung to the ground, spreading across the curves of the valleys around the stronghold. Encampment broken, the final stages to the Wardens’ packing near complete. Caoilainn studied them, feeling the return of pensiveness. The army’s distance, too far to discern faces, removed her more, numbing the agony of the sight. But she knew she needed to see it. For closure. Or punishment. Or both. Bereavement of this part of herself, already gone but exemplified by the Grey Wardens leaving without her, settled in like weight behind her eyes. Pressure built and overflowed to laden tears. She sniffed her nose and her arms wrapped around her chest, self-soothing in her private mourning as time ticked by. Each moment brought the Wardens closer to leaving.

“Often we must grieve the end of one life to gain another,” a voice rang behind her. Poignant footsteps brought the speaker to Caoilainn’s side.

Her teary gaze held on the Grey Warden army, Caoilainn spoke a soft reply, “I’m sure it will get better. But Morrigan, at the moment it’s painful.”

“‘Tis understandable,” Morrigan’s response resounded Caoilainn’s. The Witch of the Wilds stared into the distance as the Wardens began their trek back to Ferelden. She dipped her head toward the moving team of wayfarers. “But you’ll heal. As will they.”

“Are you sure?” The question confessed insecurity of her own ability to recover from the loss, in addition to the Wardens’. Caoilainn’s gaze returned to the valley. From this distance, the lethargic inching of the body of blue and white echoed her melancholy. But she didn't breathe with them; the animal the Wardens created in their construct did not include her.

“Do you trust Alistair?” Morrigan answered Caoilainn’s question with her own, facing the Queen as they stood on the ramparts.

Crisp air blew the loose ends of their hair. Sounds of morning filled the space between slow statements. Whimsical songs of birds contradicted Morrigan and Caoilainn’s reserved conversation.

Weighing her answer, the Queen stood silent. In the past, her answer would have been a prompt and pointed ‘ no.’ But as the question resonated,  Caoilainn tucked her chin as confirmation. “I do.” The utterance was true.

“Then I am sure,” Morrigan gave brief smile, encouraging her friend. A shimmer of the young lady Morrigan met and witnessed fall in love with the bastard prince became prominent. Caoilainn's linen tunic tucked into leather breeches. No longer shrouded by Grey Warden armor, the former Warden Commander's aloof demeanor shed to vulnerability.

“Thank you, Morrigan.” She gave heartfelt gratitude through the low murmur. “To you and Kieran. I owe you for my life. We both do.”

“Twice now,” Morrigan grinned, moving from the wall to leave. “But who's counting? Speaking of Kieran, that boy keeps wandering off and disappearing. I need to look for him. If I don't see you before you and Alistair leave, I wish you safe travels.”

Morrigan gave Caoilainn a small hug before she stepped down the stairway and walked into Skyhold’s great hall. She passed Alistair on the way and they exchanged cordial nods. The King took tired steps up to Caoilainn who faced valley again. The small specks that made the Wardens barely visible.

“You could have woken me,” his voice light, sweet, and absent of judgment. He moved to stand behind her, his arms met the stone ramparts on either side of the Queen; his nose brushed the soft skin of her neck. “I would’ve watched with you.”

“I know you would,” she placed a fair hand over his sun-kissed digits. “I needed to be alone for a little while. I'm glad you’re here, my King.” She sighed, welcoming his affection as a needed respite from the gravity of emotions. “I haven’t heard back from Weisshaupt,” Caoilainn disclosed her insecurity about the Wardens survival without her. Questions of Nathaniel’s success as Warden Commander surfaced. She subdued the urge to share the details with Alistair. I’m no longer a Warden.

“They have to get the letter before they can read it,” he replied. Arms wrapping around her waist, Alistair embraced his queen from behind. Her body relaxed, her head leaning back to rest on him. “Leliana’s ravens aren't that fast. For now, you can spend all the time you want worrying about what we’ll do when we get back to the palace.”

She turned around to face him, pressed between him and the stone wall. A subtle simper teased at her lips accepting the invitation to join in his humor. “I’ve got a few things in mind.”

“Oh?” Alistair quipped, the jovial rise of his brow engaging with her flirtation. “What might those things be?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.” Grinning, she pointed to his chest but her eyes wandered to his jaw line, soon followed by her palm. “ After you shave.”

“But my Queen,” he smiled, pulling her closer and rubbing the stubbled part of his face to her cheek. “I've decided to grow it out.”

A garbled giggle sounded and Caoilainn pushed him away, escaping the assault of Alistair’s unshaved chin. The playful shove forced him to step back and allowed Caoilainn to return to her view of the walking Wardens. Alistair joined her side this time.

“That means it’ll be a surprise, then?” He referred to her plans for their return to Denerim. “I love surprises.”

With another grin, Caoilainn shook her head. Rolling her eyes, she nudged him with her hip; they stilled to watch her army disappear.

Though it was bittersweet to see the Grey Wardens leave without her, Caoilainn found gratitude. A smaller army, the Wardens would travel quickly, reducing the likelihood of crossing paths with the Ferelden and Highever troops.The gloomy morning lightened, rays of light broke through the overcast sky.  The King and Queen of Ferelden gave polite thanks to the Inquisitor before the end of the day, then returned to their room for their last night in Skyhold.

[etaeternum]

Shallows

Bond of the Grey Chapter 14: Shallows The armies prepare to return to Ferelden. Caoilainn and Alistair discuss the aftermath of Caoilainn's resignation. Isenam brings concerns to the new Warden Commander.

Writer’s note: I am just going to post everything I have on here tonight, so I apologize if it seems like spam. I keep getting side tracked and not posting and it doesn’t seem anyone is reading anyway so might as well just get it all out there. You’ll see a lot over the next few days if you’re following.

---

9:31 Dragon

“It still bothers you.” A curious Caoilainn stated to Alistair in their tent late one night. The crackling campfire outside gave light as the two laid together. Heads supported on hands propped by elbows, they faced each other. Alistair’s brow cocked at her vagueness and he smiled, waiting for her to clarify.  Lips scrunched at his humor with her ambiguous announcement and sighed. This version of Caoilainn no one else saw: sweet, kind, compassionate, exclusive to their private interactions and unlike the stern leader the rest of their group experienced. Her voice softened, and she specified, “that Maric gave you up and Eamon sent you away because of Isolde. Doesn’t it?”

“Oh, that? Bother me?” Alistair snorted and waved his hand away, brushing off the proposition with his gesture. “Of course not. I’m long past it. Doesn’t bother me one bit. Why would I let it? It’s not worth getting sad over. It’s not like I moved from one place to another against my will through my youth.”

Caoilainn giggled and stopped his rant, “yes, it is.” Brows wrinkled in empathy, inviting him to be honest. Her palm met his, applying even pressure and calling his attention. He knew her curiosity helped her avoid unpleasant memories. “Are you sure it doesn’t get to you?”

Blue eyes saw right through his facade. “Woman,” he grinned and exhaled as he shook his head. “You do things to me and you know it. All right.” In his admittance, his brows creased, and he closed his eyes. “Maybe a little, if I look deep enough.” One eye opened, inquiring if his answer satisfied her question.

Caoilainn shook her head. White teeth showed as full lips stretched, her smile stirred his insides. The sight warmed his heart, complementing the buzz of the Grey Warden bond. Alistair opened his other eye.

“Yes. It gets to me,” he frowned through his confession. His gaze traveled from Caoilainn to the tent wall behind her. “A lot. I try to rationalize it but it feels like I’m making excuses for everyone else.”

“There’s no excuse for what happened to you,” she cooed and her fingers latticed his. The motion drew his eyes back to her. “No boy deserves that.” She moved her hand and brushed his cheek, her fingers pressed along his jaw. “You know that, right?”

Alistair’s sinuses stung summoning tears, and he inhaled. He scrunched his lips and blinked. The tenderness she gave in her message, unconditional love rang through each word. It made him sad- a happy sadness that lessened the dull pain of years of bottled resentment.

****

The Queen remained quiet as they walked. Removed, despondent, she kept her eyes down and her crying silent. Empathetic weight dropped in Alistair’s chest with each step they took. He wanted to help but knew no words could mend the wound of the interaction. Wardens’ looks of panicked doubt and distrust seared into his mind. Beneath the empathy, he realized a debilitating fear. Grief had been her reason for leaving the palace. She hadn’t known how to talk to him about her pain, and he hadn’t known how to help.

None had taught him. Alistair’s pain from loss, abandonment, and neglect ignored for some greater cause his entire life. But Caoilainn had helped. She called on him to open up, helping him vocalize his hurt and anger about the events of his childhood. He hadn’t reciprocated when she needed it in return. I’m not letting that happen again, Alistair reflected in determination to take the opportunity he had now.

Alistair took her hand and continued their walk into Skyhold, past the tavern, and into the main hall. She made a small noise, her head turned toward the hallway for their room as he kept walking. He didn’t respond, instead directing her to the garden where they came from that morning. Fireflies floated through the tranquil space, fluttering blinks as dusk fell.

A stone bench tucked in a quiet corner of the garden, he ushered her to sit. Shoulders slouched, eyes swollen and red from tears, she sealed her lips in a frown and gazed at him. Alistair read the helpless disappointment in her eyes, questioning his motive for changing their route with defeated interest.

“My love,” Alistair knelt before her to match Caoilainn’s eye level. He pressed her hands between his, resting in her lap. “I didn’t know how to help you before you ran away.” Caoilainn lowered her head to break eye contact, and Alistair directed her gaze back with a gentle forefinger to her chin. “Stay with me, my Queen. And I’m not sure I know what to say now, but we’ll get through this.”

Another wave of tears filled Caoilainn’s eyes. I don’t deserve this. The message replayed, over and over regarding Alistair’s affection. She dipped her head, leaning forward. Grateful the garden offered seclusion. The utter powerlessness over her situation and reaction something she’d rather others not witness. Without looking at him, she murmured, “I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”

At a loss for words, Alistair sat beside her. His hands rested on the bench beside him and he stared at the ground in the same direction as Caoilainn. Considering his options, what to say if anything, how to help her through this pain. “I did. Caoilainn, I am… was a Warden too, remember. I can relate to what you're feeling. It hurt to separate from the order.” He mulled over his statement, considering how to relate this back to her. “I imagine what you’re going through is even greater. No one deserves that pain.”

“But what if I do?” The sudden lift of her head to his, the intense stare, shiny from soft sobs startled him. “What if this is punishment from the Maker?” Brows lifted, pleading. “For what I’ve done to you, Alistair. Our marriage.”

Oh. This is unexpected. His response delayed from surprise. Caoilainn had always prayed to Andraste and the Maker, but her pragmatism often distorted religious doctrine.

The fireflies bellies flickered in the growing darkness. Crickets chirping accentuated stillness. The silence loomed over Caoilainn, waiting for Alistair’s reply. He agrees. Her conclusion arose from anxiety and shame, and sparked the urge to flee, to escape his love given so selflessly. He will always hold this over me. Ego tarnished by her crimes against their marriage lent to dread. Though he had yet to give evidence of her fear, she imagined every argument would invite another chance for passive reminders of her guilt. And now she had nowhere to run. Abandonment of the Wardens robbed her of sanctum, freedom from the disgrace she wrought upon herself left wanting.

Alistair observed Caoilainn’s internal isolation; downcast eyes and a deepening frown, her habit of harboring anxious thoughts led her astray time and time again. Despite his unclear feelings about the topic she addressed, he called her from dissociation with a soft hum as he took her hand. “You do have a point,” he made nonchalant shrug; she closed her eyes. “Or maybe, this a natural reaction to having an unnatural element like the taint removed from your blood and your recompense for what you did is between you and me.” A leg swung over the bench, he spoke to her directly. “You were close to them and the bond, for a long time. We knew it would be difficult.”

Chin down, she glanced his direction from under long lashes. “Can I be honest?”

“That’s still part of our agreement,” he grinned, inviting her to continue.

“I don't know if I did the right thing. The pain on their faces…” She trailed off, recalling the looks of her Wardens. “I’m certain our cure affected the bond. I abandoned them.”

You abandoned me for years. The resentful thought came and went. He put the thought aside. “We had no way of knowing this would happen. No one’s ever done this before.”

“Actually,” she lifted an eyebrow, then swung her leg over the bench to mirror his. “I've heard it's happened before. By word of mouth. Just once, but I couldn't find a name.” Caoilainn shook her head, sighing. “... It doesn't matter. It worked and we’re cured.” An optimistic smile pulled soft lips, considering the potential of this new horizon.  

Hope prevailed through sadness, Caoilainn’s meager grin lifted Alistair’s heart. “And the order will continue to rebuild. It's what you've taught them.”

She released a large exhale. “I hope so,” she followed the murmur with a fear, “I hope Nate isn’t above asking for your help.”

Cringing at the name, Alistair frowned. “Howe forgets I was a Warden before all of you.” Denied anger held at the man dampened the pleasant moment. Eager to lighten the mood, he reflected on an amusing memory. “You know, I imagined he made that elf girl his Lieutenant when I thought I lost you. The girl who called me an arsehole before the battle. It was horrible.”

Caoilainn chuckled, turning her head as she rose from the bench. “He’s stubborn, but he’s not an idiot.” She grabbed Alistair’s hand, having noticed Alistair’s discomfort talking about the subject of Nathaniel Howe. “Let’s not talk about him anymore.”

Alistair hummed agreement and stood to join her. Irritation around the subject of Nathaniel Howe grew with her suggestion, but he was grateful for the option. “Have you considered when we’ll leave for Ferelden?”

Lit braziers brightened darkness. The royal couple discussed their departure, determining they had already overstayed their welcome at Skyhold. Lacking a reason to stay longer, they decided together to depart in two days, giving the Ferelden and Highever armies enough notice. Upon leaving the garden they sent for advisors, shared their plans, and returned to their room. *****

The upheaval of the Warden encampment settled into the evening. Encircled by soldiers saluting their new Warden Commander, an exhausted Nathaniel clambered to give final orders and bring the day to an end. Wandering thoughts of resting in his new bed, the cot of the Warden Commander’s tent, with the Huntress tugged the back of his mind.

But first, Nathaniel met with his Lieutenants to give directions for the next morning. Nervous but determined, Nate stood on one side of the table in the Commander’s tent, the Lieutenants stood at the other. Summoning over a decade of experience serving the Wardens, he imitated what he had witnessed of previous commanders.

Hands clasped behind his back, Nathaniel nodded to Isenam. “Senior Warden Vhirnen has been appointed as Lieutenant.” Nods reciprocated from the line of Lieutenants and a few sideways glances made their way to Isenam. Certain they suspected Isenam and Nathaniel’s prior knowledge of Caoilainn’s resignation, Nathaniel brought up his next item. “Our help is no longer needed by the Inquisition,” he disclosed information he might not have known if not for Hale. Caoilainn may not have thought to tell him otherwise before she separated her ties with the order in the most permanent way fathomable. “We will pack at dawn and begin our trek back to Vigil’s Keep.”

A few ‘ Yes, Commanders,’ followed his directions. One lieutenant, a mage, lit a candle in its holder on the table. The waning daylight fell to dusk around the encampment. Plans laid for their trip, including rest sites and meals, the Lieutenants agreed to the marching orders and dispersed for the evening; excluding Isenam, who stayed behind across from the Commander’s table. A few years younger than Nate, the lean elven man served as a scout under Nathaniel soon after the Wardens’ encounter with the Architect. Isenam became a trusted colleague whose commitment to the order matched Nathaniel’s. The elf’s blond hair pulled back in a ponytail emphasized the severity of his frown.

“What do you need?” Nathaniel inquired, brows wrinkled in puzzled annoyance. Pressures of responsibility as Warden Commander limited his patience to guess what kept Isenam after the meeting.

“Did you know Warden Commander Cousland would step down?” Skipping pleasantries and hindrances to their discussion, Isenam brought his concern to the forefront. Regarding professional matters, he knew Nathaniel would tolerate his forwardness.

“Yes,” Nate answered, uninterested in lying and unmotivated to divulge more than necessary. “Is that all?”

Weight shifted on his feet, Isenam gathered composure before speaking further. His hands remained behind his back, posture held for professionalism. “I have a concern about a personal matter of yours, Warden Commander, if I may share.”

Eyes squinted, scanning the shadowed outline of the scout before him with curiosity. A friend of sorts, Isenam’s guidance had always been valued by Nathaniel though it had never regarded personal matters in the past. “I suppose. What is it?”

“Your relationship with the Lavellan girl. I’d recommend you end it. It’s unwise for a Commander to bed a Junior Warden.” Isenam’s straightforwardness overcame Nate’s equanimity.

The Warden Commander coughed mid-breath, fist rising to mouth as he cleared his throat and caught air. “Oh,” he paused, breathing, looking away from Isenam’s all to knowing eyes watching Nate’s coughing fit with disinterest. “Is it that obvious?” Unwilling to sacrifice integrity, Nathaniel replied with a concern. He’s right. It’s also unwise for the Warden Commander to bed a Lieutenant. His resentment of Caoilainn’s flexibility with rules applying only to herself.

“The other scouts have figured it out,” the elf replied. “But it would be best to stop before the whole army knows.”

Nathaniel pondered the information, comforted by Hale’s confidence of their secret and unsurprised the scouting team discovered the truth. But even as Warden Commander, he deserved privacy from others’ prying eyes. Caoilainn did it. “It's no one's business but mine and Hale’s.”

Isenam’s head shook slowly. “You set precedent as Commander. You did as Lieutenant and now that’s tenfold.” Lips tight, almost an apology for the news he delivered, Isenam watched warily for Nathaniel’s reaction.

Damn it. The undeniable truth of Isenam’s statements stung. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I will keep that in mind.” Nathaniel's dismissal of Isenam from the Warden Commander's tent followed the noncommittal answer.

Alone, Nathaniel gathered his thoughts. Night had fallen, he finished lighting the candles inside. Warden Commander. Slow acceptance of his new title crept in as he gazed around the tent; it stood at least four times the size of his previous quarters. She must have sent someone to gather her things. No sign of the former Commander remained. From her trunk of belongings to her bed sheets, all that remained belonged to the acting Commander of the Grey. A cot and a table covered in maps and letters held with weights to keep from moving. He sent for some Junior Wardens to grab his things from his tent.

Candles flickered in votive holders, brightening the dusky evening setting to night. With a gruff sigh, Nate dragged his feet to remove his boots, grateful for the hide rug that spread across the ground, preventing his socks from becoming damp from icy grass. More shadows formed from the increase in candlelight and projected along a larger canvas of the wall; space provoked passive reminders of his new responsibilities.

The Junior Wardens delivered his things a moment later. His trunk took up the space Caoilainn’s had previously. He sighed when he realized his linens only covered half the space of the cot and made a mental note to locate new bedclothes somewhere in the encampment before they set up camp the following evening.

Knees bent, he sat on the bed. Sluggish movements removed his gambeson, staring at the ground ahead of him. What will I say to Hale? The question of his impasse had a moment to linger, resonating with his discontent.

“Wanna celebrate?” Hale chirped from just inside the doorway, having snuck in undetected. “I picked some liquor off… well, don’t matter where I got it.” A small grin pulled red lips.

She wears make-up. In the argent candlelight, Nate realized the rouge tint to her smirk, a characteristic of Hale that Nate seemed to overlook in the months he knew her. Matted color had found its way to his clothes, lips, sheets and shaft and he had never noticed the unusual fact of the Huntress. He recalled mornings of waking to the soft, pink skin of the lovely creature's parted lips touching his chest as she laid on him and noticed the contrast to the stark color he saw now. Like the kohl shadow to her eyes defining the prominent green of her irises, usually removed by sweat in their evening activities, leaving circles under her eyes that she cleaned when she woke.

“Not tonight.” An absent-minded mumble replied, the weight of dread on his chest growing. “Huntress, I’m not-”

She sidled to him, straddling his knees with straight legs. Long fingers, rough from her drawstring framed an ear as her head lowered to the other. Breathy words poured, tickling his ear. “I wanna welcome the new Commander right.”

Nathaniel leaned his head away from Hale and stood. Disgruntled and dismayed, he shook his head. “No, Hale.” He prepared to speak words he knew would hurt them both. “We can’t keep seeing each other like this.”

The impact of his declaration landed, and she stepped back. Confused, irritated, Hale’s face twisted with disappointment. “But why?” The simple question prefaced the dramatic expansion of her chest with an inhale; critical eyes watched him as she waited for a response.

“Because I’m Warden Commander. We won’t be able to hide this anymore.” He kept his voice trained and low, balanced even though his heart wrenched.

“Fuck what anyone thinks!” She barked. Unfiltered words joined pooling angry tears. Frantic and fearful pain swept across Hale, her heart raced and her body grew hot. “Since when do you care?”

I don’t. Experience built practicality and often opposed prudence. But here, this new role required judiciousness; standards he set and modeled as the Warden Commander. “I have to care now.”

“Bollocks! Like shite you do,” she cried out. The uncomfortable sensation isolated at her heart, driving through like a needle. Her voice broke with the harshness of her words, resounding from distress “The bloody Bitch Queen Commander did whatever shite she wanted and you can do the same.”

Nate’s nostrils hissed on the exhale, unapproving of Hale insulting Caoilainn and reasoning he couldn’t refute. “I’m not Caoilainn…. Hale, I’m old enough to be your father.” He voiced insecurity; Nathaniel’s discomfort around this dynamic never settled in their time together.

“You know I don’t care 'bout that. Nate, please…,” she whined, crying as a few hot tears slid down her cheeks.

The urge to wipe away her sadness pulled him, but he resisted. It will only make this worse. If the Huntress needed contact, she had other options, and he reminded her. His reluctant reply offered meager condolence. “You’ll be fine, Huntress. You still have Damia.” He blinked, holding his eyes closed for a long second, cooling them from teary burning.

“But Nate… I don't… I don't love Damia." Resisting the pang of hopelessness, Hale’s distraught pout puffed full lips. Elbow bent, she wiped an eye with the blade edge of her drawing hand before pushing tears away from the other cheek. Her hand wrapped around her neck. “I sodding love you.”

I know. “Don’t. That will only make this harder.” For both of us. Gulping remorse, swallowing the innate wrongness of his next declaration, Nate continued, “I don't feel the same.” Liar.

“You… I can’t… yer fucking sick, mate.” She gave a wry laugh; lip curling with disgust as her face burned with embarrassment. Ire replaced sorrow; Hale’s inner fears of Nathaniel's interest in her spit like acid. “Guess you got yer revenge, huh? She made you Commander and you don’t need me anymore, innit? Noble son of a bitch-”

“Stop!” He snapped the order and took a deep breath. Pride hurt by her shallow insults, Nate indulged his defensiveness. “I warned you, Hale. I said I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, you did!” She blurted with frustration and glared at the tent wall. The words fell on their own in spite of her humiliation, and her arms crossed over her chest. Makeup smeared around her eyes; her hair tucked behind her ear.

“Huntress…,” I love you. But he couldn’t muster the reply. He watched her body quiver, tears dropping in steady lines. Silent, lip protruding, the lovely creature didn’t make eye contact as he spoke. “I think you should leave.” This hurts me too.

Hale’s head shook, admitting defeat, knowing his logic would negate all her appeals. The Huntress’s hurt and anger boiled but she didn’t reply, glowering instead. After another breath in, she growled and left Nathaniel’s quarters; he watched, chest pounding with regret each second she was gone.

Rushed and lengthy steps took her back to the scout encampment. She spoke to no one as she entered her tent. Scouts’ questioning glances passed from one another as they heard Hale rummaging. She emerged a few minutes later with a pack of belongings. Hair disheveled and cheeks stained with tears, she looked at the friends sitting around the campfire, relaxing under the starry night sky before their march the next day. The puzzled looks contributed more to the ache of her heart.

“Hale, what-” Damia asked, brow cocked with confusion.

“I’m staying here,” she whimpered, not waiting for a reply as brisk steps took her toward Skyhold.

[etaeternum]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by @ridiculouslyzevran and I’m tagging @melaena Is it bad my first thought was “Wait, is it actually Wednesday?” because that’s it, folks, I have no sense of time and I have no idea what’s going on. This is from my upcoming chapter of Fate of the Order with a bit of a Maric/ Fiona HC flashback.

“We don’t have to do this.” The large hand of Maric rested on her shoulder and squeezed. His other arm wrapped around her waist. She wanted to close her eyes and inhale, to appreciate the scent of his clean sweat and furs, but it felt wrong.  

The tender kiss they had shared in a special moment was over. It felt like long ago. Under these circumstances, his touch made her cringe. Fiona’s shoulders lifted to her ears as she squirmed away from him. “Don’t.”

“Sorry. I…,“ He sighed, rubbing his neck as he looked into the fire. “This is hard for me too. I thought we were doing the right thing, but now I’m not so sure. I care about you both.” 

Duncan’s swaying carried him toward the door he just entered, a silent offering to Fiona and Maric for more time to talk. When the infant whimpered, Duncan made a shushing sound from behind his teeth, and when it seemed the baby might waken, he let it suck on the knuckle of his index finger. Jealousy made Fiona’s stomach tighten. Her friend showed a stronger, natural inclination to the child she bore than she could muster. 

Nothing about this was fair.

[etaeternum]

It’s Not Working: Character Troubleshooting

Welcome to It’s Not Working, a troubleshooting series that I’m uniquely qualified to run because I write things that don’t work all the time. This week, we study characters-why they don’t work, how to know, and what to do about it. 

Question time

Think of a character that’s been giving you some difficulty, and answer these questions:

Are you unsure of their motivations, both scene by scene and in the whole plot?

Do they start and end with the same motivations, perspectives, personality, and outlook?

Does it feel like their lines could’ve been spoken by any other character?

Do you have trouble describing their personality, even to yourself? 

If you answered yes to these questions, you may have an underdeveloped character. 

Do they tend to act differently scene to scene?

Do you not know what to do with them in scenes?

Do they not have a part to play in the plot?

If you answered yes to these, you may have an unmotivated character. 

Did you answer no to all of the above questions, but beta readers and critique partners are disagreeing? 

Readers can’t understand their personality, motivations, or effect on the plot?

Then you may have an misrepresented character.

Why don’t they work?

Underdeveloped character: We’ve all heard of them before. They come off as bland. There’s no significant development or change to them throughout the story. Characters are your readers’ foothold into the story. If they feel like empty bottles, its going to be a lot harder for people to become invested in the plot. 

Unmotivated characters lack one thing: yes, it is motivation. It’s the ultimate reason for your characters to do anything. Why do they feel like they have to save the city? Why do they get upset at that one joke? Without proper and consistent motivation, your readers are gonna get whiplash trying to figure out all the why’s of the character’s actions. And if they’re too busy worrying about that, then they’re gonna lose interest in the plot and the book as a whole. 

Misrepresented characters are fully formed, at least to the author. They know everything about them, from their MBTI to the color of their second favorite rain boots. The writer has charts of how their motivations shift throughout the story, diagrams of their highs and lows, but for some reason, when readers get their hands on it, they give feed back like ‘flat’, ‘boring’, ‘generic’. Something needs to bridge that gap between the writers knowledge and what’s on the page. 

The Fixes

Underdeveloped characters:

Find character questionnaires, follow character prompt blogs, take personality tests as your character. Really explore who they are as a person. 

Make a chart of where they start and where they end. What happens in the plot that can significantly change them and the way they think? 

Write scenes from their first person voice. Yes, even if you write in third. Write it like diary entry, write it obnoxiously first person, so first person even first person writers would cringe. Every spelling mistake you’d think they’d make, all the tangents, everything. Get a feel for the way they sound and think.

What makes them unique? What makes them so interesting that you would rather write them than a whole different character? Let this shine through. 

Consider cutting them or combining them with another character if they really aren’t doing anything for your plot. I know, it hurts. You can always save pieces of them to use in another project, but sometimes it’s for the greater good.

Unmotivated characters: 

Answer the questions: Why are they my main character, and why are they taking part in this plot? If you can’t answer those, then you either have the wrong main character, or the wrong plot. 

Fill in this triangle and refer to them whenever you’re unsure of how they should react to something: 

Write an elaborate backstory for the character. Why do they come off as stoic all the time, except when they shriek around antique dolls? There’s a story there. You don’t necessarily have to write it in the text, but the more you know about your character, the more credible these choices will feel to the reader.

Have inconsistencies addressed in the story. If they say that they don’t care about anyone on the team, and then run into a burning building to save them, it should be noted. Not necessarily flat out said, but noted.

Tone down big reactions. The wailing, screeching, jumping for joy. Some characters might do some of these things. Some might do some of them sometimes. But one character will very rarely bounce around the peak of every emotion all the time. If you do write that character, it needs to happen very intentionally. 

Misrepresented character

Take a good look at the character’s introduction. Are you telling instead of showing? Is the reader distracted by larger plot things during their first scene? Do they have chances to prove their personality traits to the reader through actions or dialogue? 

Can you hear them? Do they have a specific voice? Mannerisms? Quirks you can show the reader? 

Are you leaving too much in subtext? I love assuming my readers will be scouring my books for clues and subtleties one day. But for major character traits, it’s better to be upfront about it. No one can assume your characters backstory out of thin air. Sometimes you have to be upfront about their motivations

Have you given an accurate, and somehow not boring, character description? If this is where you’re stuck, I understand, I’ve been there. But think of it as a chance not to list off eye color and hair length, but as a chance for each element to tell the reader something about the character. A ‘severe’ haircut gives us a different tone than ‘soft curls’. ‘Enough dirt in their nail beds to give an archaeologist chills’ give us one impression, ‘a smile that knows how high her cheekbones are’ gives us another. Play with it. Have fun. 

Are you using them in each scene they’re in? Not only as an effect on the plot, but also using the scene to showcase who they are. It should be a symbiotic relationship, scenes and characters. 

Some last few pieces of advice:

Don’t kill off a character or make them leave for the rest of the book because you don’t know what to do with them. If they stop having a purpose after a certain point, consider combining that purpose with a character that sticks around. 

Don’t kill off a character just because you think you have to

There’s no such thing as ‘needing’ a love interest. If you have a character that is exclusively there as a love interest, they’re probably gonna come off as flat (unless it’s a straight up romance novel, in which case, have a blast). 

Don’t feel like you need certain tropes. ‘Funny best friend’. ‘School bully’. ‘Evil dictator’. Don’t put them in unless they actually have something to do with the plot of your book. 

We could take about characters for weeks. Months. Years. But hopefully this not so brief overview gave you some ways to rethink any problem characters you might have. 

[etaeternum]

Mood.

[etaeternum]

Resignation

Bond of the Grey

Chapter 13: Resignation

Caoilainn and Alistair wake from the ritual

Writer’s Note: I apologize for not keeping up with updates on here. This entire fic is complete, I’m just posting it to Tumblr. I’m honestly not sure who is reading and that’s kind of part of why the updates are so spaced out. If you are enjoying this fic, please let me know! Thank you for following.

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The spell infused with water. Glowing blue and green clouds set forth from Fiona's hands like smoke within liquid. It reached the couple, and spread throughout the red liquid, cleansing it once more.

The unconscious royal couple remained floating, gowns stained red in the clean shrine. Cautious sorceresses gathered, watchful of any movement, waiting for signs of success of their combined efforts.

“Let them rest for a moment,” Morrigan instructed, her lowered voice reverberating through silence.

Delayed seconds passed, accented by the distant dripping of water. The mages made uncomfortable shifts, frustrated with the delay in the pair’s recovery. But color returned to Alistair and Caoilainn's skin, masking the prominence of bright blue veins. Deeper breaths gathered, pulling in more air as the water purified.

A ripple interrupted Fiona and Philippa’s impatient glances.

Alistair’s hand twitched, fingers stirring the clear pool. Facial muscles scrunched, and unpleasant frown found Caoilainn’s face. A low groan sounded, followed by a pained exhalation.

She opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the dim light. The mages watched as Caoilainn's eyes searched around her, scanning right and left to identify her location as she kept her body still. But Alistair wiggled. A leg lowered into the depth of the pool, throwing off his buoyant balance. A woosh sounded, along with his grunt as his arms submerged, aiding his return to floatation. Panting, cheeks tinged, he allowed the water to settle, giving Caoilainn a sideways glance. She stifled a tired laugh.

“How do you feel?” The Witch of the Wilds queried the King and Queen. Morrigan moved from the head of the watery altar to the side to meet their eyes, surveying them with a critical stare.

“I don’t feel anything.” Forehead wrinkling, Caoilainn closed her eyes again.

“I don’t feel that much different,” Alistair admitted. He shrugged as he looked from Morrigan to Caoilainn who tilted her head back, cooling fair skin at her hairline with moisture. He deliberately lowered his legs into the water, allowing them to meet the floor of the shrine. Water rushed from his frame as he rose. He gazed down to Caoilainn. “Can you stand?”

A feeble whimper responded. She moved to gain footing and stood. But she wobbled, shaky legs fumbled, and she lost balance; Alistair caught her. Without direction from the witches, Alistair took initiative, lifting Caoilainn out of the water and stepping from the altar. Soaked clothes on damp bodies emerged; splashes fell to the stone floor before easing to droplets. Though she didn’t resist Alistair’s support, the Queen made an irritated noise.

Alistair’s quizzical glance faced the sorceresses. “Is this supposed to happen?”

Morrigan ignored his question and looked to Caoilainn directly. “Can you feel taint’s pull?”

Struggling in Alistair’s arms, Caoilainn shifted her weight to show the desire to stand. Alistair followed, precise and delicate, he lowered her legs to the ground without letting go. Shaking, burdened by dripping clothes, she held onto Alistair’s upper arm for balance. Body numb, senses slowly awakening to the cold temperature of the cave, soreness of her body and mind, Caoilainn gave a small shake of her head.

“I feel little apart from this headache,” she whispered, disheartened. A weak hand lifted to her brow as a heavy heart determined the struggle, years of searching, waiting for a promise of the cure had been for naught. “I don’t think it worked.”

“My dear,” Philippa’s matter-of-fact intonation sang over the sounds of water dripping. “Say what you will. I do not know what, but something did indeed happen when you lost consciousness.”

“We could check.” Alistair gazed at Caoilainn who still balanced herself with his support. He placed a hand on her opposite hip, showing endearment while keeping her upright. He gave an awkward chuckle, “does anyone have any darkspawn lying around?”

Frowning, Morrigan snapped. “Idiot. If the cure worked, you aren’t immune to the taint anymore.” Morrigan’s curious stare maintained the insult as it traveled from Caoilainn to Alistair. “‘Tis critical you heal before making such attempts. You may check the bond with the army of Wardens above ground after you've rested.”

“Oh, right. That.” His words stumbled; the obvious answer stung, provoking introspection. How could I forget? The Grey Wardens, the first likeness to home Alistair experienced, gifted to him by Duncan well before the fateful day at Ostagar, saving him from the dogmatic views of the Chantry. The order gave him home. And he forgot, allowed it slip from his memory from years spent removed from the Wardens when he became King. Guilt occupied optimism for the promises of the cure. But his remorse was delayed by Caoilainn’s swaying.

“Whoa there,” Alistair commented, moving to provide more support, lacking confidence in her ability to hold her balance. It was warranted; her eyelids fluttered and her eyes rolled up in their sockets as her knees buckled. Alistair caught her before she fell, bringing the unconscious Queen to lay slack in his arms. “What is wrong with her?” Alistair asked; a harsh stare meeting Morrigan’s eyes. The other mages remained silent, wary of the interaction between Alistair and Morrigan.

“You may have had the taint in your blood longer, Alistair,” Morrigan reproached. Her judgmental glare scanned Alistair’s strength in the wake of the ritual. “But you’ve been removed. Her body is in shock of the sudden lack of immersion.”

Something similar to jealousy sparked within him; Morrigan’s explanation suggested Caoilainn’s bond to the Wardens was more significant than his. And to an extent, it was true; the logic stung. But words connected and Alistair’s eyes grew larger. That means it worked. We’re free of the taint. The significance of this understanding preceded annoyance with Morrigan. “You could have said that before she tried to stand on her own and fainted.”

The Witch of the Wilds waved his words away with her hand. “Don’t be a fool, Alistair. ‘Tis unwise to add emotional stress to one whose body has undergone such anguish. Take her to your room, let her sleep.”

So he did. The sorceresses helped him dry Caoilainn and change her in her stupor. Alistair followed suit, finding privacy and taking off the wet layer of cloth to put on his clothes. Dried enough and changed, he picked up his fatigued wife. Though she made a tired cry, adrift in unconsciousness, she didn’t resist.

“I’ll help,” a timid voice sounded with an Orlesian cadence. Fiona saw the fleeting moment passing: the chance to help her son and hear of his experience of the cure from the taint. Despite the discomfort of maintaining composure through the secret, her caring conquered. She picked up Caoilainn’s boots and a few remaining articles as Alistair took Caoilainn back to their room. Dawn approached; it was bright enough for them to see in the deserted courtyard.

“How are you?” The older mage asked with vigilance, curious to hear his encounter. Philippa and Morrigan’s concerns for Caoilainn overshadowed Alistair, she recognized; his loss undermined by the significance of Caoilainn’s.

The former Grand Enchanter who committed treasonous acts in Redcliffe and cost the lives of Fereldans joined Alistair’s walk back to the room. And now she asked him how he felt. There’s nothing weird about this at all. He overlooked the odd circumstance considering the events of the morning and pondered her inquiry. Caoilainn’s limp body nuzzled against his, Alistair’s adjusted his arms around her back and under her legs to support her weight. His eyes traveled to the sky as he allowed Fiona’s question to settle.

The reality of feeling unchanged still rang true, aside from a few minute details he noticed in their absence. He blurted, “I’m not hungry.” The fact was a pleasing revelation. “Well, I’m hungry. It’s time for breakfast. But I’d be fine with a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge. . . not a four-course meal, or two.”

Fiona nodded, considering her distant recollections of being without the taint. Watchful of Alistair with a sideways glance, the two approached a side entrance near the tavern. Fiona opened the door for the King. Having spent far less time with the taint than Alistair, she knew her experience would pale compared to his. But memories of being studied by Weisshaupt flooded her mind; the antagonism shown to her by the leaders of the order for her accidental cure was something Alistair would not have to endure. And for that she was grateful.

His gratitude intruded her thoughts. “Thank you,” Alistair muttered. Avoiding her eyes as he proceeded through the doorway. She replied with a passive hum as the door shut behind her, assuming his thanks was for the favor she provided.

“For saving her, I mean,” Alistair clarified, resuming his walk toward his room with a distant gaze; Fiona continued alongside. Despite his previous bitterness with the woman, he owed her gratitude. “If you hadn’t been there, she would have. . . died.” He paused before the final word, facing the harsh potential reality became easier as space grew between him and the event.

Emotions swelled in response, heartwarming and sad; her brow creased, and she shook her head. “Thank the Maker,” she asserted; more a demand than an acclimation. Her difficulty accepting his appreciation deflected the intensity. Discouraged by her desire to flee from this interaction she sought but a moment ago, Fiona minimized her contribution. “It was He who willed it. I only performed the task given to me by the Inquisition.” What pretense of motherly love she shared with Alistair when she grieved with him in her vision was misplaced in this discussion.

"Do you know what it's like to lose the person you care about most? To spend every moment hoping you're about to wake from a bad dream? Do tell, Fiona. How would you know that?" Alistair interrogated; doubtful and upset by her attempt to empathize.

The intimidating man asked questions with answers he couldn't comprehend. Stalling, she blinked to clear the mist from her eyes and took a deep breath. "The Maker plays clever tricks, King Alistair. I know profound loss and the unfathomable sadness that accompanies."

She saw the desperation in his eyes, sensing her sadness akin to his own. Brow furrowed, face red from angered confusion, Alistair's tears fell. "What could you possibly know about profound loss?"

Remorse for the tragic truth left unsaid, Fiona showed what empathy she could "More than you could imagine, your Majesty. I came to speak with you before you departed because I know the difficulty of this decision. If you find a cure… do you choose to live longer with this sadness? Or do you follow the fate ordained by the order and allow the Calling to take you?"

His teeth clenched as his thumb and middle finger rubbed tears from his eyes. Alistair gave a tired, wry laugh, "hah, yes. I suppose I face quite the conundrum. Thanks for pointing that out."

Years of regret, doubts for her actions, she channeled caring in her guidance. "The sadness will worsen before you heal from it. But remember: you will heal. You have much left to gain and much left to give in this life."

“I’m indebted,” Alistair glanced to Fiona at his side. Urged to show he valued her generosity and selflessness, he took a deep breath to continue.

“No, you’re not.” She retorted, glancing up at him as they walked. I owe you that much, Alistair. The riposte culminated from guilt for her absence and omitting truths every boy deserved to know: the love of his mother, the warmth of her touch, and the sound of her voice. “Please, King Alistair. After what I allowed to happen in Redcliffe, you owe me nothing.”

She knew he suffered as a child before his conscription to the Wardens. And Alistair’s burdens to the Theirin bloodline found him in spite of her best efforts to ensure his freedom. As the Maker saw fit. Self-directed anger and heartache brimmed, tamed only by the certainty he must not know the truth about her. The disaster at Redcliffe added another regret to Fiona’s long list of failures to Alistair.

“About that,” he mumbled, reminded of his displeasure with Fiona’s actions early in the Inquisition’s mission. His steeled gaze stared straight ahead; posture straightening as he thought.

Responsibility as king presided; the mage had abused Ferelden’s hospitality, bringing catastrophe with her. Her banishment was reasonable. But the strange powers of the greater enemy could not be ignored, and Fiona’s service to the Inquisition disproved his assumptions she belonged to the enemy. The nervous woman he chastised in the Chantry in Redcliffe had been replaced by a confident and considerate mage, but a deep sadness remained consistent in her intense stare.

Alistair neared his room and Fiona opened the door for him again. “I can’t simply pardon you, Grand Enchanter Fiona. It’s not that simple. You’ve upset far too many people in my council alone for me to lift your banishment without pushback.”

“Fiona,” she echoed, clarifying his statement. She put down the Queen’s items and waited to speak while Alistair crossed the room. Caring motions, she watched the delicate attention Alistair gave as he laid Caoilainn on their bed before turning to face Fiona. He looks so much like his father. “It’s just Fiona now. And I did not heal your wife with the expectation of payment, your Majesty. Nor am I seeking amnesty in Ferelden. I merely did what was called of me. Now that you have made it to your room, I should go.”

The small elven woman’s stubborn posture stood strong in the doorway, shifting her stance to leave. It triggered an odd appreciation from Alistair; a unique feeling, one he couldn’t explain, like impressed irritation or annoyed endearment. “Wait,” he muttered, lifting a hand in her direction. Fiona stopped; the slight turn of her head allowed her to face Alistair.

His mouth formed a small grin. “I wasn’t finished. Say I can maneuver around the protocol of your banishment, can I call on you if I find myself in need of the advice of a former Grand Enchanter?”

Fiona’s views on the division of the Circle of Magi and the Chantry were strong, but in the wake of the Mage-Templar War Alistair was certain change would be imperative. Her perspective may aid in his decision making. Politics aside, he needed to show gratitude to the sad, stubborn woman.

She stared baffled before nodding. “Your Majesty.” She turned to leave again but looked back. “I’ll send for breakfast for yourself and the Queen on my way out.” The statement lingered along with her frame, still in the doorway. With a deep breath, she added, “you’re the king Ferelden needed. Your father would be proud.” The final words slipped before she could consider their consequence. She gave another nod and fled, observing the faint furrow of Alistair’s brow in her departure.

*******************

A messenger delivered two bowls of porridge and a pot of steeping tea to Alistair and Caoilainn’s room shortly after the former Grand Enchanter left. Sitting in absent contemplation, Alistair pondered Fiona’s last statement. ‘Your father would be proud.’ He had heard similar messages from other nobles who knew Maric, but the comment coming from an Orlesian Circle Mage was unexpected; it riled questions. How does she know my father would be proud?

But in his unwillingness to leave Caoilainn’s side, prevented him from seeking answers. After eating his small meal and drinking his tea, comfort won over curiosity. Alistair chose to lay next to Caoilainn and rest through the morning.

His head touched the pillow and her sleeping body naturally conformed to make room for his on the bed. He smiled at her unconscious movement. Without waking Caoilainn rolled on her side, inched near Alistair, and placed a hand on his chest. A sigh released, and her breathing resumed its languid pace.

Alistair realized he did not feel the buzz of the Grey Wardens bond. But even if the taint no longer coursed through his blood and his body had been freed from craving the connection to the collective, his predilection for this particular woman was sustained. Laying with her warmed his heart.

Did she ever lay like this with Howe?

The jealous thought diverted his loving reflection. Though the love that brought him across Ferelden to find her had endured through her infidelity, wary thoughts loomed. Old resentments resurfaced with the pressure of the cure seemingly lifted. Frustration with himself shrouded his disappointment in Caoilainn for the affair. I forgave her. He attempted to clear his mind and doze off. But she stirred, distracting his attention from insecure doubts. Alistair’s eyes focused with long blinks, he watched her do the same.

“Good morning,” he smiled, looking down his upper body to her. Caoilainn glanced up at him and with slow motions, she sat up to gaze around the room. Her equilibrium stable, the Queen seemed to have recovered her strength. While she reoriented herself with their location, Alistair continued. “Or afternoon probably. Somewhere in there. Are you feeling better?”

“What happened?” She asked, her hand rising to her forehead from the remnants of her headache.

Squinting to study her reactions, Alistair recapped their morning using his fingers to count the key points. Caoilainn’s wide, silvery eyes met his as he explained. “We got very wet. The sorceresses did the ritual. I can’t remember that part. Then we woke up, and you fell over.”

Caoilainn attempted to gather her own memories from the ritual. The water, Alistair joining her, then blackness. “I don’t remember waking up.” She lowered her hand from her forehead to her chest, something felt wrong. An enigmatic incompleteness ran through her. “Did the ritual work? How are you?”

“I think so. The ritual didn’t affect me like it did you. We still have to receive the final verdict on the cure.” Consistent monitoring prompted Alistair to rise from the bed. He neared her side before she stood to help in the event she fainted again. “Do you think you can stand?”

She made an affirming hum and stood from the bed. Muscles tight, she stretched to awaken a stiff body. In lengthening her frame, Caoilainn caught sight of the cooled porridge and tea. “Is that food?” Her gaze traveled to Alistair. “For me? I’m so hungry.”

“How hungry?” He blurted, inquiring with a worried tone. The slight furrow of his brow joined his frown as he waited for her answer, watching Caoilainn walk to the table.

Caoilainn shrugged, fixing her tea and weighing the meal’s ability to satisfy her hunger. “This is fine.” Realizing what she said, her eyes grew larger, and she faced Alistair. “No. Does that- Do you think? Is this-”

Unfinished questions trailed off. Alistair grinned and rolled his hand to hurry her. Exasperated and amused, he ordered, “eat and we’ll go find out!”

With a nod, Caoilainn took the bowl of porridge and the cup of tea back to the bed. Sitting cross -legged, she inquired more about his experience. Curious about the details of changes and loss of subtle reminders of the taint. Nodding along as he spoke, she ate her food scanning her own body for similar results and trying to ignore the simmering sadness beneath the excitement.

**********************************

The Warden camp bustled with activity from early morning through the afternoon. Frenzied voices of Senior Wardens queried the shift in bonded energy, the strange discomfort that woke them this morning.

‘Did you feel it?’ ‘What was that?’ ‘Has anyone seen the Warden Commander?’

Without answers to their anxious inquiries, Wardens sought answers from those in command. Nathaniel made his best efforts to calm the worried crowds though most were displeased by the lack of explanation. Absorbed in the shared panic, Junior Wardens asked for information none had to offer.

The shift in energy sparked dread, worry for their brethren. In death, the loss of a Warden created a small ripple in the collective as the energy filtered into the earth. Sacrifice, a possible consequence of a Warden’s commitments respected with sorrow by the rest of the army.

But this was different. A loss of catastrophic proportions and more permanent than death created a shockwave to the bond. Forces that existed in the connection long before any of the Warden army had been removed. The Wardens felt the impact without understanding the cause.

Nathaniel kept his suspicions of the catalyst to himself. Bombarded with questions from Wardens, he attempted to pacify worried minds, encouraging practice and training, assuring answers would come later.

“Lieutenant,” Isenam approached Nathaniel as he directed another to the training yard. With an exasperated sigh, Nate turned to face his elven colleague. Val and the twins stood behind Isenam, passing puzzled glances between them. “Do you have any answers on what happened? Will it threaten our safety?”

After another line of questions, Nathaniel released an exasperated sigh. Caoilainn’s brashness being a threat to the Wardens had not crossed his mind, but Isenam’s inquiry was valid. Will this weaken the bond? In the defeat of an Archdemon, impairment of the darkspawn’s hive-mind occurred in the aftermath. Could this be the same?

“I don’t know,” Nathaniel admitted, shaking his head. The knot in his stomach worsened with the imminence of his obligation to assume the role of Commander. “We must find out.”

Isenam’s mouth opened, prepared to ask another question, but a growing silence in the body of Wardens nearby stopped him. Through the activity of the morning, the sudden quiet amidst alarm called their attention. The group looked toward the source.

She had arrived, the Mother of Griffons. With a timid walk and Alistair at her side, she gazed around her, nearing the center of camp. Nathaniel noticed the curious fear and astonishment cast across her face. I guess it worked.

Eyes seeking the depth of the bond in the eyes of each of her Wardens found nothing. The gaping hole in her chest doubled in size with each step she took. Each terrified face she laid eyes on, staring back at her in dismay filled her with shame. Blood of my blood. Her heart longed for their connection, now nothing but a severed imprint. In her selfish desires, she had abandoned them. Tears pooled, swelling while she took slow steps toward the center of camp.

Confused murmurs echoed around her.

‘What happened?’

‘What does this mean?’

‘We can’t feel you in the bond.’

Alistair placed a supportive hand on Caoilainn’s back. At a loss for words, he gave his support through his touch. She closed her eyes and lowered her head. Regret taunted apprehensive excitement. Freedom from the order, the taint, and the opportunity to have a child now conflicted with the feelings stirred by the scared faces of her Wardens. I’ve got to do this, she reminded herself. Heart sinking and tears dispelled by blinks, she took a deep breath. With grieving gaze over her army, Caoilainn spoke.

“Blood of my blood,” she called, her voice trembling through the lie. This meeting confirmed Caoilainn and Alistair no longer shared blood with the Grey Wardens. She swallowed, stifling sobs with intermittent blinks before her gaze locked with Nathaniel’s. “I have been honored to rebuild this order with many of you by my side. The Ferelden Wardens are stronger now than they have been in hundreds of years. It is with a heavy heart I inform you of my resig-”

Heart hurting from the words she needed to deliver, and guilt multiplied by the frantic glances from her soldiers, Caoilainn stopped. Avoiding their eyes, she looked in the distance of bodies to quell rising emotions. “My resignation as your commander.” She gestured toward Nate him with a raised arm. “Lieutenant Howe is my replacement.”

Silence echoed her declaration. Shocked faces and shifting eyes preceded erupting whispers. Distraught Wardens voices rose, speaking their confusion, disputing the reason for this change and its definite association to the disruption they experienced. But no one approached her. Sorrowful glances joined those of distrust looking at Caoilainn like an outcast or traitor. Her sadness sank deeper, the gaping hole of incompleteness overpowered her thoughts.

“We should go, my love,” Alistair mumbled, empathetic for his wife’s grief. But he knew this was not the time or place to discuss their reactions. With the cure confirmed, her mourning the loss of the bond would not occur here.

Caoilainn gave an absent-minded nod. And with Alistair’s guidance, she turned and walked from the camp burdened by unease. What have I done?

[etaeternum]

Sunset

Fate of the Order

Chapter 12: Sunset

***

The lazy afternoon dragged. Questions swirled for Hale as soon as she left Nathaniel's side. As if his company soothed her inner conflict, the moment she found herself alone the commotion resumed. Anger with Alanna, and Hale’s frustration with her own enticement with the offer her cousin made drove the inward battle. Introspective inquiries piled with each distracted step she took to her tent, forcing the huntress to suspend her brash nature. What’s this with Nate, anyway? Is he why I’m still here? What happens when me and him are done? She found her quarters, immediately plopped onto her bedroll and leaned back. Skin still blotchy from crying, her hands covered her face, and she sighed.

The light from outside shined in as her tent flap opened. A questioning voice revealed the intruder. “What happened this morning, hun?” Damia’s hip cocked to one side; a hand positioned on the curve.

“It's nothing.” Hale's short reply came from behind her hands.

“You keep saying that like you think I'll believe you.” The rapid growth of the women’s friendship led them to understand each other’s habits. Nonverbal patterns, especially Hale’s quiet pouting was a telltale sign of her troubled mind. Damia sat next to Hale on her bedroll. “Come on, hun. Tell me... or we can romp if you'd rather.” Fingers hovered over Hale’s lean waist before lunging to tickle the huntress.

An uncontrollable laugh escaped Hale as she squirmed from Damia’s hands. Failing her attempt to frown, she chuckled. “Stop it!”  

Tickles ceased, but Damia stretched alongside her friend, ushering Hale to talk. “Come on then.” The older of the two, Damia often mentored the younger Warden.

Hale’s hands lowered from her face. She rolled on her side to face Damia and propped her head on her hand, but her eyes avoided Damia’s. She looked at a spot on the bedroll between them. “My cousin. Fucking Alanna. She wants me to stay here. . . and she made a damn good offer.”

A careful finger lifted Hale’s chin. Damia met Hale’s eyes. “So does that mean you’re considering?”

With a slow blink, Hale cursed, “bollocks, Damia.” She sighed, reconnecting their gaze. Hale’s free hand found Damia’s; fingers entwined, Hale stroked the inside of Damia’s palm with her thumb. “This is the closest thing I’ve ever felt to a family. I fucking love being with you and the scouts.”

“. . . And Lieutenant Howe,” Damia added, her hand breaking away from Hale’s grasp and petting the young huntresses head. A knowing smile tugged Damia’s lips.

Blushing, Hale held up a threatening finger between them, but her tone softened the gesture. “Shut it,” Hale giggled, “You know I ain't saying nothing about that.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” After another stroke of Hale's hair, Damia laced her fingers with the huntress’s again. Sincere, heartfelt, Damia's tone lowered. “Don't go, Lady Lavellan. Stay with us like you promised. Grey Wardens for life.” She gave her most charming smile.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Hale nodded. She's right. Truths lent to a conclusion: the oath she gave when she survived the Joining, feeling the taint coursing through her veins, commitments she upheld with more devotion than any she had in her life prior.

But Damia’s hand moving interrupted Hale’s ardent thoughts. Trained digits tickled tan skin, sneaking under the sleeves of Hale’s armor. Instinctive reflexes responded; Hale's eyes shot open, and she grabbed Damia's narrow wrist. A pleasing thought flooded her mind.

Her wrist’s felt slender when he did the same, interrupting her activity when she lost herself in sensation. Rough hands applied gentle pressure, bringing her attention back to him.

“Hey,” Hale coaxed, “nobody calls me Lady Lavellan.” She restated the title and name with a posh inflection. The twinkle in her eye revealed humor through her serious facade.

Damia snorted. Grin widened, her body tensing to prepare for a playful skirmish. Practiced archers, both women’s toned frames readied for combat at any moment. Excitement built, merging with libido. Games of pleasured wrestling could be stimulated from any state. Damia goaded Hale, prepared for the young Warden's hot-tempered reaction. “I’m pretty sure I just did….”

Wax dripped down the candle resting on the crate in his tent, like the beads of sweat running down his chest. She grinned, ready to pounce and go again.

Silence followed. Harsh eyes dared Damia. A wicked grin spread across the older Warden’s face; her lips parted, murmuring, “ Lady Lavell-”

The gibe was cut short as Damia gasped. With a swift launch from her propped arm, Hale toppled Damia onto the bedroll, pinning her wrists behind her. Triumphant, Hale’s chest puffed, boasting her victory over the Senior Warden. Smile unchanged, Damia chuckled from beneath Hale. Heart pounding with anticipation motivated the older Warden to show her fondness. She lifted her head off the blankets and placed a soft peck on the young Warden’s lips.

When he gave soft kisses; blissful contrast to the salt-and-pepper stubble scratching her face. The flurry in her belly floated up to her chest, increasing her appetite and craving for more.

Surprised by Damia's tenderness, Hale’s grasp released Damia’s wrists and she leaned her body forward to reciprocate affection through fervor. Hale abandoned modesty; her lips held Damia's in a deeper kiss. Yearning, always fervent, Hale pressed harder. Tongues collided, pouting lips provoked speed, punctuated by nasally breaths. With a moan, the older Warden’s hands found Hale’s head. Digits framed the points of Hale’s ears. Heads swiveled; locked mouths prolonged their passionate bond. Speed increased as they acclimated play to ardor.

As if a switch had been flipped, slow motions sped. Pressed lips parted, tongues twirling, hunger communicated passionate linguistics without words, longing for fulfillment. Captivated by the other, they reveled in each fervent moment of each kiss.

Hale’s urgent hands traveled between them, blindly unfastening straps on Damia’s armor; buckles found in familiar locations based on muscle memory alone. Damia did the same for Hale. Mirrored images, the women stopped in unison. Simultaneous breaths, shared grins, Hale pulled Damia’s gambeson from over her head. Actions flowed from one woman to the other; Damia helped Hale pull her armor off. Panting laughter escaped lips swollen from kissing. Bodies moved in sync with kisses.

She pushed him down on the bedroll. Legs straddled him, a favorite position, trapping his hard member against his body, preventing entry. Her palms found his, pinning him, lacing her lithe fingers with his large hands. He smiled, chuckling at her dominance though both knew he could overpower her. She laughed along, moving his hands where she wanted.

The gap between them filled with wandering palms. Seeking warmth, soft flesh beneath fabric, Hale’s hurried fingers crept beneath Damia's shirt, tucking under her breastband. A breathy moan released, separating them as Hale kneaded, pawing Damia's chest with divided vigor.

Her heat slid against him, teasing his pulsing erection with what awaited. She placed his hands on her chest, leaning so her breasts filled his wide grasp. Blushing, she gave a mischievous giggle, her sharp canine biting her lower lip. He rose to her chest, smirk spreading with a breathy chuckle.

The young Warden didn't skip a beat; lips searching for activity through her distraction found Damia's collarbone, then her neck. Hungry, devouring the older Warden's responses as rewards, Hale nibbled the lobe of Damia's ear. A giggling moan sounded from Damia, validating as Hale’s hand manipulated the tunic, bunching it up over Damia’s breasts, exposing her chest.

Hale’s eyes closed, her back curved as her eager mouth wandered, nudging the fabric of Damia’s clothes up with the bridge of her nose.

His unshaven chin nudged her smooth flesh, propping it up as his flat tongue rose to meet the darker skin of her firm nipple. She held her breath, watching him with intensity, waiting for his next move.

Hale purred, satisfied with the circumstances when she focused. Hot breath taunted the perky, pink flesh of Damia’s nipple. The Senior Warden groaned again, and a tempted laugh transitioned to a covetous whimper. A tongue teased sensitive skin with clever flicks. Nerves alight, cool air touched moisture, swelling the sensitive skin. A tingling traced up her spine.

A clever tongue lifted to meet tender tissue making her shriek. Shaking from laughter, she steadied by her hands on his shoulders so he could continue. Lip bitten, she nodded for more, eager for him to apply his array of techniques on her.

Rough-housing rarely evoked such heated affection. Hale applied slowed strategies of seduction distinct from the lively and rushed sparring the women often engaged. The setting sun made the tent grow darker.

Passion drove action. She tangled his hair around her lengthy digits, tightening her grip as he indulged. He growled, smirking, teeth closing on the sensitive bud; his curved hand pressing her round flesh. 

“I wonder who showed you how to do this,” Damia’s sultry whisper sounded, as she watched the huntress work.

The comment interrupted her thoughts of Nathaniel. Hale ignored Damia, certain her friend drew lines between her newfound technique and her alleged relationship with the Lieutenant. Unwilling to confirm, motivated by the heat building between her legs, Hale applied another learned tactic. Her hand found the other breast, steadying herself as she followed one talent with another. Teeth grazed taut, pink tissue. The action delayed, taunting Damia. She held her breath until Hale's teeth constricted and tugged.

She made a satisfied whimper, her body squirming as he tugged. He played with intensity, listening to her moans as he increased the taughtness of her tender skin and the pressure of his teeth. The thumb and middle finger of his other hand pinched her free and  hardened nipple. Hips naturally rolled forward, navigating him to enter.

“Maker!” Damia yelped, a hand traveling from Hale’s hips to her head, stroking umber hair.

As if she had been summoned by the cry, Hale's shadowed eyes opened and locked with Damia's. The huntress grinned without releasing, gratified by her friend’s ecstatic fidgeting though frustrated with the intrusion of her fantasy. Lips surround flesh, Hale created suction. Growling, she pulled the bundle of tissue into her mouth, palm pressing Damia's chest; skin tightened as Hale massaged contented handfuls of plump roundness.

Opposing dynamics of force heightened sensation. Damia gave another impressed groan, petting Hale’s hair as the huntress pursued; her insistent and vibrating mouth practicing this new method with her eyes closed and concentrated, returning to her recollections of Nathaniel.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Damia disrupted Hale’s method once again, calling out the distracted young Warden’s distance.

Hale halted. “Damia. . .” she gave a soft murmur, sighing.

Damia’s brow wrinkled before her smile returned. Taking advantage of Hale’s state of shock, she rolled her weight. Palm to shoulder, Damia toppled Hale from her position over to bring her flat on her back. Straddling the huntress, Damia grinned with pride. “Somebody’s smitten.”

Cheeks red, Hale blinked away bewilderment; she gave an embarrassed smile. “I’m not-”

Before she could finish her sentence, Gunnar’s moving voice yelled from outside. “Someone must’ve twisted Howe’s smalls!” Clanks of armor falling to the ground echoed his complaint to anyone sitting in the encampment willing to listen. “He came out of a meeting in the Commander's tent and started yelling training orders.”

Damia’s brow lifted, she questioned the huntress for information in a low voice. “Does he know what your cousin offered? We all know he fancies you.”

Rolling her eyes to curtail her blushing, Hale gave a silent nod. She tilted her head to the tent flap, suggesting they leave. Nervous curiosity of Nathaniel’s conversation with the Warden Commander caused a pit to grow in her stomach.

The women rose from the ground, pulling their shirts down to hide evidence of their tussle. Brushing down disheveled hair with their hands, the archers emerged from Hale’s tent.

Sitting fireside sharpening arrowheads, Isenam’s eyes narrowed as the women joined the scouts. His humorless glare traveled back to the pointed obsidian. He muttered in elvhen, “ahn vis isa haman emen’him eireth.” (Maybe his bed has gone cold.)

Most of the scouts didn’t hear him, the elegant speech drowned out by the sound of the crackling fire. But Hale heard. Chin jutted, her teeth ground as she glowered at Isenam.

An unexpected ally, Ashiwyn, the Dalish woman from the Brecilian Forest, spoke up. “Ahn vis ehn sul'ema iseth isa haman te’el telsilaun.” (“Maybe who warms his bed is not our concern.”) Sitting to her right, her twin, Saeris made a hum of agreement . The elven woman gave a supportive smile to Hale who nodded in thanks.

“Hello!” Gunnar waved his arms and called to the conversing elves. “We’re all still right here, you know.”

Saeris snickered and answered on their behalf. “Go on, Gunnar. You have all our ears. Whine away.” The rest of the group chuckled; Gunnar’s cheeks flushed bright red. He did not continue his complaints and instead, the group settled around the fire for the evening.

“You want some wine with that. . .whine?” Lisbeth grumbled as she reached into her pack and grabbed a bottle she confiscated from the tavern. She passed it around the circle to Gunnar who took it with a grumble of gratitude and uncorked it with his knife.

Torn between the temptation to stay for evening festivities and her concern for Nathaniel, Hale stood silent. Detecting Hale’s indecision, Damia nudged Hale with her hip. Her head tilted back, suggesting she go toward the Lieutenant’s tent. Grateful for her friend’s subtle advice, Hale signaled agreement with a dip of her head. A moment later, when the group seemed preoccupied with its new activity, Hale slipped from the circle around the campfire to find the Lieutenant.

***

Pink and orange coalesced, bright colors radiating the evening sky as the sun set. The trainees dwindled as the daylight waned, leaving with complaints, griping about the rigorous exercise Nathaniel had ordered. Nathaniel found himself alone in the training yard as the other Wardens dispersed to find meals and rest. He walked toward his tent.

Frustration with pending responsibilities lingered, resting on his chest, tight like a bowstring. It made an effective diversion from the looming weight of deeper turmoil. Taking on the role of Warden Commander, something he once thought of favorably in passing, now imminent and daunting. Caoilainn, the Mother of Griffons, she who resurrected the order from near extinction, held a substantial reputation for him to uphold. And like her, Nathaniel would be without guidance for how to assume the role due to Caoilainn’s ambitious pursuit of leaving the Wardens.

Overdue animosity between Nathaniel and Alistair erupted before the battle at the Arbor Wilds. In addition to bad blood between them, the King’s minimal experience as a Warden, working with Weisshaupt, and commanding an army without the aid of a surplus of advisors led Nathaniel to believe contacting him would be unwise. Beneath the minutiae of the obligation, the underlying fears surfaced. Am I worthy of this position? Can I live up to Caoilainn?

Caoilainn’s intractable nature, bull-headed and unwilling to bend to anyone’s whims but her own infuriated him. The ease at which she abandoned her role, one for which she devoted countless hours of time and energy, unnerved him. Damn it. He shook his head as he walked, recognizing deeper sadness beneath the agitation. She’s casting me aside. Despite layers of inappropriate dynamics for their relationship- her as his commander, the married Queen of Ferelden, younger sister of his childhood friend, and one of two survivors of the treachery of his father- Nathaniel and Caoilainn formed an odd friendship; coworkers with a long history who also engaged in casual sexual encounters, maintained by commitment to rules and mutual regard. Though he didn’t understand what drew her back to Alistair, Nathaniel would have heeded her decision. But he wasn’t given a chance; it was too late. Alistair’s requirements for no communication forced her to leave their friendship completely.

Under his initial anger with Caoilainn for complying with Alistair’s stipulation, disturbed by the effortlessness of her actions and disgusted with the King’s exploitation of power to control his wife, Nathaniel comprehended Alistair’s need for security. It doesn’t make it right. Alistair's requirement diminished the duty of Warden Commander and strengthened Nathaniel’s enmity toward the King.  But surprising to himself, and though the hated to admit it, Nate found broken understanding for the allure of monogamy- something he had never grasped until this point. Huntress. With a defeated sigh, he entered his tent.

Quiet, eschewing the changes ahead, he took off his boots and lowered to his bedroll. Stretching out, he covered his face with his hands and sighed.

“It’s ‘cause you’re gonna be Commander soon, innit?” Hale’s worried lilt came from the entryway. She concluded the reason for his exhaustion, the tired lines wrinkling his face. Nathaniel raised on his forearms to greet her. Her body stretched a long shadow across the tent as the last of the day’s light diminished.  

“Among other things,” Nathaniel grumbled though his lips couldn’t resist a fatigued smirk for the huntress. He lay back down and stared at the roof of his tent.

Wordless, Hale took determined steps to Nate, pulling off her boots on the way. She noticed herself respecting his space, converse to times when she walked on his bedroll with her boots on, apathetic to any mess she made. She made more effort to keep her items in some semblance of order when she stayed in his tent. Her own willingness to comply amused her as she sat beside him. Her legs stretched a fraction of the distance of his elongated body.

“Well,” she offered with a shrug, improvising how she could help him based on how he helped her that morning. Her fiery personality remained subdued from the meaningful morning they shared. “I’m here. We don’t have to talk ‘bout shite if you don’t wanna.” Hale’s tenuous timbre betrayed her insecurity, unsure if she could aid him with her company alone, but too stubborn to say nothing.

Calloused fingers spread wide, Nathaniel’s hand extended to Hale’s back. Circular motions desired to allay her fear and soothe his own through contact. Hale’s body eased, shoulders rounding to allow more range for his open-handed massage.

Appreciating her response, the huntress’s enjoyment of his touch improved his mood. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, grinning.

Her head made a casual roll to face him. Forehead bowed, her eyes wandered up to stare with humored doubt. She attempted to copy his gruff tone and accent. “You don’t have to lie either.” A toothy smile spread on her face and she moved away from his hand to lie next to him. She continued to quote him from earlier, “tell me what you need.”

“Clever,” he chuckled as his arm moved to allow her beneath it; Hale’s chin nestled on Nate’s chest. He weighed the option of telling her his troubles if at all and how much. Would it help? Would it cause harm? Without clear answers, he replied with facts. “I have little choice in several obligations.”

“So do you wanna talk about it or something?” She asked, remembering what options he afforded her that morning. Her tone was curious, but she withheld from urging explanation, more from the uncertainty of her ability to help than patience.

“Not really,” he smirked as he declined, faces barely visible in the dark tent, illuminated only by distant firelight. The lighthearted answer prevented disconnection, continuing to welcome rather than reject her warmth. “At this point, I want to sleep.”

Hale hummed harmony with his wish. With unspoken consonance, both removed their outer layers of armor and returned to Nate’s bedroll. They shared the tight space, tucked under blankets, in a similar position. Hale’s head and upper body rested on Nate’s chest, his arm wrapped around her back.

Hale yawned and snuggled closer, sprawling a leg over his and shimmying into the ideal position. A passing inquiry of the status quo came to mind. “What happens to us when you become Commander?” She wondered to herself in retrospect, whatever the fuck ‘us’ is, anyway.

Brow creased, he reflected. I hadn’t thought of that. Nate realized his distrait demeanor had not considered this factor, having been preoccupied with other worries. And once again, he did not have clarity to provide. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

Appeased by this response, Hale allowed her mind to settle. She relished the warmth and comfort of Nathaniel’s body after the eventful day and noted he provided it without contingency. Cuddling, a unique aspect of their meetings, she assumed a perk of sleeping with the Lieutenant now came without prerequisite. Guess we don't always have to plough, she minimized the encounter. The pleasing buzz of the Grey Warden bond, now purring stronger than ever, sated the stimulus to speculate the occurrence.

Slumber quickly found the tired couple.

 ***

9:37 Dragon- Vigil's Keep

"Wait. What happened?" Caoilainn laughed before biting from her bread-roll and drinking from her tankard. Relaxed for the evening, the Warden Commander joined her comrades. Hungry Wardens filled the dining hall, wolfing down food and drink before returning for seconds. Sounds of livelihood, laughter, dishes and mugs clanking forced her and Nathaniel to talk louder about mission he took in the Free Marches.

"We were scouting a Deep Roads entrance in the Marches that had been closed off years ago," Lieutenant Howe explained, shaking his head, still in disbelief. Sitting across from Caoilainn, his plate of food barely eaten, he grinned. "The locals reported strange activity, bones around the entrance, and noises every time someone neared, but no deaths or sightings."

"All right. I'm listening," she chuckled, still confused about the details. She took another swig of ale and waited.

"It was a group of kids. They stole bones from the butcher's and spread them around the cave. Then those little thieves snagged wine from the tavern and took it back to their appropriated cavern to get drunk. Each time a villager neared, they started snorting and hollering like animals so the town thought they were darkspawn." Nathaniel smirked as he elaborated; he took a bite of seasoned chicken.

"Maker," Caoilainn laughed again, her palm rising to her forehead, elbow resting on the table. A reminiscent thought of Nate’s friendship with her brother came to mind. "You know, that sounds just like something you and Fergus would've done."

"You mean did do," Nathaniel informed after he swallowed his food. He took a drink and continued.  "You were at one of your mother's tea parties. We managed to roll a whole keg of ale out of the cellar. We spent the whole day trying to drink it all." Beaming with pride, he boasted his and Fergus’s accomplishment.

"I think I remember that." Caoilainn recalled, brow furrowing, humor faded. "You both stumbled into the banquet hall when it was time for you to leave. Fergus nearly fell over before he retched into an urn. I thought your father was going to kill you."

Frowning, Nate's amusement with the nostalgic memory was lost to the reality of his father's violent temperament. "I did too. It was yet another mark on my record,” he disclosed. His eyes studied his hands, at a loss for a way to change the subject.

Aware the girl from his childhood knew of his father’s character, prone to lying and manipulation for the sake of personal gain, Nate presumed she had also deducted Rendon’s tendency to inflict pain on his children. Caoilainn seemed to recognize his eagerness to find a new topic. "So what did you do with those kids in the Marches? They could've been attacked by wild animals."

Gratitude for her empathy, he smiled and leaned back in his chair, taking advantage of the way out of bad memories. "We scared them out. A bunch of Grey Wardens rushing in with weapons was enough. I doubt they'll be doing that again.”

Tankard finished, Caoilainn sat it down and rose from her seat. Still entertained by his story, she inquired further, but her body language communicated her readiness to retire for the night. “So what did you tell the townsfolk?”

Plate only half finished, Nathaniel shirked his shoulders. “We said we took care of it; claimed the leftover wine as a reward.”

With a roll of her eyes, Caoilainn shook her head and snorted. “Good job, Nate.” She patted him on the back. “I'll see you tomorrow, Lieutenant.”

***

With a sharp intake of breath, Nathaniel’s eyes shot open; panting, he sat upright. The huntress beside him gave a sleepy groan without rising. New to the Grey Warden bond, the Junior Warden did not suffer the same sensitivities to its fluctuations.

Long before dawn, the pitch-black tent gave no indication of the disturbance that woke him. Discomfort, not quite pain, spread from his heart. Nate’s hand touched his chest for the source of inner tumult. The circulating taint perceived significant loss, a permanent absence from the Grey Warden’s collective energy. Caoilainn.

[etaeternum]

For some reason Tumblr decided to flag and remove the reblogged post of this art to this page, even after they've already approved the original post.

I care enough about my MoG art collection to want it complete.

Artwork © Riku-Noiro 

More art! Another rendition of Hale and Nathaniel! I can’t get enough of these two.  

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Maker help me. @xla-hainex is a goddess. Please, commission this artist so that we can all have wonderful art like this. LOOK AT KING ALISTAIR! LOOK AT HIM! omg. He and Queen Caoilainn Theirin are going to have fun storming the castle when they get back to Denerim! Mother of Griffons and Bond of the Grey

[etaeternum]

The Ritual

Bond of the Grey

Chapter 11

Writer’s note: This entire fic is done and I’m actually working on the third in the series. I’m posting the chapters here to help motivate me. I’m really stuck in my writing in the third fic atm. Please, please, if you are following along, please let me know!

*****************************

Long before dawn, they woke to banging on their door. Philippa called from the other side of the entry, rushing them to follow her. Silent, the royal couple rose and dressed in darkness.  His grogginess aside, Alistair noticed Caoilainn's furrowed brow in dim lighting, stern concentration laced with worry.  Filled with genuine concern, but unable to think clearly enough to find a witty way to ask, his question sang through a loud yawn, “What’s wrong?”

Silence followed. She pondered his question with delayed reaction. “Can I be honest with you?”

“I should hope so," Alistair chuckled. Knowing eyes studied what few of her anxious features he could discern in the darkness. His sleepy humor faded to trepidation. The question stirred suspicion, discomfort with what he presumed to be her lack of honesty so far. “That is one of our rules, Caoilainn. What’s going on?”

She took a deep inhale and waited, navigating the room with tempered steps as she sat on their bed to put on her boots. “I sent my letter to Weisshaupt yesterday, Alistair. I resigned."

"Wow." His surprised response came as he stood near the door, waiting for her to finish. "That was fast." Alistair withheld further reaction, troubled by his suspicion her confession meant she had a change of heart.

"Even if the cure doesn't work, I promised." She assured him, rising from the bed and taking steps toward him. Her hands pressed to his chest as her body came closer. An earnest gaze met his apprehensive stare. "The Inquisition doesn't need the Wardens anymore. I said I would come home."

"Caoilainn," he sighed. Hands placed on her hips, he made space between them.

"I want to," Caoilainn soothed, standing strong in spite of his distance. "Nathaniel will take my place. . .he’s not happy with the circumstances.” An even tone, the information delivered came as a report. The slightest hints of unease seeped through undertones.

“Of course he’s not.” Alistair scowled and rolled his eyes. The nauseated feeling in Alistair's stomach came with even the mention of her lieutenant's name.  A snarky grin curved his lips as he replied. “He can’t find a backhanded way to get what he wants.”

“Alistair," she pled, heartfelt and loving.  Caoilainn’s professionalism faltered. The worried wrinkle of her brow and an apologetic frown joined her request. “I'm sorry for everything, I want to prove it to you. But please be civil with him.”

“I make no promises." His grimace deepened. Alistair did not hide his distrust and loathing. “If he’s civil with me, I will return the favor.”

A man of his word, Caoilainn recognized Alistair's sincerity. Aware of the need to cut her losses, she accepted this justifiable response would be the best she would get from him. She nodded agreement of his terms. "Have you decided if you'll join me?"

They both knew what she meant. The ritual they woke for; the reason they dressed in darkness before dawn.  The reason Caoilainn came to Skyhold in the first place, coming to a head.

Before he could answer, another knock came at the door. "My dears! There is no time to dilly dally. The witching hour is upon us and we must begin."

**************************************************

Philippa’s nagging instigated Alistair’s bad mood; sleepy-eyed and begrudging, he joined Caoilann on her journey across the foggy Skyhold grounds. Vacant of stars, blocked by heavy clouds, the pitch-black sky shadowed their path. Swallowed by darkness, the light emitting from Philippa’s lantern offered only enough guidance for a few steps in front of them.

They reached a hidden door flush with the earth opened to a stairwell, leading down to the altar. Her palms became moist and the nervous flutter of Caoilainn's heart increased. The building anticipation as they entered the cave reminded her of the Joining; the fear she felt approaching the blood-filled chalice.

The rumbling of the ground lacked rhythm. Impossible to predict, long groans of thunder on the earth resonated through the cave. The hum of steady rain fell, muffled by the thick layer of dirt and rock between the shrine and the land above.

Air damp, heavy with mold, the watery altar rested deep within the cavernous hideaway. The sanctum of the elven ruins did not compensate for Alistair’s displeasure. Water dripped from an unknown source. Constant, reliable, every few seconds in pairs.  Drip, drip.  Grating, it made for a periodic reminder of his distrust of the entire operation.

But her faith instilled hope. Caoilainn had asked him to join her before they went to bed, knowing the ritual would occur today. But declined agreement did not equate refusal. Alistair gave a noncommittal “we’ll see.” Alistair’s certainty he wanted to bear witness propelled him. To give support as her partner and because he was curious; will this work? The cure she sought for so long now a potential reality. Intrigued by possibilities, he joined his tenacious wife in her journey, independent of his participation.

Alistair watched from the wall, observant and watchful, but out of the way. Every step of this process, from the moment the sorceresses took her from his side forced his heart rate to excel. She grew further away, and his apprehension intensified.

Light linen fabric draped from long limbs, clinging to curves. The sorceresses had Caoilainn strip of all attire, including smallclothes and wear the linen gown. He watched them undress her, the powerful mages starting the ceremony by surrounding his queen. Grateful eyes overflowing with concern glimpsed his wife through the movement around her. She’s nervous. Caoilainn’s gaze darted, questioning; her brows creased. The notorious placement of her thumb between her teeth gave away her uncertainty.

But the women didn't stop because of it; they led Caoilainn to the shrine. Veilfire burned, quiet and unobtrusive, occasional grumbles of thunder vibrated the dancing light of the torches. Her feet bare against stones took light steps into the water, and the sorceresses released their hands as she paced further in. Water came to her thighs, the bottom of her gown soaked.

“Lay down, my dear,” Philippa ordered, a light motion with her palm invited Caoilainn to relax in the setting. “You’ll float.”

“More than usual,” Fiona added, her finger lifting as she offered the fact. “The water is cleansed of any impurities.”

Cleansed. The word lingered for Caoilainn. Cool water seeped up linen, water purified of what made it unclean. She lowered in the water, leaning back and letting go. Buoyant upon the watery bed, Caoilainn waited. The liquid crept up the fabric, holding to her frame and edifying her fears. Deliberate breaths eased a fluttering heart; she shivered.

Alistair’s sleepy eyes found curious determination while they followed Caoilainn’s motions. Her steps into the altar, reclining alone in the pool. He studied the sorceress' actions. Morrigan grabbed a bottle from a nearby table and met Caoilainn's gaze. The witch had no preliminary actions for this ritual; ready to begin she started. Sweat beaded on his brow as he watched, his foot tapped with impatience.

Morrigan glared at him until he stopped, then looked back to Caoilainn. “This may not be pleasant,” The mage informed her friend as she glanced to the bottle Morrigan held in delicate fingers. The statement posed a question, an offer for Caoilainn to reconsider.

“Don’t tell me the details.” Eyes closed, prepared to accept whatever difficulty or pain could arise from the ritual, Caoilainn inhaled and clenched her fists. “I’ll do whatever I need to.”

Damn it.  Alistair shook his head, waking himself with realizing his wife's bravery and his need to join her. I can’t let her do this alone. “All right!” Alistair stepped forward, interrupting the women’s conversation, and taking off a boot as he walked. “All right, fine. Count me in.” He pulled off his other boot and glanced to Morrigan. “Do I get a fancy gown too?”

Despite his disdain for magic, he saw another journey for them as a couple.

Unamused, Morrigan gave a dead stare, and a delayed response. She grabbed another folded piece of fabric and tossed it to him. “Here. But hurry.” Alistair went to pull off his tunic in response to her order, but Morrigan’s scoffing stopped him. She turned around to face the other direction. Fiona shielded her eyes and Philippa scanned him changing with piqued interest.

Suspicious but amused of the activity that occurred outside of her field of view, Caoilainn grinned. And a moment later, Alistair stepped into the pool. Less graceful than when she descended, water splashed and rippled as he reclined next to her.

With a sideways glance, he gave a tired grin. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun without me.”

Caoilainn laced her fingers with his in response. Her eyes locked on the rocky ceiling, lips pulled in a weak smile. His presence eased the anxious twisting of her stomach. "Thank you," she murmured gratitude.

Morrigan returned to her place by the altar, leaning over to view the royal couple awaiting the next phase of this baptism. “Are you ready?” The slightest annoyance coated her tone.

Silence followed, Caoilainn did not respond. Alistair detected her held breath and whispered, "cold feet?"

She blinked and held her objectless stare above her. She squeezed Alistair's hand tighter. "Alistair, what am I if not a Warden?"

Alistair gave a knowing hum. Understanding her internal struggle, she asked the question he came to terms with soon after leaving the order, and worse when she left. Disconnection from the Grey Warden bond obligated him to learn to leave behind his affiliations. His sleepy haze fading, he gave her support. "That's for you to decide, my love. What do you want to be?"

She tucked her chin giving a subtle nod and a light hum. "I want to be by your side." A crystalline gaze peered up to the sorceress, a tired smile curved her lips. “I'm ready.”  To leave the Wardens. Her eyes watered, hot tears pooling did not lessen her certainty. Weight lifted from her chest. The squeeze of Alistair’s hand preceded her question. “Are you ready, my King?”

"As I'll ever be," he yawned again, noticing the prominent and speedy beating of his heart. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Indifferent to their sentimentality, Morrigan closed her eyes. Pulling magical energy from the Fade, she tilted the bottle in her hand between Caoilainn and Alistair's heads. Putrid, steaming liquid flowed from the glass container into the clear water. Sinking, the potion spread as black tendrils maintained unique forms. Diffusing outward, the foul potion crept throughout the water. From their heads down to their feet, it surrounded the bodies of the couple. Fingers of potion reached, searching, grabbing their bodies.

Eyes clenched, Caoilainn gasped and Alistair made an uncomfortable groan. The potion found them, wrapping around their frames, invading their pores. Penetrating layers of cells and assaulting their bloodstreams, the potion connected with the taint. A shock, both Alistair and Caoilainn seized, frozen, writhing in pain.

"Oh," Fiona murmured stepping toward the shrine. Concern for her son, for his well-being and that of his wife's prompted her to interrupt; to stop Morrigan from continuing the ritual that may hurt them. But Philippa touched her shoulder. A simple shake of her head suggested Fiona stand down.

Pitch-black as the night sky, the depth of the water in which Caoilainn and Alistair floated appeared unfathomable. Rank and bubbling, the sorceresses had to cover their mouths to keep from breathing in the potent fumes. Writhing slowed, but scrunched faces and held breath showed their aching. Skin paled from exhaustion, depleted and contrasting with the bright blue of their veins, throbbing as the potion worked.

Morrigan's watchful eye and set tone followed these patterns with knowing expectation. She added a drop of red amidst the darkness. Blood of the Old Gods and dragons melded. Aggressive, fast, the red clouded, and shot through the fetid liquid to the King and Queen, Summoning the taint from within them. Red water divided black, opposing as unique consistencies. Swirling and moving, a shape formed from the blackness, running from the red. The ugly head, talons, and wings with details of scales defined by squalid fluids formed a snarling black dragon, sized proportionate to the shrine.

It emerged from the pool, dripping slick, greasy black onto the unconscious Caoilainn and Alistair, bodies limp, appearing lifeless. But the crimson fluid, potent and proud, clung to the monster, dragging it back into the depths of the pool. Screaming, the viscous dragon writhed with angry convulsions, splashing to fight back. The beast tried to escape the sticky scarlet fluid, pulling from the liquid's clutches with all its efforts.

The redness did not release, strangling and suffocating the evil creature. Strength and might overpowered the tainted projection, drawing it into the pool of red liquid between Caoilainn and Alistair. The dragon fell to the blood of Theirin. Crimson blanketed outstretched wings, enveloping the beast, up to its neck. A final cry, a last plea of tainted willpower shook the room as the head of the black dragon submerged in red.

The royal couple remained unmoving, shallow breaths the only sign of life. Pale forms floated in the aftermath, linens drenched with red. The thick fluid abated, ripples stilled. Darkness fell to life.

"Now," Philippa nudged Fiona, urging her forward.

With a solemn nod, the elven sorceress stepped forward. Pulling magic, her hands charged with energy as she knelt by the water's edge. Worried for the couple, disconcerted by their motionlessness, she channeled love. Affection and caring, something she would have otherwise withheld now given purpose. Her hands lay on the top of the water, healing energy released through the flow of magic.

She spoke the incantation. Elven words, the old tongue summoning magical power from the Fade.

  "My elvar'linast'vir banalla in ma,

  mala mar dun him elvyrlinor relinem

  ma Jurosa su.

  Ladaral, tua'sal, tara tor elvyrlinor alas'en.

  Gaelathe i reast, ma ju ha'lam."

  ("In the wake of the battle of demons within you,

  when your body is weak and depleted,

  you will rise above.

  Healing, recovered, lifted from the tainted realm.

  Pure and clean, you will start anew.")

[etaeternum]

Hale. Fox. The Huntress. Hale'Harel. Hale Lavellan. Art by the phenomenal @xla-hainex who is absolutely too good for this world. This is the fourth piece I’ve gotten from this artist. I can’t recommend her enough. New chapters!! Sequel to Mother of Griffons. Bond of the Grey. Chapter 8: Fathers and Sons AO3 FanFiction.net Chapter 9: Tempest AO3 FanFiction.net

[etaeternum]

Sweet Andraste! Look at this SILVER FOX STUD MUFFIN Nathaniel Howe! I’ve been hoarding art by the wonderful @xla-hainex (Commission this artist!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)  and I’m finally going to post it all, starting with this awesomeness.

Nathaniel and the lovely Hale are passing smirks. Check out this couple in Mother of Griffons and Bond of the Grey (also on FF.net).

[etaeternum]

Absolution

Bond of the Grey

Chapter 10: Absolution

The sorceresses meet to discuss the ceremony. Nathaniel confronts Caoilainn.

An odd trio of magical power, Morrigan convened with Philippa- a Senior Warden and experienced mage, and Fiona, the former Grand Enchanter. Morrigan did not try to hide her aversion to Circle mages, applying assumed authority as the leader of their crusade to heal Alistair and Caoilainn of the taint.

“Blightcap,” Morrigan ordered, her impatient gaze traveling toward Philippa. Dusty bottles littered the surface of the table where Morrigan stood; each time she moved a bottle, an imprint of the round glass remained in the thick coating of dust. An underground sanctuary found beneath the Skyhold gardens allowed the sorceresses to prepare the ritual for Caoilainn and Alistair.

“You can’t add deep mushrooms to a corrupter agent! You’ll kill them.” Philippa guffawed, looking up from her chest of supplies with an offended frown.

“Are you going to tell us your plan, Morrigan?” Fiona stood across from Philippa, aiding the Warden mage with the herbs she separated. The former Grand Enchanter’s uneasiness showed through passing glances from the other two sorceresses.

“And please, witch of the wilds, do tell us how one such as yourself came across this elaborate ritual despite your… rural upbringing.” Philippa held the deep mushroom she located, eyes narrowing in a critical stare at Morrigan.

Morrigan’s brow twitched; her subtle glare pierced the mage with hostility. “‘Tis inconsequential, my plan.” She informed, shaking her arm to rush the delivery of the ingredient she demanded. “What matters is it will work. I doubt the Circle has loosened your leashes enough to comprehend the magic’s nature, anyway.”

A light shift on her feet preceded Fiona’s interruption to their derision. Though she was the only active participant in the Circle of Magi, she proved to be the mediator between the cantankerous women.

“The ingredients of this ritual seem quite caustic.” Learning of the red lyrium trapped within the Warden Commander disturbed Fiona. Though the effects of the blunder accelerated the Calling for Caoilainn, Alistair was Fiona’s concern. If harm met Caoilainn, he would suffer. In the hopes to help him, she attempted to set aside her fears surrounding the risks of mage corruption in the use of powerful magic. "Are you certain of your power to withstand the lure of demons, Morrigan? You can guarantee all of our safety?"

“This ritual is not self-serving and I have resisted much stronger forces than demons in the Fade," Morrigan said, brushing aside Fiona's worry.

“Yes, Morrigan. Lest we not forget, my ceremony must weave with your arcane, backwoods ritual.  I cannot abide by danger presented to Caoilainn or the King,” Philippa declared before Morrigan could answer, romanticizing the royal couple’s relationship. Her tone suggested she cared more for the well-being of Caoilainn and Alistair than the Witch of the Wilds.

“And I do not abide fools. If you are afraid of my magic, go play healer to the sick and wounded elsewhere. Leave me to my work.” The level of her voice rose with her brusque answer.  

Contempt grew from mercurial dispositions catalyzed by care for Caoilainn. Philippa and Morrigan’s worry resounded in their bitter griping.

Fiona became the mediator to propel the preparation, communicating between the other two women as the voice of reason. “Please, Morrigan. We cannot be kept in the dark and confidently channel magic.”

The annoyed clink of glass against the wood table reverberated as Morrigan walked to the other two mages. A hand extended, reaching to pluck the deep mushroom from Philippa’s fingers. Resistant, Philippa’s arm moved from Morrigan, keeping the fungus out of her grasp. "Just as this Blightcap has tainted elements so do our Wardens. And just as dwarves clean the tainted elements from their food, so too must the taint in the King and Queen be cleansed. It will require far greater measures, however. Please tell me if this is beyond what your little Circle trained minds can follow.”

“You must explain more.” The Warden mage’s eyes narrowed. Her guarded posture patronized the Witch of the Wild’s vague reply. “My education on corrupter agents and deep mushrooms did not include taint expulsion. There were no courses on wildling magic. I did, however, learn enough from my text to purge the red lyrium from Caoilainn’s body.”

“The honesty of your inferior education is at least refreshing.” An arch of her brow, Morrigan’s smirk condescended. Philippa’s scowl did not prevent her from listening to Morrigan’s explanation. “‘Tis a poison for a poison, essentially. The potion I am making will overwhelm the taint. The taint’s leeching elements, a facet of the symbiotic function of the disease, will feed off the potion. The disease will be unaware of ingredients that will neutralize it. For reasons I do not wish to disclose, my son’s blood is unique. When added to the potion, it will lure the taint from their blood, nullifying the sickness as the taint absorbs the potion. The red lyrium will be loosened, its power minimized, but the potion will not remove it.”

Whispers from the Well of Sorrows spoke of the taming power of Kieran’s blood. The essence of the Old Gods entwined with another ordained bloodline. Alistair's heredity of House Theirin contained powerful elements. Dragon blood, a vigorous counterbalance to the parasitic aspects of the taint, binding the two through Kieran and creating the final ingredient to the complicated potion.

The subtle nod of Philippa’s head suggested she understood the logic of Morrigan's ritual. But squinting eyes hinted at wariness of the origin of the qualities of Kieran’s blood. She handed over the Blightcap. “Somehow I am not surprised an apostate would have exceeding knowledge of a covert blood magic potion that manipulates its target.” She did not wait for Morrigan’s retort before asking another question. “When will the ceremony for Caoilainn take place?”

“Before I give the recovery antidote,” Morrigan answered as she took the mushroom back to the table, severed it with a sharp knife, and placed the pieces in a concoction of other liquids. The low screech of a toxic reaction sizzled as the liquids devoured the artifacts of the mushroom. “This process will deplete Alistair and Caoilainn. Their bodies have incorporated the taint; ‘tis how they lived through the Joining. You'll have a brief opportunity to perform your ceremony before they must be healed. You’ll know when it’s time.”

Glancing around the room, Philippa’s eyes measured the space, determining the steps needed for her ceremony. “My plan is much simpler. With far less room for error, mind you.” She turned to Fiona. The two women had met and discussed the steps to the ceremony prior to meeting with Morrigan. A few final aspects remained to be resolved. “As you were the one to heal Caoilainn, you will need to speak the incantation, dear and I will strengthen your spell.”

In their previous discussion, Philippa explained the incantation that would summon the red lyrium from Caoilainn’s body. Upon learning of the Warden Commander's status and the need for the ceremony, the former Grand Enchanter agreed for the sake of Alistair. When Caoilainn’s death seemed imminent, the heartbreak Fiona saw in her vision of Alistair rattled her conscience. Though she abandoned any opportunity to make amends with the King, setting aside her mistakes with the Tevinter Magister and the damage it caused to Redcliffe, Fiona’s participation in healing Caoilainn assured his happiness. It was the only reasonable aspiration she could have for her son.

Fiona gave silent agreement, nodding to Philippa in response.

The Witch of the Wilds waved her hand over the small pot that contained her ingredients. Low screeching ceased, and the steaming potion simmered, wisps of smoke wandered up, entwining in unique forms. Morrigan’s satisfied smirk suggested she was pleased with the results. She returned to cutting up herbs while speaking over her shoulder to Fiona and Philippa.

“Her holiness, Grand Enchanter,” Morrigan started, addressing Fiona with a wave of her hand.

“Former,” Fiona corrected, her finger lifting to interrupt. The small elven woman stood strong, contradicting her previous timidity. “Former Grand Enchanter, thank you.” Absent of a comeback or gibe at Morrigan, the firmness in Fiona’s statement could not be denied.

Morrigan’s lips pulled down, impressed by the small woman’s attitude. Her knife divided remnants of the plants she dissected. “ Former Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Morrigan edited her previous statement. “I will need you to cleanse the shallow bath before I diffuse the potion.”

Within the cavernous sanctuary, beyond where the women stood concocting potions and completing their tasks, a pool of water lay. Engraved stones adorned with elven runes, relics to the history of the stronghold above, contained the shallow altar. Veilfire burned at torches resting in stone columns, pillars reaching up from the watery shrine to the rocky ceiling overhead. Moving shadows murmured secrets of the magic illuminating the reliquary.

Fiona nodded again, this time to Morrigan. An impatient woman, Morrigan’s use of time a high priority, she continued leading the meeting. Listing the next item on her list of things to complete prior to the ritual. Her hands still active at the table with the contents to her recipes.

“Warden, for the antidote I will need embrium.” Without facing her, the Witch of the Wilds addressed the mage whose bountiful collection of ingredients seemed to have no end.

Philippa grinned and reached into the chest in front of her to locate the herb Morrigan demanded. She pulled it from the depths of the wooden container and held it out, forcing Morrigan to turn around to face Philippa. “Ah, embrium. A wonderful healing herb, particularly for regenerative purposes. I’ve heard it’s great for getting out stains. Tell me, Morrigan, is that true?”

Knife in hand, Morrigan made a poignant turn. Glaring, she took the few steps between them and snatched the plant from Philippa’s clutches. Both women’s eyes glanced at the knife. “I’d be more than obliged to find out.”

Fearful, breath held, Philippa froze as Morrigan's blade descended toward Philippa's palm, causing the Warden to retract. Philippa stepped away, pulling her hand in close to her body; she sneered at Morrigan. The subtle curve of the Witch of the Wild's lips showed amusement with the mage's fleeting dread.  

Fiona cleared her throat and spoke up. “When will this ritual take place?” The question to Morrigan interrupted her taunting. Morrigan glanced back to Philippa once more before shrugging and returning to the table.

“The potions will be done by the evening, but the hour before daylight is most auspicious,” Morrigan replied, slicing the embrium and placing it in a separate pot with another combination of items. The liquid swirled, calmed by the addition rather than agitated. “One of you will fetch the couple at the appropriate time.”

  "Fuck’s sake, Nate. I wanna be near you.”

The confession punctuated Hale’s tangent of her dilemma. To stay with the Wardens or leave.

Shit.  Emotions conflicted, the tugging feeling in Nate’s chest opposed the buzz of warnings running through his mind.  Duty over… whatever this is. But her words resonated; he felt the same. Raw and unrefined, the desire to be near Hale put simple words to a complex reaction. Despite all the time he spent pondering his attraction to the young woman, and the reverse, he found no answer. Yet the pull was consistent.

And in spite of the internal warnings, he neared her. Closing the space between them to Nathaniel’s surprise, his movement came naturally. Without words, his arms encased the young huntress. Nothing but sheer trust and vulnerability allowed her to find comfort. Her shoulders relaxed; her body eased in his arms and she rested her cheek against him.

The hostile young woman who had thus far shielded herself with a crass tongue and more blatant forms of rebellion now showed him fragility. Empathy and concern brought his head to rest on top of hers. Standing together as the mountain air breezed around them in their embrace.

The morning with Hale mellowed. She gathered herself, anger calmed to gaiety as they walked back to camp. Joking conversation made light of the interaction on the mountainside. She teased Nate for following her and he reminded Hale of her  'fuck everything’ tantrum. Shared laughter made light of the intensity from which they walked. The change of energy between them apparent though unspoken undertones dominated. They avoided discussing the questions at hand. What does this mean?

Would Hale stay at Skyhold? The question lingered for Nathaniel despite Hale's affirmed love of the Wardens and her admitted desire to be near him.

Shrouded within the jovial moment with Hale, Nathaniel’s thoughts darkened. Severance of the Grey Warden’s alliance with the Inquisition posed repercussions. The potential for Hale staying at Skyhold affirmed a variation of his prior fears, but the news sparked other worries. Caoilainn stepping down as Warden Commander was imminent. Returning to Ferelden would add pressure to Caoilainn and relayed immediate consequences to Nathaniel’s responsibilities in her stead. He tried to ignore the unsettled pit in his stomach, dreading the obligation of choosing the Wardens over Hale.  What are you doing to me, Huntress?

Arriving at the Grey Warden camp, Hale left Nathaniel’s side to find her fellow scouts. Nate returned to the training yard where some Wardens voluntarily took up combat practice to occupy time. Tent flaps waved in the mid-day breeze, revealing Caoilainn inside her tent as Nate passed by.

Diverting from his path to his own quarters, Nathaniel entered Caoilainn’s tent. Determined steps prepared to demand answers to the news Hale had delivered. The Warden Commander stood at her table, preoccupied with a quill to parchment scratching a lengthy note.

“Fancy seeing you here, your Majesty.” His snarky greeting commented on her recent absence from the Warden camp and her steady position at Alistair’s side.

“I could say the same for you.” Caoilainn’s annoyed glance moved from her parchment to Nathaniel and back again. Her comment pointed out his absence from the camp that morning. “Not now, Nate.”

His eyes narrowed at her remark, taking it as an insinuation of irresponsibility equivalent with her own. “Were you planning to tell us about the end of our aid to the Inquisition?” Nathaniel took another step closer toward the table. Regardless of his recent distractions with Hale and the end of the less professional aspects of his friendship with Caoilainn, she still held the rank of Warden Commander. Her duty to the Wardens cannot be circumvented with a tender reunion with her husband.

“How do you-” Caoilainn’s eyes darted to Nate, shocked by his question. Her thoughts preoccupied with Morrigan’s news, Caoilainn’s anger with the Inquisitor lost precedence to the Cure. “You know. It doesn’t matter. Yes, Nate. We’re returning to Ferelden.” She gave an irritated glance to him before returning to drafting her letter. After dabbing the quill in the bottle of ink, the nib pressed against the parchment. A single word flowed before her attention returned to Nathaniel. “Have you thought more about what I asked?”

She referred to her proposition Nate assume the role of Warden Commander. Nathaniel had demanded time to think. To construct a plan. The decision came with deliberation. Nathaniel met with Isenam to discuss the scout’s willingness to receive a promotion to Lieutenant. A Dalish elf native to Orlais, Isenam was a most experienced and disciplined Warden. The trust Nathaniel had in Isenam assured a qualified replacement.

But Nathaniel’s agreement to become Warden Commander had to occur on his terms, requiring clarity his elevation wasn’t to support Caoilainn’s negligence.

“I have,” Nathaniel’s posture straightened as his emotions drew inward. Shutting down to Caoilainn’s urgency to receive an answer to her selfish request, he withheld his acquiescence.

“And?” Her head made a quick shake, pressing him for an answer. “Will you succeed me?”

Her insistence agitated him. The massive responsibility she haphazardly discarded suggested ten years as Warden Commander could be easily forgotten; her life as a Grey Warden abandoned for a fairytale ending of a family with the King. And she knows I have no disillusions for another life before the Calling. Caoilainn understood Nathaniel’s commitment to the Wardens better than anyone.

Nate’s heart pounded and his face grew hot. “How can you leave?” His voice rose and his hands planted on the table across from her. “Most of ten years spent commanding and you’re just going to throw it away because your King commands it?”

Caoilainn’s fist slammed on the table. “This is my choice, Nathaniel!” The bottle of ink rattled with the impact, reverberations echoing after her display. She collected herself, standing up and flattening the wrinkles in the fabric of her gambeson. “I’d like this transition to be civil. You’re still my close friend.”

“Then don’t leave this to me.” He grumbled in exasperation, words coated with disappointment. “At least teach me, Caoilainn. What if I need your insight?”

Looking toward the ground, Caoilainn paused. Visibly uneager to share this caveat of his promotion, she mumbled. “You’ll communicate with Alistair. I can’t help you once I go back to Denerim.”

“What?” Nathaniel’s voice resounded utter disbelief. Nate’s mouth gaped, skeptical of this powerful woman’s preference of these circumstances by her own volition. His assumption the stipulation resulted from Alistair’s demands made Nathaniel even more livid. “You’re kidding me. He's not qualified. And you’re submitting to this?”

“Nate.” Caoilainn sighed. Her shoulders slouching, hands raised to her chest expressing heartfelt sincerity. Her eyes shined. “I hope in time it will be different, but for now it must happen this way. I need to rebuild trust with Alistair.”

Disgust churned within Nathaniel. Caoilainn’s out-of-character compliance with Alistair’s rules based on nothing more than the King's insecurity nauseated Nate. Memories of his last conflict with the King arose. Alistair spouted derision to Nathaniel's name, relating him to the crimes of his father. Contempt boiled, but not without his pledge to the Wardens weighing on his shoulders. You're making an enemy, Alistair.

“Fine.” He growled. The curt reply resonated his dislike of the agreement, but he took the responsibilities. She knew I would.

He didn’t wait for Caoilainn’s response and made an abrupt leave of the Warden Commander’s tent. The afternoon sun dragged across the sky. Disappointment in himself for folding compelled Nathaniel to find work. Irate with Caoilainn’s indulgence in Alistair’s insecurities, and keen to distract himself, Nathaniel went into the yard to direct the training of the Wardens already practicing. Stubborn pride urged proof of commitment to the order.

Watching Nate leave, Caoilainn didn’t call after him.  He needs to come to terms. The nib of her quill resumed its mission against the parchment.

With my resignation, Nathaniel Howe will be my successor as Warden Commander.    

 Caoilainn Theirin

 Warden Commander- Ferelden

[etaeternum]

Tempest

Bond of the Grey Ch 9 Tempest This is honestly one of my favorite chapters.  Hale meets with her cousin, the Inquisitor, Alanna. Nathaniel Howe follows Hale from Skyhold.  Trigger warning: childhood trauma, violence. Death of a parent. Slavery. (Also I do my best with the elven language, but I know it’s not perfect.)

Grey Warden tents sat snug in tight sections through the valley outside of Skyhold. The vacant Commander’s tent erected in the center marked the start of a makeshift training yard. Sun peaked over the mountain range, dawn welcoming the bustle of the camp’s start to the day. Still recuperating from the march from the Arbor Wilds, most Wardens were slow to start. Enervated soldiers dragged their feet to make breakfast.

“Shite, Val,” Hale grumbled through a yawn. Emerging from her tent, she stretched one arm and scratched her disheveled hair with the other. Tunic loose, breeches tucked into unlaced boots, Hale stumbled to sit around the small campfire for the scouts’ section of the camp. “You think you could snore any fucking louder?”

Valum, a dwarven warrior known for his finesse as a tracker, chuckled to himself. Unconcerned with her grievance, he shrugged. “I could try.”

Hale rolled her eyes to Isenam on the other side of the campfire. Often appointed leader when Nathaniel was unavailable, the tall, elven man watched Hale with expectation for a complaint. He spoke in the native tongue of the Dalish. “Nuven’in gonun ebalasha era vis esay thanal ma’haman ga’era’vun.” (“If you desire the privilege to complain about the conditions of sleep, try using your bed every night.") Hale scowled at him, suspecting his statement hinted knowledge of her whereabouts with Nathaniel. Isenam glared back, but before Hale could reply, Damia emerged from Hale’s tent and ambled the short distance to sit next to her friend.

Isenam shook his head and continued to lecture Hale in elvhen. “Mar lanalin elitha del’melin, Hale. As’sulevem del’dirth sal’melin Oin?” (“Your mother chose the wrong given name, Fox. Or did she mispronounce Rabbit?”)

“Fuck’s sake, bloke,” Hale's cheeks reddened. Annoyance echoed through her guffaw. “Use the bloody common tongue… and don't talk ‘bout my mother.”

A plate of food in hand, Lisbeth grimaced at Damia and Hale. “How the fuck could you hear Val snoring when you're at it all night?”

Surprised faces of the circle of scouts turned to the woman known to be of few words, adding to the case against Hale. It only added to the shared humor found in teasing.

“Yeah! Our whole row could hear you.” Another scout joined in. Sitting next to Lisbeth, Gunnar, a Honnleath born human, imitated Damia. His eyes rolled back, and he faked a moan. “Oh! Hale. Hale! Andraste’s tits! Maker! Yes! Hale!”

Damia turned bright red and groaned, burying her face into Hale's shoulder. Unable to discern if Damia trembled from giggles or because she was crying, Hale yelled at the circle.

“Oi! We got it.” She glowered at each of them, but her sour tone didn’t match the grin she wore. “All you can sod off. Bunch of arseholes.”

A hush fell upon them, not because of Hale’s scolding. Wide awake and fully groomed, Nathaniel entered their small camp. One eyebrow cocked, he scanned the group with curiosity and walked to stand next to Isenam.

The Lieutenants’ tents surrounded the Warden Commander’s. The band of scouts knew Nathaniel had no reason to be in their camp so early unless to mingle. Notorious to most for his poor sense of humor, none wished to discover what the Lieutenant would make of their jabs at their brethren. Hale, proud of her unique understanding of the Lieutenant’s sense of humor, preferred he didn’t overhear the joking for other reasons. Awkward glances passed around the group, waiting for the reason for his presence to be made clear.

Hale's concern he visited to check on her found relief when Nate’s gravelly voice started a low conversation with Isenam. Quiet voices and incomprehensible mumbling suggested Nathaniel did not wish to be overheard.

Gunnar’s sudden unrestrained laughter, amused by their shared discomfort, preceded Lisbeth checking him with her shoulder. A loud, breathless bray escaped him, and the group resumed laughter now at Gunnar’s expense. But the fun did not last. An unfamiliar messenger meandered between tents and the group grew silent again.

The messenger’s quizzical gaze studied each of the faces in the circle, spending more time on the elves in the group. “Is Hale of the Lavellan clan here?”

The gaping mouths of the circle met the question with silence. The team gawked, making the connection between the Inquisitor and the woman who had been the butt of their jokes a few moments ago. Hale, the youngest of the scouting team, had been adopted into their band of Wardens. She acclimated to their teasing and held her own as the newest member.

“Lavellan?” Isenam stopped his conversation with Nathaniel and sent a piercing stare to Hale.

“Shite.” Hale scowled. Ignoring Isenam, she patted Damia’s leg, stood up, then walked to the messenger. “Yeah?”

“The Inquisitor would like to see you.” The messenger wrung her hands and shifted her weight on her feet. Uncomfortable amidst the group of soldiers, she stammered over the last of her message. “N-now, Lady Lavellan.”

Some chuckled at the messenger’s strange delivery. Hale’s frown deepened. “Just Hale. Fine. I’ll be on my way.” The messenger turned a poignant shade of pink and sped back to the stronghold.

“What do you think she wants?” Nathaniel questioned Hale as she walked toward her tent.

The nonchalant shirk of Hale’s shoulders matched the smug frown pulling her lips. “Wants to box my ears for something, I’m sure.” She stepped into her tent and a few minutes later returned wearing her armor; her messy hair was pulled back by a string. Winking at Damia, Hale placed her foot on the seat next to her and tied the laces of her boots. “She’ll try to talk me into going back to the Lavellan clan. Always says ‘You’re safer in the Marches.’” Her finger wagged as she imitated her cousin, replacing her city accent with an overdone feminine tone.

She’s right. Stomach twisting, Nathaniel avoided looking at Hale. Though confident she would prefer danger to safety, Hale receiving an offer to go elsewhere troubled him. If a more advantageous opportunity for her to leave presented itself, would she take it? The thought roused an unpleasant emotion.

Gunnar chuckled. “Don’t listen to her, Lady Lavellan. We’ll have to go back to teasing Lisbeth if you leave, and she’s not as much fun.” Only a faint twitch of her eyes suggested Lisbeth heard him. Gunnar braced himself for the potential impact of her shoulder again.

“Yeah, yeah. You won’t be having fun if you call me Lady Lavellan again.” Hale chuckled, long strides taking her from the camp. She turned to walk backward. “I ain’t leaving you lot of whoresons.” She pointed at the small group watching her leave. Her eyes skimmed those in the circle, held with Nathaniel longer than the rest. “This is where I belong.” Hale turned on her heels and yelled as she walked away, “And some of you owe me coin!”

'Being a Grey Warden can change your life if you let it.'

Nathaniel had been right. Reminiscent thoughts along the way into Skyhold recalled joking and banter with her comrades. Years spent with a sole focus of self-preservation did not allow room for such niceties as ‘family.’ The meaning of the word something she had forgotten since her father died. But needs met by all aspects of this fellowship, she had no reason to pickpocket, scavenge, or starve. The respect she had for her fellow Wardens had grown to outweigh any urge to steal from them.

Hale learned of the Grey Warden sacrifice, the Calling, prior to the battle in the Arbor Wilds. Her gratitude for the order, not dissuaded by an early death, balanced her acceptance of the obligation. Indulgence in an early death did not seem a disadvantage to Hale as it would for most.

The insatiable appetite, on the other hand, created unusual circumstances when it arose in ways other than physical hunger. Heightened libido driven by the Grey Warden bond and complicated by the fondness for her peers wrought confusion. Loyalty, a concept foreign for Hale, found with both Damia and Nathaniel joined with feelings of attachment Hale didn’t understand. Damia, a companion, and partner in crime, gave unconditional friendship and trust. But what drew her to Nathaniel ran even deeper. Compatible personalities didn't explain the connection- the way her bond strengthened when he neared. Arguments fueled chemistry, she desired him more as their fights escalated. And the way she could tell when his eyes were on her, Hale's stomach fluttered as she thought of the sensation. She put it out of her mind as she strolled into the War Room.

“Asa'var'lin,” Alanna sighed, stepping from her place behind the War Table toward Hale as she shut the door behind her. “Ma eth itha revas em on'alas telsila.” (“Cousin, your safe return frees me of great worry.”)

Hale’s scoff responded to the Inquisitor’s kind welcome. She held up her hands to keep Alanna from reaching to hug her. “You know I won’t answer if you speak elvhen.”

“Hale,” Alanna lowered her arms. Pleading eyes asked for her cousin's compliance. “Sathan. Please, just talk to me.”

Heartbeat quickened, a wave of anger made Hale dizzy for a fleeting moment. Face hot, her voice rose with her reply. “What’s there to talk about? You’re gonna tell me to go home and I’m gonna say I'll go back when I'm ready.”

“But you never stay, Hale. Our clan misses you.” Alanna’s palms opened to Hale. Commitment to kin inclined Alanna’s maternal-like worry for her younger, orphaned cousin.

“Like shite they do,” Hale blurted. She turned on her heels to leave and took two large steps. But anger caught up with her, she swung back around. Arm bent, Hale’s finger pointed between them, making their significant height difference prominent. Hale, tan and tall for an elf towered over her petite, pale cousin. “It’s a lie and you bloody well know it. No one there misses me but you.”

“Asa'var'lin, they care about you. But when you steal it's hard for them to show it.” Alanna’s reply tried to reason with Hale. Explaining away years of miscommunication between her cousin and the Lavellan clan. “I don’t trust the order you’re involved with.” Her final statement delivered a new concern.

“Don’t fucking start.” Hale groaned, rolling her eyes. Her weight shifted, shoulders slouched; she made a lazy turn to the door.

Hale’s dismissive attitude did not stop Alanna. “They lie and the Warden Commander is false. The Inquisition is ending its alliance with Ferelden and the Wardens. The Grey Wardens are not-”

“I’mma Grey Warden, Alanna!” Hale yelled, her voice echoing through the room. Her finger pointed from Alanna out the window at the field of tents beyond Skyhold’s gates. “That’s my family now! Fuck yer shite alliance.” Her arm dropped. Teeth bared, nostrils flaring, Hale glared at the Inquisitor.

Alanna stared through a pregnant pause. Her sorrowful expression helpless in communication. “Samahl would never-”

“Stop!” An aggressive snarl, Hale’s lip curled. Emotions riled, shiny eyes joined the heaving of Hale’s chest, she barked her reply. “You think ‘cause you’re the sodding Inquisitor, you know what he would’ve wanted? Don’t fucking speak for my father.”

Taking a deep breath Alanna stared at the ground. She backed away from Hale and returned to the War Table, sifting through papers. Hale’s eyes narrowed, suspicious of Alanna’s intention.

“You'll tire of them,” Alanna stated, glancing up to from her stack of papers, her tone serious and professional. “Serving the Wardens won't suit you for long. You know you'll grow restless.” Livid, but without defense to Alanna’s accurate description of her past, Hale’s brow twitched as she stared at her cousin. “Please, Hale. Stay here if you don’t wish to return to the Marches. You can hunt, and drink, and gamble for all I care. If you want a position in the Inquisition, I’ll find one for you. You’ll have more freedom. You know that’s what Sam would’ve wanted.”

Alanna knew what would take precedence for Hale. Her freedom- the thing her father gave his life for when he fought Tevinter slavers in Denerim. Hale stopped and her fury faltered as an image of Alanna's proposition formed in her mind. Statements true of Hale’s history reverberated, habits of tiring of any place she got too comfortable. Any place she felt unwelcome. Will this Warden shite get old? This new alternative sounded appealing: coming and going as she pleased, fun, taking responsibilities as Hale saw fit. Toying with the idea made for fleeting temptation.

But more pleasant thoughts replaced it. Thoughts of those to whom she promised she wouldn’t leave- Damia and her friends. Commitment, brethren, fulfillment of needs embodied in the order.

Nathaniel. Pain erupted in her chest picturing him leaving without her. Pox on me, she cursed herself. He ain't just a good fuck.

She cleared the thoughts from her mind, her vitriol returning. “I fucking told you not to speak for him,” she growled. “You got no right. Plough yourself, Alanna.” Hale turned and neared the door again, it creaked as she pushed it open. But before Hale could step into the hallway, Alanna’s voice rang from behind her.

“Think about it, Asa'var'lin.” Insightful to a fault, Alanna detected her cousin’s wavering obstinacy. A seed planted with Alanna’s invitation, and now Hale needed space to determine the path in her best interest.

Stalled in the doorway, Hale didn’t bother turning around with her reply, “Sod off.” The ambivalent mumble resounded indecision.

“Sulrahn bre sou vegaral ma esh'ala.” (“A deeper force pulls you back to them.”) Alanna spoke with confidence to Hale's back, perceiving the root of Hale’s hesitation. “Ehn emen mar vhenan? Mah alin assan’panelan. Te’din sael’rajelan?” ("Who has your heart? It’s that other archer. The first to the commander, isn’t it?”) Certain Hale had been enticed by the offer, Alanna’s questions challenged Hale’s pattern. Uncommitted to anyone but herself, a relationship would oppose Hale’s notion of independence.

The Inquisitor had threatened Nathaniel when she met him. A brief meeting informed his small team of scouts their mission into Orlais. It was at this meeting the Inquisitor learned her cousin had been conscripted as a Grey Warden. Without the opportunity for vetting Nathaniel before he took Hale into another country, she trusted her role as the Inquisitor would suffice to intimidate. Alanna witnessed Nathaniel and Hale’s magnetism and predicted it would grow.

Hale spun to face Alanna. Walking backward through the doorway, Hale gave an audacious shrug. “Nadas’ea,” (”Must be,”) she sneered, then turned and strode away.

“Sil’o mar revis, Hale!” (“Think about your freedom.”) Alanna yelled as the door swung shut, slamming behind Hale’s exit.

9:31 Dragon

She had been here with her father once before. A room within a rickety building composed of crooked hallways and uneven floors. Her father traded goods from the Lavellan clan with a merchant in the Denerim Alienage. But this visit was different. The Blight sparked fear and rumors of a slave trade compounded worry. Familiar merchants along the Waking Sea, usually amicable and welcoming, now delayed orders. Many declined to answer their doors or left their homes vacant. In the Denerim Alienage, streets traditionally occupied by bustling activity were found empty.

The nervous meeting with the merchant in the worn-down apartment was cut short. Rustling and yells from downstairs suggested intruders. “Vena’elu athe, da’ghi’myelan,” (Hide, little huntress,) her father whispered. Hale did as he ordered, finding a spot in a large trunk occupied only by some loose herbs.

Hale pushed up the lid of the chest to peek into the room. Humans, warriors equipped with various weapons backed the city elves into a corner, her father and the merchant among them. Frantic, worried faces paired with trembling hands tried to keep the men away. The cornered elves flinched each time the humans barked at them. Apart from Hale’s father, who watched the activity with a critical eye, surveying the situation, searching for an alternative.

Last to enter the room, an armored elven woman spoke to the quivering group. “You have no reason to fear. Keep your voices down.” The authority in her tone echoed through the elves’ fearful whimpers. Despite her professionalism, Hale did not believe the woman’s suggestion. And judging by the scared faces staring back, neither did the cowering elves.

“Devera, we need to hurry. Caladrius didn’t expect us to take this long.” One slaver near the doorway addressed the armored elf.

Devera rolled her eyes to the source of the voice before returning to the group of elves. The warrior's eyes widened, his posture straightened. “You are all needed in the Tevinter Imperium. Please, trust me. We are here to protect you,” Devera’s empty words did little to soothe.

The shrill cry of one of the trapped elves responded, followed by her quaking incoherent pleas. “Children… Husband… Family… My home.” Hale made out a few of the words through the woman’s wailing. Panic showed. The frightened woman’s eyes darted to the doorway and back to Devera. Hale felt her heart beating in her ears as she watched the woman calculate her escape. Then the nameless woman bolted; her attempt to flee ended abruptly. The thunk of a crossbow reverberated, shooting a bolt through her chest before she could take two steps.

Hale squeezed her lips together to keep from yelling. The woman’s blood pooled under her body. Hale’s eyes grew larger, tears burned making her vision foggy. Blinking, alarmed, she studied her father, his fortitude, and resolve. His face stern, unmoved by the slavers’ violence.

“How can you do this to your own people?”

Hale blinked, stomach turning, knuckles white, she clenched her fists against the lid. Her lips formed ‘no’ in repetition as her head shook in disbelief of what she saw.

“They aren’t property,” Samahl stepped forward from the group of elves. Hot tears streamed down Hale’s cheeks as she witnessed her father’s bravery.

Devera shrugged, her lips peeled back to a sneer. “Really, it’s nothing personal. I’ve simply come to discover it’s more profitable for me to cooperate than oppose. I’d recommend you do the same, lest you find a similar fate as this woman.” A hand gestured to the dead woman on the floor.

Samahl’s eyes narrowed, but he smirked. Hale recognized his expression when he thought. The man she adored, who taught her how to drum, to shoot a bow, to hunt. He took this moment to devise a plan.

Samahl muttered words in elvhen without breaking eye contact with Devera. “Melena sul eth i josa. Ga’sahl vena revis, ara da’ghi’myelan. Ar lath ma.” (“Wait for safety then run. Always find freedom, my little huntress. I love you.”) Devera’s face contorted in confusion as he spoke, along with the rest of the room. Only Hale understood. Samahl took advantage of their befuddled stares. Drawing an arrow and loosing it, he shot the slaver carrying the crossbow before the others realized what happened. “Never,” Hale’s father declared, responding to Devera’s threat before the other armed men surrounded him.

During the commotion, Hale dropped the lid of the trunk, unable to watch as her father fought the five men that encircled him. It took them all to bring Sam down. The sounds of the struggle, grunts and groans, pained noises and thumps of bodies reverberated. Hale put her hands over her ears, trying to block out the clamor until there was none.

Steaming, Hale stormed back into the Grey Warden camp. Still morning, more of the soldiers had bathed and dressed, dividing chores through the camp. By the time Hale reached her band of scouts, the camp had already been cleaned from breakfast.

Encouraging recuperation from the journey, the Warden Commander had yet to give training orders. Hale now understood the Commander intended for them to rest before they resumed marching, this time back to Ferelden.

Lisbeth and Gunnar teamed with the Dalish twins, Ashiwyn and Saeris, practicing light combat with their downtime. Hale charged by them emitting fiery energy unwelcome to questions. Averting the eyes of Nathaniel, still engaged in a quiet discussion with Isenam, Hale made her way to her tent. She emerged a moment later with her bow and quiver strapped to her back, then proceeded from the camp.

Ruminating Alanna's questions blurred with memories of her father, a determined march took the young Warden away from Skyhold and the camps outside it. Quiet valleys stretched in all directions, green grasses pale from sunlight spread over the mountainous curves. Rocks emerged from the earth, hinting at the craggy bases on which she stood. Ages of history, nature nearly untouched by time expanding as far as she could see.

The inactivity of animals made for feeble hunting. Perked senses sought tracks, droppings, or sounds of creatures scurrying to no avail. On any other day, Hale would find a spot to settle in and wait, regardless. But now, hunting didn’t satisfy to reprieve swelling emotions. Suspended in the hushed expanse, lifeless aside from the animated wind beating against her ears. Arm slack, bow in hand, the weapon rest against her legs. A habit that often brought patience now brought awareness of her anger. Frustration formed over sadness weaved with turbulent confusion. Hale stood staring into nothing.

A deep ache, long-standing sorrow rushed to the surface. Abiding grief most often denied by bullheaded obstinacy manifested as a dull twinge boring through her chest. Wonted longing, the hole created by the absence of her father intensified from Alanna’s attention. The elvhen language triggered memories of his last words. Reminded of all her father embodied- laughter, safety, and adventure- and found wanting, the sound of his name nulled the capacity to overlook the emptiness to which she had grown accustomed. Neglected feelings, the need to mourn the deepest loss she could fathom couldn’t be ignored. And above it, wrath. Rage at the world for allowing it to happen. He was a good man.

The tie in Hale’s hair came loose in the wind. Unmoved, she watched it float away, carried by gusts so strong preventing it from landing. Tendrils of hair whipped around her face, matted by the windy tempest; Hale took a deep inhale, dropped her bow to the ground, and bared her teeth. Erupting from deep within her belly, energy building, boiling, traveling up and out, she screamed. The wordless roar rattled her lungs expelling every last bit of air. Drowned out by the wind, certain no one could hear her, she heaved and yelled again, doubling over. Tumult built within freed as the storming emotions spewed from her vocalization. She continued to yell until there was nothing left. Until screaming turned to a furious howl, her body quaked from profound sadness beneath her ferocity.

Her arm wrapped around her stomach. Grief-stricken cries ebbed to whimpers. Still standing, she wiped her tears from her face with her free hand.

“Huntress?” A familiar, gruff voice called from behind her. Forced to raise his volume due to the wind, Nate's concern for Hale fueled initiative.

I shouldn't care, he reminded with each step he took in pursuit of the huntress. Assumptions of the worst forced him to follow. She's going back to the Free Marches, his worry concluded from her sadness. He had kept distance, leaving space as he watched her scream and cry. Observing the lovely creature’s rabid rage roaring into the mountains and melting to tears moved him. Something outside of her control prompted this.

He called again, “Hale?”

A voice louder than she thought possible for the Lieutenant brought another onslaught against her spirit. Questions about her commitment to the Grey Wardens and the depth of her attraction to Nathaniel provoked another wave of tears. Her shoulders slouched, her head fell forward, and she groaned.

Nathaniel stepped closer. Standing behind her, their bodies almost touched. It would be easy to wrap his arms around her and provide comfort, Nathaniel stayed the urge out of respect for her anger. He recognized her fire only because a similar flame burned within himself. And it often demanded room to swell and wane without the coercion of bodily contact. But he cared for her and offered the support he could.

“Huntress,” he stated, close enough he no longer had to yell. Wind blew around Nathaniel and Hale; the space between them so insignificant the gusts couldn’t part them. Neutral curiosity did not pass judgment, his tone remained even. “I’m here. You don’t have to say anything.”

Her guard racked by complex emotions, unsure how much Nathaniel saw of her tantrum Hale let out a defeated sigh. Her body wilted, embarrassed, avoiding his attention. “I’m fine,” she replied, dismissing him.

“You don’t have to lie either,” he grumbled, glad she couldn’t see his smirk. Hale’s pitiful posture rejected her claim. “What do you need?”

Without a word, Hale turned. A brief tremble and she gathered herself and glared up at him. Auburn tresses knotted, disheveled by billowing air obscuring her face in the random intervals of windy blasts. Land stretched around the pair, facing each other on the empty mountainside. The ends of Nate’s hair, tied back by braids, danced on his shoulders. He waited.

Rebounded ire now directed at Nathaniel’s amity made her forehead crease. With her palms clenched, Hale lifted an arm and beat her fist on Nathaniel’s chest. He took the brunt of her impact, a minor sway from her force. Stern, composed, he didn’t respond. She did it again. And again, in repetition, the back of her balled hands landing on his chest. Pent frustration, fury found release on his body. Certain Hale didn’t use her full strength, he permitted the expression of her discontent.

Her cry joined the pounding motion. “Fuck you! Fuck this. Fuck the Inquisition. Fuck everything!”

Nathaniel’s nearly successful efforts to keep from laughing resulted in a small smirk. Eventually, his hands found her shoulders. Beating fists slowed to a stop, Hale gasped to catch air.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His disinterested question asked with tamed concern.

“No! I don’t want to tell you nothing,” she yelled through her panting. Her hostile response met the wall of his unyielding consistency.

“Fine.” Nathaniel’s answer paired with his release of her shoulders.

Unreciprocated vitriol forced her to examine her reaction, aware of the soothing effect of Nathaniel’s touch only after it was removed. Her gaze traveled to her shoulder where the warming sensation of his hand lingered. Resentful of his impact, she interrogated, “Why’d you follow me?” She looked around their setting, valleys spreading out from all sides. The Inquisition’s stronghold a blurred building in the distance.

Nathaniel frowned, glancing around the expanse. The complicated answer to her irritated question required him to confess the unknown. Instead, he replied with a fact, “I care about you, Hale.”

Her lips parted, gaping for a moment before she pursed; her brow furrowed. “But why, Nate? Why do you care?” Her inquiries addressed the unusual circumstances of their friendship, demanding an explanation for the dynamic growing between them.

Facing her misplaced contempt with an intense stare, Nathaniel didn’t respond; he didn’t have answers to the questions she asked.

“I’m fucking broken,” she added. “A broken piece of shite with no,” she gasped, voice tremored, tears pooled, “no fucking parents. I’m no good. You got no reason to care ‘bout me.” The familiar sting of emptiness sparked in her chest.

“I could say the same about myself.” Nathaniel’s own feelings of inadequacy arose, relating to her assertion. Brokenness, a defect of self far beyond remedy. His hands found her hips this time. Hale’s eyes closed, appreciating the warmth, the bonded connection surging through her; she gave a thwarted sigh and Nate mumbled, “Is that enough of a reason?”

Her eyes opened to glower at him. Teary green eyes framed by a messy mane of red hair, her head turned. A question answered with another. “What the fuck are you doing to me?” She needed to understand the blustering feelings he elicited and the hold they had over her.

“I should ask you the same.” He quipped, forehead wrinkling with exasperation. Nathaniel and Hale stared at one another; their conversation maintained what little semblance of stealth to avoid the subject they now bordered. The violent gale whipped around the pair, whispering threats of its strength. It caused them to stumble.

Regaining her stance, Hale’s chin lifted in defense to Nathaniel; her lip curled as she gave her reply. “Well don’t worry, mate. I always leave. Ain’t good at commitments, remember? Shite will get old and I’ll run.” He let her ramble, her exhaustion gave momentum to her embittered response. “I’ll sod off somewhere else, stay ‘til I ain’t...” Her voice shook as sorrow reemerged from anger. The light shining off her pool of tears twinkled. “Ain’t bloody wanted then I leave.”

“I want you to stay,” Nathaniel’s gruff and even tone resounded with an airy billow.

Bottom lip protruded, Hale made a vexed pout. Hot tears lent to shallow streams and tracked down her cheeks, cooled by the howling wind. An awkward moment passed. Out of character for the unlikely duo, meeting in a private location without a mundane guise and with no intent to relieve tension by way of sexual endeavors. Nathaniel’s hand traveled to her chin, the affectionate placement unfamiliar to either person.

“I’ve no room to judge your past.” Nate extended his explanation, studying the fiery young elf’s wordless shifts from comfort to subtle hostility. “And you don’t owe details to me or anyone else. You can tell me what you need. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Animus provoked by his tempered invitation, Hale growled and pushed away from Nathaniel. Her arms waved with agitation as she took a few steps from him; she pointed toward Skyhold. “Alanna’s fucking ending it with Ferelden and the Grey Wardens!” She stopped and swiveled to scowl at Nate, indignant tears welled. Another breath and she resumed her impassioned pacing. The distance between them required her to elevate her voice into the beating wind. “She wants me to stay here... Said it’s what my da would’ve wanted… But fuck her! I’m a Warden now. A load of shite, guilting me into staying.” A few teardrops fell and Hale looked up. Scattered clouds drifted through the sky, azure reaching the earthy horizon. She groaned, the sound morphing to another roar. Nathaniel tried to keep from smirking at the young woman’s shameless display of her age through free-flowing defiance. “I miss him a lot, Nate, and she’s probly right. But I ain’t some sodding child! l fucking love-” she sucked in air, open palms circled in front of her as she struggled to find words. Nathaniel held his breath waiting for Hale to continue. Her final proclamation fumed with ardent will. “... Love being a Grey Warden!”

Her paces ceased, and she stood breathless watching Nathaniel with a teary glare from a few steps away.

Nathaniel’s balance, composed in the face of turbulence offered resolve. Vulnerability consented a new dynamic with no motive apart from solidarity. His voice raised in the space separating them. Their eyes locked. “It’s your decision, Hale.” He looked toward Skyhold and back to her. “Not Alanna’s or your father’s... or even the Commander's. This decision is yours and yours alone.”

The tempest eased to a quiet zephyr.

Hale let out a wry laugh. “Fuck’s sake, Nate. I wanna be near you.”

[etaeternum]

Sorry I’m late to the #faceyourart party!

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