Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was one week before Wintersend and the sun hadn’t set yet so they weren’t actually late. Anora had only said that they had to be in Denerim one week before, nothing more.

And here they were. They’d just passed under the city gates. Success.

They rode up through the city, and Theron had to reflect, again, upon what a different experience this was for him. The majority of his memories of Denerim were still during the Blight, coming in on foot with Alistair and Zevran and Morrigan and the others, being stared at and even in some cases having their coin turned down, not being hailed by the city guard and recognized, even in the almost-dark of the late evening.

He started leading them to the bridge that would take them over the Drakon River and to the road to the West Market, then beyond that to the main bridge crossing back over this side of the river in the main city, but Zevran veered off to the right once they’d cleared the gates, and his mother followed him, her halla glowing in the torchlight of the gate square. Theron turned his horse to catch up with Zevran.

“Where are we-”

“Your Arlship,” a guard said, saluting and then bowing deferentially. Zevran had led them to a side gate, a little thing, big enough for some carts and a couple of riders. This was to a barracks or guard storage or something, wasn’t it? “Warden-Commander. Welcome back to Denerim.”

The guards on the gate opened it for them, and it wasn’t a barracks, it was a very steep road and a part of the city Theron was pretty sure he’d never been in.

Nehna’s halla fared the best on the incline, pulling ahead of the horses and rounding the sharp bend in the road long before any of the rest of them had reached it. It was only once the rest of them had come around that corner and urged the horses up the last stretch of road that Theron recognized where they were – this was the wide avenue that cut off the Palace District from the rest of the city, and served as the access road for Fort Drakon. The tower and the walls loomed over the city on their right, ten or fifteen minutes uphill. In front of them were the old city walls, low and ancient, the black marble the Tevinter Imperium had imported from Kirkwall many Ages ago sinking under its own weight into the bedrock of Denerim.

Here was a set of gates, and more guards who recognized him on sight and let them pass. Theron was more sure of himself, here - there was only one road in front of them and it curved towards the palace. He knew how to get to the estate, from the palace.

A half of an hour later, they’d arrived at the estate. Kallian, Fenris, and the Wardens Nathaniel had sent met them at the gates, at the front of the household servants who hadn’t yet been dismissed for the night. The servants and Kallian all bowed or curtsied; the Wardens saluted.

“Tell Shianni they’re dismissed,” Zevran told him quietly, in El’vhen, when he sat there on his horse a moment too long, trying to figure out how to make everyone stop.

Theron was pretty sure he fumbled that, because he’d been around Damien for long enough now to be able to feel the change in atmosphere around the man when he disapproved of something that had just happened. But the servants stopped bowing and curtsying and went back to their actual work. Someone came and took the horses, and tried to take the halla, but Nehna glowered at the elven man who tried to take his reins from her and rode off to the stables herself.

Shianni was waiting for them in the entrance hall, and curtsied at him again.

“Lady Amell and her daughter are in the in-law’s suite, Your Arlship,” she told him, and kept an ear on what she was saying while he looked over the murals and mosaics he’d commissioned. They weren’t very well lit right now, but from what he could see, he was pleased. “I can put Mistress and Serrah Daganini into the personal servant’s quarters, if it would please you?”

Those were rooms he actually knew. They were some of the first rooms you passed when you got to the second floor - one for the Arl’s valet or manservant, and one for the Arlessa’s personal lady’s maid or lady companion.

“That’s good,” he told Shianni. “Tanis, is Nehna going to want to stay with you?”

“Likely so, Your Arlship.”

They were going to have to work something out, for this. They were family, titles weren’t supposed to hold between family.

“Nehna Sora Revasina is the Dalish woman who came with us, Shianni,” Theron said. “She’s Zevran’s mother. When she comes back from the stables ask her if she wants to be in with Tanis or have her own room.”

“Yes, Your Arlship,” Shianni said, doing a bad job of hiding her curiosity about the subject. “What about Lord-Captain Mac Maric and…”

She was looking at Zevran. Well- she’d know his title, being Arl, and Kallian could have told her Alistair’s.

Did Zevran get a special title, being his fiancé? Or was that only after they’d gotten married, that he got called anything else?

“Zevran Revasina, Mistress Chamberlain,” Zevran answered for her. Good, someone knew what was supposed to be going on. “A pleasure to meet you again. How goes laundry, these days?”

She laughed, more a snort, and for a moment it was the Blight year again, and he and Zevran had snuck into the Denerim alienage after-hours to dispense charity in the wake of the Tevene slavers masquerading as healers.

“The laundry is great,” Shianni said. “Rooms in the guest suites for you and the Lord-Captain, Messere Revasina?”

“No, Zevran’s rooming with me,” Theron told her. “We’re getting married.”

“Oh! Blessings upon your union, Your Arlship. But - are you sure you don’t want the Arlessa’s suite?”

“No?” Theron said. “We’re getting married? We sleep together?”

“Could you put the children in the Arlessa’s suite, Mistress Tabris?” Zevran asked. Oh, he was being sidelined - all right. “This is Tiar and Diego - they are my responsibility.”

“As you wish, Messere Revasina.”

From there it was simple enough. Shianni brought them all upstairs and settled them – Damien and Tanis first, in their rooms, then Tiar and Diego a little further down the hall in the Arlessa’s suite, the rooms that Theron and Alistair had usually taken whenever they’d had to come to Denerim, rather than needlessly opening up the rest of the rooms.

But the entire upstairs had been opened now, and cleaned, and it felt strange. Alistair ducked off towards the guest rooms to pick one for himself without being escorted, and Theron tried to dismiss Shianni, except that Zevran pointed out to him that she was the one with the keys. She came with them down the hallway around the Arlessa’s suite to Theron’s office, and unlocked the two layers of hallway doors between his office and his reception room and suite.

She formally handed him what she said was the only other copy of the keys to the Arlessa’s suite, his suite, and his office. If the servants came up to service the rooms or deliver things to him and found the doors locked, they would come back later or ask for him to open them. This was to assure his privacy.

It seemed like a reasonable system, but all he really wanted to do was clean up a little and go to bed. They’d been pushing themselves, riding, to make it within the slightly-less-than-three days they’d been left to get to Denerim once he’d returned to the Vigil with Nehna. Morrigan had made the last-minute decision to stay behind with to Kieran, to wait with Merrill and Tamlen and Marian for Oghren to return from Antiva with the eluvian, and then accompany it south to Hallarenis’haminathe. She’d promised to return north for the winter, and would meet them in Vigil’s Keep once court season was over.

Morrigan had said she’d found the thought of straining the welcome and political resources of the capital to be too much. If it had just been her, she would have come and ignored the Templars with all the disdain she felt for them.

But with Kieran…

Theron couldn’t fault her for this. It would be safer for their son to be in Hallarenis’haminathe rather than in Denerim, where the Chantry could kick up a fuss over a mage child outside the Circles and send Templars to harass them. With Grand Cleric Candide’s threats, no matter how unfulfilled, it wasn’t worth risking.

Or that was what Nathaniel and Zevran had said. Theron could have convinced himself that Nathaniel was just worrying, but he couldn’t ignore Zevran.

But he missed them, and it had only been three days. Kieran would make all these court parties more tolerable, and Morrigan could have made snide comments.

He and Zevran started getting ready for the night without comment to each other. One nice thing about this, as opposed to an inn, was that the majority of their things had been sent here ahead of them and were already put away and waiting. This had made Vigil’s Keep a little awkward, but it made these unfamiliar rooms a little more comfortable.

Once they’d passed the point of washing faces and hands to get road dust off, Theron stopped pretending nothing was going on and spoke up.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“You punched my mother,” Zevran reminded him.

“She punched me first.”

“Which does not mean that you were justified in hitting her back.”

“She said-”

“I do not care what she said, you are going to apologize to her.”

“She should apologize to you.”

“She needs to do no such thing,” Zevran said, and went to huddle under the blankets. “Good night.”

So that was it, for this evening. It had been three days of this, and fine, he’d go tell Nehna he was sorry for hitting her in the morning, if it would stop this.

“Good night, ‘ma vhenan.”

The nightmares had returned, in fits and starts, once they’d left Antiva. They’d been back on the road but gone at the Vigil, and then back again on the road.

Zevran had been sort of hoping that travel was what caused them, now, but he woke up around false dawn when the servants started arriving with swiftly-fading memories of his mother-

Apparently distance was as much an obstacle for spirits as it was for mortals. No Justice or Freedom here, to ensure that he slept well.

He looked over at Theron, still asleep next to him, and got out of bed. He grabbed clothes for the day and got dressed in the outer reception room to keep from waking Theron, and took a coat, gloves, and his blades. There were Wardens here - someone else would be up and practicing.

But the first people he ran into were the children. Tiar was poking around the hallways and doorways suspiciously, and Diego was playing lookout while she tried to pick a lock.

Zevran stopped momentarily far down the hall so Diego could notice him and alert Tiar without startling her.

“Those are the Amells’ rooms, I believe,” he told her quietly. mindful of the early morning silence. “Shall we see about breakfast, before the kitchens become too busy?”

Even with the hour, they were very busy. The building wasn’t stifling yet, but that was only because the back door was propped open, spilling heat into the cold air outside. The kitchen was busy, and loud, and a bit crowded, and Zevran put a discreet, steadying hand on Tiar’s back as Diego shrank against his side.

Zevran got them both sat by the stew fire and sighed in resignation when he was directed to the pantry and cellar and found that the majority of choices were Fereldan fruit preserves.

He returned to the children with a new bottle of vodka, an unopened jar of cherry preserves, and rolls right out of the oven.

Tiar pulled a face at the vodka.

“I am going to show you how to drink it the Fereldan way, so you do not make mistakes with it again,” he told her. “I personally find it somewhat distasteful, but it is worth knowing.”

One of the kitchen servants brought cups and knives and a pitcher of water, and Zevran got him to bring three bowls of the kitchen stew as well.

“The preserves go on the rolls,” he told the children, cracking the wax seal on the jar and opening it for them. “The only thing Fereldans love more than sweet things are their mabari, so be mindful of how much you can tolerate at once. Also do not expect spices. Not even mild things. Perhaps a pinch of black pepper. They season with herbs, here.”

The bread, in true Fereldan fashion, was sweet as well. The children devoured bread and fruit, and Zevran gently warned them away from eating too much at once, and suggested that they intersperse it with the stew to keep their stomachs settled.

Zevran hadn’t gotten around to showing them how to do vodka when Alistair turned up. The kitchen staff had clearly learned from the other Wardens who had arrived before them - he got a full platter with a lot of everything, and joined them by the fire.

“Nice, vodka for breakfast,” he said, seeing the unopened bottle still sitting there. “What’s the occasion?”

“Simply explaining to the children how everyone was expecting them to be drinking this.”

“Give it here, then.”

Zevran handed him the bottle and Alistair flipped off the metal clamp and stopper on the top, sniffing it delicately to make sure it had kept properly.

“There are three ways to do this,” he said. “First way first, the way the Alamarri intended and the way Andraste drank it - pure and straight.”

He poured everyone a mouthful or so at the bottom of their glasses.

“No, no - toast,” he insisted, when Diego went to drink his right away. “Cups up, come on.”

The children raised their cups uncertainly.

“To getting here technically on time, in spite of Theron,” he declared, and drank.

“That was what you were expecting me to say when you saw the vodka, yes?” Zevran asked, once he’d downed his.

“Hey, sometimes you’ve got to celebrate your victories where you find them. Eat something before I show you the second way.”

The second way to drink vodka was to plunk a spoonful of fruit preserves into a cup and pour vodka over it. Zevran was not convinced that it could be called ‘drinking’ when you had to chew. But the third way was decent, and what he’d been planning on showing the children - a certain small fraction of vodka, depending on the size of your cup, and then fill the rest with boiled and cooled water.

“And that’s how you have it with breakfast, unless it’s a festival day,” Alistair finished his demonstration with, and then got busy parceling out vodka to the Wardens who were showing up, and Kallian and Fenris, because once you’d opened a bottle you weren’t supposed to leave it unfinished.

He didn’t offer Theron any and Theron didn’t ask, only walked right up to Zevran and hugged him, tightly.

“What’s this?”

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” Theron said quietly.

Oh.

“Apologies, amora.”

It was past dawn by the time the Wardens and warriors were all up and done with breakfast. There was only time for a quick bit of sparring, for him and Theron, because they had to be busy.

But Zevran was determined to make the best of it. He and the children followed the others out to the corner of the gardens, tucked against a wall, that the others had claimed for their practice area when they’d arrived. Zevran found Diego a tree to perch in and Tiar a clear space a little ways away to shadow fence, and then turned back to the others.

Kallian against Fenris was expected, but Theron wasn’t up against Alistair. He’d taken Andreas, and Lockhard and Alistair-

He grinned, broadly, and interrupted them.

“Was that really necessary?” Alistair grumbled from his new spot on the ground.

“First longer hair and that scruffy growth on your face you call a beard-”

“It is not ‘scruffy’-  I knew we were coming to court so I’ve been filling this out all winter. I figured I should look Fereldan-”

“-and now dual-wielding swords! I eagerly await your next surprise for me, my friend.”

“Maybe my next surprise will be surprising you.”

“You would have to be very good to manage that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alistair grumbled, and got up. “Well, you watch. Fifteen-year-old me never thought I was going to be good at anything, and look at me!”

“Happily.”

“Shut up, you’re engaged,” Alistair said, turning red anyway.

“And this means I must deny what I see?” he asked. “You are a handsome man and Fereldan standards flatter you. You look better with the hair and yes, the beard. Even if I am struck with the urge, every time I see you, to attempt fluffing it.”

“What the hell, Zev.”

Zevran reached up and rubbed at Alistair’s beard with his hands, and sighed dramatically.

“No fluff whatsoever! You disappoint me, Alistair, should not a proper Fereldan man be mistaken for a mabari?”

“Well you’re in a form, this morning,” Alistair said, swatting his hands away. He was still blushing.

“I am putting off the rest of the day for a little while longer,” Zevran admitted. “I must speak with Shianni and Leandra and it will be rush rush rush to locate tailors who are not busy and someone who can speak on the subject of decent merchant factors in Antiva. I may have to ask Fergus.”

“You need tailors?”

“We need tailors,” he corrected Alistair. “Theron has not stood still long enough since I left to have any appropriate clothes made, and so neither have you. And I of course did not expect to be here. You and Theron may be forced to wear your Warden armor at your first day of court.”

“I have no problem with that.”

“Of course you do not,” Zevran said, and patted him before stepping aside to let him get back to his sparring - well, training, because he was very clearly not proficient at even the basics at dual-wielding yet. “I do not have time now, but in a few weeks, shall I assist in your martial endeavors?”

“I don’t know, you going to sneak up on me and dump me in the dirt the whole time, or am I going to get actual help?”

“Actual help, of course. And I will make it fun. I promise.”

They were summoned to meet Anora around mid-morning. Zevran had been trying to settle him in to look over the pile of papers he’d brought with them from Nathaniel and Delilah, but this was the Queen and therefore more important and therefore he didn’t have to look at any of that yet.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know the paperwork was important. He’d been an Arl for three years and he knew that. He knew that there were things that the Arl had to do and that there were things that, at the very least, needed his approval.

But most of the human nobility got along just fine by leaving the majority of their work to their Seneschals or oldest child or assorted underlings. The country just seemed to get on by itself, and it was still functioning.

And Theron had the Wardens to manage. And Nathaniel had been born to this job. And whenever he looked at anything that wasn’t the most urgent and absolutely necessary paperwork he got nervous because an arling was a lot of responsibility and he’d never forgotten what he’d heard in the wake of Amaranthine, in the short time before he’d gone south and ultimately ended up in the Deep Roads, about whether or not it had been the right decision, and all those people dead…

Theron wasn’t a stranger to responsibility. He’d been meant to have it in Sabrae. But responsibility for a clan was different, smaller, intimate, an actual community where you could know everyone and have a decent chance of knowing all the facets of an issue and give the advice and make the choices that meant the clan stayed safe and harmonious.

He didn’t know everyone in the arling and couldn’t know everyone in the arling and how was he supposed to make decisions if he wasn’t dealing with people, but lists of numbers and second- or third-hand descriptions and opinions he had no way to vet because he didn’t know anything about how much people could afford for taxes or what the most efficient method of structuring a market was.

Nathaniel could make decisions based on numbers so Nathaniel got the paperwork and Theron took the Wardens and turned up to pass judgements in court when Nathaniel told him to, which was one of the only parts of the Arl business he felt qualified for. That was people.

But Zevran was conspiring with Nathaniel and Delilah and he wasn’t allowed to do that any longer, which was unfair, it was a system that worked and who decided to put all the formal power in the hands of one person; that was too much, the clans had a reasonable system of task division and anything else was far too much-

Meeting with Anora was easier. Theron knew what she wanted. It would be about chaperoning her husband candidates.

Fergus was already there and seated when they arrived. Anora frowned at them - well, him.

“Last evening was by no means an appropriate time to arrive. Where have you been?”

“In the south mostly,” Theron said. “You said you’d see us the week before Wintersend, so here we are.”

The frown turned into a scowl.

“Arl Mahariel, this meeting was set for this week. I did not say that you should arrive at nearly the end of the season!”

“Isn’t it starting now?”

“The winter season of court started,” Anora told him nastily. “At Satinalia. As it always has.”

“Arl Mallory was at Ashengard Keep in Firstfall,” Theron countered.

“Arl Mallory asked. She was where she needed to be.”

He’d needed to be in Hallarenis’haminathe.    

“There have been developments in our foreign guests for this season,” she told them, after they’d all sat. “Unfortunately, Sebastian Vael, who has been recently disinvested from his position in the Chantry for his actions, was not the last surprise of the season.”

Anora gave him and Alistair a pointed look.  

“Quite unexpectedly,” she continued. “We have found ourselves visited by Prince Estefan Fulgendez of Antiva.”

Well that was interesting?

“Are you considering...?” Alistair asked.

“No,” Anora said. “He is far too old, and his commitment to his elven mistress has been a perennial favorite of court gossip across Thedas since they left Antiva over a decade ago. They have been guests of foreign courts ever since, first in Nevarra and then in Orlais. It seems that it is our turn now.”

They’d picked good timing for it. He was a prince of Antiva and probably hip-deep in Crows, but they weren’t much of a threat at the moment. And if nothing else, ‘commitment to his elven mistress’ was a good sign. Theron found himself looking forward to talking to her, whoever she was.

“But there is the matter of our marriages.”

Oh!

“I didn’t know you were getting married too,” Theron told Fergus. “Congratulations. Ours is at the end of next winter, when’s yours?”

“I-” Fergus said, taken aback. “No, I- ah- the two of you?”

The way Fergus was looking at him and Alistair made Theron think that something had gotten misunderstood.

“Zevran and I, yes,” he said, and sure enough Fergus seemed less surprised. “Who are you marrying?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“What?" Alistair asked.

“I am speaking,” Anora said. “Of the fact that our nobility has been almost annihilated by the Blight, and we cannot afford to continue as we have. The stability and sovereignty of Ferelden must be protected. Bannorns may be sold to those who prove that they can care for them, but it has not been an unvetted process. We can lose no more families. Those who do not have legal heirs are required to have one by the end of this season, which may be fulfilled, as His Grace here is planning, by remarriage. Which you would know, if you had been here on time.”

He hadn't realized.

“I personally have had some time to think on my options, and I believe I will be able to come to a decision soon,” she continued. “I expect others to, as well. If at all possible, it would be ideal if the engagements were finalized before or during the same time as the selling of the bannorns.”

“You can just decide that it has to happen?” Alistair said, tone starting to tend towards anxious. “If he doesn’t want to-”

“He is a subject of mine, Alistair Mac Maric, and he will provide for the future of his teyrnir, and he has chosen to search for a new spouse.”

“But do you really-”

“Alistair Mac Maric I am not about to order you to get married,” Anora cut him off, and Alistair relaxed. He’d been worried about that? “You have formally renounced your claim to the throne but there is no point in providing opportunity. I would rather order you to never procreate, and would but for Arl Eamon’s prattling!”

“He wants me to have kids?”

“He attempted to have you included in the marriage requirement.”

“No one ever asked me!”

“You would have been asked if you had been able to be located over this winter,” Anora shot back. “And perhaps Arl Eamon would not have made a decision on your behalf that you cared for if you or the Arl-Commander ever spoke to anyone!”

He was not involved in this. When someone came to talk to him, he talked to them. He’d always come to Denerim when Anora had sent a message asking him to come.

“I talk to lots of people,” Theron told her.

“Not the right people,” Anora said. “I must say, Arl-Commander, that you were to be exempt from the orders of matrimony, but I find myself quite relieved to hear that Zevran Arainai-”

“Revasina,” Theron corrected her. “He’s not a Crow any longer.”

“-will finally be bonded to you and have some official say in your activities.”

That was rude.

“He always has, Your Royal Highness,” Theron said. “But thank you for your interest in our marriage. We’re happy with it as well.”

“And this meeting is dismissed,” she said, voice cold. “As the majority of the business this meeting had been planned for did not occur due to tardiness. I shall see you all in court at Wintersend for the formal introductions to our new guests. On time.”

And now he had to go do paperwork. Ten or so minutes’ walk to the palace, ten minutes back, and this meeting hadn’t been very long - he could have wished it would take up more time, so he wouldn’t have to be faced with paperwork. But at least he'd be away from this.

“Not you, Arl-Commander,” the Queen ordered. “I require explanations from you.”

Theron and Alistair were out on the Queen’s orders, so that limited what he could do a bit. Not too much - but a little.

First he found Leandra Amell, and asked how she and Bethany were getting along. Leandra assured him that they were fine, and very eagerly awaiting Wintersend, and Bethany was so pleased to have an opportunity to be a lady at court, and attend the parties; she’d always wanted this and missed it in Kirkwall.

Tailors and seamstresses? Why yes, they’d had to rush, but they had managed to secure one, and their own maid had skill enough with needle and cloth if they needed things altered, though the household servants had been able to give recommendations from where other noble families usually went. No, they hadn’t had a particular problem with finding anyone too busy to take more orders and yes, the dresses had come in on time and while they were waiting for more they had enough for the first few days.

 Zevran left with a list of tailors and went to ask Shianni if she knew anything about them. Shianni was able to give him more information, and gave him a quick briefing on how the household was functioning while he wrote a note to be delivered to Fergus asking about merchant factors in Antiva and a short letter to the tailor’s he thought would be their best choice with preliminary measurements, colors, and styles for the three of them, ending with a request for a quote.

“Is there anything that Theron needs to address?” he asked, once servants had been dispatched with the note and letter.

“I’d like to talk to him about the household budget.”

“I will make sure he speaks with you about it, then.”

“One of the Dalish crafters is still here and wants to speak to him, too,” Shianni told him. She was a little nervous about this - why? “Irothal Blartera Nu’nin.”

“Is there a problem with the work?”

“No,” Shianni said. “He’s been staying in the alienage with the Hahren since the Ladies Amell arrived, but I can bring him up here with me in a couple days if the Arl has time to speak with him.”

“I think that would be ideal, and I do not see why he would not. Now, I must give you some warnings about the children we have brought-”

Shianni seemed to take his warnings about the children’s jumpiness and need for privacy in stride, and Zevran got a promise that issues with them in the kitchen would come to him rather than fester within the staff.

Children, Theron’s paperwork, tailor, merchant factor, staff - he was forgetting something.

What was he forgetting?

He took a walk around the grounds to refamiliarize himself with their layout while he tried to remember, which was how he came to be by the entrance gate when Alistair got back from the palace.

“Where is Theron?”

“Anora kept him,” Alistair said. “I think she got fed up with him.”

They had been here less than one day, they were not supposed to have run into politics this early.

“But otherwise everything is fine?” he asked. “She did not call you to tell you that the country is falling apart or the Freemen are fomenting a rebellion or any such crisis?”

“She just wanted to talk about how things were going and the new people at court.”

“And they are?”

“The Prince of Starkhaven or something-”

‘Or something’. Well that was unhelpful. He would have to talk to Tanis.

“-and one of the Princes of Antiva is here, Anora didn't seem happy about it.”

“Is the other man the Prince of Starkhaven or no, and which Prince of Antiva?” Zevran asked.

“It guess he wasn’t the Prince of Starkhaven because he was in the Chantry," Alistair admitted. "She said he got kicked out for something that happened in Jainen.”

“Sebastian Vael, then. You really should learn what happened with Kirkwall while you were away this winter, people will be talking about it still. And the Antivan?”

“Estefan Fulgendez.”

That was a name he’d never wanted to hear again. Not in this context, not near him, not anywhere where they could cross paths with each other- this was a disaster, there was no way that this would end well- how long had he been here? Who had he talked to? Was it anyone who knew his name, who could name his House? Did Prince Estefan know? Had- he had to know, the way that Rinna had talked about her father, the few times she had-

“-Zev!”

“Minu faellaveri, suni mataranni-”

This was Denerim; that had been almost six years ago now.

“-no, apologies, I lost myself for a moment.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Alistair said. “You need to sit down? Who do we need to fight?”

“No one,” Zevran said quickly. “You will absolutely not fight anyone, Alistair, are you listening to me? No one. This is entirely my problem, I will handle it myself-”

Estefan Fulgendez. Prince Estefan.

Two weeks ago he’d walked away from Antiva, and it had followed him home.

“Where are you going?”

“I must speak with the Queen immediately.”

It had been politically expedient to give Amaranthine to the Wardens. The Guerrins, under no circumstances, needed any more power than they already had. Fergus Cousland could have taken it, except for the fact that had been in the depths of his grief at the time. Arl Mallory had been too far away, and she hadn’t known any of the surviving Banns well enough to seriously consider promoting one of them. She would have taken it, except she’d anticipating the grumbling the executions she’d been about to order would cause - and the Wardens’ headquarters under Commander Duncan had been right in Denerim. Far too close, for a total unknown who’d suddenly secured her throne and won himself the acclaim of the country.

And far too close for Cailan’s bastard half-brother, so recently a rival for her position, however unwilling. He was young and impressionable, and in the pocket of a man who was quietly displeased about her ascension.

She still should have given Amaranthine to Alfstanna Eremon. Andraste’s flames- if she’d been going to promote an elf, she should have given it to Erlina!

It was a perpetual mystery to Anora how the Arling of Amaranthine continued to function, given the general unsuitability of its current Arl to rule. She suspected Nathaniel Howe had a lot to do with it. She should ask Erlina to have her people look into it.

Fergus and Alistair left. This was as private as they ever would be.

“Are you an idiot or do you feel yourself above all this?” she demanded.

“Excuse me?”

“Four years you have had Amaranthine, Arl-Commander,” Anora reminded him, tone even colder than she’d originally thought to make it. He had been quietly insolent the entire meeting, but this was outright disrespect. “Have you not learned how to execute your duty because you are too stupid to learn what it entails or because you think that you do not need to do them?”

“Amaranthine is running fine!”

“And by the Maker’s will alone, it seems, because you are never there!”

“I’ve been there for longer than I’ve been away from it.”

“Eight months after the burning of Amaranthine; and the arling fell to an Orlesian who was even less interested in his stewardship than you are! Five months beginning last Kingsway! Both times with little to no contact and with no one being entirely certain where you were! You have responsibilities!”

“I was in Amaranthine for all of 9:34.”

“Oh yes, one full year!” Anora exclaimed. “What devotion to duty!”

He bristled. She’d never seen him do that before. Her memories of him were as a steady and unassuming Warden fugitive, focused and seemingly unmoved while agreeing to support her queenship and executing her father alike; and as a quiet Arl with a grave expression who supported her without question, protest, or suggestion.  

“Are the ports of Amaranthine not docking enough merchant ships?” he demanded. “Are the fields not yielding enough amaranth dye to satisfy demand? Are the mines not producing enough? There are jobs and the farmers aren’t starving and there aren’t any darkspawn on the surface and it’s mostly free of bandits and the taxes are paid and delivered - I have done my duty!”

“You have not!” she told him. “The day-to-day functioning of your lands is the province of your stewards and your alieged lords - of whom you currently have but one of six! - and your Seneschal! Your duty is of politics, and the support of the country!”

“I have the Wardens!”

“And the Blight is five years gone!”

“And that farmland you’re trying to sell in the Bannorn is still suffering the effects!”

“So you have been paying attention,” Anora said, and settled back in her chair. “To something, at least.”

“I have been paying attention!”

As has been so clearly demonstrated by your timely presence at court,” she snapped. “Perhaps, then, you can accomplish this: Then tell me what the political factions of Ferelden are, and who leads them. Can you explain how I am related to Fergus, how both of us are related to Arl Bryland, and how all three of us are related to the Empress of Orlais? Speaking of Orlais, who is the Orlesian ambassador to our court? Perhaps the ambassador from Antiva is an easier question? Or who the noble families who used to occupy the empty bannorns were? Or the names of every noble who lost their life during the Blight, and how they are related to those who still live, and who misses them?”

His jaw was set, and he stayed silent in the brief pause she gave him.

“Can you hold a conversation with our foreign guests? Do you know how the Orlesian nobility and court function? Have you any conception of relationships between the cities of the Free Marches? Why Prince Baldewin is an only child? And, most importantly-”

She leaned forward.

“-what you thought you were doing in Antiva City!”   

He was glaring. Another new thing. She should have ordered him to come to court and stay sooner- then she’d know the why and the when of this change.

“I was sent a letter from the Warden-Commander of Antiva,” he told her, and the words were filled with a surprising amount of venom. “He said that a Crow had come telling a tale of darkspawn in Rialto, and claimed familiarity with Ferelden as grounds for his knowledge. We went to make sure he was all right, and we landed in Antiva City only to find that the Wardens of Antiva had given Zevran to the Crows. What I was doing was saving the man I love from being tortured to death!”

“What you were doing was causing an international incident!”

“If you’re trying to ask me for an apology, I am not giving one! I will not apologize for this!”

Like you’ve never apologized for killing my father after I asked you to spare him? she almost shot back, but held her tongue - on that.

“If you cannot refrain from causing us hardship,” Anora told him. “Then perhaps you should not be in a position to be construed as a representative of our country and my authority when you are merely acting on your own whims.”

“It was not a whim!”

“And I am becoming less convinced that you should be allowed to remain Arl.”

It was as good as if she’d slapped him across the face, and she gave herself a moment to savor the look of absolute incredulity on his face.

It was an empty threat, of course; but he was too politically inept to realize that.

He was still too popular to simply dispose of, and despite everything, under his authority Amaranthine had flourished, and was the only part of the country that had. Besides that, removing him would be a dangerous business - Alistair was a threat under Eamon Guerrin’s influence but he was far more loyal to the man in front of her than the one who kept making veiled comments about her lack of royal blood, and the Commander’s damnable penchant for recruiting amongst the outcast and the discarded had made the rest of his Wardens far too devoted to be swayed away from him. If he was removed from his position, they would be out for blood no matter what their Commander said on the matter. Half a hundred angry Grey Wardens was not something she needed.

Besides the Wardens, removing him would remove her guaranteed support from Amaranthine. She could give it to Fergus, but there was only so much she could do before cries of favoritism became too loud. She’d already resurrected the Edgehall title for Alfstanna Eremon, and there was no one else who she trusted enough to grant an entire Arling. Amaranthine and it’s Arl had also turned into something of an ideal for the elves of Ferelden, and while the ongoing migration of city elves to Amaranthine was a labor problem, alienage unrest across the country would be a worse one. And there was no telling what the southern border would turn into, if the Dalish got up to something and she didn’t have someone on hand to send. She had no idea what was going on in Ostagar as it was - Erlina had had no luck placing or hiring informants. The ones who hadn’t be outright turned away or chased out for being human or the wrong sort of elf, or left themselves in frustration, had yet to be heard from. It had been three years, for some of them.

And beyond immediate politics, if she got rid of the Arl-Commander she would have to deal with the loss of his fiancé. Zevran Arainai - Revasina, very well, she would have to have Erlina look into that change, as well- was far better company than the man he was going to marry, and much more useful. His knowledge had so far proven to be an excellent resource.

A man who’d broken into Fort Drakon to rescue someone he’d been hired to kill was better kept close. He was an assassin, a Crow by training, and having a friendly one was worth putting up with the Arl-Commander. Political favors were cheaper than coin, if she ever had need of his particular skills, especially when the state of the treasury was tightly-kept secret.

Perhaps she would give a dispensation so that the competent half of this couple could actually wield political power. She would have to see.

 There was a knock on the door - Erlina’s, in the pattern unique to her.

“Come in,” Anora called.

Erlina opened the door, and well, look who it was.

“A pleasure to return to your presence, Your Royal Highness,” Zevran greeted her, and bowed elegantly over her proffered hand, because he had manners.

“My congratulations upon your betrothal.”

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”

“You will be a welcome addition to our nobility,” she told him. “You could not be better placed than at the side of our Warden-Commander.”

“I would extend my most sincere apologies upon his behalf. He can be a handful, I know, and all I can say that he never means to be a complication.”

“Your apologies are appreciated,” Anora said, and wished that he Arl-Commander was capable of noticing something so simple as a verbal hint. “But I would appreciate them more from your fiancé.”

Behind him, the Arl-Commander crossed his arms.

“Understandably so.”

“Tell me, Messere Revasina - do you know how I am related to the Empress of Orlais?”

“Your late husband’s great-great-grandfather had a sister who married the then-Teyrn of Highever,” Zevran said, without a single moment’s pause to think on the question. “Her grandson married the sister of the then-Arl of South Reach. The Arl of South Reach, meanwhile, married the bastard half-sister of the Orlesian Imposter King. Meghren Dufayel was the cousin of Prince Reynaud Valmont of Orlais, who was the father of Her Imperial Majesty Celene.” 

Anora met the Arl-Commander’s eyes, and asked Zevran: “And do you know who the ambassadors to the Fereldan court are?”

“The Ambassador from Orlais is Rechard Lécuyer de Sauvon, a minor lord from the north of the country, near the Ander border. From Antiva is Nuncio Opielu Gualtierri of Serrana, from the Gualtierri family of the Nunciate. From Nevarra, Lady Evridice of Tarras Hall, one of the many distant Pentaghast cousins, as has been their custom. Tevinter has sent Lord Mitian Lahria from Imrusael, a non-mage from a relatively undistinguished family. Ansburg-”

“I see you are prepared for court,” she stopped him, and pointed at the Arl-Commander. “Educate him.”

“I am doing my best, Your Royal Highness.”  

“Very well. What did you come to see me for? If you are here to retrieve your fiancé, please, take him.”

“I will, but sadly, that is not my reason for seeking some moments of your time today.”

This would be interesting, then.

“Lord-Captain Mac Maric has informed me that Prince Estefan Fulgendez of Antiva is currently visiting court?”

“'Residing’ is a more appropriate term, I believe,” she said. 

“Ah. Well.”

This was going to be interesting, and she was not going to be pleased with it.

“And what is the problem with Prince Estefan?”

“It is entirely a personal complication,” he told her. “From my time with the Crows. I am here to inform you of it before it has time to develop into an issue, for diplomacy’s sake.”

She was not going to be pleased with this, but he was already showing far more consideration than the other man in this room ever had.

“Speak, then.”

“Have you heard of the Azul Treaty, Your Royal Highness?” Zevran asked, and the Arl-Commander was suddenly much more alert than he had been.

“I have not.”

“It was a piece of internal politics for the royal family of Antiva. King Fulgendo gave his third son, Claudio, to the Crows. He rose far in the ranks to one of the most powerful House Masters, and some seventeen years ago he took particular exception to the children of the fifth-eldest.”

“Prince Estefan.”

“Just so. The Azul Treaty between King Fulgendez and the House of Crows gave all of Prince Estefan’s children to the Crows.”

He paused.

“I am not certain how many there were. But the eldest was a woman - a girl, then - named Rinnala.”

The Arl-Commander reached over and gave him his hand to squeeze.

“She came to my old House, and we were placed together as part of a three-person cell. There were some further politics with the Crows, and further meddling by Claudio, and in the end I and the other person in our cell were manipulated into killing her.”

Yes, she didn’t like this at all.

“It was the reason I accepted a contract so far away from Antiva.”

“And Prince Estefan knows of this?” Anora asked, mapping political fallout in her head, and how much diplomacy might be needed to save this situation.

“I am not certain, but I would not be surprised if this was so. If he does not… Your Royal Highness, it is not something that I feel I can leave be. It is something I wish to make amends for.”

“Even at the cost of a diplomatic incident.”

“Is not every admission of serious wrongdoing is a diplomatic incident?” he asked. “She deserved better, and so did they. Our friend is dead, and recently, so is Claudio. I am the only one left to make these amends.”

She gave the Arl-Commander a look.

“Prince Claudio?”

“He wasn’t a prince,” he said, and his expression - Anora resisted the urge to close her eyes a moment, his obstinate expression and the protectiveness in it was so much like her father. “He was a Talon. And he had Zevran.”

She sighed.

“I cannot fault the fortitude of your honor,” she told Zevran. “However much I wish that this was not what you had come to tell me. Make it as little an incident as you can.”

“Of course, Your Royal Highness. I shall keep you appraised of the situation.”

She dismissed them. Zevran bowed before leaving; the Arl-Commander didn’t. But he never did.

“Erlina,” she said, after they’d closed the door behind them. Her friend stepped out of the hidden door that connected to a secret antechamber of the secretary’s office.

“I will have a list of options ready by evening wine, Anora.”

“And get your people on the question of what exactly was going on in Antiva, please,” she told her, slumping forward in her chair for a moment, thumbs pressed lightly into her temples. “As well as Kirkwall. Something happened to them there - he goes to Antiva immediately afterwards, and returns just as suddenly, and then they are engaged and the Arl-Commander has found a temper? I want to know why.”

Chapter Text

“Satheraan, you don’t-”

“Not here,” Zevran told him. “Please.”

Theron watched him, the whole walk back to the estate. He was putting on an act of being fine, but it was a fragile one. As soon as they passed through the door to the estate’s entrance hall, Theron tugged him into one of the withdrawing rooms meant to accommodate guests who needed a reprieve from a party.

“Satheraan, you don’t have to do this,” he said. “You’ve done enough, and it wasn’t your fault.”

“Ultimately, perhaps not,” Zevran told him. His eyes were shadowed with grief and the edges of his expression showed old sorrow, and Theron put his hands on Zevran’s waist, for the comfort of the connection. “But I was still there. And I did not listen.”

“You’ve hurt enough.”

Zevran made a noise - almost a laugh, flippant, but too weighted with self-depreciation to qualify.

“It has never stopped hurting. It will always hurt.”

Theron pulled him into a hug.

“I don’t want you to inflict more on yourself when you can avoid it.”

Zevran leaned into him, letting him take his weight.

“I can avoid this,” he said. “But that does not mean I should. It is not - it would be wrong. And it would be far more effort to keep up the lie than to admit it outright, at the onset, before anyone can be accused of duplicity.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“I am going to.”

If he pushed, this was going to be an argument. Zevran didn’t need an argument right now.

“I love you,” Theron said instead. “No matter how it turns out, I’ll be here.”

Zevran sighed.

“What was Anora speaking to you about?”

“She wasn’t speaking.”

“I would like to change my question. Do I want to know?”

“She was yelling at me about how I’m bad at politics,” Theron told him.

“She is not wrong.”

“Zevran-”

“No. No complaining. It is true and she was right and you were wrong. Did you yell back - no, do not tell me, of course you did. You owe her a letter of apology.”

“I don’t want to.”

“She is the Queen.”

“Just because she’s in charge doesn’t mean she’s right.”

“And here I thought that we would be leaving the pettiness behind us when Morrigan announced she was not coming.”

And here they were arguing anyway.

Take a breath, take a step back.

“I only said I didn’t want to, not that I wouldn’t,” Theron said. “But she knows I won’t mean it.”

“That does not matter,” Zevran told him. “It is about the form of the thing rather than the sincerity.”

“Then how are you supposed to know if someone is actually sorry?”

“You must rely on your knowledge of their character.”

So then how was Zevran supposed to get Prince Estefan to believe him?

“And when you don’t know them?”

“Then you ask people you know, and they tell you what they know of them, and so on. This why your reputation is important, Theron, and why you must cultivate contacts.”

Well, all right. That was people. He could do people. The reputation aspect wasn’t that much different than clan politics, if he looked at it the right way.

“So if I was going to cultivate contacts,” he said, and Zevran almost smiled. Good, he was pleased - if it distracted Zevran from the presence of Rinna’s father in Denerim, he’d keep coming up with questions. “Who should I know?”

“Your natural first recourse is your alieged lords,” Zevran told him. The act of lecturing was drawing him away from his thoughts, as Theron had hoped. “However you only have the one, plus a handful of knights. This severely limits your power base. Though - has Bann Tarcaisne brought his daughters?”

“I don’t know,” Theron had to admit.

“If he has then those are two more voices than you had. Your second recourse are your peers. You know Arl Eamon, and you have some form of rapport with Teyrn Fergus, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I believe that Arl Bryland thinks highly of you as well. And you have had contact with Arl Alfstanna?”

“Yes, and I met Arl Mallory this winter. We stayed at Ashengard Keep on the way back from Hallarenis’haminathe. And at the Bannorn of Calon.”

“And who is Bann there?”

“Graenan Swate,” Theron told him, unsure of whether Zevran didn’t know, if he was being quizzed. Just in case it was the latter, he added: “And we met his wife Gweneive too.”

“Good. Very good. Keep up those contacts once court begins - that is the point of court, reconnecting everyone. Ask them how things have been going with their families since last you have seen them - have you spoken with Bann Sighard since the Blight?”

“Maybe?”

“No, then,” Zevran said. “His son Oswyn - you remember Oswyn from Howe’s dungeon, yes? - married last summer.”

“He did?”

“Nathaniel received a letter. I am almost tempted to have you send a letter back to Vigil’s Keep and order him to come here, and Oghren to be in charge of the Wardens. But you must be able to stand without him.”

“How did you learn all this?”

Zevran gave him a look.

“I asked Nathaniel.”

Oh.

“Which is what I should have made you do long before this,” he said. “There are not so many Fereldan nobles. Eighteen that you have personally met, at least, is not so bad. It could be much better.”

Where was he getting eighteen from?

“The Queen, for one. The other Arls and Teyrn Fergus; Banns Tarcaisne, Sighard, and Swate; and everyone’s assorted spouses and children. Though I am really not certain how helpful Arlessa Isolde will be, given the, ah, circumstances of your meeting.”

True. Her husband had liked them a lot better. And he cared about Alistair. The marriage arrangement was unfortunate, but he’d been trying to promote Alistair’s social position, because if the man had a major flaw, it was bloodlines and rank.

“You should add Evain Caerthenn and Bedwyr Gaila,” Theron told him. “The last time we came to court for Anora’s coronation I talked to Bann Evain for a long time about the Blight. He was telling me all about how Caer Thenn survived and what he was trying to do to repair it. He wanted to know what I’d done with Vigil’s Keep. I told him to hire Voldrik Glavonak, but I don’t know if he ever did. And Bann Gaila always has a lot to say about White Peak and how the fur trapping and the fishing have been. And what his great-grandchildren are doing. Last year he was very concerned with who was going to foster his great-grandson since most of the knights died in the Blight.”

“Useful. Continue talking to them. And letters, Theron, you must get into the habit of correspondence.”

“I write letters,” Theron reminded him.

“Not only when you have important orders to give or questions to ask or family to speak to,” Zevran said. “Simply to keep that contact. Talk about how Amaranthine is doing. Interesting anecdotes about life at the Vigil. The doings of your people. Information about the market in Amaranthine City that you think would be of interest to whoever you are writing - the weather! Anything. Content does not matter so much, only the intent.”

So sincerity didn’t matter in apologies and topic didn’t matter in conversations.

Something had to be backwards about this, somewhere, but if this was how humans wanted to run their lives…

“Now go do your work. Your family lineage for Anora or the petition of town charter for the settlement outside the Vigil.”

“I’m going to need help with the charter petition,” Theron said hopefully.

“Then write up your lineage,” Zevran told him. “I must go speak to people.”

Drat.

It was weird working for an elf.

Him being Dalish wasn’t so much of an oddity - it was different, but easy to live with. They’d had the Dalish artisans up at the estate for most of the winter, and they’d hardly been different than anyone in the alienage, once you got past the language and the tattoos.

But every morning she woke up in her parents’ old house in her parents’ old bed, got tea and bread from the younger woman who rented Soris’s old bedroom, said hello to the woman’s new husband from Gwaren as he came back inside from feeding the pigeons, quickly checked on the elderly woman who rented her old room, and went to get dressed.

They were the nicest fucking clothes Shianni had ever owned, even nicer than the wedding dress still sitting wrapped up in her mother’s old trousseau. Every morning she finished breakfast and then changed into a chemise left to hang and air out overnight. It had long sleeves and a long skirt and the linen was a white as it could get. She had plain grey wool stockings, and leather walking shoes she had to wear short wooden pattens over to keep out of the mud and street muck, they were so nice. Over the chemise was a kirtle in Amaranthine’s golden-brown, and over that she had a sleeveless surcoat in Warden blue, shorter than the kirtle and tied at the waste with the long leather key-belt that indicated her status of chamberlain of the estate.

Iro had embroidered the back and lower hem of the surcoat for her as their first, secret courting present, in grey and white and yellow, and now Amaranthine’s bear prowled between her shoulders and flower strings swished just below her knees. With a hooded wool cloak thrown over it all no one ever looked twice at her, and would actually move out of her way in the road, because what elf could afford clothes like that?  

Walking home the night after the Arl had arrived with Kallian beside her in her armor - Maker bless, yes she was Ser Tabris now but that armor, and paid for and commissioned by the Arl no less! - Shianni felt like a real lady, complete with entourage.

She got a little closer to Kallian.

“So this man of yours-”

“Shut up!” Kallian told her, staring straight ahead and trying not to move her lips.

Kallian had been right about the man she’d met in Kirkwall. Fenris was a man with looks, with the white hair and the grey eyes and the contrast of it all with his skin, and the black leather and steel was quite the sight. He and Kallian had made an extraordinary pair, riding in at the front of the household with the Wardens, swords slung across their backs.

“He’s busy talking with Orana, he’s not paying attention to us.”

Orana was a mouse of woman, part of Lady Amell’s tiny household that had arrived from Kirkwall earlier in the week. The Arl and his people had seemed awful surprised to see the other two, Bodahn and his son - something about traveling with them during the Blight, and she was going to get the stories out of Bodahn as soon as she could corner him. The man was unfairly hard to pin down, for a dwarf.

Right now, Orana and Fenris were hanging back a few lengths, walking slower and talking lowly in Tevene. Fenris’s mabari, still a lanky puppy despite her size, was happily wandering about in the road, sniffing everything. Shianni had had some meat scraps from the kitchen ready for the pup when she’d arrived at the estate, remembering Kallian’s bitching letters from all across Ferelden during the winter about all the trouble she’d had convincing the man that mabari were dogs, and needed caring for and training to be happy, Shianni you would not believe how fucking stubborn this man is about mabari bonding, and she and Aditi were now fast friends.

A chamberlain, a knight, and a mabari walk into the alienage…

Soris would have been able to make a joke about that, and for a moment the grief stung. Kendells nugshit.

Usually Shianni would eat dinner at the estate, or very late and very quietly in her house so as not to wake her renters, but she’d gotten permission Messere Revasina to take off early for tonight.

‘Messere Revasina’, huh. That was the really weird part about working for the Arl - to her, he and his fiancé were still the Dalish Hahren Warden who’d turned up with far too much money and stories nobody had ever heard, and the assassin who’d taught her how to turn human corpses into unrecognizable sludge.

Her uncle Cyrion was waiting for them just inside the alienage gates, and Kallian dashed ahead to hug him. He staggered a little and patted her on the back.

“Plate armor, child.”

“Sorry, Dad. We brought guests.”

 “I know,” he told her, and they pulled apart as Fenris, Orana, and Aditi caught up.

“Dad, this is Orana, she’s the personal maid to the Ladies Amell who are staying up and the estate. And this is Fenris-”

Shianni watched her uncle size up Fenris. Kallian had gone over two decades uninterested in anybody, this was no time to decide that the only guy she’d ever given a second look wasn’t good enough for his daughter- uncle or not, Hahren of the alienage or not, if he didn’t accept Fenris she was going to have a talk with him about it!

“Fenris, Orana, this is my father Cyrion. He’s Hahren of the alienage here.”

But Cyrion smiled at him and welcomed him as warmly as was probably reasonable, for a stranger, even let it go, gracefully, when he held his hand out for Fenris to shake and Fenris stood there uncertain of what he was supposed to do, and bowed shallowly to Orana in return for her curtsey.

“Welcome to our alienage,” he greeted them. “My daughter and niece speak well of you.”

Well that was an exaggeration. All Shianni had told him about Orana, when she’d invited her over, was that she was another escaped Tevinter slave and it showed. It was Fenris they all knew things about, from where he’d been living in Kirkwall down to his sense of humor right down through the way he sharpened his sword, because Kallian was that gone on him.

The real question here was - who did her uncle have as guests?

It turned out to just be one guest, Alarith the shopkeeper. Reasonable, Shianni assumed. He’d been a slave in Tevinter back in his childhood years, and everybody knew the story of how he’d arrived in Denerim, barely nineteen and saved only by the grace of some Dalish who’d helped him on the last leg of his journey. From what he’d been carrying, he’d risen to the third-most prosperous person in the alienage. She and Kallian had beaten him out of the second and first spots last year, but for their entire childhoods he’d been the richest elf they’d ever known.

Iro counted as a guest. Maybe. But he was renting Kallian’s old room from Cyrion, so he didn’t count. Cyrion went to get Kallian and the others settled at the table and Shianni ducked into the kitchen, just behind the wall, and stole a kiss from Iro.

“Hey,” she said against his lips and he held her close. “Good day?”

“One less building likely to collapse,” he told her. “This is bad enough - I can’t imagine what it was like before the Blight burned most of it down and Arla’lanelan started paying most everyone’s wages.”

  Footsteps coming. Shianni drew away and Iro turned back to the fire. By the time her uncle entered she and he were acting like nothing had happened.

She was going to have to say something soon, though. Her uncle was Hahren, in charge of arranging and approving the marriages of the alienage, and over the last couple of months she had suddenly accumulated enough money and status to be a good catch. She wouldn't be surprised to learn that he’d started thinking about it, and dropping hints to letters to other alienages. People would be offering dowers and dowries from other countries, to secure a place for their child in her household.

But she wanted Iro. And Iro wanted to talk to the Arl first.

He’d better have time soon.

The table was very crowded with seven people to seat, but they managed by keeping most of the food in the kitchen. Iro sat quietly through the prayers of thanks to Andraste and the Maker for the food and the family to have it with, and smiled slightly at the candles Cyrion lit at the center of the table, around the fat pile of melted wax that was the household’s everlasting flame to Andraste.

“What?” Kallian asked him, noticing. “I know we don’t need them with the windows and the fire, but it’s tradition.”

“There is a blessing over the fire for Sylaise and her sister before meals in the clans, as well,” he said. “For food and family.”

“So where are you from in the Imperium?” Alarith asked Fenris and Orana, and Orana shrunk and Fenris scowled. Under the table, Aditi rumbled.

Well this was uncomfortable.

“Essere quies,” he told them, holding his hands up. “Dimite meo.”

Orana stared at the table, and very quietly said: “Magister Danarius Monetum of Carastes.” 

Fenris sank lower in his chair.

“I was from Qarinus, myself,” Alarith said, and Orana’s eyes crept up from the wood towards Fenris.

“Isn’t that where your mother was from?” she asked. “When your sister left, she said they were going back-”

Fenris’s head whipped around.

“What.”

Orana shrunk again.

“I thought-”

“I have a sister?”

“Of course you do, you and Varania-”

“Venedhis!”

Alarith frowned at him and Kallian said: “Hey now,” so he’d probably sworn.

Fenris looked around, and then looked away from Orana cowering at the other end of the table.

“Apologies,” he said. “I’d heard it said before. I’d hoped I was lied to.”

“Sh-she and your mother,” Orana stammered. “They- when you were chosen, you asked for- for a favor, and he made them Liberati. They went to Qarinus…”

She trailed off as he didn’t respond, and the entire room fell into awkward silence.

“Din’len te’vhenan, en’len el’vhenan ,” Iro said, tapping his cup sharply on the table and then drinking it all in one go.

“What’s that mean?” Shianni asked, eager to take the conversation somewhere else.

“‘Dead Tevenes, happy elves’,” he translated. It got Fenris to give a tight small not-smile, and the conversation turned from there to happier places, like Iro’s work repairing things in the alienage and Kallian’s stories of time on the road that winter with the Arl and the goings-on at the estate.

“I would have invited Messere Revasina’s mother,” Shianni said some time later. “But she’s going to be the Arl’s mother-in-law. It would be too awkward.”

“Revasina?” Iro asked, suddenly distracted from his food. “Nehna Sora Revasina?”

“Well, ‘Nehna Revasina’ for sure,” Shianni told him. “You know her?”

“Heard of her,” he said, looking thoughtful. “She was big news in Hallarenis’haminathe this winter. Interesting that she’s turned up.”

They tried pushing a little, but he refused to say more. They dropped that topic as well, and the conversation meandered through the rest of dinner and into drinks afterwards, until it was dark and Kallian, Fenris, and Orana had to leave for the estate. Shianni scratched Aditi one more time behind the ears, slipped her the last bit of bread, and walked them out to the gates.

When she returned to her uncle’s house, he and Alarith were ready and waiting. Iro had gone off to bed.

“So,” Cyrion said. “Thoughts?”

“He’s prickly,” Alarith said. “But Magisters do that to people. I remember there was a prayer that everyone said whenever someone went back on the market - ‘Please give them a Soporati master’. No one wanted to end up in a Magister’s household. Good on him for escaping, and getting his family out.”

“I’m concerned that he didn’t seem to know,” Cyrion said. “But it does say something good about his character.”

Alarith took another sip of his drink, finishing it off.

“Those markings on him aren’t tattoos,” he said. “Didn’t you notice? It was something magical, I remember how that feels. Magisters, Hahren.”

“Uncle Cyrion, you’ll never get her married to anybody else,” Shianni told him. “Nelaros Gaerentar was hard enough to arrange. Nobody’ll take an elf knight. Nobody will want to risk that. Anyway, she likes this one.”

“True,” her uncle said, and stared pensively into the fire. “True.”

“And he’s got a mabari,” she pointed out. “Hard to beat that.”

“If something happens,” Alarith said. “He’s a fighter. She’s a fighter. They can protect themselves, and anybody who ran away from a Magister can get away from angry southerners.”

“It’s decided, then,” Cyrion said. “So long as he agrees, they’ll be married.”

To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan-

What was his full name? Zevran had forgotten, had to go look it up.

To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana-

And he had to get up to pace and think, because what was the proper address for a royal mistress again?

To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, and His Lady Domsignora-

What was her name? The servants would be able to find out, if they didn’t know already.

To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, and His Lady Domsignora Zashira Elius of the City-

How formal was too much? He didn’t want to sound rude or curt but there was a time and place for the flowering of court poeticals and this was not it; but a simple opening would not be enough.

To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, and His Lady Domsignora Zashira Elius of the City;

The best of your health and fortune to you-

Zevran had to leave the desk. He hadn’t given that to Rinna, what right did he have to say anything like that to her parents?

He’d been writing in the reception room. Theron was next door in his office and looked up when he walked in, laying his pen down and pulling Zevran into his lap when he got close enough, arms wrapping around his waist to hold him there.

“I really don’t understand why they can’t just call themselves a town and everyone be done with it,” he said, and yes, there was the town charter, spread out across his desk.

“Because being a town is a legal distinction,” Zevran told him. “Villages are simply clusters of houses. A town can have walls, hold fairs, establish guilds, have an official market, hold townmeets to elect a mayor and discuss laws and taxes for your consideration, organize a guard or militia, have a certain number of skilled and educated labor as residents or citizens, is beholden to different tax laws, and all citizens of a town or city are Freemen.”

“But there are Freemen in the farms.”

“And there are peasants in the cities and the towns,” Zevran agreed. “Freemen own land, Theron, even if it is only their own house. Peasants rent. All Freemen are citizens somewhere, but they can be merely residents in another town or city if they rent there. This is often the case for merchants.”

“What if they get somewhere to live as part of their wages?” Theron asked. “Like the Wardens? Or the palace guard?”

“Then they are fainsmen and their status is directly tied to their employer. Generally they also do not pay taxes. It is a very desirable position, being a fainsman, better in some ways than being a Freeman and worse in others.”

“These things that only towns get seem like things everyone should have.”

“Well that is not how it works.”

Theron squeezed him briefly.

“And how many died during the Blight because they didn’t have walls?” he asked. “Or a militia; or even just a castle or a fortress or a local knight?”

“You must look at the history of it, Theron,” Zevran told him. “If this Blight had been a century and a half earlier, it is likely that less people would have died and that the farmlands would still be populated.”

“But there were no Wardens in Ferelden then.”

“And the Orlesians had not yet spent forty years and most of an Emperor’s reign ravaging the countryside and becoming increasingly angry and frustrated by Fereldan stonecraft. It is very heavy and square, yes? Difficult to break. Only the Anderfels builds so any longer, and it is because of the darkspawn.”

“But walls.”

Zevran leaned back and kissed his hair.

“And most people in this Age do not spend their childhood learning the stories of the glories of lost civilizations, hiding in the wild spaces, hanging onto life with everything they have, and dreaming of the safety of walls.”

“It wasn’t that desperate,” Theron grumbled.

“But when it was desperate it was very desperate, yes?” Zevran said. “Orlais has not had true walls in Ages, because who could muster the strength to make them necessary? And as Orlais is the style in many places, so came the architecture and martial culture. Antiva’s cities have walls still, but that because they began as pirate strongholds, and truly not much has changed. Rivain fortifies against the Qunari, but stone walls are not good against their explosives. The northern cities of the Free Marches retain theirs, in the most part, but Nevarra long ago plundered their walls for the necropolises, and the Emperors of Orlais frown on nobles who believe that they need walls.”

Theron was quiet a moment.

“So when they took Ferelden, they tore the walls down?”

“In many places, yes,” Zevran said. “Particularly in the Bannorn, but also at many of the seats of the Arls and Teyrns, those being the great fortresses of the country. They were useful for holding the land, yes; but in the event of a rebellion they did not want them to be too useful. In Nathaniel’s great-great-grandfather’s time, Vigil’s Keep had three sets of walls. The one weak wall and falling sentry tower you arrived to was what the Orlesians left.”

“But they had almost thirty years to rebuild,” Theron said. “Why-”

“Because establishing legitimacy is expensive, Theron,” Zevran cut him off, exasperated. “They may have driven the Orlesians out, yes, but that only meant that there was space for someone else to come in. Maric exhausted all the gold Meghren Dufayel and the other Orlesian lords left behind reestablishing embassies, moving the national government back to Denerim, fixing the city, and holding court to impress foreign dignitaries.”

“Well it should have gone to the walls-”

“And then it would have all been wasted when the Free Marches or some disgruntled Orlesian second sons came looking to conquer!” Zevran exclaimed. “You do not have to be strong so long as you appear strong; and it is a very good stalling tactic while you attempt to become strong! Ferelden was playing for time for twenty-three years, for the entirety of King Maric’s reign; and then it stalled under Cailan just when it had begun to recover, and then they had the Blight! And as awful as it would have been if it had not be stopped at Denerim, the fact that only Ferelden was affected means that this is the weakest country in Thedas, and worse yet it is most certainly becoming apparent to everyone else! Anora is doing with this court season what Maric did when he gained the throne, which is putting on a show for the rest of the world so that they are deceived into thinking that Ferelden is not worth attacking - and she is making alliances by seeking a foreign husband and by declaring that everyone must be married and she is making a bigger gamble than she had realized, Theron, by having you and Alistair at court in front of foreigners because neither of you are prepared and she is trying to show that Alistair is not a weak point that can be used against her and that you are not someone to be crossed-”

“But I’m not,” Theron interrupted. “And if that’s what she wanted I don’t see why she was upset about Antiva City.”

“Because there is a difference between a loyal Arl with a strong reputation and a maddened war hound!”

He felt Theron go stiff behind him and grabbed his arms before Theron could let go of him and push him off.

“That was cruel of me and unfair to you and I am sorry.”

“Are you angry at me?” Theron asked, tone clipped. “Or am I just a convenient target?”

“I am not angry. I came in here because the letter is not progressing well. I know what I need to say but I cannot phrase it properly and it has been two days. It has been six years and I have accepted what happened and it should not be so difficult! I would just go over to their quarters and tell them but a letter would be kinder than a surprise visit; but also I just want to - to have it over with!”

“It is over with.”

“No it is not!”

“It sounds like you’re angry at yourself, Satheraan.”

“I am not angry. I am frustrated.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it is my responsibility.”

“Only because you’re making it your responsibility.”

“I would be happier if you would make this your responsibility,” Zevran said, flinging his hand out over the paperwork.

This time, Theron pushed him off.

“We’re not doing this,” he said. “Come back when you’re ready to talk about it. And I am making it my responsibility. I’m doing it.”

“If you were making it your responsibility,” Zevran told him, turning for the door. “You would already know these things and you would not need me to tell you that the rest of the country is not doing so well as Amaranthine!”

“It’s been four years since the Blight ended,” he heard Theron say. “It can’t be that bad.”

“If Anora fails, the person after her will care less than dogshit about Dalish land grants and I would have thought that you would be keeping an eye on politics if only for their sake,” Zevran told him, and flung the door shut behind him.

He had a letter to finish.

To His Royal Highness, Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, and His Lady Domsignora Zashira Elius of the City;

The best of your health and fortune to you, from Zevran Revasina of Amaranthine, formerly of House Arainai of the Crows-

“She’s forcing them to get married,” Alistair said. “Who does that to a man?”

“Nobles,” Andreas said. “In the Anderfels, often only thing they do.”

“Not the only thing,” Lockhard disagreed. “A lot of them fight the darkspawn.”

“Everyone fights darkspawn. Not special.”

“But what if they don’t want to get married?” Alistair complained. “I mean, it would be one thing if some of them have sweethearts or something, but if it hadn’t just, you know, just sort of happened, you were around and they were around and you, I don’t know-”

“I don’t think that’s usually how people get married,” Lockhard said.

“Well how else are you supposed to do it?”

“You go to house parties and festivals and you meet people,” Lockhard told him. “And your parents introduce you. And then you go courting.”

“I’m glad I don’t have any parents, that sounds awful.”

“Good on you being Fereldan, then,” Lockhard said, and came at him with the swords again.

Alistair was still not used to this. Granted, it had taken him a while to be okay with sword and shield. But he’d been a kid then. Shouldn’t it be easier to learn a style since he’d already mastered a different one? He knew how to use a sword.

But it was surprisingly hard to focus on two blades at once. His footwork was wrong for this style still, and Lockhard made it look easy, with his ridiculous height and all the graceful arcing and sidestepping. Alistair kept getting his swords tangled, for forgetting that he could block and cut on both sides. Lockhard had settled on teaching him two swords, because he was also a tall human, but Alistair was considering getting Zevran to teach him sword and knife, instead. At least to start.

Zevran was very busy, though. He’d tried to go talk to his friend the past two days, but he always seemed to be out somewhere, speaking to the servants or down with some merchants, or shut up somewhere working on his letter or helping Theron. Maybe Andreas, then, and he could do knives or short swords to start.

Lockhard kept him at practicing forms for a while yet, until they broke for water and sat down on the bench. The private gardens weren’t quite large enough to practice in, when everyone came out at once, but this graveled area was fine for a couple of people at once.

“‘Githeren’,” Andreas told him, as he guzzled the last of his water; and a for a moment it was just like practice at Soldiers’ Peak, training in body and language.

“‘Ye gether’, ‘du geths’, ‘ran githre’, ‘hi githere’, ‘gir giths’, ‘degir giths’, ‘sied githeren’,” he rattled off. He didn’t even have to think about Ander verb conjugations any longer, they’d been doing this so long. But- “I don’t know that word. What’s it mean?”

Andreas grinned and said: “To marry.”

“You’re awful, you know that?”

They’d gone back to practicing when Shianni came down the path and waited at the edge of the area.

“Hey,” Alistair greeted her, breaking away from the practice. “Someone need us?”

“Arl Eamon is here to see you.”

Maybe he could talk his way out of this. He’d need, what, five, ten minutes to quickly wash up, dry off, and get changed? That was enough time to come up with something-

But no, here came Arl Eamon, down the path behind Shianni. Alistair caught a flash of annoyance on her face she glanced behind her to see what he was looking at - she hadn’t expected him to follow? It was a nice day to talk outside, though, and he was more comfortable out here than in one of the sitting rooms.

He wished he’d had a chance to wipe off the sweat and change clothes, though.

“Arl Eamon,” he greeted, and then realized a few seconds too late that because he hadn’t bowed, Lockhard and Andreas hadn’t, either. There was no good way to signal them to do so without being obvious and drawing attention to it. Oh well. Eamon had always been more forgiving then Isolde, he’d let it go.

“Alistair, my boy!” Eamon greeted him in turn, a smile on his face. “It's good to finally see you! Who are your friends?”

“Wardens Lockhard Brant and Andreas Kasteros.”

Andreas was eyeing the Arl.

“Should we stay, Captain?” he asked in Ander.

“No, it’s fine,” he replied in the same language. “See you for dinner?”

“Hm,” Andreas said, and spent a moment looking Eamon over before walking off with Lockhard.

“Foreigners?” Arl Eamon asked, after Alistair offered him the bench.

“The First Warden sent them with me from the Anderfels, when I went to give our report after the Blight,” Alistair told him. “I came back with a whole group of them. They’re up at Soldiers’ Peak now, and I’ve been living with them for - huh, a couple years now.”

“You aren’t at Vigil’s Keep?” Arl Eamon asked, eyesbrows rising, and Alistair explained about being assigned to oversee the repairs to the Peak, and the Voshai’s attachment to him, and his captaincy.

“You’re better suited to the Vigil, my boy,” Eamon told him. “Someone of your station-”

“But I’m a Warden-Captain-”

“And why not Constable?” he asked. “Perhaps the Arl-Commander deserved his position for killing the Archdemon, but you were the Blight Warden, not that Howe.”

“I mean, it would be nice to be at the Vigil,” Alistair admitted. “It feels like I only ever spend a lot of time Theron when there’s a problem, nowadays. But Nate’s good at his job, and Oghren and I are Warden-Captains of the outposts because we were with Theron during the Blight.”

“‘Nate’?” Arl Eamon asked.

“He’s a friend,” Alistair told him, feeling oddly defensive about it. “He’s a lot better than his father, for sure.”

“Still, a traitor’s son.”

“He’s not his father!”

“All sons can become their fathers,” he said. “It isn’t an easy influence to break.”

“Well Nathaniel will never.”

“Your faith in people does you credit, my boy; but you should learn to exercise caution.”

“I can tell for myself who’s trouble, thanks.”

Arl Eamon gave him a look - and Alistair remembered that look, he hadn’t been bestowed with that particular head tilt and eyebrow raise since he’d been, what? Six? Seven?

It still made him squirm just as badly as it had then.

Don’t be rude, boy, Arl Eamon’s old words echoed in his memories.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

Eamon patted him on the back.

“Court manners, my boy. You’re in the watch of nobility, now. You wouldn’t want to disgrace yourself in front of the young ladies, would you?”

“So about that-”

“There are a number of young women of good standing at court this season,” Eamon told him. “Arl Bryland’s daughter is only a year younger than you, and the best match for your station. When her father dies, you’d have your own arling, and your other children would be Arls! You’d have to make additions to the marriage contract specifying inheritance, of course, no reason to hand South Reach over the crown when she’s got Gwaren and Denerim already. Arl Mallory’s second-eldest is in the same situation-”

“Arl Eamon, I-”

“Or there’s Bann Kelaig’s daughters. Winter’s Breath isn’t the nicest Bannorn but it’s right on the border. Jader isn’t too far, and they’re sitting on all the road tolls from Gherlen’s Pass and the taxes and tariffs from the Orlais and Orzammar trades.”

“Look, I don’t-”

“If you want to stay close to Amaranthine,” Eamon continued, sounding rather put out about that possibility. “Bann Tarcaisne’s elder daughter is only three years younger than you. Not the best choice, but if it suits you, you could do worse.”

“Arl Eamon I don’t want to get married.”

“Nonsense. You’re a young man of good station and career. You could have been king-”

“I didn’t want to be king, either-”

“And I suppose you never will now,” Arl Eamon said. He almost sounded disappointed. “You could have done a fine job, and I worry that you’re squandering your potential. If you aren’t Warden-Commander of Ferelden and Arl of Amaranthine, where will you ever get your chance to show what you’re capable of if you don’t marry into a noble family an inherit a title?”

But he didn’t want to get married.

Eamon sighed.

“You may only be my nephew by marriage, Alistair,” he said, voice a little soft and sad. “But since Connor - you are the closest thing I have to a son. Isolde is pregnant again, but is she nearly out of her childbearing years and nothing is certain. If you were not a Warden…”

There was a lot of possibility in that unfinished sentence, but Alistair still felt like pointing out that if he hadn’t become a Warden, he would have become a Templar, and he’d almost certainly have died in Kinloch Hold after Uldred had returned from Ostagar.

“Maker’s blessings with the Arlessa,” Alistair told him. He hadn’t heard that Isolde was pregnant.

“Thank you, my boy,” Eamon told him. “Cailan never had children, and my sister’s blood has no more chance of flowing through the Kings and Queens of Ferelden. We Guerrins are giving all the help we can, with how much we have lost - but you, my boy, you could help restore this country.”

“It seems to be doing all right. I mean, it’s not as good as it was before the Blight, but it’s getting better.”

“That is only appearances,” Eamon said darkly. “And appearances are everything. The Queen knows this. Her father would have run this country into the ground, and she will yet, if left untempered. Children never stray far from their parent’s ways. Your father was a good man, and a good husband, and you are sure to follow him.”

My father didn’t want me, Alistair thought suddenly, and shoved it away. That was a new feeling, and unworthy of the man. Maric had been a good king.

“I don’t think I will, Arl Eamon. You think too highly of me.”

The Arl of Amaranthine was not a good employer.

The Arl rose each morning later than the housekeeping servants arrived, but still before most nobles tended to be awake. He got out of bed, he put on armor, he went down to the kitchens to have breakfast, and then he fought his Wardens, guards, and fiancé in the private gardens until his fiancé made him leave and attend to work in his office.

He stayed in his office until lunch, or through lunch, after which his fiancé had put him to lessons with Maman about manners and decorum. Lunch was the one time that Damien tended to see him, despite the way the Arl tended to stick to his schedule, because even he couldn’t turn lunch being brought to him on a tray into an opportunity to suggest that he ‘enjoy his free time’.

He was a personal manservant. He did not have ‘free time’! The lord rose, and the manservant was there to dress and shave him and have breakfast delivered. The lord went to walk the grounds, and the manservant followed to attend him. The lord closeted himself in his office to work, and the manservant fetched parchment and ink and books and people as needed. The lord went on social calls, and the manservant stood unobtrusively to the side, waiting for orders. The lord hosted a private gathering, and the manservant attended the guests. The lord went to bed, and the manservant was there to undress him and help him review the business of the day.

The housekeeping staff spoke to the lord through his chamberlain, but the manservant was the representative of the personal service staff and select junior and branch-line members of the family. While the manservant was awake he was busy, he slept only once the lord did and had holiday time only on the great Chantry feasts, and only if the lord was magnanimous enough to grant it to him.

He was not supposed to present himself at the lord’s study for his service only to be told that he didn’t need him and that he should go ‘enjoy his free time’.

Damien had trained his entire life for his job. He was his job. He was a personal servant and he did not have hobbies, he did not have ‘free time’, and it was frankly insulting that the Arl of Amaranthine was assuming otherwise!

The Arl gave him nothing to do but bring him his lunch if he hadn’t gone and gotten it for himself, and sooner or later someone was going to catch onto the fact that he was being paid sixty silver a month plus room and board and two sets of clothes a year to deliver lunch. This was a situation beyond all reasonable accounting and most certainly was grounds for termination of employment. As it stood he was not worth what they were paying him, and sixty silver a month plus benefits was not a cost that was lightly accrued, even for a high noble house. What you saved on two months’ pay for a releasing a servant of his standing would buy a trained horse.

If he got fired he and his mother would have nowhere to go - well, nowhere reasonable, because his mother had come back from breakfast this morning and asked him how he’d feel about her and Nehna getting properly married and that was fine so long as no one expected him to call Nehna Revasina ‘mother’ or go live in Mont-de-glace.

Though Maman was getting on in years. She was forty-six, and if she properly married Nehna she’d have a merchant’s income and of course things would cost next to nothing in the back end of nowhere. She could retire and live comfortably, or at least in happiness.

But it would be without him. They’d never been apart a day in their lives and Damien wasn’t sure they’d be able to handle that absence. He certainly wouldn’t be able to.

It would be a few hours yet before the Arl would be wanting lunch. If he had to stand for being discarded and disregarded, he decided, today was the day he would refuse to put up with it. He got his coat and hurried across the private gardens to the stables.

“No, no treats today, I’m sorry,” he told the halla quietly in Orlesian. They seemed to respond to any language as well as another, and this way the stablehands couldn’t mock him for talking to the halla like they could talk back. “Maybe next time.”

Nehna Revasina took care of her buck, but the doe in the next stall over, here in the back of the stables, wasn’t attended to. Presumably she belonged to the Dalish mage who had helped the chamberlain write their letters to Lady Stockard, but Damien hadn’t seen him since they’d returned. If the Dalish had thought that the stable hands were good enough to take care of the halla, he’d been wrong - those same stable hands had smirked at him when he’d come in the afternoon of their first full day in the city, frustrated and wearing his gloves and house shoes and Marcher fashion, but they’d stopped making comments behind his back about how he was about to get gored when both halla kicked out the stable partition latch doors to get closer to him.

Damien didn’t know the doe’s name, but he’d taken to calling her Jasmine. She didn’t seem to mind, and tried to follow him around as he slipped into her stall.

“No, girl, no,” he said, gently pushing her head back around. “I can’t brush you if you’re facing me.”

She huffed pointedly at that to insist that yes he could, but stayed facing front to oblige him, leaning into his brush strokes.

Eirlin watched them sadly over his partition wall.

“You’ll have your turn when Nehna comes,” Damien told him, but gently scratched the soft skin of his nose anyway. 

He was down on his knees in the clean hay with the pick and one of Jasmine’s back hooves when she inched forward.

“Hey, hey,” he reminded her. “I’m down here-”

There was a sharp, muffled gasp from above him. He dropped Jasmine’s hoof and stood. The Amells’ lady’s maid was standing there, caught in the act of trying to flee by Jasmine grabbing the cuff of her sleeve in her teeth. In her other hand, the maid still had a small bundle of crocuses, not tattered by halla teeth like the few that had dropped into Jasmine’s stall.

She was staring at him and he was staring at her. He had hay sticking to his trousers still and there were tears welling up at the corners of green eyes.

“Crocuses were a good choice,” Damien blurted, out of sheer embarrassment, because if they were talking about the flowers maybe she wouldn’t notice the halla hair on his sleeves or the way he probably smelled faintly of stable. “Halla love flowers.”

“Do they?” she said faintly.

 “Yes,” he said. “And springtime buds on the trees. When Maman and I were in Orlais, we didn’t go to country until summer, but I would hear the gamekeepers talking about where and when they’d found stripped trees and scat piles-”

What was he saying. As the Amells’ lady’s maid and the Amells’ being guests of the Arl and something like family, she and he were of approximately the same social standing and one did not talk about animal feces in polite company!

“There are halla in Orlais?”

“In the Dales, yes,” he told her, grateful that she seemed to be overlooking his disgraceful manners. “They run feral on the Exalted Plains, and in the Arbor Wilds. I have heard they are also feral in the Tirashan and the Brecilian, and the Hunterhorns and Frostbacks and the Gamordan Peaks - wherever humans are not often found. Halla are intelligent. They know they are meant to be with elves, and that humans are more likely to kill them than help them.”

“They’re meant to be with elves?” she asked, and hesitantly offered the rest of the crocuses to Jasmine, who let go of her sleeve and delicately took a few, munching happily away.

Eirlin sighed and let out a small, pitiful moan. The maid smiled, a fleeting little thing, and Damien realized that she had the face for it - it was just that the few times he had seen her, he hadn’t noticed. She’d always been tucked away in the corner or off to the side, quiet and small and closed off.

She was even more unobtrusive and retiring than he was, in the course of his duty, he realized, as she gave the rest of the crocuses to Eirlin, making him perk up. How… commendable. And unexpected.

He was going to have to walk out of this stall with hay and hair stuck to him, and she was going to see. He ducked down behind the stall door to pick up his coat from where it had fallen off the stall partition and quickly tried to brush himself off. It didn’t work very well. If he folded his coat over the arm with the worst of the hair, and let it hang in front of his pants…

“Yes, they are meant to be with elves,” he told her, once his coat was properly arranged and he had stepped out of the stall. Were the stablehands watching? The stablehands were watching.

The stablehands were watching her, and he was close enough to see her start to tremble under the attention. Jasmine’s head tilted dangerously, and Eirlin’s ears flicked up as he scraped his hoof against the pounded dirt below the hay as he resettled his weight.

The halla had scented a scared elf and they were going to do something about it, unless the situation was ended. His other sleeve was also dirtied, but she had already graciously forgiven the incident of the feces.

“Would you permit me the honor of escorting you back to the manor, Mistress-”

He didn’t know her name! He didn’t know her name.

“Orana,” she said. “Oh- oh no, you wanted- I- uh- Ar- Archieros? Mistress Archieros? Messere Daganiri.”

She knew his name, how could he have overlooked this, this was unconscionably rude of him. She took his offered arm anyway, and he was going to have to come up with a very good way to apologize to her.

Mistress Archieros paused at the threshold of the stable.

“Do you- do you want to put your coat back on. Messere Daganiri?”

Yes. It was cold. But it was preserving his dignity.

“No, thank you.”

The warmth of the kitchen was a blessed relief. The sight of the Arl at the fire, methodically breaking chicken bones to get at the marrow, was less so. The Arl had been hungry and he had not been there to fetch food, no matter that he’d been planning on doing it at the usual lunch time, this was what he was for.

The Arl saw them come in and did not, as Damien bowed and Mistress Achieros curtsied, berate him for being negligent in his duty.

“I took lunch early today, you don’t need to bring anything,” he said.

“As you say, Your Arlship,” Damien replied, holding the bow a bit longer than normal. “I shall see you for dinner.”

It was a little impertinent, but asking ‘Shall I see you for dinner?’ implied that he might not. If he didn’t give the Arl the option-

“No, you don’t need to,” the Arl told him, and picked up another bone to crack.

A dismissal, and his effort was all in vain, as usual. Tomorrow, he resolved, he would stand outside the Arl’s office and not leave until it was time to fetch lunch. He would not be cheated out of the one job he was allowed. Not any longer.

He and Mistress Archieros passed through the kitchen. He began to withdraw his arm to wish her a good afternoon, but she placed a hand on top of his and said: “We will be in the Arlessa’s salon if you can join us.”

“Then I will join you directly,” he promised, and only properly realized what he’d just committed himself to after she’d walked away. Doubtless she had meant that she and the Ladies Amell would be in the Arlessa’s salon, and he simply could not arrive with nothing to do. He could not be seen to be derelict in his duty, no matter that the Arl had been derelict in assigning him his duty.

What could he do? What could he possibly do in the Arlessa’s salon that could be construed as work for the Arl-

Ten minutes later he arrived at the Arlessa’s salon with the Arl’s armor and sword and the bag with the upkeep supplies in it, only to find that Mistress Archieros was not in the Arlessa’s salon with the Ladies Amell, but with the assassin children. They were all at the tea table, with a few cheap books and a sheaf of low-quality paper and a reed pen.

Very well then. So long as the assassin children stayed away from him.

Damien spread out the canvas square that was used to protect floors from the armor cleaning solution and polish when maintenance was done inside. Properly this was to be done somewhere like the stables or the kitchen, but he had been invited, and if the Arl was going to put on his armor every morning and wouldn’t let Damien help him, then by the Maker Damien was going to make certain that it was presentable armor!

He started on the breastplate first, because that seemed easiest to hold. He hadn’t had to do this before, really. There had been old armor sets on display in the mansion in Lydes that he’d learned to clean, but that was cleaning up accumulated dust and household grime, not real wear. The Duchess had paid some chevaliers’ squires to come in every six months to do the real work of keeping the iron and steel pieces from rusting, and keeping the leather from snapping. In Starkhaven, Messere Arhuis had had a city sword he’d tasked him to take care of, but that was again more a showpiece than a functional tool, and swords were relatively easy.

Damien was hesitant to touch the Arl’s sword much, anyway. The hilt was Dalish, and the lines reminded him strongly of the architecture in Lydes, but surely no metal was not supposed to have that slick blue sheen under the dark patina.

Warden armor was surprisingly fiddly. There were molded bits, and crevasses, and the insides of the silverite plates were engraved with symbols, the lines colored by some blue-tinged white material trapped under a sort of resin, or - glass?

Touching the largest one, on the inside of the breastplate over where the Arl’s heart would be,  made the nerves of his fingers vibrate. It was deeply uncomfortable and off-putting, and he folded the cleaning cloth over three more times to keep away from it.

He’d thought this would be like polishing silver. It was not - and the gloves and boots had silverite detailing and the leather would need cleaning and oiling, and the heavy gambeson that went under the plate had those rows and rows of silverite scale in with the quilting and it was going to be awful, even worse than dealing with the overlapping plates of the faulds and paldrons he hadn’t even touched yet-

“You’re doing it wrong,” the girl assassin said, right next to him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, dropping the cleaning cloth and letting the breastplate slip out of his grasp in the process. She snatched both from him and retreated to the other edge of the cloth, hunching defensively over the plate and rubbing it down in hard, confident strokes.

“Tiar,” Mistress Archieros said gently. “That’s Messere Daganiri’s job.”

“He’ll ruin it,” she snapped, and grabbed one of the small pots Damien had opened to check the contents of, and then put aside. “This armor has to have cost more than all three of us and he didn’t even start heating the wax!”

“Tiar-”

“He’s fancy. He can help you.”

He was not going to fight an assassin, even a young one. She clearly knew what she was doing better than he did. He stood from the cloth and went to see what was going on at the table.

It was writing exercises, the sort he’d had in Lydes when he was a young child. Mistress Archeiros was very carefully, and very slowly, copying letters from the books and from a somewhat sloppy hand that must have been the boy assassin’s writing. 

She finished the last letter she had been working on and looked up at him.

“Lady Amell was teaching me, in Kirkwall,” she said. “But then everything happened, and she hasn’t the time any longer. Diego and Tiar know their letters, and they tell me what’s written in the books…”

Damien took a closer look at the books on the table. Marcher imports, serial trash, not real writing. Only good for a feast day’s entertainment, if you liked that sort of thing.

The estate library was just the next room over. He ducked out of the salon and quickly grabbed the simplest real books he could see.

“Move those,” he ordered the assassin boy, coming back with a short stack of better-quality reading material. “Here - Sister Petrice, Brother Genitivi, the Canticle of Threonides, and Oria Amanti. Studies, religion, and poetry.”

The assassin boy carefully opened the cover of the topmost one.

“Pictures,” he said.

“Yes, there are pictures. Now, Mistress Archeiros, I believe that your writing will flow smoother if you do not hold that pen like a knife-”

Satheraan was alive.

She’d held him in her arms again, she’d heard his voice again, seen his face, even kissed him. Against all probability and her old prayers otherwise, he was alive.

In another situation, she’d have better appreciated the fact that she’d prayed so often to Falon’din for the comfort of her son’s soul and he’d turned up betrothed to a Dalish man dedicated to that god, but she and he weren’t speaking so she refused to give him even the potential satisfaction of considering it further.

And she had Tanis. That was good, even if they were living in a human city, no matter if they were surrounded by elves or not and no matter if she’d sent a letter south with the Arl’s brother and sister to have delivered to Dovachay or not. She hadn’t been in a city this long since Lydes, and what was she supposed to do?

Oh, Satheraan came to see her every day. And she went down to see Eirlin in the stables to brush him and check his tack and suspiciously eye the other halla in residence there. She hadn’t come with them and the Arl wasn’t supposed to come here often, so who had she arrived with?

There was also the matter of Satheraan’s children. They’d all ridden here together and they only lived just down the hall. They’d broken into her room the first afternoon here, and she and the girl had stared at each other until the boy quietly closed the door and relocked it.

They were Crow children, and it- had Satheraan been like that, when he’d been their ages? They hadn’t talked about Antiva, only Mont-de-glace and the Chasind. He’d been keen on the news of Salladin, and she hadn’t… quite told him, about how well the two of them got along, or that if he wanted to go find her he’d have to go by himself. She almost wanted to warn him not to go, but she’d seen him trying to connect with Damien, on the road here, when he wasn’t riding with her or his children.

He loved those children. Nehna wasn’t sure if any of them had said it to each other, or if the children loved him in return, but it was obvious to her how he felt. She hoped, for the sake of his heart, that the children loved him back. He’d be a good father for them. He was a good one for the sorceress’s boy, for what little she’d seen of them together before they’d had to leave.

That would make her a grandmother. And Tanis-

As unexpected as it was, she was currently hiding in the garden, avoiding everyone who had come through, but especially Tanis. That morning the chamberlain had approached them both at breakfast and asked, straight out, if they were married. Tanis had said: “Oh!” very quietly and started to edge her way towards an answer, and Nehna had grabbed the rest of the rolls and fled the kitchen and been in the gardens ever since.

What if Tanis had told her yes.

What if she’d told her no?

She loved Tanis. She loved Tanis and what if-

It was too big a thought and she couldn’t face it. She went looking for a new spot in the gardens instead, and ended up finding her son.

He was standing on the gravel path under the pine walk, scowling at the tiny colorful crocuses sprouting around their roots, huddled into the thick fur collar of his cloak. His entire expression changed when he caught sight of her, and his shoulders dropped, and once again Nehna had to remind herself of where and when she was. Satheraan had grown up to look so much like Adan, and the Crow tattoos down the side of his face tricked her for a second, every time she looked at him.

“Mamae,” he greeted her warmly, and wrapped her in his cloak when he hugged her hello. She rested her face in the collar and breathed deeply through the fur, staving off the few threatening tears. Whenever he looked at her like that, that same way he had when he’d been a child, and not yet hurt by the world-

“It is a bit cold for a walk,” he told her, and she moved so that she could speak.

“It’s far colder right now further south. This is almost warm.”

He sighed, theatrically disappointed.

“Oh, how well I know that fact. What terrible winters you must have suffered in the Wilds.”

“You should come meet the Dlanikik,” she said, and suddenly realized that she did want him to - she wanted to go back to Mont-de-glace and she wanted Satheraan to come with her, to follow her on the trading roots and jest with the Chasind and charm the Orlesian merchants into bartering lower. “It snows Kingsway through Justinian, and the ground never unthaws.”

“Only two months without snow!” he said, the dismay real this time.

“And two weeks of flowers, smaller than the nail on your littlest finger and barely leaving the ground. The moss and the lichen bloom and turn colors, at least where it’s not just ice over rock, and snow over that.”

“How do they live.”

“They hunt whales,” Nehna told him. “Very, very big fish - as big as dragons.”

“Andraste protect us,” he muttered. “Remind me to stay away from oceans.”

“It’s the smaller whales you have to worry about. They have teeth.”

“Fish should not have teeth!” he exclaimed, and she smiled, remembering her reaction to first seeing the killer whales of the southern seas. “They are meant to be small, not larger than the boat you catch them from, and put in chowder!”

“You get a lot of lamp and cooking oil out of a whale.”

“And I will stay with oil from sesame seeds and reasonably-sized fish, thank you.”

She’d have to show him some of her ivory carvings - she should make something for him, she’d made things for Tanis and Damien. But what would he like?

“What did the crocuses do to you?” she asked, thinking about it. Amaranthine’s symbol was a bear, she could do one of the white southern ones.

“They are insufferably cheerful,” Satheraan told her. “It is terribly inconsiderate of them.”

Insufferably-

She pulled back to look at him.

“You’re not happy?” she asked, and his smile slid sideways, the sincerity of it leeching away.

“I am having a difficulty,” he said. “So I have stepped away from it for now. I have been considering taking a walk.”

“Let’s go then,” Nehna urged, struck with the sudden desire to leave for a little while, and get away from all this. “Go ride outside the city, walk around in the hills, and come back for dinner.”

“Dinner is a long time from now,” he said, but didn’t sound particularly worried about it.

“So we’ll have plenty of time.”

That seemed to be enough for him. They got Eirlin and a horse and he led them through the streets and out the gates, then along the walls into the hills above the great tower in the southeastern corner of the city.

But he got quieter as he did so, more withdrawn, and she started worrying.

“Satheraan?” she asked, once they’d passed over the crests of a few hills and Denerim was far below them, even the tower distant. “What were you having trouble with?”

They were on a flat rise now, with an overlook. He dismounted his horse and sat down on the edge of it, far too close to falling for her peace of mind. She joined him on the edge, close enough to catch him if he slipped. Off on the horizon, the Waking Sea glinted in the sunlight. 

“I am writing a letter,” he said after some moments of silence between them. “I had not thought it would be so difficult. Difficult to some degree, yes. But not so much as this.”

“Who are you writing to?” Nehna asked. “Do you have friends in Antiva?”

It wasn’t a laugh, that noise, but there wasn’t a better word.

“Hardly,” Satheraan said. “The only people I could ever call such-”

He cut off and his expression closed. He slumped forward slightly, and she resisted the urge to grab him. He wasn’t falling, just… hurting.

“There is a Prince of Antiva at court with his lady,” he said, and this was a subject change. “His brother once sent all their children to the Crows. I knew his eldest.”

She couldn’t see where he was going with this.

“He doesn’t like Crows?”

“I killed he-”

There was a physical halt to those words as he stopped himself, a jerk in his chest that carried through the rest of him, down to the twitch of his fingers.

“I did not stop her murder. And there is no good way to put that. I cannot simply socialize in the same circles and not admit my part in it, but every time I have tried to write the words they sound too flippant, too insincere - and even if I could find the proper words what good would it do? They had their children stolen from them by his brother, who then arranged her murder at our hands, and she is dead. And I am alive, and well, and usually quite happy with my life and I am getting married and I am in a position of power. How are they meant to find comfort in that?”

“I don’t know,” Nehna said. “I never did. Not for you.”

When he looked over at her his expression was weighted down with old hurt, and she twisted uncomfortably inside. She knew from her own life there was no helping that. It couldn’t be fixed. But she didn’t want him to have reason to look like that.

Wishing does you no good, she told herself savagely. If you’d done better this wouldn’t have happened to him.

They went back to looking at the Waking Sea.

“What happened?” Nehna asked, after a while, because she couldn’t stand the silence and - she didn’t want to know, or she did but she didn’t want to hear how it had hurt him, or-

He wasn’t answering.

“You don’t have to-”

“No,” he said. “No one has ever asked me that. Neither Theron nor Alistair ever asked for any more details. I simply... need to think on it a moment.”

She waited.

“Children bought by the Crows do not go into a House immediately,” Satheraan began after a few minutes, and no, this was not what she’d- “The ones who are still alive by the time they are eleven, twelve are selected by Houses. The younger you come the longer you wait, and the better a prize you are for the Houses when they come to claim apprentices. In my group there was another boy, Taliesin. We - we were friends, and the closest thing we had to family. We were not allowed to acknowledge this of course, because the Crows wish to destroy any loyalty that is not to the House Masters, but we were the best, so we were taken together into a House. The next year the congradi were introduced and we were given to Rinna, and-”

He shrugged, and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“We loved each other,” he said, looking away again. “We kept each other from falling apart under the Crows for near fifteen years, and then one day we won a difficult contract on a merchant in Antiva City. He was crafty, he had many connections, and there were rumors that he had suborned other Crows who had accepted the contract. The way the three of us worked as a cell, Rinna did our planning, Tali provided brunt muscle, and I was - well, I was the sneaky and underhanded one, with the poisons and the distractions. We occupied an empty apartment near the man’s city villa, and Rinna went out to do reconnoissance on it. I went to fetch supplies and when I returned Taliesin was waiting for me, with papers. He had been looking at Rinna’s planning, you see, and had found a letter in her writing to the merchant speaking of treason against the Crows, and how she would throw this contract to cut her ties with them to join his organization instead.”

“It sounds like you needed a better friend,” Nehna said, because what else was there? Betrayal after fifteen years was no light thing.

“To not succeed on a contract is to be killed by the Crows,” Satheraan told her bleakly. “She was a daughter of the royal family and congradi. Perhaps she could have avoided the Crows and done what the letter said, allying her with rebels and using her skills to make herself Queen of Antiva and take control that way. But Taliesin and I, we were compradi. Slaves to the Crows, bought and paid for. If Rinna ran without us we would be the ones killed, and the fact that she had not said anything told us that she did not care. We were scared and hurt and could not admit it was because he loved her and trusted her, because these were things that were not allowed. It was Tali’s idea to kill her, really. I would only have taken letter to the House Master and let him deal with it, but Tali was convinced it would be better to deal with it ourselves and come back with the contract fulfilled. So when she came back we ambushed her. We all knew each other very well, with fighting, but I cut the backs of her knees so she could not stand and Tali pinned her down and told her we knew she was a traitor and that we had found her letter and she said ‘what letter?’ and he said ‘you would abandon us to the Crows’ justice!’ and she said ‘no, I wouldn’t, I would never betray you like that, I love you - Tali, Zev, I love you-’ and it was such blatant manipulation that I laughed at her and called her a liar and stood there while he slit her throat. We took our things and left her body there in the room because disgraced Crows deserve no mourning rites and somehow we killed that merchant anyway. And of course it was only while we were doing it that we realized that Rinna and the merchant had never been in contact a day of their lives and she had been framed and we had fallen for it. Tali did not want to say anything but we knew we would get caught in a lie. We reported back to the House Master expecting to be tortured to death once we’d admitted what we’d done, but Rinna’s uncle in the Crows was there with the House Master, and congratulated him on having such devoted Crows to support his rise to power. Three days later the House Master became Grandmaster of the Crows, and-”

He stopped abruptly. She waited a minute, then two, and then asked: “And?”

She couldn’t tell if the smile he gave her was a fake one, or if it was just that he was remembering painful things that made it look insincere.

“And then I came to Ferelden to get away from the Crows,” he told her. “Tali volunteered to come after me, once the Crows realized what I had done, and we were both young and too scared of the Crows to see any option but more death, so I killed him when he refused to come with me, because he would only return to Antiva and tell the Crows exactly what I had done and then I would have no peace. It is hard to fit this all into a letter and that is what I have been struggling with for these past days.”

“You could just write it all down and send it,” Nehna said.

“It seems better done in person, no?” Satheraan said. “And in any case I have already written it. I was trying to prepare myself to send it in the gardens but I will never be prepared. I may as well go back.”

Well. Okay then.

The ride back to the city was quiet as well, and Satheraan left her at the stables with a little smile and promise to see her the next day.

Nehna started to head back inside, realized that she still didn’t know what she’d say about that morning if she saw Tanis, and went back to the gardens. 

Two days before Wintersend, a runner in royal livery arrived with a summons.

She’d said she’d see him next at court, what did she want now?

The summons didn’t mention Zevran or Alistair, which was a shame. Theron felt like he could have used the company.

When he arrived in the palace, the meeting wasn’t in Anora’s office, like he was used to. He was shown to the Royal Salon. There were silver plates of late morning refreshments - little fruit things. And pitchers of chilled wine, and small beer, and water for cutting the alcohol.

“Pastries with cream,” Fergus whispered to him when he stood there staring at the refreshments for too long.

“Thank you,” he whispered back, and took one of the ones with last summer’s strawberry preserves on top.

He, Fergus, and Arl Alfstanna had been invited. That was expected. But Arl Bryland was here too, and Arl Mallory, and Arl Eamon. What was this meeting going to be about?

Also, Anora wasn’t here yet.

Zevran’s angry words from the day before rose to the front of his mind. Zevran had apologized for his parting shot after dinner, but-

He knew things, about politics and people and the mystifying bits of settled society. He did lie, sometimes, but he didn’t do it in anger. Zevran had brought up the land grant for Hallarenis’haminathe and that meant that it was important enough to notice. If he had to keep Anora in power, and Ferelden from falling apart, no matter how much it looked like both were doing well and stable in their positions - if it was for The People, of course he’d do it.

But that didn’t mean that he actually knew what to do.

Well, the point of court season was supposed to be to keep up contacts, Zevran had said. If these other nobles had been friends he hadn’t seen in a while - if they’d been from Sabrae - what would he ask about?

“How are your children?” he asked Arl Mallory.

“Well,” she told him, smiling at being asked. “This will be Marieth’s first time at court, and she’s relieved that she had the opportunity to meet you and Lord-Captain Mac Maric over the winter, so that she’ll have some familiar faces.”

Marieth was the young blonde one. Liked cats.

“It will be nice to remake her acquaintance, as well.”

That was polite enough, wasn’t it? A sort of non-answer?

“And how has your son been?” Arl Mallory asked. “He was very charming, and Isar enjoyed his company.”

“He’s back with the Dalish for the spring and summer with his mother,” Theron told her, and then realized that he needed a reason. Arl Mallory knew they’d spent most of the winter with the Dalish, what was a reason for them to go back that wasn’t magic- “My clan recently arrived in Hallarenis’haminathe and he’s getting to know that part of his family.”

“Your clan isn’t from Ferelden?”

No Dalish was from Ferelden.

“They were in the Brecilian for most of my life, yes,” he said. “But they fled north during the Blight, to the area around Kirkwall. It took them this long to get back. He and his aunt get along well. She likes him.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes, and a brother. We thought he died during the Blight, but I just found him again a couple of weeks ago. He’s a Warden as well.”

“In that case, I’m pleased to hear of your good fortune,” Arl Mallory told him.

“You have a son?” Fergus asked, and this was how this worked? People just cut in on conversations like you were clanmates?

“I was surprised, as well,” Arl Mallory said. “He’s a sweet boy, only a year younger than Isar.”

Theron could see Fergus back-counting the years.

“Do you remember Morrigan?” he asked. “She helped us with the Blight.”

“The Chasind mage?”

“Yes, that’s Morrigan. She wanted a child-”

Not technically a lie.

“-and I helped her with that. She’d planned to raise him herself, but being a single parent is difficult. She surprised Alistair and I at Vigil’s Keep when we came back from Denerim last fall.”

“Children are a blessing.”

“Yes, they are,” Theron agreed. “I miss him a lot, and it hasn’t been that long since he left.”

“An interesting choice for a mother. I wouldn’t have thought her the type.”

Arl Eamon was involved in this conversation now?

“I think it was very considerate,” Arl Mallory said. Were they arguing. That had sounded a bit pointed. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble Ludhild and I had trying to find that sort of assistance to have our children. We could have used a few more men like Arl Theron.”

Creators, but being called that sounded wrong.

“Thank you,” he told Arl Mallory, even though he wasn’t sure he felt complimented.

“I heard you’ve gotten engaged since last we saw each other,” Arl Alfstanna said. “Congratulations.”

“Is it to - ah, pardon, I’ve forgotten his name.”

And now Arl Bryland. Why was the whole room trying to talk to him at the same time. He didn’t know any of them well enough to manage something this large, there were six of them in this room, that was at least two conversations, surely they could talk to each other instead.

“The Antivan?” Arl Eamon asked. “Zevran-”

“-Revasina,” Theron finished for him, because he didn’t need to be introduced by his old Crow House. “He’ll be at court with us.”

“Oh, so he is back,” Fergus said. “How did his business in Antiva go?”

No, no. Not a question that needed asking or answering. There was a way to deflect questions like this, he’d been there while Zevran had done it in other conversations-

He asked himself what Zevran would say, and came up blank.

Fergus smiled at him, a little tightly, and changed the conversation to the young women who would be attending court. Theron knew he should pay attention but all he wanted to do was sit down away from everyone else where it would only be convenient for one person at a time to talk to him, so he did that instead.

He’d connected with someone he’d had previous friendly interactions with. Politics accomplished, for now. He could work on doing better for next time. Zevran would be pleased when he got back from this meeting and told him about it.

A couple of minutes later Anora arrived, Erlina in her shadow with a thin sheaf of parchment leafs. She and Theron exchanged little nods of hello as a minute or two more was eaten up by the social formulas the other nobles went through to greet her, ask after her time, congratulate her on this or that, or-

“We must get to business,” she said, and everyone else finally sat down but for Erlina, who took up station just behind the Queen’s chair. “There have been concerns about our empty Bannorns, and I felt it prudent to review our business. Particularly now that the Arl-Commander is here.”

He hadn't know. He'd written a note like Zevran had told him to, explaining it. He'd said he was sorry.

“There has been talk,” Anora continued. “And the circulation of open letters-”

Circulation of whats?

“-and it seems that the Freeholders of Ferelden, and doubtless some of our lords-”

But there weren’t supposed to be that many of them any longer, why wouldn’t she know exactly who they were?

“-have the impression that we are to be overrun by foreign powers who wish to buy up our farmland and export our grain at cut prices to their lands.”

Arl Mallory crossed her arms.

“It’s what the Orlesians did,” she said. “I was twelve when Queen Moira took over the rebellion, and my grandfather who was her grandmother’s brother told me what the “Orlesian Heartlands” had been like before they were supported off our grain fields. When the Blight hit they nearly had riots in the cities over the bread prices, and the only thing that kept them down was that the Empress had called out the chevaliers to rattle their swords and stab the people who complained the loudest before winter was even over! They did it once and they’ll do it again!”

“I would hate to contradict the late Arl-Consort Camblair on this matter,” Arl Eamon said. “Given his certain expertise in the development of the Heartlands cities, given the numerous winters he spent in Halamshiral at the Emperor’s court, both before and after Reville Valmont had Queen Jamesina used for fertilizer in his winter gardens - but Orlais grows its own grain. The costs of buying land in the Bannorn, making it productive again, and then shipping it in hopes of a profit, would be prohibitive.”

“The only thing anyone said was that they were Orlesians,” Arl Alfstanna said. “Not they were sensible.”

“Insulting Orlais may be the favorite national pastime, but there has been an entire generation born and grown and with their own children since the end of the Occupation. On both sides.”

“Exactly what I’d expect to hear from you,” Arl Mallory said.

“Your wife is foreign as well,” he replied. “But I have never called your opinions about the Anderfels into question over your relations, have I?”

“And Bryland’s second cousins with the Empress of Orlais,” she shot back. Arl Bryland did not look particularly enthused at being included in this exchange. “It’s you that’s the problem, not your wife.”

“Teyrn Cousland’s late wife was Antivan. You would not have questioned him on the tariffs in Highever-”

“You leave my wife out of this,” Fergus said quietly.

Eamon inclined his head.

“Apologies, Your Grace. But the fact remains - we cannot move forward if we hold onto the hatred of the past. We cannot forget how close we came to disaster with the banning of the Wardens of Orlais.”

“Moving forward is a goal we should always strive for,” Anora cut in, and held out a hand. Erlina placed some of the parchment sheets in it. “I have heard these concerns, and to reassure our people, all foreign nobility who receive lands in Ferelden must swear this oath of loyalty.”

She gave Mallory and Eamon a sharp look.

“And the foreign spouses of Fereldan nobility.”

There was a parchment for everyone. Theron took his with curiosity, wondering what he’d be expected to swear.

In my own voice and by my own name do I speak this oath to you, Anora Mac Tir who is Queen by the blessing of Andraste and the conviction of the Landsmeet, that I will be faithful to Ferelden, this land that is hallowed by time and tradition and tenancy of the people of the Maker’s Bride. I will be loyal to her interests and steadfast against her enemies. I will answer her call in war and I will follow her word in peace. I will not raise hand or heart against her or aid others in her abuse by secrecy or spycraft. In good faith am I granted my place; and in good faith do I accept my duties. So do I swear; and so do I renounce all other inheritances in lands outside of Ferelden, and all former oaths and loyalties to powers not of Ferelden.

Anora was speaking again, and there was more to the oath, last reaffirmations in the names of the Maker and Andraste, but Theron was stuck.

He couldn’t swear to this.

He’d already aided Ferelden and he would do so again if he needed. He could swear in the name of the Maker and Andraste without faith in them. But he could not renounce his other oaths and loyalties.

He could not promise loyalty to Ferelden if the price was renouncing his oaths to the Dalish and to his gods.

It was a force of will not to reach up and touch his vallas’lin. If he did, the others would notice. Someone would ask what was wrong, and he knew enough to know that he shouldn’t say anything about this until he’d talked to Zevran.

But if he didn’t swear this. Anora would do what she’d obliquely threatened earlier in the week, wouldn’t she, and take Amaranthine. Would the Wardens get to keep it? Who would be Warden-Commander after him- surely she wouldn’t want Alistair or Nathaniel as Commander.

Who would care about the Dalish? Dadhase’lin and Alas’nidar’mis still hadn’t arrived from Antiva and Rivain. If he wasn’t in Amaranthine to arrange their passage through Ferelden, how would they get to Hallarenis’haminathe? If he wasn’t in Amaranthine-

It was just like Zevran had said.

But if he renounced his oaths he renounced his place with his people and he could not be an exile.

He had to pay attention to the meeting.

“So - onto your suitable lands.”

Suitable for what. Whose lands.

Erlina started handing Anora the other pieces of parchment. The Queen merely glanced at them, clearly having already memorized the names and simply having the parchments as a record for everyone else, the way the oaths had been.

“I myself have none. In the Teyrnir of Highever - the Bannorns of the Cloudhills, Highfarm, Lake Herd, Less Lake, and Shipfield.”

“I have some people in mind for all of them,” Fergus said, and she moved on.

“In the Arling of the Frostbacks - the Bannorn of the Fallow Mire.”

“Beyond me why anyone would voluntarily take it,” Arl Mallory said. “I’d just as soon leave it to the Chasind.”

“It is a vital border bannorn!” Arl Eamon protested. “They’d be marauding into the farmlands without our presence there!”

“South Fort was ‘a vital border bannorn’ too,” Arl Malloy retorted. “And that land's been in the hands of the Dalish elves for half a decade, and what trouble have we had? None. I’ve had better places for my fainsmen to be than freezing their asses off in swamp muck in the Mire. There hasn’t been a ‘presence’ there since the army left for Ostagar.”

“Which explains the rash of sheep rustling in the Hinterlands!”

“The Chasind always go for sheep in the spring, Eamon, whether there’s guards posted or not, and we both know it!”

“If someone wishes to purchase the rights to the Fallow Mire, they are welcome to have them,” Anora cut in.

So they were discussing more bannorns to sell? Not just farmland ones, in the Bannorn itself?

“In the Arling of South Reach,” she continued. “The Bannorns of Afton’s Valley, the Great Hills, Kinaessey, and Lothering.”

Had this been discussed previously? Had Anora been speaking to everyone else about selling Bann titles that were subordinated to the arlings and teyrnirs? What had he-

“There’s promise for Lothering and Afton’s Valley,” Arl Bryland said. “But I don’t like the options for the Great Hills or Kinaessey. They’re too important to risk.”

“Very well. In the Arling of Redcliffe – Red Valley. Perhaps others, as discussed?”

“No, Your Highness,” Arl Eamon said. “With South Fort dissolved for your land grant of Ostagar, there’s simply no more room. But Red Valley – yes.”

“In the Arling of Edgehall – the Bannorns of Clayne and Lakeport.”

“I’ve the same concerns about Lakeport as Bryland does for Kinaessey,” Elfstanna told her. “But I’ve made my decision on Clayne already.”

“Good,” Anora said, and looked very pleased.

He was next. Amaranthine was the only one that hadn’t been mentioned yet. What was he supposed to-

“Arl Mahariel,” the Queen said. “Have you thoughts on your bannorns?”

He didn’t, no one had told him to prepare.

“Arl Mahariel, you have seven of them, and six stand under your name as their Banns are dead.”

Yes he did. He knew that. At the moment, that was about all he knew.

“Perhaps you require assistance? The Bannorn of Arland’s Peace. The Bannorn of the Blackmarsh. The Bannorn of Hafterfields. The Bannorn of the Knotwood Hills. The Bannorn of the Wending Wood.”

He knew what the names of his bannorns were!

“Have you thoughts, Arl Mahariel?”

“There’s really nothing in the Blackmarsh,” he said, because it was all he was coming up with and everyone was staring at him and if he said something maybe they’d stop. “There’s ruins of the old town if anyone wants them. The Veil might still be unstable though. If it is they might get stuck in the Fade. We almost had that problem with Soldiers’ Peak, but it was more demons and undead than anything else. Anyway the only thing in Arland’s Peace is Soldiers’ Peak, really. It’s all mountains.”

This was - all right, he could talk about the rest of the bannorns. Hopefully this would be good enough.

“The Knotwood Hills has sheep, mostly, you can’t farm easily there. And there’s Kal’Hirol so anyone who took it would have be on good terms with King Dace-”

“Who?”

“Jerrick Dace, the King of Kal’Hirol?”

“What is Kal’Hirol,” Anora demanded.

“It’s the thaig?” Theron said. “After the Blight, when the darkspawn were in Amaranthine, part of the Deep Roads caved in, in the Knotwood Hills, so we went to look, and drove out the darkspawn, and then after we’d gotten rid of the ones that had gained sentience-”

“What?”

“There were two of them, and one of them was making more, and they were having a little war with each other, that’s why there were darkspawn in Amaranthine City. After that’s when I left, and I after a while I went to Orzammar, because they were having a feast to commemorate the names of the dead we’d retrieved from Kal’Hirol, and Jerrick Dace had lost a cousin of his on an expedition to locate another thaig, and I went with him to find him, and we ended up being stuck in the Deep Roads for five months. We learned how to survive long-term and so Jerrick Dace led an expedition to reclaim Kal’Hirol and we helped from the other side, a little-”

“‘The other side’?”

“The Deep Roads connect all the old thaigs, so they went through the route to Kal’Hirol from Orzammar and cleared it out and now my Wardens have an outpost in Kal’Hirol we help the Legion of the Dead guard the caravans. King Harrowmont doesn’t really like that isn’t king of Orzammar and Kal’Hirol but Orzammar is pretty happy about having even just one thaig connected again, and they’re still setting up, really. Once everything is settled we might push to Vigil’s Keep.”

“And why would there be a push to Vigil’s Keep?”

“Because there’s a Deep Roads entrance in the basement? We don’t know where it came from but it has dwarven siege doors on it so someone knew about it at some point. That’s how the darkspawn got into the Vigil the first time. We closed it and they haven’t really come back yet but it would still be safer if it was clear.”

Everyone was still staring at him.

“Kal’Hirol trades for food from the farms in the Hafterfields,” Theron added. “So anyone who might be Bann there should have good relations with him, too.”

“Arl. Mahariel,” Anora said. “You mean to tell me that there are two entrances to the Deep Roads in your arling-”

“No, there are four of them. The old Tevene ruins in the Dragonbone Wastes open up into a big section of them, and the darkspawn broke through from the Roads into the silverite mines, but we have that one sealed up and it’s one of the duty rotations to patrol the deepest parts of them to make sure they’re still secure.”

“-two places where the Fade touches the waking world-”

“We fixed Soldiers’ Peak. And the Blackmarsh should be all right now that it’s not being haunted by the soul of the baroness who got it during the Orlesian occupation. It turns out that she was a blood mage.”

“-and an entire new kingdom of the dwarves, and that this is the first you informing anyone of it!”

“I took care of the rest of it so it was never a problem; and it’s not the first time I’ve told anyone about Kal’Hirol, people have been trading with them since they got established. I thought everyone knew about it. And King Dace told me he wrote you a letter. Maybe someone mistook it for a letter from King Harrowmont somehow?”

“Warden-Commander-”

“We have to write yearly reports to Weisshaupt,” Theron told her. “Even though I don’t think they actually read them. Should I send you copies?”

“Yes!”

“I’ll have Nathaniel make some, then.”

Anora opened her mouth to speak again, stopped, and took a deep breath.

“Arl. Mahariel,” she said. “Is there any bannorn in your arling which does not currently have a spot that poses a potential threat to the safety of the rest of the area; or which has not in the past posed such a threat, and could do so again in the future?”

Theron thought about it, matching the weakened areas of the Veil and the Deep Roads entrances to the bannorns.

“Montforest doesn’t have any problems that I know of.”

“Montforest has its Bann still.”

“The Hafterfields seem all right.”

“Then,” Anora said. “For Amaranthine, Arl Mahariel, I expect that anyone you choose to fill the positions of Bann is properly equipped to deal with such… incidences.”

Oh. He didn’t have any ideas. He only knew Leandra Amell. The others had said there were some bannorns they didn’t have good candidates for – were they passing on appointing someone for those? Could he do that?

She was mad at him again. He’d messed today up, as well.

But at least it sounded like she wouldn’t move the Wardens, when she threw him out for not being able to swear her oath.

He had to come up with a way to ensure something for Hallarenis’haminathe.

Chapter Text

Zevran had taken the morning after sparring to organize his thoughts, and somehow, in that period, Theron had left the estate. There was a letter of summons from Anora in his office, and Zevran was trying not to worry about what Theron was saying, off at the palace by himself.

He’d sent the letter off to Prince Estefan yesterday afternoon, and was dreading the reply. Surprisingly, though, that hadn’t turned out to be his most immediately pressing problem, today.

Yesterday he had also told his mother about Rinna and Tali, and her response had been-

Less than satisfactory.

When he’d told Theron, Theron had told him about Tamlen and the eluvian, and said that he was happy that Zevran wasn’t dead. When he’d told Alistair, over drinks up at Soldiers’ Peak a couple years later, Alistair had been more awkward about it, but sincere in that way he had, and had also hugged him because his friend had been a little drunk.

When he’d told his mother, she’d barely reacted.

It had hurt. He’d told the whole story and gotten almost nothing in return and that hurt. He knew he had to address it with his mother.

He wanted to tell Theron about it and have Theron fuss and coddle him and tell him he was loved and deserved better. After that he could talk at Theron about how to speak to his mother.

Theron was still gone when lunch arrived. Damien came up with the food, stopped when he saw Zevran in Theron’s chair at his desk, and frowned very, very slightly. He was getting better at reading his half-brother, and that meant that he was very disapproving.

“Shall I bring up a separate tray for you, Messere Revasina?”

“Damien, we are brothers. You can use my name.”

“I am in the employ of the Arl of Amaranthine-”

“Who is going to be your brother-in-law.”

“-and I will uphold the dignity of my position and his household, Messere Revasina.”

If nothing else, his brother had an excellent impassive thousand-yard stare when he was at his most prim and proper. He played the role of upper-ranking servant very well, and Zevran had to respect that. It took discipline to act that unaffected by anything, and presumably Damien hadn’t had anyone torturing him into it. Excellent self-control, his brother had.

As expected, though, it came with the accompanying levels of stubbornness.

Well, he was stubborn too! Damien would cave eventually, because no one could stoic all the time.

“And I thank you for your assistance in this,” he told his brother. “He truly does not care enough for it.”

“As you say, Messere Revasina.”

“Are you enjoying Denerim?”

“It offers more amenities than Vigil’s Keep.”

Faint praise, but true nonetheless.

“Do you need anything, you or Tanis? I have plenty of money, and if it is time or-”

“We are managing perfectly well for ourselves, Messere Revasina.”

Pride. Very well.

“And the staff?”

“What about them, Messere.”

“Do you like them? Shianni is an invigorating personality, I am glad that she has this position. I must say that I do not know very much about Orana, but she seems a lovely woman-”

He was blushing, high across his cheekbones!

“Mistress Archieros is exceedingly competent-”

Oh-ho!

“-and her company is pleasant-”

“I should hope that your interactions with each other are exceedingly pleasant-”

“-and she is a gentlewoman of good standing and I am certain that her reputation is sterling!”

“You should tell her that you think her a gentlewoman,” Zevran told him. “I am certain that she will be very flattered. And be sure to compliment her! It is an important step-”

“I am taking no steps, Messere Revasina!”

“It is one thing if I am mistaken and you do not wish to,” Zevran said. “But if it is not this, I will give you this advice - be gentle with her. Slavery does not treat people well. Everyone deserves the compliments and the gifts and the little presents but with her you must woo. Show her that she is as worthy as you find her. Treat her with all respect and kindness-”

“I would no such thing to the contrary!”

“Which is very good. You will go far and you will go far with her-”

“I am going nowhere! Her honor-”

“Will not be besmirched by you, no? Yes, of course not, you are a gentleman. All these manners are charming in their own way, Damien, but if you are to progress any further you must unwind. Just a bit. Smile, perhaps. Bow over her hand, with the kiss-”

“I will maintain a professional and courteous demeanor during my interactions with the staff!”

“Damien,” Zevran said. “Haminisa, you are entirely too serious and I will tell you this - you are safe here and you do not need to put up these fronts and keep these distances. I wish you to be happy, no less.”

“I am happiest when I serve, Messere Revasina.”

And that was - that was deeply uncomfortable.

He stood from the chair. Damien hadn’t been dismissed, so he continued standing there, stiff and straight and so very proper. His stare barely flickered when Zevran entered his personal space and lightly grasped his arms, just above the elbows.

“Look at me?”

Damien’s eyes slid from focusing somewhere over his shoulder to his face.

“I do not know what it is like for you, being a servant and elf-blooded,” Zevran told him. “But I was also raised in my profession and I do not wish you to be unhappy or suffering because of it. You are far more than what you do. Find what is happy and pleasing and do not let go of it.”

“There is pleasure in a job well done.”

“So there is; but it is also in good food or stories or company or surroundings, in art and creative endeavors, in simply having time alone to be quiet - you have many possibilities. Please, haminisa, I am concerned about your wellbeing.”

Damien’s eyes had slid back over his shoulder.

“We’ve barely known each other a week.”

“Happily that does not matter. And we are brothers.”

Damien looked at him again. He was having thoughts, Zevran knew he had to be, but his blank expression was too good to tell what.

He resisted the urge to sigh, and let Damien go. His brother stepped back, bowed, and walked out.

Zevran sat back down at Theron’s desk and ate Theron’s lunch and brooded. He’d finished and was considering taking the tray back down to the kitchen when Theron finally came back, with Alistair. Alistair was the one who walked in first, clearly fresh from the gardens, still wearing his gambeson and both swords.

Theron came in on his heels, with a purposeful and businesslike expression. He paused when he saw Zevran at his desk, and then burst into tears.

The chair scraped on the floor as Zevran shot up. Alistair had already taken hold of Theron by the time he’d crossed the room, but Theron turned away to cling to him, instead, sobbing: “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-”

“What happened, amora?” Zevran asked urgently. Behind Theron, Alistair gestured to door that led to the reception room, indicating that they’d be more comfortable if they moved.

Zevran nudged Theron into walking. When they reached the couches in the reception room, Theron collapsed into one, dragging Zevran with him.

“I’m sorry-”

“For what?”

“-I can’t do it, I can’t, but you deserve all this, I want to give it to you, but I’m going to lose the arling and I’m going to lose the Wardens but you don’t deserve that, you should have it, all of it, you-”

“Theron, what are you talking about?” Alistair cut him off. “You can’t lose the Wardens! Wardens are always Wardens! And the arling’s not going anywhere.”

“Yes it is,” Theron said. “Anora is making anyone foreign who’s in the nobility or coming into the nobility swear an oath to give up their loyalties to everywhere but Ferelden and I can’t, I can’t be an exile-”

“That pr-”

“What exactly does this oath say?” Zevran asked, trying not to be alarmed.

Theron wedged a hand between them and tugged a folded piece of parchment out from where he’d stowed it. It would have been awkward to unfold it and read it in this position, so Zevran took it and passed it off to Alistair. Theron returned to clinging.

“I’m sorry, I- I want you to be High Lord of Amaranthine, I want-”

“Shhh, amora.”

“Okay, hey, she can’t make you swear this,” Alistair said. “You’re a Warden, your first duty over everything else is darkspawn. This is nice and all, this stuff about putting Ferelden first, but that’s what’s in the Joining - ‘the duty that cannot be forsworn’. And we’re supposed to do that duty ‘at any cost’. She can’t.”

“I don’t care about my Warden oaths, I promised The People and the Creators first and I can’t but it’s like Zevran said if I’m not here then no one cares about the Dalish and what if I fail them worse like that-”

“Andraste’s pyre, Zev, why would you say that to him!”

“Because people make regrettable decisions when they are angry!” Zevran told him, and turned his attention back to Theron. “Amora, it will be all right. We will go to the Queen and I will swear this, and you will explain that it is prohibitive to the full scope of your duties as a Warden, and all will be-”

“But I swore the Oath of the Dales-”

“And she does not know about that and it is not necessary or wise to inform her of it if she does not need to be told. It could become very touchy. Wardens are safer - a known quantity. No one will lose anything, my dear.”

“No,” Theron said. “No I will, Anora already told me earlier this week that she was doubting her decision to make me Arl and she yelled at me and now there’s this and today she asked me what bannorns in Amaranthine would be reasonable to sell the title for and I couldn’t give her an answer about money so I started telling her about what I did know about them and she didn’t know about the Architect or the Mother or how Blackmarsh was in the Fade or Kal’Hirol, she didn’t know it existed or that it has a king and she was very angry; and the only good thing is that I think it convinced her that the Wardens have to stay so she won’t kick them out with me and that’s why I brought Alistair, because if I’m gone Nathaniel is Commander and I wanted to make him Constable after Nathaniel-”

“Woah, hang on a minute,” Alistair said. “Me? You want to make me officially third-in-charge of the Wardens?”

“It’s you or Oghren and Oghren is very good at being a Captain but I don’t think I could convince him to leave Kal’Hirol for very long, Felsi and Thrune are there-”

“There is a problem with that,” Zevran said, as he tried to absorb everything Theron had just gone through. Anora had threatened Theron with taking the arling? She - well, she was Queen, she could. But surely she wouldn’t? “Queen Anora has not seemed very keen on Alistair accumulating any sort of power. It might be best to keep him away from it. Perhaps - move him far away.”

“Soldier’s Peak is already pretty far,” Alistair pointed out.

“True. And I suppose as far as Warden business goes you cannot get further, unless you were to relocate entirely. Though I doubt she would much like the idea of you moving to Orlais or the Free Marches better-”

Under him, Theron made a little broken noise.

“Amora?”

“You wouldn’t want to move to Hallarenis’haminathe,” he answered. “I wouldn’t make you but that’s where I’d go and you’d hate it, you’d hate the weather and you’d miss the things human cities have and you’d be happier in, in the Free Marches or Nevarra or Rivain and you wouldn’t be Dalish and you’d be disappointed because you’d know what you could have had if, if I hadn’t been such an idiot-”

“Theron,” Zevran said. “Nothing is certain yet. You have hardly done enough to be stripped of anything.”

“But I can’t swear-”

“And have you spoken with her about it yet?”

“No.”

“Your performance has been somewhat disappointing so far, yes - but nobility does not stop being nobility simply because they are incompetent.”

“Other nobles were born nobility-”

“And you stopped an entire Blight. I am not certain that the Queen will not try to be rid of you, but I do think that it is unlikely.”

It was a bit more like a hope, really. He didn’t think that Anora actively hated Theron. He was certain that she was exasperated with him, yes, and also frustrated; but you needed more than that to get rid of a noble. This oath could be a sticking point - but they were already here, at court, and with minimum effort it could be turned into a major scandal.

And who would Anora put in his place? If she had not already resurrected Edgehall for Alfstanna Eremon, he felt that worrying would be justified. But Alfstanna, Fergus, and Theron were her power bloc. She had no one else to turn to. Even beyond having the other teyrnir and two of the arlings in her pocket, the fact would remain that Amaranthine was a major source of income, and one of the most important areas of Ferelden. She would not want to hand it over to a virtual, foreign, stranger, as she could afford to do for the bannorns.

“However it would not hurt to be more proactive about your political efforts,” he said, because, well, it was true. “The more positive connections you have, the harder it will be to pry you out.”

“I tried,” Theron told him. “I asked Arl Mallory how her children were and we were having a conversation and everyone else butted in and it was too much.”

“How many people was ‘everyone else’?”

“Fergus and all the other Arls.”

“Theron, I’ve been in conversations with you with more people than that,” Alistair said. “We had more people than around the campfire during the Blight - you didn’t have any trouble then.”

“That was just people, it wasn’t politics, I only had to keep everyone tolerating each other not- not all these things, the, the appearances and the titles and the lands and nobility and- I don’t even know-”

Was that really the problem here? Had he not made this very clear already?

“Theron,” Zevran said. “Our group during the Blight - that was politics. The point of politics is to keep people tolerating each other, at least when it is not being used for manipulation, but I do not believe that anyone is out to get you here. You have not had enough contact with anyone to make enemies. All of this has been so incredibly frustrating because I know that you can do this, and do it very well, because I have seen you do it time and time again with the Wardens, and you simply have not been doing it with the nobility.”

“No,” he insisted. “No, no I can’t do it; I don’t understand it and it’s too big-”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure the Archdemon was bigger,” Alistair said. “I got a good close look at it.”

“No, this is much worse,” Theron said. “We were never responsible for anything during the Blight, we were just trying to help, if it didn’t work it wasn’t our fault.”

“I’m… pretty sure it would have been our fault. As, y’know, the last Wardens in Ferelden, and all that.”

“But there were other Wardens who could have come, everyone else had plenty of time to come, everyone knew, but there’s not another me and it’ll be my fault!”

He was getting louder and louder, and closer to screeching. This was very much not like him - he had been this worried, this entire time, and he hadn’t said anything? It sounded as though it had been building.

Zevran remembered how long it had taken for Theron to turn up again, and formed a suspicion.

“Theron? Did you come back to the estate directly from the palace?”

“No, I was trying to come up with a way for things to be all right and they won’t be, I walked all over the Palace District thinking about it, twice.”

“So what I am hearing is that you have been stewing in this so long that you can no longer be reasonable about it,” Zevran said. “Stop. You must distract yourself. Have you finished your paperwo-”

His mind flashed to the empty lunch tray still on Theron’s desk.

“When is the last time that you ate?”

“There were little pastry things at the palace-”

“So breakfast. It is past lunch. Up - you are hungry-”

“No I’m not.”

“Oh really,” Alistair said. “Care to share how you found the cure to the Taint walking around the Palace District, then? I bet that would make Anora happy with you.”

“I’m not, I’m too worried to be hungry-”

Zevran sighed, and sat up, pulling on Theron to get him to move.

“That only means that you are too distracted to realize that you are hungry. Up. Everything will be more manageable once you have food.”

Eirlin was still in the stable when Tanis went to go check, so Nehna hadn’t left, as she’d started to fear, when she hadn't come to bed the night before.

She asked in the kitchens on her way back and they said that Nehna had come by for food. So she was eating.

Which meant she was hiding. There were only so many places in the estate, though, so where-

She checked the gardens again, and the drawing rooms, and the ballroom, and the Amaranth salon on the first floor, and the servants’ work rooms; but all she found was Diego in the still room, poking through the glassware equipment and the cupboards of finished soaps, polishes, washes, oils, and dried herbs.

These children got everywhere. The Vigil’s roof, locked rooms, window ledges - she was just waiting for the day when someone had to get Satheraan to coax them down from the kitchen beams because they were making the maids nervous. It was already bad enough when Tiar lurked in the corner by the porridge hearth before dawn, scowling suspiciously at everything.

“Diego, have you seen Nehna today?”

“No.”

She put her fists on her hips.

“And what is that jar?”

He edged it further back into the cabinet.

“Sulphur.”

“Do you need it for something?”

“I could make the gardens grow nicer.”

“That sulphur is for the laundry and you are going to ask Chamberlain Tabris before you take any for your plants. Ask before you come in here, next time, because she is the one in charge of the keys for this room.”

He closed up the cabinets and yes, there were the picks as he conscientiously re-locked all of them, and then the still room.

She would ask for divine favor to keep them out of the estate treasury, but they’d had enough days that they’d probably already broken in. At least she was mostly certain that they wouldn’t have stolen anything.

It was getting to lunchtime. If Nehna was going to get food, and also avoid her, now would be the time. Tanis went quickly to the kitchen, Diego following behind - but no Nehna, just Damien coming back from the Arl’s study to retrieve his own meal.

“There you are,” he said, when he saw Diego. “Mistress Archieros is waiting for you.”

Diego dashed off.

“Have you seen Nehna?” she asked her son.

“No,” he told her, in Orlesian. “I have not seen the Arl, either. I brought him his lunch but Messere Revasina was the only one there.”

“Damien, he is your brother.”

“He is going to be married to our employer and I will treat him as such!”

“Damien.”

“Maman, he is hardly my brother.”

“He is, and he will be twice over if Nehna marries me.”

“That,” he said, taking his allotment of food from the sideboard. “Would be different.”

Now if only she could find Nehna to ask her!

They lingered in the kitchen over food - or rather she lingered, waiting for Nehna for as long as she could afford to put off going up to the Arl and Captain Mac Maric to help them understand court manners, and Damien stayed because he had no other orders and wanted to stay with her.

She was about to give up on waiting and go upstairs for the afternoon lessons when Satheraan, the Arl, and Captain Mac Maric walked into the kitchen.

Satheraan pointed at the sideboard, looking straight at his fiancé, and said: “Eat.”

Tanis had never seen Damien look so affronted in his entire life.

“If he is being so unreasonable, you should speak to him about it,” Tanis told him, still in Orlesian. “He is more like Dame Anhuis than the Duchess.”

“It would be presumptuous and improper,” he said stiffly, and got up and left while the Arl’s back was turned. It was the rudest he’d been to nobility since he’d been a small child barely able to walk.

Perhaps if today the Arl’s lesson was on the proper ordering of his household.

It turned out not to be. She spent a number of fruitless hours going over money and finances with him. He insisted, as did Satheraan, that he had to learn this, but while she could tell him how much things cost and how many silver and copper each level of servant made, but it was clear to everyone that he still didn’t understand.

She retired to her room after dinner tired and slightly frustrated to finally, finally find Nehna, sitting on the bed and waiting for her.

“I spent all morning looking for you,” she said.

“I heard.”

“So where were you?”

“I went out to the city,” Nehna told her. “Looked around the markets. It doesn’t look like I’m going back south soon, so I should keep checking on the prices. I-”

Tanis started taking off her top layer. She was still using her Marcher dresses, the rest of her and Damien’s things having been sent over by the Arhuises, because the city tailors good enough to make the quality of dresses she needed were shoving all commissions that weren’t for nobility down to the bottom of their list. They hadn’t gotten their first month’s pay yet - they didn’t have the sort of money needed to convince anyone to give their orders higher priority.

“I was avoiding Satheraan,” Nehna admitted. “He talked to me yesterday about a problem he has. And I messed it up. It’s tied up in something that happened when he was- when he was with the Crows, and I didn’t- I don’t-”

“You don’t want to know how he was hurt.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“No! I just- I didn’t even tell him I was sorry, he was talking about how he hurt and I couldn’t come up with anything- I couldn’t feel anything-”

This again.

Tanis sat down next to her on the bed.

“You love him, Nehna.”

“Do I?” she asked bitterly. “If I do then why is it like this-”

“Because you’re used to acting like this!” Tanis snapped. “You’re always running away! Would it kill you to just stay for once!”

“Tanis-”

“I know you never would have been happy in Lydes, Nehna, I know you had good reasons to stay away but it was four years before I heard from you after we escaped and then it was ten years before you came to see us again and then you left and you left you left in Amaranthine and all I wanted was more time and I know I’m never going to get it!”

“Tanis?”

“I know- I know life has taken us different places but I love you and it hurts, that you’re never there, and-”

And she’d been looking for Nehna to ask if they could get married but she knew, right in this second, all at once, that if she said anything, it would go poorly.

She couldn’t risk that. She couldn’t. If Nehna really left-

“-and it hurts.”

Love me, she wanted to say. Prove you love me and try.

“I always-”

“Will you stop!” Tanis demanded. “It happens, Nehna! People get hurt! You get close to people and people get hurt because people do that to each other and you live with it!”

Nehna recoiled.

“I am not going to ‘live with it’-”

“This isn’t about Antiva and Orlais!” she screamed. “This is about you! You didn’t want Damien- fine! He’s my son and I love him and I’m so blessed to have him and I’m glad you gave him to me but you wanted to love Salladin! And you didn’t, and you wouldn’t give her up, and you wanted Satheraan back! That’s all you’ve wanted for years, Nehna, and ever since I saw him again at Vigil’s Keep I’ve been- I’ve been waiting for you to be the woman I fell in love with again!”

“Well I’m never going to be that person and all I want is the son I lost in Antiva so I guess we’re both never getting what we want!”

There was a moment of silence, as what Nehna had screamed back hung in the air between them, and then Nehna turned and walked out because this was what she did, she ran away.

They must have yelled loudly enough to be heard through the walls, because Damien came in from his room next door and held her, silently, while she cried.

They could hear the arguing through the walls. Crows didn’t yell like this- the only time Diego could remember where he’d heard people be so loud was the first night in Rialto, when Master Arainai had spent so long screaming about the Crows.

No, he didn’t want to be called that. He should be thinking about him as Maestra Revasina.

Except that didn’t sound right. He refused to be a Crow, but- he was Zevran Arainai, he’d killed three Grandmasters and a couple Talons and probably a lot of regular Crows, and he couldn’t be anything but ‘Master Arainai’. He was even the only one who could lay claim to the title.

The only thing was that Crow Masters hurt people. And Master Arainai would never hurt them. He knew Tiar was trying to pretend she didn’t think that but he knew. So he maybe wasn't, then. Anyway, Maestra Revasina was the safest person in the world.

And one wall over Mistress Daganiri was yelling and he didn’t like it. It shouldn’t be scary. He’d almost died a lot of times and he’d killed people and they’d run away from the Crows and they’d thought that Maestra Revasina was dead, but Mistress Daganiri was yelling and he wanted it to stop.

Maestra Revasina would stop it. He was very good at making people feel better.

The Arl’s room was very close, closer than it looked when you used the hallways. But this was the Arlessa’s suite and it had a secret passage to the bedroom, he and Tiar had found it when they were looking around, and that was when they’d chosen this room to sleep in. It was how he knew Tiar was lying about not trusting Maestra Revasina.

It turned out that Maestra Revasina and the Arl did not know about the secret passage. But all he had to do was say: “Mistress Daganiri is yelling,” and Maestra Revasina came right away, and the Arl followed him because that was what he did.

It hadn’t even taken a minute to fetch them but Mistress Daganiri was even louder now, and then Maestra Revasina's mother yelled back and Maestra Revasina’s entire expression crumbled and the Arl grabbed him from behind, tightly around his waist, and Diego knew that the Arl wasn’t about to hurt Maestra Revasina but he still had to remind himself of that because the Arl looked like he was going to hurt someone.

Maestra Revasina showed what he was feeling on his face whenever he could, and he meant it, and that was part of why he was safe. But the Arl didn’t do that very much and it was okay when the sudden change was him smiling or being sadder but he’d heard all the stories about the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Maestra Revasina was going to marry him and he’d acted happy the first time he’d met him and Tiar so he probably wasn’t awful.

But.

When he looked like that and said: “That’s why I hit her,” all hateful like that. Even if Maestra Revasina had folded his own arms over the Arl’s and was pressing into him like that was the thing holding him up.

Tiar was creeping towards lurking over him protectively but. It was going to be all right. Maestra Revasina was here and he wouldn’t let them get hurt.

Maestra Revasina was hurting and there were things he did, when one of them was scared or upset.

So Diego darted forward and hugged him and told him: “I like you how you are.”

Maestra Revasina put an arm around him and told him: “Thank you, Diego.”

He’d done a good thing. He’d helped.

Maestra Revasina and the Arl started talking quietly in Dalish and Diego kept holding him, until Maestra Revasina leaned back and got a kiss. That was it for the night - Maestra Revasina said goodnight and told them to sleep well and they left back through the secret passage.

Tiar spoke up after they were gone.

“He wouldn’t want her dead or maimed,” she said. “And we’ll get in trouble if we wreck anything so that it can’t be fixed. But we can still trash her room after the maid stops by tomorrow.”

Diego thought about what he’d found in the still room, and agreed. He could do a lot with what was in those cabinets.

Nehna woke up in the morning in Eirlin’s stall in the hay nest she’d made for herself the night before to find that Eirlin was using her for a pillow and that Satheraan was sitting on a milking stool in the other corner of the stall, arms crossed and expression-

She rolled over so she wouldn’t have to see. She knew before he said: “I heard you and Tanis last night,” that he had.

“I am thirty-three, Mamae,” he said. At least he was speaking El’vhen. They were in public, and no one else would know what he was saying. “I am not a child any longer, and I can never be again. You are not the same as I remember, but I still love you and I will not wish you otherwise. You have been hurt and that changes people and also it has been three decades and simply living life also changes people. But if you cannot do the same for me, I... I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

This was Salladin all over again.

“I love you, Mamae, very dearly, and that will not change. But I will not subject myself to someone who would have me be other than I am. I have lived too much of my life such.”

“I told him he shouldn’t make me come back,” she said, staring at the wooden side of the stall. “I knew I’d hurt you.”

She heard him take a breath.

“For knowing that,” he said. “I am not sure that I can say that you put much effort into making it otherwise.”

“I hurt Salladin so badly that she hates me,” Nehna told him. “With you I- I’ve never been a good mother. I can’t be a good mother.”

“If you were not then how can I have good memories of you?”

“Because you were a child and children don’t know any better!”

“Oh, children know plenty better, Mamae,” he said, tone sharpening. “They learn very quickly who will hurt them and who will not. You would not have hurt me.”

But she would now, was the clear unspoken part of that sentence.

“So you were not a good mother for Damien or Salladin. You were for me, so these things you say about yourself are untrue. The impression that I am getting is that you want me to hate you.”

If Satheraan hated her like Salladin did-

“No. No, da’len, no- please-”

“Good. Because I refuse to. And I have already told you this Mamae, but I am going to say it again - I will not hate you because you hate yourself. And you must work on that, because this is what hating yourself does. You hurt other people so that they will hate you or be angry at you too because you cannot stand their care or forgiveness or love or whatever it is that they are offering you.”

“And you-”

“I know because I have done this,” Satheraan cut her off. “I did it to Taliesin, after Rinna, because I hated myself for it. I wanted to die, Mamae, and I stopped being careful and stopped trying to win and the only reason I made it out of Antiva is because Tali worked three times as hard to make it look like we were doing fine, and the only reason I survived coming to Ferelden is because Theron has a soft heart.”

“He doesn’t seem very soft.”

“That is because he does not like you very much - and do not say something about that being reasonable, it is not, he was very prepared to welcome you and the two of you have had a bad first impression which can be fixed if you both put some effort into it!”

“I have heard what he did to the Crows. I don’t think he forgives when you’re the one hurt.”

“That was entirely different.”

“And what am I supposed to do to make him like me, then?”

“At dinner yesterday I had been considering asking you to help with his issue of not being able to understand money,” Satheraan said. “He finally cares enough to put the effort in but there is a problem somewhere and I cannot see it properly. You have been trading in the south - to my knowledge the Chasind are like the Dalish and do not have much use for coin but you have turned them into merchants.”

Satheraan wanted this. This was something easy - just money and numbers. She could do this for him.

“I’ll try,” she promised.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now tell me something.”

Nehna waited for the rest of the sentence, but it never came.

“What?” she asked after a couple of moments.

“Tell me something,” Satheraan repeated. “I have told you things that hurt me. So you tell me something. One thing, Mamae. I do not particularly care what it is.”

There was so much to choose from, and all of she didn’t want to talk about, or he shouldn’t have to hear about it, or-

But he was asking.

“The Keeper for Talanulea,” she finally said, mouth dry. “I was scared and I told him everything that had happened. And then he told the whole clan. If he wanted me out he should have just told me to leave. You’re supposed to be able to tell the Keepers and Hahren things and not have them tell anyone else.”

“It is very hurtful when people share your secrets,” Satheraan agreed. “I am sorry. Thank you for telling me. Now I suggest that you go and get changed, because those are the same clothes you were wearing yesterday and now they will smell of halla.”

Eirlin snorted.

“Not everyone will find it pleasant,” Satheraan informed him tartly.

He helped her pick the hay out of her clothes and walked with her back up to her room. Nehna got the feeling that she was being watched, so that she couldn’t go hide somewhere again.

“I will speak to Theron,” Satheraan told her as they reached her door. “There were other things that could have been done today for court tomorrow but I will not let the opportunity for having him properly learn money slip-”

Nehna opened the door and shrieked. She’d barely gotten a look at the room - in disarray, drawers pulled out of cabinets and chests standing empty - when her eyes and throat started burning. It smelled like onions and the Sulfur Lakes, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t breathe-

Satheraan pulled her away from the door and slammed it shut.

“No,” he said, trying to pull her hands from her face. He was groping around, could he- it had gotten him too, hadn’t it, what was going on she couldn’t breathe- “Do not rub your eyes, it will make it worse- some assistance, please!”

The Arl had to be especially alert to Satheraan’s voice, to arrive so quickly from his office.

“Satheraan-!”

“Water from the kitchen pump, and clean cloths and some bowls and a little soap, and steep peppermint tea and have it brought up.”

The little wheezing breaths she could take weren’t enough-

“Slowly, Mamae, slowly and as deep as you can,” he told her, squeezing the hand he’d caught and he was calm, how was he- “Sit down. It will be fine. The children were upset by you and Tanis arguing yesterday, and it seems I will have to address that. This is an old Crow trick. A specially-prepared mix in a glass jar tossed off a roof into a street will scatter a crowd, and you may pick off your target from the safety of the roofs in the confusion. It is rather brute and unskillful, but it gets the job done, and there are times when the Crows want the fear and the disruption rather than a death to make a point. There is a story about the monks of Treviso-”

He kept talking to her and reminding her how to breathe until the Arl came back, trailing worriedly behind Damien, who had actually found most of what was needed. Satheraan talked him through how to gently flush away the irritant with the fresh water, and told her to thoroughly wash her hands and face with the soap and drink the tea.

The tea was very, very strong, but it worked. Between the fading burning sensation and the warmth of the water and the peppermint taste, her throat loosened up.

“The children, please,” Satheraan said, once Damien had finished rinsing his eyes out and handed him his tea. Damien frowned at the door and stood, striding down the hallway with purpose. Satheraan bent over his tea and took some deep breaths of the steam as the Arl rubbed circles into his back. He coughed twice, deliberately, before straightening.

“Are you all right?” he asked Satheraan.

“Perfectly fine now,” he assured him. “Here - my mother is going to help you with your money problem today, Theron.”

He frowned at her. She glared back.

“Stop that, both of you,” Satheraan said. “Theron, have you apologized for hitting her yet?”

“I don’t want an apology,” Nehna said. “If he hadn’t forced me to come I wouldn’t be here, and he wouldn’t mean it if he said it.”

“Good,” the Arl said. “I didn’t want to apologize to you anyway. I’m not sorry and I’d do it again.”

“Theron!”

“I’m not and I would, I’m not going to lie about it.”

“Then will you both agree to let it go?” Satheraan demanded.

“We just did,” Nehna said.

Damien returned with the children then, and Tanis behind them, who pushed past to kneel next to her.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine now.”

“Diego,” Satheraan said, voice stern. “Tell me what you did wrong here.”

The boy was staring at the floor, practically cowering.

“I made you angry,” he whispered.

“No. I am displeased. I am not angry. Try again.”

He kept staring at the floor, silently, making himself look small.

“She made you and Mistress Daganiri upset!” the girl said suddenly. “It was my idea!”

“I am not interested in whose idea it was Tiar, I am interested in that it occurred at all.”

“He just gave me the stuff!”

“Tiar,” her son said. “I am not going to hurt you. I am not going to hurt Diego. Stop trying to take his guilt. I want to know if you know why what you did was wrong.”

“Because you didn’t like it.”

“That is still not the correct answer.”

Her son was… parenting.

“Diego, if you knew enough to make this mixture, then I know you also know how to make poisons- and what is the rule with poisons?”

He cringed, and said very quietly: “Deliver them directly.”

“And what did you do here?”

“Leave them to luck.”

“And if you had been meant to set this trap-?”

“I should have followed the rules,” he answered, nearly crying.

“Yes you should have,” Satheraan said, and his expression fell a touch. “Diego - come here.”

The boy glanced up and froze when he saw Satheraan’s arms open and held out to him. But after a moment, he crept into the hug. The girl followed him but didn’t sink down to the floor with them, looming just within arm’s reach.

“Now can either of you answer the question of why this was not appropriate behavior?”

The boy answered for them, shaking his head mutely. They were a mess, these children.

“It is because when someone upsets us, we talk about it and resolve the problem. We do not terrorize people to make them upset in return.”

“Talking doesn’t work,” the girl said.

“Sometimes it does not,” her son agreed. “However those times are far fewer than a life with the Crows would lead you to believe and it is something you must learn, how to tell one from the other. This was not one of them. Now - you do not have to tell me where you have hidden my mother’s things but I expect them to all be in Tanis’s room by lunchtime, and the two of you will have this room habitable and back in proper order by dinner tomorrow. Begin by airing out the room- with the windows, and not the door. No one else needs to be subjected to that.”

“No punishment?” the boy asked quietly, hesitantly.

“Fixing this is your punishment,” Satheraan said, gently pushing him out of the hug so they could stand. “I said I was not going to hurt you and I mean to keep that promise. Go - and be careful opening the windows, I do not want you falling off the wall.”

The boy vanished, off into a different room and presumably out the window. The girl stood a moment longer, still defensive and stiff - but then she lunged forward, caught Satheraan in a brief, fierce hug, and was gone as well.

For a second, her son stood there with stunned surprise all over his face; but then he smiled, beaming.

“You should tell them you love them,” Nehna told him.

“I do not want to scare them, Mamae,” he said. “And it was wrong of them but- that was a surprisingly good trap, very unexpected, and from a purely technical standpoint this was a difficult operation. Tiar would have had to make the trap trigger and components herself, and that mix is properly made with peppers and onion juice, it was clever of Diego to replace it with sulfur dust. You know the way that they were taught to do these things presumes that they have the resources of a House to draw on, this was very good improvisation!”

The Arl was smiling now too, at him, and wrapped his arms around Satheraan’s waist and kissed him on the cheek.

“Proud Papà,” he teased.

Her son’s smile lost some of its brightness, and Nehna left them to have their moment.

“I’m sorry for last night,” she told Tanis.

Tanis looked sad and disappointed still, but hugged her anyway.

The money lesson started later than the other ones had, because of the morning. Theron was perfectly happy to have it like that. Yesterday with Tanis and Alistair and Zevran had left him feeling stupid, to say nothing of the meeting with Anora.

So a loaf of good fresh bread cost you three copper and a decent farm horse was twenty-seven silver and one gold fifty silver was a standard four ounce bottle of amaranth dye on the market in Amaranthine City, or the cost of armoring a poor knight. Things were expensive, he understood that. But all this was just numbers, and he could add and subtract all anyone liked but that didn’t mean he understood how much any of that was!

He felt stupid all over again when Zevran went over with his mother what he’d been told about money, not just the day before but back as far as Zevran could remember, which turned out to be when he’d wanted to donate his share of the group money to the alienage a couple weeks before the Blight reached Denerim and Zevran had made him change the gold down at the docks for smaller coins before taking it over.

Nehna stood there looking at the papers Tanis had had him do calculations on the day before for a couple minutes after Zevran had finished.

“What’s the most expensive thing in a clan?” she finally asked.

“A wedding aravel,” he answered promptly. This, he knew.

“There is a special type of aravel for a wedding?” Zevran asked.

“No, it’s just a new one,” Theron told him. “It comes with the household items. It’s the clan’s gift to a new marriage.”

“And how much do you think it costs?” Nehna asked.

 “Six gold?” he guessed. That was a bit less than the price of two sets of full Warden silverite plate for a warrior like Alistair. An aravel was bigger than a person, and a whole new household had to be worth more than a set of armor, but everyone said that silverite was expensive.

“Let’s go find out,” Nehna said.

Damien ambushed him on his way to find his cloak with said item of clothing. Properly it went with his armor, but it was a nice Warden blue and there was no point wearing it only with the armor.

“Shall I have the horses brought, Your Arlship?”

“No, we’re walking,” Theron told him. “I don’t think we’ll be leaving the city, we won’t need them.”

He went to meet Zevran and Nehna by the door only to find Damien already there, in his own coat, handing Zevran his.

“Don’t you have other things to do?”

“Yes,” Zevran told him. “But I have decided to supervise this instead. And I will be able to check on the merchant factor from the market anyhow.”

He’d really been asking Damien, but okay.

Surprisingly, Nehna seemed known in the East Market, in the merchant’s quarter. The city guards gave her less notice than any other elf, and only looked twice at her because their eyes slid past her before they belatedly realized that he was walking with her and hadn’t been saluted.

Theron would rather they just let it go if they didn’t do it right away, because this way just attracted even more attention. He was getting enough from the stallkeepers, and people kept stopping to bow or curtsey and say hello and he would have been happy to say hello back, except that people turned it into a thing.

He stuck close to Zevran and stayed quiet, letting Zevran handle the people at the stalls trying to sell him things, and just smiling briefly at the people who said hello.

They passed the market proper and Nehna took them to a warehouse. The warehouse manager and the merchants were very deferential up until they realized that Nehna was the one asking questions, and that they were reasonable questions. Then things got businesslike.

The price of the wood for an aravel came out to twenty-three silver thirty-six copper, with an additional fifty copper for the wood stain and weathering sealant.

Next Nehna took them to a warehouse closer to the docks, full of fabric. It took some explaining to get across that when she said ‘aravel sails’ she wasn’t looking for canvas but tough wool or heavy linen, but eventually she found something that she said would be ‘acceptable’ for the awnings and weather coverings.

That was two silver sixteen copper. The big smithies by the mouth of the river gave a price of one silver sixty-seven copper for nails and metal fittings.

They went back to the market and Zevran left them for a while to speak to someone in the Merchants’ Guild hall. A circuit of the market yielded the estimated prices of two silver for iron and copper cookware and twenty-seven silver for the wedding trousseau- the ceremonial clothes for the wedding itself, and the blankets and pillows and furs to furnish the aravel.

Zevran returned as Nehna was describing the dimensions of the large chests the majority of the household items would be packed into when the aravels were moved. The carpenter thought about it, remarked that you’d want a hardwood for that, and then said that it would probably be about four silver eighty copper.

A bit of searching on the roads off the main market located the hall of the Weavers’ Guild- which was not the same as the Dyers’ and Weavers’ Guild in Amaranthine, Zevran explained to him when he got confused about the guild mark on the hall sign, because the weavers and dyers of Amaranthine stubbornly maintained their own joint guild, separate from any other in country, and financed their stubbornness with the wealth working with amaranth made them.

The weavers said that a large rug, the full size of one of the big upright looms that were best used by two people, would be fifteen silver thirty-one copper.

“I once had an Orlesian trader who I trust about metalworking offer me three silver thirty-one copper for the brass samovar I had the Chasind get from the Dalish,” Nehna said.

She added that price to the rest, and then looked at him.

“That’s seventy-eight silver twenty-five copper for a wedding aravel.”

Seventy-eight silver.

Not even one gold. The most expensive thing he would have ever owned and it wasn’t even worth one gold.

The horse he’d ridden here on cost more than a wedding aravel. Equipping a Warden cost more than a wedding aravel. A wedding aravel couldn’t buy you a set of light armor, you’d need more than one, even for a rogue-

A bottle of amaranth dye the length of his index finger from base of knuckle to tip of fingernail cost two whole wedding aravels!

The silverite armor he’d commissioned for Zevran had cost five or six!

He could pay for every wedding aravel made in Sabrae until Kieran got married, and probably well past that, with the amount of money he’d spent fixing the walls of Vigil’s Keep - he could have bought everything the clan owned and probably still have money left for the amount of gold that he’d paid Voldrik Glavonak!

“We made more than that on some of our selling trips to get rid of what we scavenged during the Blight!” Theron realized, horrified. “And we were just- just picking things up!”

“I recall that we sometimes went quite out of our way to ‘just pick things up’,” Zevran said, and this was not amusing! That was the wrong tone for talking about this!

“One gold is so much money, Satheraan!”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“I make-” That number was so big now, it was utterly inconceivable. “I make so much money on taxes and tolls and all those things, that you’ve told me about, with the laws and- I’ll never spend it all!”

“You are at court now,” Zevran said. “You will spend quite a bit.”

“Not that much!”

“There are nobles who go bankrupt with the sort of money you have.”

“Then they’re worse with money than I am!”

“No, they are simply working very hard to upstage their associates.”

“I don’t need this much money!” Theron said, appalled. “I can make enough just bringing things back from expeditions and selling them!”

“Which you really do not have to do-”

“I could give money to every alienage in the country!”

“Ah, no,” Zevran said. “No you could not. None of them are actually on your lands.”

“It’s charity - fine, the one here-”

“You are already employing a significant portion of them.”

“Then we should pay them more!”

“Your household is already extremely well paid, Your Arlship,” Damien said.

“What about the Vigil, we should- Satheraan stop laughing at me.”

“The Vigil is paid at the same rate as the estate,” Zevran said, still chuckling. “It is- ah, of course you would finally learn the value of money and your impulse is to continue giving it away.”

“Other people need it more than I do,” Theron said. “And now I know how much they can do with it.”

“You are a wonderful, ridiculous man,” Zevran told him, and kissed him. “And I am glad that I have you.”

The letter had been sitting on their side table since she’d opened it, assuming from the seal that it was another invitation to a party. In her mirror, where she was brushing out her hair to rebraid it for the night, she saw Estefan brooding on it again.

“We will not be able to avoid him tomorrow,” Zashira said. “I would rather Haida stay here.”

“It wouldn’t protect her,” her love said.

It wouldn’t - they knew that from bitter experience. Their ninth child had been murdered in her crib, deep within the Old Palace of the Nevarran royal family, a stronghold meant to defend against dragons and Tevenes alike and still manned as though the King expected a war with either. One of Claudio’s Crows had gotten in and out anyway, with nothing to show for his passing but some black feathers in the crib and Axamache’s blue face, discolored from the poison that had made her choke on nothing.

She would have been twelve this year.

“If she’s at court with us, everyone will be watching,” Estefan continued. “He can’t do anything to her out in the open.”

“This is his place,” Zashira reminded him bitterly. “Who would stop him?”

“We are guests of the Queen.”

She slammed her hairbrush down on the vanity.

“And his letter came in the hands of a servant wearing the colors of the man who put her on her throne! We picked Ferelden because the Wardens the Crows could not touch are here, and- and it is because they have a Crow of their own!”

Estefan came up behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Zashira-”

“Ten children, Estefan, and the Crows have killed nine of them! Haida is the right age to be taken and now a Crow appears?”

“He didn’t try to hide-”

“Oh, and Crows never deceive!” she spat. “And for all his nice words, did he ever give assurance that he would not hurt Haida?”

Estefan’s hands fell away because they both knew he hadn’t.

“I am trying to hope,” he said quietly, and Zashira met his eyes in the mirror. She could still just remember a time when he’d never looked so tired, resigned - when they’d been young together and the lines of human age had yet to set in and become deeper and deeper with sorrow. “I cannot stand to lose another child.”

Zashira wasn’t sure she could, either - but she’d seen her first six children stolen by treaty, the seventh and eighth carried away by Crows out of their country villa, and her ninth murdered in her crib. Haida had been an unexpected baby, late in life, and Zashira had given birth to her wondering when the Crows would take her, too.

Once, for a scant handful of years, she’d had hope. Rinna had been the only of her first six to survive. They’d seen their eldest twice after she’d graduated, both times briefly, and Zashira had hated seeing her a Crow but she had survived so long, so perhaps-

But then the Crows had taken Rutina and Juna, both born after the treaty had taken their brothers and sisters, and they’d left Antiva for Nevarra. And then Axamache had been killed, and they’d gone to Orlais and Haida had been born in Halamshiral and not a month later they’d received an obviously insincere letter of condolence from Claudio about Rinna’s murder at the hands of her cell mates - ‘very unfortunate, but one can hardly expect mental acuity from a brute and a courtesan’.

They’d known better to believe that Claudio had had nothing to do with it. Even half a world away Estefan still kept his own informants in the Crows - necessary, in the royal family - though he’d been down to one by that point, Claudio having found and disposed of the rest of them. The informant had given them a somewhat better picture of the situation, and later reported that Rinna’s cell mates had died in Ferelden against the Wardens, or the darkspawn.

Zashira and Estefan had drunk to their deaths, the night that information had reached them. It had been the only justice they were going to get, for any of their children.

And now one of them was alive.

She would go armed to court tomorrow, Zashira decided. If she had to lose another child, she would make the Crow go through her, first.

Chapter Text

“How much did this cost?”

“Theron-”

“It’s a cape! It’s dyed in amaranth! It’s got gold embroidery of amaranth flowers - see, look. I know embroidery, that’s fine detail work, how much did this cost?”

“Theron put your cape on.”

Alistair pounded the side of his fist on the open door to get their attention.

“We’re going to be late.”

“We are not going to be late,” Zevran said. “We will arrive exactly when we mean to.”

“I’m not counting on that, the rate Theron’s moving.”

Zevran shot an exasperated look at Theron and told him to: “Put it on,” again.

“But with this armor, and the cape, they’re both pretty nice, and they had to have cost a lot-”

Zevran took the cape from him, turned him around, and started fastening it on.

“Well this is fine silverite armor, commissioned for you, and it is meant to also function as dress armor so the leather is quite good, and this fabric is fine wool and silk, and blue this vibrant is nothing to be scoffed at, I am not surprised that the Wardens of Ferelden before you did not wear their uniforms in the field. And the detailing-”

He turned Theron back around and adjusted the lay of the cape.

“-molding does not come cheap or easy and this is silver inlay I believe, or white gold. And then of course it is enchanted also. With this and the cape I believe that you cannot be wearing less than forty gold.”

“Forty gold!”

“Theron, we’re all really happy that you’ve finally learned the value of money,” Alistair said. “But we have to go.”

“Forty gold,” he repeated.

“Get your sword, we have to be at the palace.”

“If we sold all the clothes we’re wearing-”

“We’d have a heaping big pile of coins and nothing to wear to go to the palace,” Alistair said, as Zevran handed Theron his sword to belt on. “Zev, you’re not going armed?”

He was surprised to see that Zevran didn’t seemed to be going armored, either. He was the only one of them with cloth clothes for court, rather than armor - a plush velvet doublet with the close sleeves slashed up the inside wasn’t going to do much against an attack, not even with the brocade jerkin over it. The tail of the doublet wouldn’t protect the backs of his knees, and the delicate lace trimming on the gathered sleeves of his undershirt might catch or tear. His boots were good, solid make - the same ones Theron had picked up for him in Haven, painstakingly repaired and cleaned up through these years of wear so that they always looked new. He’d had gold tooling added along the tops at some point.

“Who said I was not going armed?” Zevran asked.

“Okay, you know what, new question - how many weapons do you have on you, right now?”

He smiled broadly.

“That would be telling, my dear Alistair.”

“Of course it would. Silly of me to ask, really.”

“How much,” Theron asked, looking over Zevran’s outfit. Where it wasn’t gold, it was deepest amaranth wine red, or cream white and warm grey, not an exact match to their Warden colors but a clear homage to them. “Did that cost?”

“Parts of it were a rush job,” Zevran said, shooing him out of the room. Alistair moved out of the way and shut the door behind them. “So - much. You might cry. But it is very striking, no? I will be the envy of everyone.”

“You look very nice.”

“Yes I do, thank you.”

“Leaving,” Alistair said, when Theron stopped for a kiss. “We are trying to leave.”

“You don’t want to go to court either,” Theron said.

“I also don’t want Anora to go frowny at me,” Alistair retorted. “Or you.”

That made him hurry up and get to the horses.

Alistair was still not convinced that they needed horses. They’d always walked to the palace before, but Zevran had insisted. And Tanis and Damien had agreed. And Shianni had said it was what people did. He trusted Shianni on this, elves in big cities grew up as servants to the nobility. She’d have seen plenty come and go.

Still, it felt silly to get on one just to go to the palace. And wearing armor meant the lack of shield was distracting him. He kept having this nagging sense of wrong, because horses meant travel and travel meant fighting.

At least he wasn’t riding sidesaddle. Leandra tried and then gave it up with a wince and a rueful remark about the long-past days of her youth. Bethany managed it after a couple attempts and the Amells’ maid helped her arrange her skirts, blue-green and white, over her slippers.

They set off. Theron stopped after less than a minute and turned in his saddle - Alistair ignored him and his questions about why Damien and the Amells’ maid were following them on foot with Fen, why didn’t they have horses, because he kept this up they were going to be late.

Everyone else caught up before he reached the palace, thankfully, and they all dismounted their horses. Damien stepped up to hold Theron’s stirrup for him even though he really didn’t need that, but Bethany was having trouble so Alistair hoisted her off her horse. It was a simple matter of his hands on her waist and her hands on his shoulders, a little joint effort, and her delighted laughter.

“Thank you, Lord Warden,” she said, smiling, and curtseyed elegantly.

“Why, you’re welcome, Lady Amell,” he replied, and bowed. “May I escort you inside?”

This was just the thing before having to be all serious and stuffy and courtly - some joking around. It had been decided before they’d left Vigil’s Keep how they’d come in. Precedence demanded that Theron go before he did, and being betrothed, Zevran went in with Theron. Technically the Ladies Amell were being announced as Alistair’s guests, but, well - all anyone had to do was ask to find out who’s estate they were staying in.

The palace grounds were unusually crowded, but people made way at the sight of Warden armor. Some of them were Fereldan by dress, but there were many who weren’t- Marchers and Orlesians, it looked like, but there were still more he couldn’t identify.

Were all of these people here for a shot at a bannorn? Anora had opened court to anyone who wanted to make a bid for one and could find a suitable sponsor or otherwise made a good impression on the court. Having a sponsor got you in faster and gave you a better chance at one of the titles up for grabs, which was why the Amells were coming in with them, rather than waiting out here with everyone else to come in after the nobles' introductions.

Alistair was relieved to pass into the anteroom before the throne hall where court was held, and had his usual moment of vertigo, looking around. They’d fought Ser Cauthrien here, to get at the Landsmeet and Loghain.

Oh look, there was Ser Cauthrien - Bann Cauthrien, now that Anora had given her land in the Bannorn.

It was quiet, in this room, despite the number of people in it. Nathaniel had told him about this, before they’d left for Denerim. The monarch and their chosen group waited in the hall for everyone else to he presented to them, and it was bad manners to socialize before being presented. In the normal way of things Anora would have had the Teyrns and Arls and their families in with her, as well as any particularly important royal guests - but at this court the Teyrns and Arls had been superseded by her foreign suitors.

They were on time, and amazingly not even the last group to arrive. Some nobles he didn’t know slipped in even as the court herald banged the brass-shod butt of his richly-stained oak staff on the stone flags before the door to the hall.

Fergus stepped up from the crowd. Three counts and the herald banged his staff again. The room fell silent. Three counts more and a third bang of the staff - one, two, three - on the stone, and two servants opened the doors exactly in step.

“His Grace Fergus Cousland, Teyrn and Bann of Highever-”

“We’re really doing this,” Alistair muttered, and Zevran slung an arm each around his and Theron’s shoulders, drawing their heads close together for a conference.

“You are both going to do perfectly fine,” he told them.

“We’re going to fuck it up and die.”

“Optimism, Alistair.”

“I can’t help it, I’m an intrinsically pessimistic person.”

“Untrue.”

The herald finished announcing Fergus and moved onto Arl Eamon and Isolde, who was moving slowly, heavy with her pregnancy. Alistair glanced up over Theron and Zevran’s heads - Arl Eamon was watching him, and turned away as he watched to face the opening doors.

“-Arl and Arlessa of Redcliffe-”

“I’ve never done this before-”

“And you were never a fugitive on the run before, or went into the Deep Roads before, or fought an Archdemon before,” Zevran reminded him. “You will do well and there will be no problem.”

The herald announced Arl Bryland and his daughter. Theron and Zevran were next.

“You’re underestimating our ability to make any given situation way more complicated than it should be,” Alistair told Zevran, who shook his head at him and turned toward the herald.

Theron leaned in quickly and kissed his cheek.

“Luck,” he whispered in El’vhen.

“You too,” Alistair whispered back in the same, and Theron and Zevran went to the herald.

“His Arlship Theron Mahariel Sabrae of Clan Sabrae of the Dalish, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden and Arl of Amaranthine,” the herald announced. “Lord of Vigil’s Keep and of Soldiers’ Peak. Bann of the City of Amaranthine, and of Arland’s Peace, and of the Blackmarsh, and of Hafterfields, and of the Knotwood Hills, and of the Wending Wood.”

“Maker’s Breath,” Alistair said under his own, recalling a dim memory of when they’d last been in Denerim, and himself joking with Theron about him writing up the longest list of his possible legitimate titles to give to Anora’s protocol officer. He’d been trying to encourage Theron to get his mind off Zevran’s absence, not to actually do it.

“Hero of Ferelden,” the herald continued. “And Veteran of the Fifth Blight, Slayer of the Archdemon Urthemiel. Champion of Redcliffe. Chooser of Kings, Savior of Houses Harrowmont and Dace of the dwarves of Orzammar and Kal’Hirol. One who has been in the presence of the most sacred and hallowed mortal remains of Our Lady Andraste, Bride and Prophet and Savior. Arla’lanelan-”

Wow, that had even been said almost properly.

“-Homegiver of the Third City of the El’vhen, Hallarenis’haminathe-”

No such luck with that one.

“-a Hahren of the Dalish and Dedicant of Falon’din who guides the dead.”

Nobody was topping that introduction today.

“Accompanying him-”

He was starting to feel sorry for the herald, he really was.

“His betrothed, Messere Zevran Revasina of Antiva, Veteran of the Fifth Blight. One who has been in the presence of the most sacred and hallowed mortal remains of Our Lady Andraste, Bride and Prophet and Savior.”

Huh. Surely Zevran had a couple more titles he could pull out, somewhere? Like - no, they’d all be Crow things, wouldn’t they?

“And the Mabari, Fen’harel.”

Bethany placed a hand on his arm.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she told him. The herald was announcing Arl Mallory and her wife and children. Once Arl Alfstanna had gone, it would be their turn - well, his. Recognized royal bastards had more standing than Banns, but without other titles of his own, Alistair didn’t go with the Teyrns or Arls.

Mallory, Alfstanna - the staff banged again.

He stepped up, Bethany on his arm and Leandra on his other side.

“Lord Alistair Mac Maric, Captain of the Grey in Ferelden. Son of the late King Maric the Liberator. Commander of Soldiers’ Peak and Veteran of the Fifth Blight. One who has been in the presence of the most sacred and hallowed mortal remains of Our Lady Andraste, Bride and Prophet and Savior,” the herald announced.

He could see the throne hall, now. Anora sat on her dais, at the end of the long rug that ran the length of the hall. There were four lower thrones to either side of her - two men to her right, and a man and a woman to her left. A Chantry Sister had been afforded the right to stand one step below the dais, off to the side. Three men stood at the bottom of the stairs. Otherwise, it was almost empty, but for some servants and guards and Theron and the others.

“Accompanying him: Lady Leandra Amell of Kirkwall, and her daughter Bethany Amell.”

Step out onto the carpet - come on, do it! One step, just to start!

Here he went.

It had been a very busy year in the Chantry - first she’d solidified her network, and then dear Mother Dorothea had been named Divine, and had called on her to serve!

Leliana had not had a dull moment since arriving in Val Royeaux from Haven. Divine Justinia had appointed her Left Hand immediately, quickly introduced her to Seeker Pentaghast and the Imperial court, and then she and the Seeker had been off to Kirkwall.

It was a mess of a city, even so many months after the disaster. The poor and displaced were everywhere and organized the Sisters who remained there for aid as she searched through papers in the Chantry and the Circle and tracked down Templars who had fled or been reassigned.

Maddeningly frustrating work, all of it! Grand Cleric Elthina had kept very few papers for a woman of her standing, and this Mother Petrice even fewer - not so much as a diary!

And the Gallows had been worse. Stripped entirely bare of resources, from Harrowing chamber to sub-basements, every book and bit of magic gone but for the Knight-Commander’s petrified corpse. The red lyrium - the memory of it made her shiver. They still didn’t know what it was.

Whoever had taken the books and the rest had taken the records as well. There hadn’t been a scrap of paper to be found in the entire building, at least not with writing on it. In the basements the phylacteries had been smashed, so there was no way of properly knowing who - mages or Templars - had been living there!

She would have asked the Tranquil, but their rotting corpses had been burned the same day she and Cassandra had first set foot on the island. Everyone deserved dignity in death.

All winter Leliana had tried to piece together the true story of what had been going on in Kirkwall, but with so many dead and so many fled it was onerous work, not to mention all the problems she had had recruiting agents. Here in Denerim it already looked as though things would be a bit easier, even though she'd been here less than a week.

Divine Justinia had told her that she needed to relocate somewhere else, somewhere closer to Antiva so that she could handle both the ongoing situation in Kirkwall and the new one of Grand Cleric Itzar and the Tranquil in Antiva City. Denerim was perhaps not the most logical choice - but it was neutral ground as these things went, not tied up in the trade  politics between the many houses and companies of the Free Marches and Antiva, and not an area she'd focused on cultivating before.

And there was a royal court! And it was her country! And her friends were here, the ones she hadn’t seen since the end of the Blight!

Dabbling in some court politics would be good for her mood. She needed something fun to do, otherwise she might go mad with Kirkwall. And someone had had to deliver the official edict of expulsion from the Chantry Brothers to Sebastian Vael for his attack on the Templars of the Circle in Jainen, after all. He had been angry but resigned, and treated her courteously and answered her questions about Kirkwall. Amazing, that Denerim would give her a clearer picture than being in the city itself.

Cousland and Guerrin and Bryland were names she was familiar with, both from the Blight and simply knowing politics; but then Theron was announced and goodness, he’d been busy these last years, to end up with so many titles!

And then Zevran was announced with him and they were betrothed? Well - they had grown closer during the Blight, certainly, and it had been no secret that they had become involved near the end, after Zevran and Morrigan had rescued him and Alistair from Fort Drakon, but - Theron was a sweetheart, he could do better than a shameless rake like Zevran who would happily flaunt his philanderous and libertine lifestyle.

Zevran was living well, she saw as Theron and Zevran came down the hall carpet to the dais. Amaranthine’s money was enough to finance many things, and he was clearly taking advantage of the luxury.

Leliana watched them approach, waiting for the moment when they recognized her. It was easy with Theron, because a smile broke across his face and he tried to give her a little wave - but Zevran reached over without looking away from the Queen and stopped him.

They bowed to the Queen, Zevran acquitting himself rather better than Theron did, but that was not surprising. What was was the quarter-turn Zevran made towards the visiting prince from Antiva and his mistress, and the rather longer, more florid bow he gave them.

Hm. He had spoken of his home country often enough, but he had never seemed a patriot.

Theron and Zevran moved off to the side. It was a couple more announcements before Alistair stepped through the doors into the throne hall, and oh my had he gone up in the world as well! A lord now!

And all grown up, out of his boyish looks and into that rugged Fereldan handsome! He was very kingly, in his Warden armor and his close-kept beard and grown-out hair and a beautiful woman on his arm. Now if only the Warden blue was the ancient Theirin red and orange tartan, he’d be-

The women entering the hall with him were the Amells of Kirkwall. That was name that had come up often in her search for answers. How provident that they were here. And with her friends, even. They’d been long gone by the time she and Cassandra had arrived in Kirkwall and started asking questions.

Truly was the Maker present in Ferelden. Praise and glory be.

After Alistair’s entrance and presentation to the Queen, it was a simple wait through the rest of the very depleted Fereldan nobility, and then the entrance of the hopefuls outside.

The Queen stood after the last had given their bows and moved from the hall carpet. 

“My lords and ladies of Ferelden,” she said, voice clear and carrying through the hall, ringing in the rafters. Someone had been trained by a choir Sister in oration when she’d been younger. “Welcome again to our court. Andraste’s grace and favor among you.”

There was an answering murmur of the same wished for the Queen.

“As we approach the Landsmeet vote on the matter of our Bannorns, we find ourselves with some new arrivals. And so, as you were presented to us, I present to you: Ser Reynaud Yann Fay-Dufort, a Chevalier of Orlais, and cousin to our own Arlessa Isolde of Redcliffe. Lord Rosaire Desrocher, son of Marquis Jacquard of Emprise du Lion. Lord Maxwell Trevelyan, son of Bann Cleves Trevelyan of Ostwick. Prince Sebastian Vael, son of the late Prince Branimir Vael, Sovereign Lord of Starkhaven. Prince Baldewin Augustin, son of King Wilhelm Augustin of the Anderfels. Prince Estefan Orfeo Ranieru Timio Bahadur Campana, son of King Fulgendo Antino Bernetto Satina Diegez Bahadur Campana of Antiva; and his mistress Domsignora Zashira Elius of Antiva City.”

She was next, and Leliana focused eagerly on the people below her, waiting for their reactions.

“And Sister Leliana, Veteran of the Fifth Blight and one who has been in the presence of the most sacred and hallowed mortal remains of Our Lady Andraste, Bride and Prophet and Savior; now Custodial Sister of the Temple of Sacred Ashes in Haven-”

Oh this was her favorite part!

“-and Left Hand of the Divine.”

And didn’t that just cause a stir! She watched with hidden delight as the room reacted with sudden looks of people who were desperately trying to pretend they’d never done anything that had contradicted Andraste’s teachings or the edicts of the Chantry.

Well, everyone but her friends, which was nice. Alistair looked vaguely guilty - but that was just him. So he’d kept his hapless charm after all these years, good for him.

Queen Anora began making a short speech about welcoming them as royal guests and hoping the best for everyone’s prospects, which she felt comfortable tuning out to read the room. It was easy, with so few people, and with Fereldans’ bald-faced openness, even in court manners. It would be easier once people were circulating, but for now she picked out the leaders of the major political factions, at least as much as the Fereldan court had managed to organize factions. It was nothing so sophisticated as at the Imperial court in Orlais.

There was Arl Eamon, of course, leading those who were interested in greater foreign connections as well as the liberals with his staunch devotion to bloodlines and inheritance and punctilious Andrasteanism - though even for the Fereldan liberals he took the bloodlines a bit far. His arch-rival was Arl Mallory, Old Alamarri Ferelden through-and-through, with a bloodline back into the legends of ancient history and the combative mindset towards authority and peers to match her storied ancestors’. With the end of the Theirin dynasty, leadership of the old conservative families had fallen to her.

Teyrn Fergus should have been in her camp, and had for a year or two, except for the fact that he was a proud and powerful supporter of Queen Anora and generally open to foreigners and new ways of doing things. His counterpart in the moderates was Arl Bryland, who was mostly of the same mindset but a bit less proactive, a focal point for the nobles who mostly just wanted to get on with things and maybe have a bit of excitement every once in a while. But there was no large split there, and both men seemed to get along.

Leliana eyed the newly-raised Arl Alfstanna as Queen Anora started to end her speech. There was potential for another faction there, though it seemed, at the moment, that Arl Alfstanna would join Teyrn Fergus’s faction. Really, the interesting one was Theron. She hadn’t heard a thing about his political views, which was quite extraordinary. What sort of company was he keeping? Who were his allies at court? He had always been so personable and met such interesting people- what was he up to, these days, to make things better for people?

Queen Anora entreated them to enjoy the first day of court, ending the formal talking for now, and swept down into the crowd. Leliana waited a moment for the royalty to clear the dais before pattering down the stairs.

“Leliana!” Theron exclaimed excitedly as she came to join their group. “Hi!”

She laughed as Theron caught her up in a hug that lifted her off her feet. Being hugged by someone in armor was not comfortable, but she could put up with it.

“I didn’t know you were coming! We went to see you in Haven but you weren’t there! How are you!”

“Very well, thank you,” she said. “And you! You are getting married!”

“I know! In winter in Hallarenis’haminathe and then in spring the Chantry way, it’s going to be wonderful.”

“I am very happy for you,” she said, because she was - he was so excited and joyful about it, no matter that he could have done better. “I will have to keep myself free of other obligations.”

“We would be happy to have you, Leliana,” Zevran told her. “So, tell me - ‘Left Hand of the Divine’?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Theron said. “It sounds important but I don’t know what it means.”

“It means that she is Divine Justinia’s spymaster and personal assassin, Theron,” Zevran said, before Leliana had settled on a suitably diplomatic answer.

She frowned at him.

“That is very bold phrasing,” she told him warningly.

He smiled, and placed a hand on her arm, and said in Orlesian without breaking his expression: “Bards are simply amateur Crows, my dear, and we both know it. Even if she has not yet ordered you to kill, she will someday, and you are fooling yourself if you think she will not.”

“Dorothea-”

No, that was the wrong name, she remembered, as she picked Zevran’s hand off her arm and tossed it away.

“Divine Justinia would never order such a thing!”

“She is Divine, Leliana. She must play the Game as ruthlessly as the Empress, if not more.”

“No, I do it for her!” Leliana snapped at him.

“I thought you joined the Chantry to get out of that,” Alistair said, and he’d- he’d learned Orlesian? When?

“I have been called to return to it,” she told him stiffly. This was not the conversation she’d been hoping for, when she’d come over here.

“You had another vision?” Theron asked.

“The Divine speaks for the Maker. She asked; and so I came.”

“Leliana,” Zevran said, voice pitched low. He forwent Orlesian this time. Perhaps it didn’t satisfy his standards of conversational privacy. “You called her Dorothea - this is the same Dorothea who took you into the Chantry, yes? You do not owe her. You do not have to do this.”

“Oh, so you disapprove of subterfuge and killing, now?” she asked archly. “You are making a hypocrite of yourself, Zevran Arainai.”

“Revasina, please, my dear,” he said. “I have left the Crows. It is not hypocrisy if one changes one’s perspective, hm? Please, be honest with yourself, and know where you must draw your lines.”

“I am serving the Maker.”

“And He is a poor god if He demands what you do not wish to give.”

“Vanur’esem’dru, Satheraan,” Theron told him, quickly, before Leliana had properly formulated a response; and then looked to her again. “I am glad for you then, Leliana. I hope you serve well.”

Theron had always understood about faith and duty, and believed her vision when everyone else had doubted or made fun. Belief had gotten her through the Blight, she told people- but it hadn’t only been hers.

“I am doing my best.”

He had not had high expectations of the so-called ‘Arl-Commander’ of Ferelden, and the elf had not disappointed.

He flaunted his heathenry with those barbaric lines on his face. He flaunted his titles and accomplishments with that overbearing introduction. He flaunted his wealth with the pretty Antivan on his arm.

He had the sheer temerity to come to court not only farcically late in the season, but armed in the presence of his Queen and armored. The other Warden too, the bastard son.

Blight Wardens, pfeagh. The heroes of Blights past had had the good sense to die in the deed rather than open themselves to the temptation of pride and aggrandize themselves after the Archdemon had been slain.

The Wardens of Ferelden were clearly no better than the Wardens of the Anderfels. It would be just a matter of time before the Warden-Commander of Ferelden tried to take over from Queen Anora the way the First Warden was trying to take over from his father - and if not the Warden-Commander than his bastard-blood Captain.

Queen Anora had no idea the danger she’d put herself in, giving the Wardens this. Wardens belonged in the field fighting darkspawn or quietly behind their fortress walls, not given political power and allowed the run of the country!

Prince Baldewin Augustin decided right then, before the opening speech was done, that if he could accomplish one thing while he was here, it would be saving Ferelden from this menace that had been allowed to grow and fester in its rich coastlands.

But first he needed information.

Oh for - they knew the Left Hand of the Divine? This called for drastic measures.

“Teyrn Fergus.”

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing. “Welcome to Ferelden.”

“I am looking forward to a season of entertainment and hospitality. I was wondering - how well do you know the Wardens?”

“In general?” Teyrn Fergus asked. “Or the Arl-Commander and Lord-Captain in particular?”

Maker’s Tears did those titles grate on his nerves!

“In the particular, Your Grace.”

“I would venture to say better than most in this room, Your Highness,” the Teyrn told him. “They’re not often in Denerim, and this is the first time they’ll be here for a whole season. But I’ve made his acquaintance. He’s quiet, mostly. Good company, but sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s joking. Amaranthine is doing well under him, and his people are loyal to him. I recently heard about a number of problems he’s taken care of that I’d never even known existed, and his lands are right next to mine. He seems quite good at his job. Private, but I daresay that if you were to ask the rest of the court, even they would have noticed that he is smitten with his fiancé. In all honesty I’m a bit surprised they haven’t married before this.”

Baldewin glanced over his shoulder. Even speaking with the Left Hand, they stayed arm-in-arm. Hm.

“And the other?”

“He declined the kingship,” the Teyrn shrugged. “Publicly, in front of the Landsmeet and the Queen. He didn’t seem very happy to have her grant him recognized bastardy status either. They’re not much for court, as I said.”

So they flaunted authority as well. Typical. Stomping all over whatever they liked because they had an military force. The nobles of the Anderfels were a contentious rabble of petty princelings - at least the Fereldan ones seemed so far to be better behaved.

But that could change at any moment.

“If you’re so interested, Your Highness, I could introduce you.”

“That won’t be necessary, Your Grace,” Baldewin told him.

He would go to the Wardens on his own time, when he was ready to counter the damage they would do.

“Does he think he is being subtle?” Reynaud asked his cousin over their wine. They were watching the court as it began to move.

In Val Royeaux or in Halamshiral it would be a delicate, intricate dance; every placement of a step indicating something about the relations between everyone in the room. The turn of a fan or the placement of a handkerchief could be whole sentences. In combination with the fashion and colors of the clothing chosen, the hairstyles, the jewelry, the masks, one’s choice of words - an entire story.

These Fereldans just bashed their way through everything. The only person in the room with a fan was the glamorous elf mistress of the prince of Antiva, and the only people who were even trying to make a statement with their outfits were her and the prince, the other Antivan with the Wardens, the two Wardens, the Queen - and of course himself and Isolde and her husband, because they were reasonable people. Everyone else was wearing large bits of that awful Fereldan plaid. His cousin and her husband couldn’t get away with not wearing a bit of the Guerrin colors, this apparently being ceremonial court dress, of all things, but at least they were exercising taste and had kept it minimal, with only a cloth rosette badge for Eamon and a bodice panel for his wife. 

Isolde sniffed at the sight of Prince Baldewin striding right to the Teyrn of Highever. So obvious.

“He is an Ander,” she said. “You can hardly expect better. Rough and uncouth and allowing merchants and tradesmen into their nobility. Why, Arl Mallory’s wife-”

Reynaud listened to his cousin with one ear as she launched into a tirade about Ludhilde von Kassel-an-Lattenfluss-Auer’s awful plebeian background. Oh look, there she was, in a truly unfortunate underskirt and sash of her wife’s family’s plaid. Arl Mallory was no better, in the full wrapped sash-skirt monstrosity and matching hat. Surely at any moment the theater troupe fools would come prancing and capering in to pull their usual tricks on the rough and rustic Fereldan bumpkins.

He didn’t much care to be here. He was missing Val Royeaux in the spring with his cohort in the Chevaliers - good fun, good food, and excellent connections to the upper nobility. Why, just last year Germain had managed an evening invitation to one of the mid-season Imperial fêtes! The right service to the right nobility could move you far and they had had plans for this season!

But no, here he was in Denerim, because his dear cousin’s husband had somehow cajoled his parents to letting them risk that opportunity on a wildly-improbable marriage to the Queen of Ferelden. Everyone knew that the Fereldans still hated Orlais. They would never accept an Orlesian husband for their Queen, not even as beloved as she was by her people.

He would simply have to make the best of it, somehow.

Reynaud idly wondered who of the royal guests would actually win her hand in marriage. Sebastian Vael was handsome enough, and Marchers were simply the city cousins of Fereldans with some manners tacked on. Starkhaven though - that was better than Ostwick. Ostwick was a coast city, prosperous on the trade from Antiva but glutted with families of barely any standing. The Trevelyans were quite acceptable, as Marcher nobility went, but the Vaels were royalty - at least of a sort - and close to Tevinter. They were practically cultured.

Besides, Maxwell Trevelyan was more than a decade younger than the Queen. Certainly there were women whose tastes ran so young - many a Chevalier profited from those sorts in Orlais - but he could scarcely believe that a wartime Queen such as Anora Mac Tir could truly want an unblooded youth.

Prince Baldewin was leaving the Teyrn. Maybe the Queen would pick him? He was closer to her in age, and they could be uncouth together. Perhaps he would put his famed martial prowess to the barbarians in the Frostbacks or the south, human or elf, in place of the darkspawn.

Or maybe - there was Marquis Jacquard’s bastard son. A scandal, that had been, even if only a minor one. The man had had three wives of good families before marrying his commoner mistress in his advancing age, and one of his proper-born children would inherit Emprise. The prevailing sentiment in the right circles was still that the Marquis should have sent his bastard son to the Chantry as was the proper and respectable place for them, but-

Hm. There he was, though, in the company of a Chantry Brother and the Left Hand. Getting to know the Wardens too, he saw.

Queen Anora’s court was simply marvelous. Emprise du Lion was Rosaire’s home, yes, but here was different only in the architecture and fashion. Ferelden in the spring had the same invigorating, lingering chill in the air as home, and if the stone construction was sturdier and blockier, oh well, it made the buildings warmer than in Emprise. They really knew what they were doing, these Fereldans, with their wall tapestries and carpets. The Fereldan nobles looked enviously warm, in their wool tartans and tall leather boots and furs. His own parents had insisted on the best of Val Royeaux style, or at least on the best that they could afford and would be appropriate to his station, and it just wasn’t good enough for this weather. He'd been putting up with it all winter, and had kept wishing for nothing more than enough money to commission the clothes made over warmer.

But that didn’t matter so much, because Brother Genitivi was here and now so was the Hero of Ferelden!

He and the Brother had been talking since he’d arrived in the city, and it seemed that the Royal Historian never ran out of stories of the places he’d been, the things he’d seen, and the people he’d met. Rosaire was looking forward to keeping up a correspondence with him when he inevitably had to go back home to the Emprise.

And today, today-

Brother Genitivi had offered to introduce him to the Hero of Ferelden! And the Left Hand of the Divine was here too!

Rosaire hadn’t missed the herald’s introductions - there were four people who had found the Temple of Sacred Ashes and all four of them were in this room!

And Brother Genitivi had been there and met all of them and was introducing him!

“The Hero is something of a Chantry Brother for the Dalish,” Brother Genitivi reassured him quietly as they approached. “We’ve had some fabulously interesting conversations and correspondence about the differences between official Chantry history and the Dalish oral tradition. He loves talking about it.”

That was exactly what he wanted to know! There were so many old Dalish ruins in Emprise and down in the Dales, and he’d found bits of information and old artifacts, and just had no idea how to put them together. He knew he was missing things, big things, and he’d brought his notes and the more portable items he’d found in anticipation of being able to ask the Hero about them. But he’d thought he’d have to wait for weeks for it to happen, and sit through court functions and all sorts of ceremony before he’d have a real chance to talk to the man!

Lord Mac Maric was telling the Left Hand about the new Wardens who had joined since the end of the Blight when the Hero saw them coming, and smiled at Brother Genitivi.

“It’s nice to see you in person again, Brother,” he said, and Lord Mac Maric cut off his descriptions to say hello as well. Brother Genitivi and the Left Hand bowed to each other in the manner of the Chantry, and Messere Revasina shook his hand afterwards.

“And how have you been since our last letter, Arl-Commander?” Brother Genitivi asked the Hero. “It was, what, last August?”

The Hero looked a bit bashful.

“Things got very busy, and then I was away. Sorry. I’m doing well.”

“May I offer you my congratulations on your engagement?”

“Absolutely, thank you.”

“I thought you’d like to meet Rosaire Desrochers,” Brother Genitivi introduced him, and this was his cue! “He’s an amateur historian, and very interested in learning more about your people.”

Rosaire stepped forward, stomach turning nervously, and hoped he was going to do this properly. He’d read everything he could find on the Dalish, in his research trying to learn more about the ruins, and you just couldn’t be sure how much of it was accurate or not. But he knew what vallas’lin were, and he’d heard the herald say ‘Falon’din’, so-

“Falon’din i’na, Your Arlship,” he said, as he bowed.

“It’s ‘Falon’din re i’na’,” the Hero corrected him immediately. “You can only use ‘i’na’ on its own when you’re citing the Evanuris as a whole.”

“Oh,” he said. He hadn’t messed up too badly then, that was good. He’d have to remember that so he could write it down later. “Apologies, Your Arlship.”

He straightened from his bow and saw that the Hero was staring at him. So were the others.

“Huh,” Lord Mac Maric said, after a second.

“Ehn unghi’l El’vhen o’ma?” the Hero asked him, and- ‘El’vhen’ was elf, or Dalish, but-

“I’m sorry, I don’t really know Dalish-”

“El’vhen,” he was corrected again.

“-El’vhen, I only know a couple of phrases from the inscriptions I’ve found and what’s been written about-”

El’vhen? Dalish?

“-your people,” Rosaire decided on, because that’s what Brother Genitivi had used.

“You used a greeting for religious ceremonies,” the Hero told him. “Do you know what it means?”

“Brother Utrent of Montsimmard said that ‘Evanuris i’na’ was a wishing for your gods to watch over you,” Rosaire answered. “The herald said you were a dedicant of Falon’din, so I thought it would be appropriate to specify.”

“It would be, but this is the wrong situation. It should have been ‘En’an’sal’en’.”

“Then en’an’sal’en, Your Arlship.”

“Su tas ma, Lord Desrochers.”

All right. Good! He’d made it through the introduction.

Hopefully the question he’d been consumed by since the herald had announced him wasn’t also a social blunder.

“I was wondering, Your Arlship,” he said, trying not to sound too hesitant. “Why you’d named your dog after the Dread Wolf? Is it a joke?”

The Hero did not have a very readable face, but his companions were much more open. Lord Mac Maric looked long-suffering; Messere Revasina just amused. The Left Hand was smiling, a little.

“Yes,” the Hero said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and looking directly into his eyes. This was a little unnerving. “It was a joke. I’m glad someone finally asked.”

“Hey, once we’d learned enough about your gods to know it could be a joke,” Lord Mac Maric said. “We knew you well enough to know that it had to be a joke. It’s exactly your sense of humor.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?

“Na melinas mar esha’len ‘Hathen’, Theron.”

“It’s a good pun,” the Hero insisted. This sounded like an old argument.

“No it’s not.”

“I brought most of my research with me to Ferelden, Your Arlship,” Rosaire said. “On the ruins in Emprise, chiefly Suledin Keep, and a few things I’ve visited in the Dales. I was wondering if I could have a time to talk to you about them?”

“Would you be available next week for a dinner or afternoon refreshments?” Messere Revasina asked him. “I would specify a date, but we do not yet know what other events there may be.”

“I haven’t been engaged for any events so far,” he said. “I’d be honored to accept.”

“Then we shall see you next week,” Messere Revasina said. “A pleasure, Lord Desrochers.”

And there was the cue to go. There was more socializing to do, after all.

He’d won a history discussion date with the Hero!

Some unspoken signal had passed between her mother and Messere Revasina when the Left Hand of the Divine was so enthusiastically greeted by the Arl. Bethany thought it must have been something like ‘go, we’ll distract her’, because her mother pulled them off to the other side of the room immediately, somewhere where they wouldn’t be overheard.

“Mother-”

“With any luck she’s never heard of us,” her mother said, to strained around the edges to be reassurance.

“But there were those serials Marian found-”

“And would the Left Hand of the Divine read Varric Tethras’s novels? Go. Socialize. Pretend that nothing is wrong and we have nothing to hide.”

Bethany still worried. If the Chantry found her-

She wouldn’t go back. She couldn’t, she couldn’t stand it. It was what she’d thought she’d wanted, she’d thought she’d enjoy a Circle, but all she’d really wanted was to be left alone about her magic.

Breathe, and go speak to people. The surroundings were comforting, the Alamarri tartans familiar - the Bryland dark red with thin dark green and yellow edging, the broad Guerrin red and grey and white, the Swate blue with green and red, the Diarmagdhu green with cream and blue. She’d seen all of them throughout her childhood, on the fainsmen of the lords passing through towns or fields. Once they’d settled in Lothering she’d seen tartan often. Everyone in the south went through Lothering, eventually.

The only place she’d never thought to see it was here at court. She’d had girlhood dreams of the family fortunes rising, of her mother’s family reaccepting them, and of traveling to court and living as a lady. 

And here she was, finally.

“Lady Amell?”

Oh.

Teyrn Cousland was asking.

“Your Grace,” she said, sinking into the curtsey her mother had had her practicing since they’d arrived in Denerim.

She felt out-of-place, even as she straightened to the Teyrn’s shallow return bow over her hand. He was in his family’s green and blue and white tartan, worn in the northern variation of tartan spats to match the kilt and the over-shoulder plaid short in comparison to the far more traditional long and draping southern version, tucked into his wide belt on his right side and pulled behind his back to fall over his other shoulder, fastened in place to his doublet with an enameled badge of the Cousland laurels.

The nobles all had their tartans to identify them, even the Queen in the pattern of the extinct old Teyrns of Gwaren. Few had opted to wear the full ensemble, northern or southern- Arl Mallory being the notable exception- but everyone had something, whether it be as prominent as Arl Bryland’s southern over-shoulder plaid, lacking the kilt; or Arl Eamon’s simple rosette pinned with the badge of Redcliffe’s tower.

And what did she have to show her family? The Amell device. In Kirkwall she had been a Fereldan; and now back in Fereldan she was painfully aware of how Marcher she seemed.

“I noticed you here in the back,” Teyrn Cousland said. “I felt I had to make certain you were feeling welcome.”

“It is my first time at court,” Bethany allowed. “But it’s more familiar than anything. I was admiring the tartans.”

“Familiar, my Lady?”

“I grew up in Ferelden,” she told him, repeating the words she and her mother had agreed on, to keep suspicion and attention low. “My father was a Fereldan Freeman. He and my mother eloped, and my family lived here until the Blight.”

“Could I venture to say that you then fled to Kirkwall, as many did?”

“You would be correct, Your Grace.”

“Then welcome home, Lady Amell,” Teyrn Cousland told her. “Is your father in attendance this season?”

“My father died three years before the Blight,” Bethany told him. “Of a sickness.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I see you were taught in Marcher manners,” he said. “We don’t need to be quite this formal. You could call me Teyrn Fergus, if you’d like.”

“Then you could call me Lady Bethany, Teyrn Fergus. Lady Amell is my mother.”

“I would hate to confuse the two of you, Lady Bethany. I am sure your mother is a fine woman, but surely your charm is greater.”

She was being flirted with! This was not an aspect of courtly manner and behavior she had expected to encounter so quickly, but oh was it flattering.

“You are too kind, Teyrn Fergus,” she told him.

This would be fun.

“On the contrary, I hope to be proven miserly in my compliments,” he said, and offered her his arm. Oh goodness- well she wasn’t going to refuse. “Did you come into Lord Mac Maric’s acquaintance when he was in Kirkwall last Kingsway?”

“My family did, yes,” Bethany told him, as he began to walk her slowly back to the main throng of nobles. “But we are really guests of the Arl. My sister is involved with his, you see.”

“Is she really?”

“Yes, they are traveling south at the moment to Hallarenis’haminathe to meet the Arl’s mother.”

“I recall a joke he made,” Teyrn Fergus said. “Would this perhaps be the sister who is very adept with magic of the lightning and rock variety?”

He - he knew Merrill was a mage. What would he say, if she-

“That does sound like Merrill,” she said, and silently prayed that his response would not be awful.

“True Fereldans, then,” Teyrn Fergus said, and that was a twinkle of good humor in his look. “To leave a noble family for the life of a Freeman, survive fleeing a Blight, take a Dalish mage in stride, and then survive the fall of Kirkwall. The women of your family are surely stout-hearted, tenacious, and even perhaps approaching your own beauty, Lady Bethany. Our country has been lacking with you gone.”

Flirting was not what she had expected, but it was better than it could have been.

“Oh, but surely they must have missed my sister’s mabari more?” Bethany flirted back. “She is truly the best of us.”

“I stand corrected,” he said, smiling. “Please accept my thanks on behalf of our country, then, for serving as what I am sure was an excellent retinue for one of our finest well-bred daughters.”

“It has been an honor and a pleasure.”

“But not so great as that of your company,” Teyrn Fergus told her. “I believe that there will be musicians shortly, for the luncheon dancing. Could I presume your favor for the first set?”

“You certainly may, Teyrn Fergus.”

“What a pleasantly surprising man,” Zevran said, as Rosaire Desrochers walked off to find another group to socialize with. Leliana ducked out after him, with a quick comment about also being glad to see them for a luncheon or some such at a later date, to keep catching up.

“He’s Orlesian,” Theron said, once Lord Desrochers and Leliana were both out of earshot.

“And a respectful Orlesian is always surprising.”

Theron huffed and glowered at nothing in particular.

“Amora, please. This is a good thing.”

“He’s Orlesian,” Theron said again.

“And you are becoming very Fereldan if this is a particular obstacle to being friendly.”

“I’m Dalish,” Theron said, the strain evident. “And he’s Orlesian.”

“And there is nothing wrong with being excited about history with him so long as he continues to be respectful,” Zevran told him. “Alistair, you may wish to retrieve Bethany.”

“What- wait, when’d she leave?”

“Where you really expecting her or Leandra to stay when the Left Hand of the Divine was right here?”

“It’s just Leliana-”

“She’s over there with Fergus,” Theron said. “They look like they’re having fun.”

Zevran looked. They did - and they matched well, in the Cousland tartan and the blue-green Bethany had chosen for her first time at court. They were clearly waiting for the dancing to begin, and they would be something to see, out on the floor.

“No luck for you then, my friend,” he told Alistair, who sighed. Zevran knew he’d been planning on sticking with Leandra and Bethany to keep anyone else from making him talk. “Perhaps Leandra?”

“No, no,” Alistair said. “They’re putting the food out. I’ll go over there.”

“You really must socialize.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You are avoiding talking to anyone. I know this trick of yours and Theron’s.”

“I’m not list-en-ing,” Alistair sang as he walked off to inspect the sideboard.

 Very well. He could be cornered at the food, then.

“Now,” he said to Theron. “Who do you wish to speak to?”

“Arl Mallory?”

“Hm, try again. You already made an inroad with her two days ago. And do not say Teyrn Fergus.”

He watched Theron look around, searching out Arl Eamon and then discarding him when he found the Arl leading the unmarried Habren Bryland over to Alistair, who hadn’t noticed them coming yet.

Well he was certainly wasting no time. Zevran made a note to himself to watch for this tactic later. Alistair needed to socialize, yes, but he did not need to be constantly hounded for it. That would not make him willing to be at court.

“Arl Bryland?” Theron suggested.

“A good choice.”

He moved to unhook his arm from Theron’s, but Theron put a hand on his.

“I like being this close.”

So did he, but-

“It will make it harder to walk.”

“We got all the way down the carpet from the door.”

True enough!

“Then lead on, my lord,” he told Theron, pitching his voice low and husky. Properly he needed a fan for this, for the seduction, but Ferelden was far too cold to justify it. Still, it did not need to be practical to be useful, or fun.

Theron blinked at him, caught off-guard for a moment at being addressed so formally, and then very slowly started blushing.

Zevran chuckled at him and Theron ducked over to kiss him, brief and fierce.

“Mine,” he said quietly, before pulling back.

As always, that simple word made Zevran go warm and deeply satisfied inside. It was a good word, like this, that meant ‘love’ and ‘belonging’ and ‘wanted’. It was excellent defense against against the little part of him that still tried to insist, sometimes- the part the demons tried to use - that he was nothing, that he didn’t deserve anything, that this wasn’t real. When nothing else worked, knowing that Theron was possessive meant knowing that he wasn’t going to be discarded.

He was very glad Theron had finally started saying it.

Arl Bryland greeted them warmly.

“Have you met my daughter, Arl-” he started to say, and then realized that she wasn’t with him. “Oh.”

Zevran glanced over at Alistair only to find that she wasn’t there any longer. That hadn’t taken long. Where had-

“She is with Arlessa Isolde, Your Arlship.”

“Ah, of course she is,” Arl Bryland said comfortably. “Habren’s very enamored of Isolde, loves hearing her stories. And it’s good practice for her Orlesian. She’s nearly fluent now!”

“Surely you are as well, Your Arlship?”

“Yes, my dear mother taught me,” he said. “But it’s one thing to learn it from your mother’s arms and another to get it from tutors. I taught her Alamarri like my father taught me, but it just didn’t take the same way.”

He shrugged, and looked to Theron.

“How are my niece and nephew?” he asked. “I have to say that it was such a relief to get that letter from Delilah-”

Thank you, Arl Bryland, for naming names, because he had no way to surreptitiously prompt Theron into reminding him of the familial connections.

“-last Harvestmere. We’d just about given her up for dead, and all I could think of any time Nathaniel and I spoke of it was how I’d promised young Thomas just before he died that I’d keep his brother and sister safe. I’ll admit that when I got that first letter from old Garavel that Nathaniel was in the Vigil’s dungeons for an assassination attempt that I was fully ready to ride up there right then and beg for your mercy.”

“I hadn’t known you’d gotten a letter,” Theron told him.

“Oh, the Garavels were knights for generations,” Arl Bryland said. “My wife grew up with him as her bodyguard. Very close, they were.”

“Nathaniel never actually tried anything,” Theron assured him. “I could tell he just needed something to hold on to. He’s very helpful, and always has an answer for things. Amaranthine wouldn’t be doing nearly as well without him. He’s been stressed, but I think he’s doing all right. Delilah’s properly Seneschal and people are treating her like it. I approved a town charter for the settlement outside Vigil’s Keep so that’s going to be her big project for this spring and summer.”

“Congratulations on that,” Arl Bryland said ruefully. “Would that I could have the money or people to found new towns.”

“Oh, I- I’m sorry to hear that, Arl Bryland-”

He was going to offer to help, Zevran realized, and no! No no no! These things required forethought! Proper planning! Caution!

“Leonas, please,” the Arl said. “You’ve saved my sister’s children. That deserves familiarity, don’t you think?”

Thank you again, Arl Bryland, for saying something. And this was a good development! Zevran added him to the list with Lord Desrochers and Leliana of people who needed invitations to the estate.

“Theron, then,” Theron told him, and they shook on it. “So how has your daughter been?”

“She keeps after me to send her to the Imperial court in Orlais as a guest of her grandmother’s family,” Leonas said. “If she was oh, eight or nine years younger, maybe I would, but-”

His expression was rueful.

“-she’s got this idea that she’ll be more important than she is, being related to Empress Celene and all. A decade ago she just thought Orlais was glamorous. Now she’ll just blunder all over the Game and have to come home in disgrace. I won’t spend that sort of money on that, and I won’t save up for a purse for her to go when she already spends enough in the Denerim markets. We haven’t got the kind of coin to send her to Val Royeaux. Maybe in a couple year’s time, once she sees what court here is like, instead of only having stories and fanciful imaginings to go on.”

“She has not come before?” Zevran asked.

“No, I’d always kept her close before the Blight,” he admitted. “And afterwards I wanted to wait to give her the sort of introduction and resources to have the dresses and parties and things she’s always dreamed of. But she was too old this year to put it off any longer, and the Queen’s edict about marrying came down.”

“I wish her luck in her endeavors, then.”

“I really don’t know how I’d find anyone to marry her. She’s not ready to be a wife yet. I’ve started to think that maybe I can convince the Queen to leave her out of the edict if I remarry. It’s been twenty years since my Alicia died. I think I’m ready again.”

“I hope you find someone you like if you look,” Theron told him, and they made their mutual goodbyes.

“No promises, no offers, just small talk and only advice in minor ways,” Zevran told him quietly as they walked off. “Your word is binding.”

“If he needs money, I-”

“No.”

“But-”

“No. Lending money to nobility is something to be done delicately and with care. It is a favor and a form of power both and it is not to be done lightly or offhandedly. We can discuss it later. Now, who next?”

Theron chose old Bann Caerthenn, and opened the conversation with asking him about how his castle was doing.

“Please, Your Arlship, don’t get him started on the Caer,” his daughter intervened before her father could say anything. “We’ll be here past lunch.”

“He asked about the Caer, Prydain,” her father said. “And I’m going to tell him about the Caer!”

She sighed heavily.

“All right, Athair.”

Ah, an opportunity.

“If they wish to speak of Caer Thenn, my Lady, then we can leave them to it,” Zevran said to her. “Have you met Bann Tarcaisne’s daughters?”

“I have not, Messere Revasina.”

“Then it would be my honor to introduce you,” he said, with a little bow for politeness’s sake. “if you would so desire.”

“Yes, please,” she said, and took his arm. Zevran led her over to where Bann Tarcasine’s daughters stood together - they’d gathered their own small group of young women their age, he saw.

“Messere Revasina!” the younger, Elsa, called as she saw them approach, and waved enthusiastically. She was newly nineteen, he remembered, because her father had brought her and her sister Claerwen to Vigil’s Keep at about this time last year, to present Elsa to Theron on her eighteenth birthday. It had been a rather poor debut for a young woman of the nobility, but unfortunately Theron was her liege lord and it was to his court, such as it was, that she had to be presented first, before she could come to Denerim.

That was something else that should be changed. Teyrns and Arls were to keep their own courts, and Theron… didn’t. Zevran was willing to allow good reason for it. Vigil’s Keep was not conducive to a court, being far too much of a working military fortress still, but there was Amaranthine, or the soon-to-be-founded Kepton outside the Vigil’s walls.

“Why, hello to you too, Lady Elsa,” he said, and bowed extravagantly over her hand because he remembered that it had made her laugh, at Vigil’s Keep. It did so again here, though she tried to stifle it to a giggle.

“You and the Arl are getting married!” she gushed. “I’m so happy for you, I couldn’t believe you weren’t already married when Athair brought us to the Vigil!”

“It is a common sentiment, Lady Elsa,” Zevran told her. “And thank you. Could I perhaps introduce you and your sister to Bann Caerthenn’s daughter?”

“Well I don’t see why not.”

“Elsa,” her sister whispered pointedly.

“Oh- um. Yes, Messere Revasina, you may.”

A charming woman, Elsa Tarcaisne.

“Then, my dear, here is Prydain Caerthenn of Caerthenn. Lady Prydain - Lady Elsa Tarcaisne and her elder sister Lady Claerwen Tarcaisne of Montforest, and  unfortunately I am not of the acquaintance of these other young beauties.”

“Muirwyn Perth, Messere,” one of them said, and halfway curtsied before she caught herself. Formerly-Ser Perth’s daughter, then, and unused to being of a higher rank in introductions.

“A pleasure, Lady Muirwyn,” Zevran said. “Your father entirely deserved the lands and title Arl Eamon granted him. It was the Bannorn of Ashwood, yes? How are you finding it?”

“It’s a lot different than Redcliffe,” she told him, blushing a little at being called ‘Lady’. “I’m used to the village, but the hills and the forests are pretty.”

“I wish you joy in your new home,” he said, and picked one of the other women he didn’t know - the younger, perhaps the youngest. She certainly wasn’t older than Elsa - to bow to. “And you, my Lady?”

“No ‘Lady’, Messere,” she said softly, and curtsied, more deeply than he’d bowed. “Just ‘Mistress’. Cassia Aurum.”

Ah. The daughter of Ser Gaheris Aurum, then. One of the few knights to survive the Blight. The great-granddaughter of Bann Gaila, the other elderly Bann Theron would earnestly discuss business with. Zevran recalled what Theron had said earlier in the week about Bann Gaila and asked:

“Has your great-grandfather found success in placing your brother into squiredom, Mistress Aurum?”

“Oh!” she said, clearly surprised that he knew. “No, no Grandpapa hasn’t had any luck finding someone to take Medraut. He doesn’t want to send him out of the country, see, but Father can’t squire his own son and the other knights are busy being Banns now.”  

“Truly unfortunate,” Zevran told her. “Though perhaps he could broaden his horizons? Many of the other nobles are not knights, it is true, but they are hardly lacking in fighting experience.”

“I suppose he could,” Cassia said.

“He should,” the other woman he hadn’t been introduced to yet said. “Anyone in central Ferelden fought in the Blight. And it would be good connections.”

She looked to Zevran and extended her hand for him to take.

“Lady Ninaeve Kelaig,” she told him. “Daughter of Bann Kunaich Kelaig, of Winter’s Breath. That’s my sister Lyonesse over there, with Blanche and Soraed. Banns of White River and Ravenswatch.”

Claerwen poked her.

“Stop being pretentious.”

“Did I lie?”

“Nin.”

“Claer,” Lady Ninaeve echoed back in the same tone. “Welcome, Lady Prydain, Messere Revasina. Messere Revasina, I was wondering – a lot of people have been wondering – where have the Arl and the Lord-Captain and you been, to keep you so late from court? Everyone thought we’d see you at Satinalia with us, and the Queen refused to say where you were whenever anyone asked.”

They’d been – Theron! No wonder the Queen had begun their arrival being-!

“On business,” Zevran lied smoothly. This would be presumptuous, but someone had to keep up Theron’s reputation if he wasn’t going to. Of all the things to do while he was gone – he’d thought the dueling in Hallarenis’haminathe was the worst of it! “If the Queen chose not to say, I shall follow her lead.”

"The more interesting question is Prince Estefan's mistress," Claerwen disagreed.

He’d known to expect this. He was Antivan; they were Antivan. Breathe in, breathe out, and-

“The Domsignora?” he asked. “What about her?”

“She’s so pretty,” Elsa said. “She has such big eyes!”

…

Humans.

“She is thought such in Antiva as well,” Zevran agreed; because while he didn’t know for certain, she fit the Antivan human woman ideal, if not the human ideal for elf women. And even from across the room he could tell she had a majestic air, with her sweeping velvet dress, the golden, silver-edged fan held delicately in one hand, and sparkling with diamonds and dark amethysts in the royal Campana colors. Attitude and clothing could make up for a lot.

“What do you know about her?” Lady Ninaeve asked.

“Not very much, I am afraid,” Zevran said, because that was easier than the truth. “She has been with Prince Estefan for quite some time, though.”

“Really?” Cassia asked. “But their daughter is so young.”

“I,” he started to say, and then realized what- “What?”

“That little girl is their daughter, isn’t she?”

There was a young girl with them, he saw now. She had a dress in the same color and style as her mother and was being held close by her mother, so that she blended in. Where had she been on the dais? Behind the guests’ chairs?

She was clearly bored by her parents’ current conversation with Anora, and was looking around the room. Her eyes slid past him and his breath caught - she was far younger than he’d ever seen Rinna, but she had her same hair, dark and thick and curling, and from the brief glimpse of her profile the same slant of her nose-

“She certainly appears to be,” Zevran said, which was a terrible answer, but.

He finished with the group, somehow, getting the woman to move to another topic and then excusing himself, he hadn’t really paid attention, letting experience and training take over while he focused on not betraying anything.

Alistair had found Leandra, who had pulled him into a group conversation. Bethany was still with Fergus, and Theron was still with Bann Caerthenn. No one was looking at him and he slipped out, avoiding the undue notice of guards and personal servants and palace staff on his way to one of the private rooms off the dining hall where the Queen would serve lunch, at the end of court for today. During a Landsmeet, these little rooms were used for quick conferences and deals during breaks in the voting sessions.

He couldn’t stay gone for long. It was a small room, with so few living nobles. People would notice.

But he could stay gone for a little while.

Zevran put his back to the door and leaned his head against it, eyes closed.

Rinna, I am so sorry. Your parents had another child, after the Treaty, and she is too young for you to have met her. I am sorry.

Chapter Text

“Kallian!”

She stepped back from her latest practice bout with Fenris to look over at her cousin. She was standing ok the edge of the gravel area, with the Antivan kids behind her.

“Just a second,” she told Fenris, who nodded.

She sheathed her sword and went to see what her cousin wanted.

“Messere Revasina told the kids they had to clean up a room they messed up,” Shianni told her. “Turns out they can put things back where they came from all right, but they don’t know how to clean.”

“Huh.”

“So I was thinking, since apparently Messere Revasina told them right out that they shouldn’t subject servants to it, that you could show them how to clean. Being a big-shot knight and not a servant and all.”

“I could,” Kallian said. “But I’m sort of, you know-”

She gestured back at Fenris.

“Getting your ass kicked by Serrah Handsome-with-a-tortured-past,” Shianni supplied.

“No,” Kallian told her. “Yes, but - no.”

“You enjoy it.”

“No I- I mean- yes, but-”

“You’re blushing.”

“Shut up, Shianni!”

“Teach the kids how to scrub a floor and change sheets,” her cousin told her. “Bet you your man doesn’t know about that. Be a chance to teach him a thing or two.”

“He’s not my man!”

“Uh-huh. Kallian, a good husband is a husband who can clean-”

“Wha- Shianni! Shianni we’re not-”

“-so get him trained up now.”

“I-!”

“If you don’t ask him, your father’s going to.”

“Was that what that dinner was-”

“Buckets and brushes and stuff are in the same place as always,” Shianni said, and walked off.

She looked at the kids, helplessly. They looked back.

“Are you getting married too?” the younger one asked hesitantly.

“Andraste’s bloody sword,” she swore, and looked over her shoulder to call: “Hey Fenris!”

“Yes?”

“You know how to clean?”

He looked down at himself, and then back up.

“Am I filthy?”

“Very funny! A room, Fenris!”

“No.”

“Well come on, I’m going to teach you!”

She looked at the kids.

“Don’t you dare say anything about what Shianni was on about with him.”

Married, she thought as she directed the kids where to find the cleaning supplies so she and Fenris could get changed into something more suited for the job. Dad’s trying to get me married again! Shianni too!

 Not that she was superstitious or anything, but- hadn’t they learned from the last one? And she hadn’t even wanted to get married!

Wait a second.

‘Hadn’t’?

All right, Kallian, what more do you want? she asked herself as she changed out of her armor and into some clothes she could afford to get dirty. You’re a knight! You’re never going to be stuck in an alienage! Now isn’t the time to get all lost over the idea of having a bunch of babies!

She thought about the babies she’d seen throughout her life in the alienage. And the Commander’s son, he’d been kind of cute.

Nothing?

Nothing.

Good.

So. Still no getting married.

Except-

She liked having Fenris around. The traveling had been fun, seeing him every day and getting to know him better, and doing it again here in Denerim was good too. She’d miss him, if he was gone.

She’d miss him a lot, Kallian realized. A lot.

She didn’t want to have a day without the possibility of seeing him.

Fuck.

If her father arranged her marriage to someone else, though. Someone she’d never met, someone she didn’t care for, someone…

Who wasn’t Fenris.

Fuuuuuck.

But she didn’t want to have kids!

She was standing in the little room she’d been given in the estate, holding her undershirt and staring blankly at the wall. Kallian threw it on, tugged a tunic over in, and dashed over to Shianni’s office.

“But I don’t want to have kids!” she exclaimed, pushing the door open.

Shianni was in there with Lyanna and Isfa and Dosette, all from the alienage, and Dosette’s husband Tinan.

“Everyone knows that, Kallian,” Isfa told her. “It’s not news.”

“But if I get married-”

“Nobody’s kidding themselves,” Tinan said. “We all know you’re going to be staying in Amaranthine. No point trying to make you an alienage wife.”

“We’ll still miss you though,” Lyanna reassured her.

“If you’re in Amaranthine, Uncle Cyrion can moan all he likes about grandkids,” Shianni said. “You’re not here. Nobody can make you have kids.”

That was right!

“You’re right! No one can make me have kids! I’m a knight! I’m the first elf knight since the Dales! I live in Amaranthine and I don’t have to listen to him if I don’t want to!”

“Exactly! Now get out there and get married!”

“I will!” Kallian exclaimed, and left.

Then she turned around and went back.

“No I won’t!” she told Shianni, who was laughing at her with the others. “I’m going to go clean that fucking room!”

“You’d better not fuck in it!” Shianni hooted. “It’s Mistress Revasina’s room!”

“I hate you!”

“Get out of here!” her cousin told her. “Go on, get! I bet the kids are waiting for you!”

“Best not to keep the husband waiting either!”

“Good women look after their families!”

“Nah, don’t listen to her, you get yourself a man who knows his sword and a broom!”

“I’ll kill all of you!” Kallian called back over her shoulder, to another round of uproarious laughter from the still-open door. This would be the news of the alienage tonight and tomorrow and Maker, did everyone know about her and Fenris? Had her father been going around talking about it? “In your sleep! I know where you live!”

“So do we!”

The court concluded after lunch, which had gone midway through the afternoon. When they got back to the estate, the first thing Zevran did was check on the children, to see how they’d done with fixing his mother’s room.

Tanis was already in there, when he arrived, inspecting everything with a critical eye - and Kallian and Fenris too, in work clothes and a bit damp around the edges. The children were standing at Crow attention, stiff and masking anxiousness, but he saw them unbend a little when he walked in.

He smiled at them, and went to greet his mother, sitting with her arms crossed on her freshly-made bed.

“Hello, Mamae,” he told her, and gave her a kiss. “Have they done well?”

“They gave everything back,” she said grudgingly. “How was it?”

“Court? Much as I expected. Theron and Alistair handled themselves well enough, and there are plans to make now.”

“It appears sufficient,” Tanis pronounced of the room. “Thank Ser Tabris and Serrah Fenris for helping, Diego, Tiar.”

They did, Diego rather louder, clearer, and more sincerely than Tiar.

“Did you ask for help?” Zevran asked them.

They both froze, momentarily, but Diego did say: “Yes,” without very much fear or nervousness.

“Then you did very well,” he praised them, and gave more hugs. Diego’s enthusiasm at hugging back made him smile; and the simple fact that Tiar leaned into him when he offered her a hug was gratifying. “You did exactly as you should.”

Diego looked to Tanis.

“Lessons today?” he asked hopefully.

“I am certain that Damien and Orana are tired from the palace,” Tanis told him. “You shall have to ask them.”

“Lessons?” Zevran asked.

“Damien has taken it upon himself to teach Orana how to read and write,” Tanis told him. “And to improve the children’s. He had a very good classical education as Lady de Lydes’s personal companion and he seems determined to pass it on.”

“Maybe you could get in on it, Fenris,” he heard Kallian say.

“I am no child!”

“Orana’s not either. Hey, I could stand to read and write better, and I know it. If anybody in the alienage ever learns, it’s enough to do estate books or read a Chanter’s board for odd jobs.”

  Well now. Wasn’t that something. So Damien did have things he did in his spare time, after all.

Perhaps they could make it an official part of his job? It wasn’t what he’d been hired for, but Tanis wasn’t being a governess for Kieran at the moment either. She’d been happily co-opted into assisting him with keeping Theron and Alistair ready for court.

“Perhaps you could go together,” Zevran suggested to Kallian and Fenris, and left to find Theron.

They needed to have words.

He found his fiancé in his office, poking around at the paperwork on his desk.

“I had been having thoughts,” Zevran said, as he closed the door behind him. “Such as: ‘this is a strange time to begin court’ and ‘the new Banns will surely lose the best part of the spring’ and ‘how odd to have delayed court until Wintersend but I suppose Prince Baldewin requires travel time’ and ‘all of these decisions that must be made seem very rushed if the vote is a mere two weeks out’ and 'perhaps the Queen realized that you and Alistair do not care much for court and could make you happier to be here by negotiating for you to come later' but it makes sense after this morning, because in fact none of this was the case and the court season began, on schedule, two months ago, when you were supposed to arrive!”

“I didn’t know!” Theron protested. “I thought that Anora was saying that she’d see me the week before Wintersend because the court started then!”

“If you ever paid attention to anything but the Wardens, you would know better!”

“I do pay attention to things that aren’t the Wardens! I pay attention to the clans! And I help when someone comes with a problem in the arling!”

“There should be local lords! Knights, at least! They should not have to trek across the arling to come address their concerns to you! There is good reason why the Queen is annoyed with you! I had been letting it be and not saying much of the situation despite its unsatisfactory nature, but I am seeing now that I should have been pushing you all these years, because the sheer – disorder and ineptness of it all is disgraceful! Bann Tarcaisne and three landed knights, Theron! You could at least give Ser Shepard and Ser Tabris lands – not that it would improve your administration very much!”

“It’s not my fault that the old lords who were left after the Blight and civil war and Rendon Howe tried to kill me and left me with – all this! It’s running itself just fine! People have money and the farms are making food and violence is mostly local and when they can’t handle it themselves I go and handle it, because that’s my job! Why should I need lords!”

“Because you are an Arl!” Zevran exclaimed. “You are – ah! Incredibly frustrating! You are nobility!”

“And?”

“It is one thing to go on as you have been with the Queen expressing no displeasure, but she has made it very clear that she finds all of this unacceptable, and she has every right to! If she does not approve then you are flaunting her authority! You are humiliating her! You arrived two months late to court, without notice! You didn’t even know! She had ordered you to come and, effectively, you did not.”

“I’m here now!”

“After the opening of court! After the first and second runs of social events, parties, balls, feast days, salons, outings! You are very lucky that you are likeable, because otherwise I quite doubt any of them would have a thing to do with you, Hero or no! It is one thing not to show up at all! It is quite another to be late. You have told everyone – the current nobility, those who would have a bannorn, the foreign guests, visiting dignitaries, ambassadors – that they are not worth your time. That Ferelden and the Queen and the business of the country are not worth your time! If the Queen herself had not been covering for you - when she had every right to make it known that you had defied her and ruin your good name! - you have insulted everyone of importance in this city, Theron! Some have may take it gracefully and others may find their annoyance fleeting; but many more of them would not have forgotten this. A hero’s reputation can only hold out so long and while it does and will mean much to the Fereldans who lived through the Blight it means very little to anyone else; and regardless of anything it will not take very much misstep for you to stop being the Warden-Commander of Ferelden to them and instead be a heathen barbarian elf with a position and political power that some respectable, deserving human should be holding and wielding instead! That is the story they will retell to their fellows in the Marches, in Orlais, in Antiva and Nevarra and the Anderfels and the Imperium! Perhaps there could be something salvageable if you held your own court as the other Arls do and take those you favor into your household but you do nothing of the sort! You ignore those who promised you fealty! You do not show your authority! You leave all the responsibility of vital functions to those beneath you, without paying the slightest bit of attention to those responsibilities most of the time! You are ruining yourself!”

Things devolved from there, and they didn’t speak to each other until the next morning.

The being-a-Warden business was a piece of shit.

So he was alive, great, nice, sure. But he had to spend his nights with dreams of the darkspawn? He could hear them whispering? And it almost made sense?

He was stronger. His stamina was better. He thought maybe his senses were a bit sharper and he was a little faster, but he could have trained that into himself. He didn’t need corrupt magic curse blood to do that.

But Theron was alive. Merrill was alive, and Ashalle, and the clan. And he was getting to see them all again.

Even if they were changed.

Theron’s changes, when Tamlen had first seen him again, when the Chasind sorceress had dragged him through the eluvian, had been a shock. This elf, with his shining armor and his heraldic shield and the straight sword on his hip; this elf with his broad shoulders and his frame heavy with muscle and his hair long enough to do up in the old warrior styles of the Dales? This was Theron? His little brother, who couldn’t hit a tree with an arrow standing six feet from it but had entertained clanmates more than once by starting a perfect recitation of some poem or history from the middle of a sentence containing a prompted word? Theron who had happily accepted the possibility of the shem’s ‘demon’ in the ruins in the hopes of recovering Dalish history, and then proceeded to trip every single faulty old fire trap in the place and burnt his leathers half to charcoal?

Merrill’s were easy to miss. They weren’t in her body, so much, though the patterns of faint old scars on her fingers from pieces of mirror and the discolored line of a repeatedly-opened knife wound across the top of her left arm hinted at the invisible changes, the scars and the hurts that learning blood magic had left. She thought just a little different, now, sideways and not always there. Tamlen couldn’t be sure if it was demons or if it was the shock of being shunned by Sabrae or if it was damage from having to live in an alienage.

He’d gotten used to hers, on the days they’d spent together on the road. To him, Merrill was now this half-exile mage with the human nearly-wife, still recognizably his sister with her care of others and her unceasing focus when she had a problem to solve or something to learn. She was a bit odd, now, but he could see the root of it; the quirks and habits that had been subdued last he’d known her now out full-force. It was just the magnification of things that had kept her the outsider she’d always been, a little, to the rest of the clan.

But his days with Theron had been less than five, all told. He couldn’t quite reconcile the armed and armored elf lord who almost could have stepped out of an ancient mural with his brother. His brother was a happy person, quiet and serious and deeply content with his life, devoted to his people and their gods. He wasn’t the warrior he’d seen in Antiva and Amaranthine, not hardened but a little worn, a little sad, with danger lurking in the power of his body and ease of command in his carriage. Theron had laughed, sure. He’d smiled and they’d acted like they always had. It was still him. But the warrior seemed like a mask to Tamlen still, and not the part of Theron he intellectually knew it was, now.

Merrill agreed with him that Theron was different, but what she said was that his soul felt raggedy, like he was constantly bleeding into the Beyond. Tamlen had tried to get her to explain - he felt like a mage, always a little in the Beyond even when they were awake? - but she’d shaken her head and said: “no, like he’s bleeding.”

It was not reassuring, and Theron was going to explain what he’d done to fuck up his soul like that, when Tamlen saw him again.

But right now, they were still traveling. Merrill’s human had said they weren’t far away, last night, but they’d been traveling most of the day and-

“There,” the Chasind sorceress said, pointing. “‘Tis your city, Merrill, Tamlen.”

He could do nothing but hold Merrill’s hand over the front end of the cart and stare in awe as it grew bigger and bigger. Stone walls, stone towers, great murals, outlying fields of growing things, buildings housing birds and rabbits for quick meat, thousands and thousands of halla - their Third City had earned its name. ‘Rest of the numberless halla’ indeed.

The guards on the entrance they used recognized the Chasind sorceress. They seemed grudging about letting Merrill’s human through with the horse and cart and her big sword, but the phrase ‘gifts from Arla’lanelan’ got them all through and to the big tower the Keepers and Hahrens had claimed, where they turned everything over and got directions to where Sabrae had staked out land for themselves.

It was another strange thing, about Theron. He had a title. There hadn’t been a titled one of the People since before the Dales had fallen. He was-

His brother was somebody. To all the People. Not just to him and Merrill.

Tamlen could mark some the clans they passed by the banners they’d hung over their compound walls, heraldry of old Houses that hadn’t seen the light of day in centuries. They passed Vhadan’ena’s bounding halla, Lathlea’s sun-and-moon, Erdua’s mockingbird, and Vhen’haurasha’s tongue of fire until the clan symbols were ones he didn’t recognize.

“Do you think Marethari had Sabrae’s snake put out?” Merrill asked, when she saw him looking.

“Don’t know,” he said, trying to picture it. He knew House Sabrae’s symbol was a golden snake on a brown backing, but he’d never actually seen it. “Maybe.”

The camps got less and less fortified, less permanent, the lower and further they went. Walls were of wood instead of stone, and the aravels hadn’t been sunk. Eventually they came to an area of the city where the walls of the compounds weren’t even entirely up yet.

“Morrigan!” someone called. “Deva! Deva Morrigan!”

“I am no Deva, Rajrad Myathis Revasina.”

“No?” the man who had come out of one of the unfinished compounds to see her stopped, leaning on his staff. “You are Chasind, though.”

“And are all mages of the Dalish Keepers?” she retorted.

“Your point,” Rajrad conceded. “Is Arla’lanelan-”

“He is not with us,” Morrigan informed him. “But we are here on an errand you will find of interest.”

“Oh?”

“Theron is to marry Satheraan this coming winter. His mother must be fetched for the negotiations - Theron has found your sister, as well.”

The mage’s breath caught like a halla had kicked him.

“Nehna’s-”

“Alive and extremely ill of temper.”

She turned and continued on without saying goodbye or closing the conversation. Rajrad fell in with them, eyeing the Warden armor Theron had outfitted Tamlen with before he’d left. He’d complained that Theron had promised him proper replacements for what he’d burned in Antiva, having expected good Dalish leathers and boots.

Theron had just handed him his sword back. It was his dar’missan, Tamlen knew, the one he’d traded Theron for those years ago back in the Brecilian, because it was the veridium of a Second’s sword and had the old polished handle of warm light-colored wood with the nicks and chips in the right places.

“You still have it,” Tamlen had said to his brother, choking up.

“I carried it the whole Blight,” Theron had told him. “I shouldn’t have taken it from Sabrae, but I did. Sometimes I used other swords, but I always had it with me. It was my mourning.”

It was the only Dalish thing he had, right now, and it felt like too little. It was annoying him.

“Andaran atisha, Rajrad Myathis Revasina,” he said pointedly.

The mage startled, then looked sheepish.

“Oh. Sorry. And your names, Brother, Sister?”

“Merrill Arasha Alerion Sabrae,” Merrill piped up. “I was First to Keeper Marethari, but - this is Marian Hawke, she’s my wife almost!”

Marian waved at him.

“Tamlen Ryatha Sabrae,” Tamlen told the mage. “I was going to be Sabrae’s Second, but darkspawn are Void-cursed filth and fucked it all up. Merrill’s my sister, Theron’s our brother. You’re Satheraan’s uncle?”

“Well, I never met either of them,” he said. “But yes. I didn’t know Arla’lanelan had a brother.”

“They thought I was dead.”

That killed the conversation pretty well, which was what Tamlen had been aiming for. The compounds were spaced out further now, and they were passing what seemed like an endless staked-out rope delineating where walls would go. It was marked not with banners, but with trophies - robes and mage’s staffs. 

“Oh goodness, they must have killed a lot of people,” Merrill said.

“I knew it!” her human exclaimed. “Tevenes! I saw so many of those robes on the Wounded Coast.”

“This is Dadhase’lin,” Rajrad told them. “They’ve started to come, but there are… a lot of them. It will take a while, and they have to come slowly in small groups to keep from alarming the shem’len.”

Tamlen stopped and took a good look at the aravels parked in the area Dadhase’lin had claimed. He couldn’t even see all of them from here, and there were three or five clan’s worth. And they’d only ‘started to come’.

“That’s not a clan,” he said. “That’s its own damn city.”

“Or part of a reasonable-sized army,” he heard Merrill’s human mutter.

“They’ve fought the Magisters for seven centuries and been breaking up their slave trade as much as they can the whole time,” Rajrad said. “They’ve always been massive, because they take in the freed slaves that will stay. It makes them… different.”

It took a long time to finally pass the area Dadhase’lin had claimed. There was another wall-less compound here, also fresh and new, with a banner of crossed dar’missan.

There were- very large people moving amongst the elves, some of them half again or even twice as tall as those they worked with.

“Tal-Vashoth,” Merrill’s human said. “There are Tal-Vashoth in a Dalish camp.”

“They insist they’re Dalish,” Rajrad said, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. Well, so was he! “The Keepers and Hahrens have tested them, and - they know the language. They know the prayers and stories as well as any of the People. They have ones who were born and grew up in the clan, and have children of their own who have only ever known the Dalish life. They’ve taken the Oath of the Dales, and the Keepers gave them their vallas’lin.”

“But they’re not elves!” Tamlen burst out. “It says you have to be, right in the Oath - ‘we are the last of the El’vhenan’! Who let them get away with this!”

“No one had seen or heard from Alas’nidar’mis in over twenty years,” Rajrad told him. “My parents remember a time when they were often neighbors of ours. But they started withdrawing, and then they disappeared. Into Rivain, we found out last year. This was why. Everyone is very upset. But at least they’re not human.”

Tamlen snorted.

“Well that’s a low stinking standard to set.”

Rajrad looked even more uncomfortable.

“Dadhase’lin didn’t find any problem doing it.”

“Shem’len can’t be Dalish!”

He shrugged helplessly.

“They’ve always had humans, they said. They’d rescue slaves and there would be elves who had bonded with humans, humans who never wanted to live with others of their kind again. There are families, human families, who claim they’ve been swearing the Oath and worshipping the Creators and speaking El’vhen for six centuries in Dadhase’lin.”

This was - this was wrong! This was sacrilege, this was disrespect for everything the Dalish believed, everything his people stood for-

After the sheer size of Dadhase’lin and the strangeness of Alas’nidar’mis, Sabrae’s aravels seemed tiny and forlorn, practically abandoned. With a start, Tamlen realized that they almost were - Merrill and Theron had told him of the troubles Sabrae had had since he’d been gone, but this- this hurt. Less than half the clan was here. Less than a third, less than a fourth, less than - Mythal and Elgar’nan, how many of Sabrae were even left?

The hurt, the grief, the sadness - anger roared in its wake as what Theron and Merrill had told him rushed through his head. He pushed past Morrigan and Marian and stormed into the center of camp.

“Marethari!” he roared. “Marethari Talas Vhadan’ena Sabrae! Your clan demands answers!”

The heavy hide flap of the Keeper’s aravel was pushed aside at once.

“Tamlen-”

“Six years, and this is all that’s left?” he demanded. “Sabrae’s children, our elders - can you account for them? The ones you left to the darkspawn in the Brecilian? The ones stolen as you lingered outside Kirkwall? Did you hold funerals for them?”

From the murmuring amongst the gathered clan - so small! - the answer might actually have been no.

“What about the ones who died trying to hold the camp together on Sundermount? Why didn’t you ever send anyone to another clan for halla? Why didn’t you just pack up what you could and walk away? Clans have done that before!”

“Merrill had gone to the humans,” Marethari said. “We had to stay close so she could come back.”

“Keeper,” Merrill said. “I wasn’t coming back. I have Marian.”

“We saw you often for not coming back.”

“You were on the way to a lot of stuff,” Marian said.

“I miss the clans, I do,” Merrill said. “But I fit better with Marian, Keeper. I’m happy.”

“You were happy with us,” Marethari told her.

Merrill dropped her eyes.

“I was happy with Theron and Tamlen,” she said quietly.

“And here is the missing one, I see,” Marethari said.

Tamlen stepped close enough to his sister to brush up against her side.

“And how could you do that to Theron?” he continued. “You know how much he loves the Dalish! And you handed him over to a human!”

“And it worked in our favor, didn’t it?”

“You couldn’t know that when you sent him away! All he knew was that he was probably going to die- he wanted to die with the clan! He wanted to die with his family! With the People, who know how to send him off and how much that matters to him and him! Not with a bunch of shem’len who’d send him to the Chantry god! How could you deny him that, how could you do that to him! You condemned him to a life away from the People!”

“And I see you’ve followed him.”

“He asked me!” Tamlen shouted at her. “He gave me my choices! I could have stayed in the eluvians! I could have asked him to kill me so I’d be done with this! But I chose the Wardens! You forced him!”

“I knew what I was doing,” Marethari said. “I am Keeper. It is my place to make decisions for the clan-”

“For their wellbeing! For their happiness!”

“-and I made them. They were the right ones.”

“No they weren’t!” he yelled. “Look! Look around you! Where’s Vinell? Maren? Harshal, Chandan, Ineria? Variel! Terath! Paivel! Where’s the Hahren, Marethari! It’s been four years- where’s your new First! I was six years ago! Who’s your Second!”

“I don’t need them,” Marethari said. “The clan is so small now, I can do everything that needs doing.”

“No you can’t! It’s not supposed to work that way! It doesn’t work that way!”

“I can make it work.”

“No you can’t!” Tamlen cried, exasperated. “You know it can’t! You weren’t like this when I knew you! Where did this pride come from, when your clan is falling apart around you-!”

“Pride,” Merrill said next to him. “Oh no. Oh no.”

“Merrill?” her human asked quietly.

“The demon, the demon on Sundermount, it was a-”

“It would have destroyed you,” Marethari said, voice kind. It made Tamlen’s hackles rise and his instincts scream. “Da’len, you never knew what sort of power you were running after. You should have left it to me. Don’t you see I’ve saved you?”

“No!” Merrill cried. “No you haven’t - Audacity! Let her go!”

“I have been waiting countless years to get off that mountain, little mortal,” the demon said. “Did you really think I would not get my way? I was bound to those stones even before the Magisters came, when there were elves still who remembered their cousins torn from them!”

Merrill faltered for a moment, and that was her weakness, the one she shared with Theron- history and knowledge meant so much to them. The same root had that had sent Merrill into blood magic had pulled Theron into those ruins.

It was important. Tamlen was Dalish and would never say otherwise. But there were things that mattered more.

He drew his sword. A moment later, Merrill caught up with him, calling layers of rock around her body, kept flexible by the magic woven through it. Merrill’s human drew her sword and the Chasind sorceress herded her son behind her, staff rising.

“You wouldn’t,” Marethari, or the demon, said. “Merrill, Tamlen-”

She stepped toward them, and an arrow struck just a hair in front of her boot, shaft and feathers quivering.

“Sabrae has not been in rich in mages in our lifetimes,” Junar said, bow strung and another arrow knocked. Fenarel was stringing his as well, as he took up a complimentary position. He and Master Ilen, arming himself with sword and shield from his forge, were distracting from Radha and her knives, sneaking around behind Marethari. “But we all learn what to do to Keepers who can't be trusted.”

Marethari looked around, expression almost sad. She raised her staff, and Merrill’s lightning met her vines.

It was a short fight, furious and laced with magic- but Tamlen had been fighting darkspawn all these years with less, and Merrill and her human had been fighting Creators-only-knew-what, and what little was left of Clan Sabrae were the ones who had survived the flight north through the Brecilian and the passage across the Waking Sea and being stranded in Kirkwall.

Merrill who struck the last blow, tears streaming down her face. It was only then that Rajrad stepped up, having left the execution of a possessed mage to her clan, as was proper. He looked at Merrill, and then around at the rest of the clan.

“Are there no other mages of Sabrae?” he asked. Master Ilen shook his head, but Tamlen spoke up.

“Theron’s son,” he said.

“Of course,” Rajrad murmured, and then louder: “Hathen, come here please.”

“And just what do you wish of my son?” the sorceress demanded, holding her son back.

“A duty of the clan,” Tamlen told her. “We need three mages. All he has to do is cast fire. I know he can do that.”

She scowled, but let him go to Merrill and Rajrad.

Perhaps sensing the mood of the clan, Rajrad was the one that led the short ritual, speaking the proper words of outcasting and consigning Marethari to the Creators for the danger she’d brought to the clan. Together he, Merrill, and Kieran set Marethari’s corpse on fire. They would bury her ashes under the roots of a grown tree later, the immolation of her body preventing any more demons from finding her body and the grown tree guarding her weakened soul on its journey through the Beyond. He left the camp, afterwards, with some quiet words about going to tell the Keepers and Hahrens up in the main city of the news.

This was not the homecoming he’d wanted.

Irothal Blartera Nu’nin was still in the city, and Theron was very confused about why. The other crafters he’d hired were long gone. Shianni had told him, when he’d agreed to meet with him today, that Irothal had stayed because there had still been work that could be done, and he had volunteered to finish them himself so the other Dalish could start home and be well away from the city before court started.

But the mosaics were finished. So why was he still here, and why did Irothal want to see him?

Whatever it was for, this would be a nice change from court yesterday, and a better distraction from his and Zevran’s latest fight. He had someone set up a table in the Sun salon, in the back corner of the estate, and set up his samovar to heat while he went to fetch the honey and spices for ise’haurasha. He was hosting and he had to do it properly.

Theron had learned enough about how noble estates worked to make sure that he’d specified, when he’d talked to Shianni, that Irothal came in the front door. He wasn’t about to disgrace the man by having him come in the servant’s entrance back by the kitchens, and this door also had the advantage of opening right onto the first room of mosaics and murals the crafters had done.

Irothal arrived and they made their greetings, before meandering through the entrance hall to the ballroom and then into the sun salon, Theron complimenting the work that had been done the whole way and Irothal pointing out little details in the designs.

“I wasn’t expecting to see history from Sabrae when I arrived,” Theron told him, pouring the drinks. “Or to hear that you'd stayed so late to put even more effort into them. Thank you.”

“It’s your place, Hahren,” Irothal said. “We argued about what to show, but decided that commemorations of defeats, even in honor of our people and their suffering, weren’t the right omens for this place.”

But they would have been, if Anora got rid of him. The Arls after him wouldn’t keep these mosaics and the murals, would they, they’d just pull them down or paint over them, not caring about what they were defacing.

“So you put up Sabrae and her snakes instead.”

Irothal smiled.

“And Lady Haurnatha, and Lord Ilthemien, and Ghanadin and Thahoris and Misedrin and Ga’len. I’d like to see the shem’len say anything about The People with heroes of the Dales looking down on them.”

“Is that why you’re still here?” Theron asked.

“No, I’m still here because I want to marry Shianni Tabris, and I wanted to ask you what it’s like living in the human world.”

Theron put his drink down.

“You wouldn’t take her to Hallarenis’haminathe?”

“She wouldn’t be Dalish,” Irothal said. “It would just make her uncomfortable, and there are plenty of other Dalish who’d be happy to shun her for it. Would you take your sal’shiral to live with the clans? Permanently?”

He wanted to, often enough. Creators did he want Zevran to be happy in the clans. But it wasn’t going to happen.

“Is she yours, then?” Theron asked instead.

“No,” Irothal told him. “We’re not sal’shiral, but I love her all the same, and she loves me. We haven’t talked to her Hahren yet, but we will tonight. I wanted to talk to you first. I know about not showing my magic, and the human laws about elves and the alienage. I don’t mind living in the alienage. It’s a lot like a clan. But what else is there?”

“You’ll never have the nine-person quorum for rituals,” Theron told him. “You’ll always have to use the singular forms. Though you’re here and I’m here and Nehna’s here, so right now we could do the one-third forms. I used to go to Clan Velanna for the holy days, but they’re in the south now. And it will never be the same, or feel quite right, to do it by yourself. If I’d known you were here earlier I would have put something yesterday, after court, for Mythal’s holy day.”

“Did you not do anything yesterday?”

Theron looked down at his cup, ashamed to admit it. But this was another aspect of life with humans.

“I don’t do much, any longer,” he said. “I remember the days. I do the morning and evening prayers in private. I’ll sacrifice most times. I kept to it during the Blight, and right afterwards, but then I was five months in the Deep Roads and another one or so recovering, and… I slipped. I don’t keep the new month observances. I haven’t celebrated any of the founding days of our cities since I was in Hallarenis’haminathe for the consecration of the temple and the first settlement. I haven’t gone into seclusion for the solitude day since before the Blight. I do Nir’saota, because that’s about loving people and family and I have my Wardens and Satheraan and everyone. And I wear mourning for the Days of Fire and for the Long Walk and for Varisathe’ebelas, because I will not live amongst the humans and not commemorate our dead. But I don’t streak my face or go barefoot or any of the rest of it. Though not fasting is just because I’m a Warden, and Wardens really need to eat a lot. The rest of it is just… because it’s easier not to.”

Irothal was silent after that, contemplating, and Theron drank more because he was nervous and what if Irothal was judging him. He knew he wasn’t doing enough, wasn’t keeping the days properly, but when it was just you - it was hard, to make yourself, when no one else understood and the people you cared most about weren’t part of it.

“You have a son,” the other man said, after a few minutes. “You teach him the histories, don’t you?”

“Of course I have been.”

“But you know them, Hahren,” Irothal said. “I don’t. Not the right way. How am I supposed to teach them to my children? What if I forget the prayers?”

This was actually something he could help with.

“I’ve been writing them down, since the Blight,” Theron told him. “I started because when I came to the alienage here, everyone wanted to hear the stories. And then there was Velanna, and after I came back from the Deep Roads she’d founded her clan. They didn’t have a Hahren - they might still not have one - so I’d go and tell the stories. But I wasn’t of her clan and I don’t have the time to be Warden-Commander and Arl and take a Hahren apprentice, so I wrote things down for them. I’ve been thinking about doing them all, so that city elves could read them. I don’t know Clan Nu’nin’s stories-”

“That’s all right,” Irothal said. “I do. At least the most important ones, and I can write to the clan to ask for the others. We had to ask your mother before we left about Sabrae’s stories. I wouldn’t expect you to know my clan’s. But for the histories of The People, and the prayers, I would be in your debt.”

“Then I’ll finish them,” Theron promised him. “As soon as I can. Creators’ blessings and good fortune on your wedding negotiations, Irothal Blar’tera Nu’nin.”

“And on yours as well, Hahren.”

His morning had started like this:

Damien had gone into the Arl’s office after breakfast to attend him, and asked what the Arl was doing for today.

“There’s a Dalish crafter who’s still in the city, and I’m meeting him this morning. And this afternoon Leliana is coming over.”

“And who is that, Your Arlship?”

“A friend of ours from the Blight. She helped us fight it. She’s Left Hand of the Divine now.”

Damien had made his leave and then run down the stairs to the Chamberlain’s office.

“Chamberlain Tabris are you aware that the Left Hand of the Divine is coming for a visit this afternoon.”

“No!”

Everything had been a rush from that point on.

Chamberlain Tabris had grabbed someone out of the hall and sent them running to alert everyone else. She had them gather in the gallery hall along the front of the estate and gave her orders.

The Arl was using the Sun salon this morning so they would set up for the Left Hand in the Amaranth salon. The maids had to go make every inch of it spotless, immediately. No dust on the wood, no dirt on the floors, no bit of silver or brass or gold unpolished, no upholstery or tapestry frayed. The ushers and the doormen had to inspect the other public rooms and call on the maids to fix anything they found. The gardeners had to make the grounds as presentable as possible. The kitchens had to make the fanciest light refreshments they could muster in a couple of hours.

It was this last that had sent Damien and Orana out to market. The kitchens were not prepared on such short notice, and Chamberlain Tabris had asked them to use their knowledge of ‘fancy foreign food’ to come up with something. They’d conferred there in the gallery hall, and Damien had quickly dictated two recipes to the cook.

But there was a glaze for the pastries that they didn’t have the supplies for, so here they were, quickly rushing down to the east market to find Rivaini sugarcane and Antivan cocoa powder.

It was expensive, and the merchants weren’t much given to bargaining prices on imports like this. But the white shoulder sash he wore with his clothes was as good as any lesser servant’s house livery, with its gold amaranth flower embroidery and enameled pin of the bear of Amaranthine; and Damien knew well how merchants of luxury imports thought. If they were helpful and accommodating to the very rich, the possibility that the very rich would come back was much higher.

And he wore the sash of a personal manservant, and Orana the outdoor shawl of a lady’s maid and companion, and it Did Not Do to offend anyone with such close and personal access to the high nobility. No one needed to know that he and the Arl barely saw each other.

So the sugarcane and cocoa were expensive, but not as expensive as they could have been.

They delivered the ingredients to the cook, and Chamberlain Tabris had them go over every bit of the estate the ushers and doormen and maids already had, because the standards of the Orlesian high nobility and the Tevinter Magisters were surely the sort of standard the Left Hand of the Divine was used to, and they would do no less.

Damien and Orana took cloths from the maids and did some of the cleaning themselves, when the maids protested ignorance of how to make things any cleaner.

His mother came in from inspecting the work of the gardeners on the grounds shortly before they were quite finished with the Amaranth salon with the news that the Arl had bid his guest farewell, then swept off to check on the cook and the kitchens. Damien clapped his hands sharply, and in the absence of Chamberlain Tabris, chivvied everyone over to the Sun salon to repeat the cleaning process there.

It was finished perhaps half an hour after lunch. The Left Hand of the Divine had yet to show, but the Arl had neglected to mention a specific time, so all was well. Chamberlain Tabris got the doormen and ushers to freshen up their uniforms, as well as the best-looking of the serving maids, and banished everyone else out of sight until after the Left Hand had arrived. Damien and Tanis stayed just long enough to instruct the doormen, ushers, and maids delegated to serve the Left Hand about etiquette before retreating with Orana upstairs to sit in the salon next to the library they were using for lessons. They rested a bit, but then Orana was called away - the Amells were going out into the city for the afternoon, to avoid the Left Hand. Damien wasn’t sure why, but he assured Orana that he would not hold lessons without her, and would find the children something productive and non-intrusive to do.

“It is good to see you have a friend, Damien,” his mother said once Orana had left.

“I would never presume such a relationship, Maman!”

“I meant a friend in truth, not in euphemism,” she told him. “Though I would be far from upset if it was to become the latter. You should be happy.”

Her tone was so contrary to her wish that he got up and closed the door for some privacy.

“Maman?”

“No, it’s nothing.”

Damien pulled his chair closer to hers and sat down again.

“It is not nothing, Maman.”

She looked at him, sadly, and then away, down at the feet of her chair.

“Satheraan has a better life than I ever could have imagined for him, last I saw him,” she said. “And you - you have grown up so well, Damien, confident and assured and unashamed and you are young yet, young to be thinking of marrying or love, though with the way the Arl is paying us you will have acceptable means to court in earnest soon enough, whoever you choose. But I-”

Damien thought about it a moment, after she’d cut herself off, and came up with a dark suspicion.

“Nehna turned you down, didn’t she?” he asked.

“I haven’t asked her,” his mother told him miserably. “I know she won’t agree. She’s still so hurt, and she’ll say she won’t be a good enough wife for me-”

“Well,” Damien said tartly. “Given her past behavior I would have to agree with her.”

“Damien!”

“She isn’t good enough to deserve to be your wife,” he said stubbornly. “But she is what you want, Maman, I’ve known that since before she came to see you in Lydes. You’ve done so much for her, and all she’s done is just what you told her a couple nights ago, run away! You’ve made excuses for her all your life and, while I may not be happy about it, she owes you far more than simply agreeing to marry you for all you’ve done for her!”

“Damien, I’ve barely seen her since we parted ways before Lydes-”

“Have you or have you not been her best, if not only friend, for decades?” he demanded. “Did you or did you not help her raise her son, and then take me when she never cared? Have you not been her confidant? The person she turns to when her emotions are getting the better of her and she bothers to admit to it? Has she not called you family- given you that same fire pendant that Chamberlain Tabris wears from her Dalish, the one the Arl had his audience with this morning? You have given her so much of yourself and your care and she treats it and you like dogshit!”

“No she doesn’t,” his mother said quietly, as he sat back in his chair and composed himself, trying to banish his anger. It wouldn’t leave, only seethe under the surface. “She cares about me. I know she does.”

“Perhaps not ‘dogshit’,” Damien allowed. “But still with less care and respect than you deserve.”

The Denerim estate of the Arling of Amaranthine was very grand. The gardens were still wintering, by and large, but there were some delightfully delicate early spring flowers lining the walk, crocuses and snowdrops, offset by the tall, elegant lines of hardy Fereldan Andraste’s Grace. 

She had to stop to smell them. One of the liveried doormen opened the left-hand door of the estate for her, once she finally arrived at the end of the walk. That was a surprisingly subtle political gesture she hadn’t expected to see outside of Orlais. Good job, Theron!

There was an usher waiting for her just inside the door, who bowed to the right depth, and addressed her properly before leading her on down a sunny gallery hallway to the most sumptuous salon she’d seen outside of the royal palace in Val Royeaux. It had the high ceilings and part-painted, part-paneled damask walls that you only ever saw in the old outmoded chateaus and mansions in Orlais nowadays. This was late Revillian style, surely the product of the time just after the Occupation. The wall damask was a fetching combination of gold and amaranth-dyed rose, showing the flowers that gave the salon and the arling their names entwined with Andraste’s Grace for Ferelden - how patriotic. A not-subtle protest from whoever had designed this room in the first place, perhaps? The paint on the unpaneled portions of the walls were a complimentary light, yellowy cream color to the damask, but the curtains on the great clear windows were pure cloth-of-gold tasseled in the same amaranth-dyed wine red as the furniture was upholstered in. Not very Fereldan, but hardly Orlesian either.

It was all wonderfully extravagant, and stylistically at odds with the entrance and gallery hall she’d been shown through, mosaicked and frescoed in what she could only assume was the Dalish style. It had its own charms, with the bold blocks and swathes of colors offset with delicate traceries, but this transition was just jarring to the eye.  

Theron did not sit well in this environment, nor Alistair. Alistair was too… Fereldan, no matter how handsome he was. If she could him to a decent tailor’s or couturier’s, then, oh yes then he could be fit! Rough charm, by Orlesian standards, of course, but it would be charm all the same. Sadly there would be nothing that would be able to be done about the Orlesian’s reaction to Theron’s Dalish tattoos, but if she could get him out of these - clothes he was currently wearing and into something, hm, something green? No, too cliché. This deep, dark wine red would be stunning with his coloring, though. Just a bit of gold, and then black, yes!

Zevran, however, seemed to have his style well in hand. He was lounging on the day couch, in a casual state of dress - or undress, as it was, artfully relaxed and unlaced with the perfect air of carelessness for the surrounding opulence. His clothes coordinated with the décor, of all the petty, stylish details - ugh.

He was good at this. Of course he was, with his boasting and his licentiousness and - the sheer Antivanness of him!

What was he but a common assassin too free with his favors and merely pretty enough to make what verbal charms he had dazzle and entice? He was good enough for Ferelden, certainly, and Antiva, perhaps, but she was a trained bard of Orlais and she would not be taken in by this!

“You have a very beautiful house,” she complimented Theron when he rose to greet her. “It’s grand!”

“I just had the halls and the ballroom and the other salon done over the winter,” he told her. “It was bothering me, having El’vhen architecture but not the right decorations.”

Elven architecture? Well, certainly, the inspiration for the Orlesian styles of the reigns of Emperors Etienne I and Reville had come from the grand old elven ruins of Halamshiral and elsewhere across the Dales, which were the styles the old Chateau Lion and then Emperor Judicael’s Winter Palace had been built in, but those were, again, Orlesian. And clearly the model for this estate.

How like him to find the Dalish in everything, though. Doubtless it made him feel more at home, which was always an important thing, when you lived in a foreign place.

Alistair got a big hug from her, and he just about lifted her off her feet hugging her back. She laughed and patted his cheeks as she hadn’t been able to do at court.

“Look at you, all furry like a mountain man!” she teased him. “Or a bear!”

“Why is everyone on about the beard?” he grumbled.

“Oh, it is because it makes you look so good!” Leliana told him. “Handsome and distinguished! And such a strong profile! You would look very good on a coin.”

He grimaced and let her go.

“No thanks,” he said. “No coins for me.”

“She is right, you know,” Zevran said. “It is a crime that more people do not get to see your pretty face. We need a painter, or perhaps a sculptor. Yes, a sculptor, who can capture your likeness in marble and preserve it down through eternity as such a face deserves.”

The sheer nerve of him! Flirting with Alistair - a sweet boy who didn’t deserve this!- while his fiancé was right there! She shot a look at Theron and he was just sitting there, watching, like nothing was going on.

He was- he was used to this, wasn’t he? He was used to Zevran ignoring him to go skirt-chasing, or pants-chasing, and he just - let it stand.

He could do so much better than this. He deserved better than this. Were there no nice Dalish? No city elves who could catch his eye? No humans?

Though, speaking of humans and Theron-

“I must say that I was surprised to hear about your engagement,” she told Zevran. “I knew that you and he had begun something-”

And that something had been ‘just sex’, she’d been sure, because what else did Zevran ever promise but a bit of fun?

“-but I was so sure the entire Blight that Theron was over the moon for Morrigan.”

Zevran smiled at her and it was not a nice smile. Oh, so he was trying to intimidate her out of talking, was he? He was not half so intimidating as he thought he was.

“You kept giving her all that gold jewelry, Theron. It was a very sweet courting, I thought. Even if she was not very nice.”

“She likes jewelry,” Theron said, unfazed. “It made her happy to get it. And she’s plenty nice. You just have to be friends with her.”

“She hardly encouraged it,” Leliana said. “She was very insistent about not wanting friends, I remember. Or needing them.”

An altogether unpleasant woman. But she would still be better for him than Zevran. At least if she hadn’t run off.

“Did you ever find out where she went?”

“Yes, I did!” Theron said. “She went to the Dalish to study from them. And then she stole a book, so I had to track her down even though I’d promised not to, and got it back. She went exploring Thedas for a while, and then when Alistair and I got back from Kirkwall-”

They had been in Kirkwall? When? Did they know anything about how this had all blown up?

“-she was waiting for us at Vigil’s Keep. I got to meet my son!”

That completely derailed her train of thought.

“Your son?”

“Morrigan wanted a child,” Theron told her. “So I obliged her before she left. She said she was going to raise her child herself, but single parenting is hard when you don’t have a clan to help, so she came back at the end of last autumn. I got to spend all winter with them! They’re down south visiting Hallarenis’haminathe and my mother for a while, now. I was going to bring them to Denerim but Morrigan decided not to come.”

He had a son with Morrigan? That was- certainly unexpected; but he would be the sort to just ‘help’ someone like that. Morrigan as a mother, though. Surely that couldn’t be going well? You needed a certain warmth and care to be a mother, and Morrigan had never shown any of that. She’d wanted her own mother killed!

And Theron had obliged her with that, too.

He was a good man, a nice man, kind and caring. But there were... some decisions, that she just still couldn’t square with him. Killing Morrigan’s mother. Killing that mage boy in Redcliffe. And now Zevran. People would make strange decisions when they were blinded by love, and perhaps he really hadn’t felt there was another way to handle Redcliffe without using blood magic. She could appreciate the illegality of it, but - sometimes you did things because they were necessary, no matter what they were, in the service of the greater good. His own mother had volunteered her life for his, as was right and proper, and-

No, it was passed. There was no use dwelling on it now.

“Tell me about him,” Leliana urged Theron. Her friend lit up and started chattering away enthusiastically about how wonderful his son was. Oh, he loved this boy so much, this was so sweet!

She let him go on for a while, long enough for some maids to come in with drinks and oh, little Orlesian sweets! Pastries! How wonderful! And this drink was delicious.

“What is this?” she asked, looking at the warm brown liquid in her teacup. It smelled wonderful, and it was sweet with cream-heavy milk and spiced just slightly with cinnamon.

“That, my dear Leliana,” Zevran said triumphantly, and oh! She’d just complimented his thing, hadn’t she! Bah! First the clothes and now this! He was winning! “Is chocolate. I brought some back with me from Antiva.”

She was not going to lose this.

Leliana sighed, the sound just so to indicate the proper level of artful disappointment.

“Oh, I’d thought with the décor, it was surely Dalish.”

“I can make you something Dalish,” Theron offered, because he was nice like that.

“I would like that-” she said, and he started to get up to - he’d meant right now? Oh, Theron.

Time to press her advantage.

“When were you in Antiva?” she asked Zevran. “Was it while Theron was in Kirkwall?”

“Oh no, that was after,” Zevran told her. “All three of us were in Kirkwall.”

“Oh?” Leliana turned to Alistair. “And what were you-”

“I’m going to go help Theron!” he said quickly, and shot out of his chair and left the room, leaving her bewildered. That had been quite the reaction.

“Kirkwall was not a pleasant trip,” Zevran said. “We prefer not to speak of it.”

“I am not surprised that you would prefer not to speak of things which are not pleasure.”

“Did I,” he said. “Do something to offend you?”

Leliana took another sip of her chocolate, and didn’t deign to answer.

“Ah, so you do not wish to tell me,” he said. “Very well then. But I will not be discomforted by silence.”

They would see about that. Since when had he ever shut his mouth?

But she waited at least five minutes for Theron and Alistair to come back, and they didn’t. Ugh.

“He is a nice man, and a kind man, and a hero,” she finally told him. An appropriate amount of time had passed that she wasn’t giving in. This was her deciding to talk. “He deserves better than someone like you.”

“Someone like me, hm?” he said. “And what do you mean by that, Leliana? A man? An elf? An assassin?”

“A rake and a libertine and an incorrigible flirt who proudly boasts of his conquests and flippantly brushes off any attempts at true friendship. I remember that you promised to be loyal to him. Was convincing him really so simple as killing an old comrade and never turning your knives on his back? Or did it take more demonstration? I imagine he doesn’t wear armor to bed.”

“Speculating on what other people’s fiancés wear to bed now, Leliana?” Zevran said, and tutted at her. “What shameful behavior for a woman pledged to the Chantry and the Most Holy Divine’s service! I am shocked!”

Either he cared so little that his joking tone was true, or he was so practiced in masks and false faces that he was covering being caught, and angry or scared because of it. Neither boded well for Theron.

“Did you seduce him as the Hero of Ferelden, lauded and covered in fame and glory?” Leliana asked him. “Or as the Arl of Amaranthine, ennobled and immersed in power and riches?”

The mask dropped. Ah, he was angry at being caught. It was a cold, hard thing on his face. If only Theron could see him like this, he had no charm now.

“He chose me,” Zevran said, low and seething. “As Theron, that good man you claim friendship with.”

“I am his friend,” she informed him. “Friends don’t let other friends hurt themselves- and you will break his heart, Zevran Arainai.”

“Revasina.”

“Since when do Crows love?”

“Since when do bards fail to ruin other’s lives?”

She would not be very upset at ruining his, not if it kept him from breaking Theron’s heart. She was about to tell him so when Theron and Alistair came back with a beautifully-decorated vaselike metal pot and, oh, charming little cups of spices!

Zevran’s smile was back on in a flash, and he got up from his seat to help, using the excuse to be handsy and ingratiating with Theron. And he’d had the nerve to say that she was the shameful one!

“I have been in Kirkwall, investigating for the Divine,” she told Theron and Alistair, once the drinks had been heated up. Herb tisane thickened with honey and spiced- it was interesting. And tasty! “When were you there?”

“Really, my dear,” Zevran interjected, slithering his way into the conversation. “Must we speak of business? Surely we should discuss happier things?”

And Theron jumped immediately to talking about how he’d been building up the Wardens, and the repairs he’d had done on Soldiers’ Peak- that’s where Alistair is in command now, Leliana, he’s good at it, just like I’d knew he’d be-

Alistair protested his leadership capabilities and Leliana sourly thought unpleasant things about Zevran. He had Theron wrapped around his fingers, that little-!

Love was truly blind. But with the Maker’s favor, Leliana would help him see.

Prince Baldewin’s mood had not improved since court. He was still particularly surly around the topic of Alistair and the Commander - Theron? Could he call him Theron? - and Fergus was hoping that it wasn’t because they’d insulted him somehow.

The Commander had already managed to insult Price Estefan and his lady, Fergus knew, because he’d invited them to this gathering at his house of the husband candidates, and he’d gotten a prompt response in beautiful calligraphy from Zashira Elius that said she and her prince would be pleased to accept an invitation to his estate, but not while the Arl of Amaranthine or his perfidious Crow fiancé were in attendance.

At least the Commander had gotten along well with Rosaire Desrochers. His enthusiasm wasn’t quite to Fergus’s tastes, but he was nice, and very eager to hear whatever stories you were interested in telling. The others were quieter, more withdrawn - but much better at circulating a room. Maxwell Trevelyan, Ser Reynaud, and Prince Sebastian hadn’t monopolized anyone like the Commander and Rosaire had each other, or how Prince Baldewin had Fergus himself, at least before he’d left early.

People were starting to depart and Fergus wished his guests would go faster, because he wanted to talk to the Commander, bu they had-

“I’m sorry, what?” he said to Maxwell Trevelyan, as he realized that the man had been talking to him. Maxwell was a boy really, to Fergus’s mind. He was only twenty-one! Maxwell had the beginnings of what could be a magnificent beard and mustache, but he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet. It made him look younger than he was.

“I’ve read about how the Fereldan system works,” Maxwell said. “The Queen is selling these bannorns. But I thought the Freeholders chose the Banns.”

“The Freeholders can choose to ally with whatever Bann they like,” Fergus told him. “All they’re getting with their money is the right to sit in the Landsmeet, not have any subjects. That’s why Anora is screening them if they don’t get a noble sponsor to speak for them, to make sure they fit with the culture. The ball in two weeks will be the final judgement about who gets voted on.”

“Ah,” Maxwell said. “I’ve been wondering. Thank you for explaining. This was a nice get-together. I’m looking forward to the sorts of day trips we talked about. Have a good talk with the Arl.”

Was he being that obvious? Apparently he was; but Fergus still had to ask the man to wait, because he’d been about to walk out with Alistair.

“Arl Mahariel,” Fergus said, when they were finally alone.

“You know, that’s not my surname,” he said.

“Arl Sabrae-”

“That’s my clan’s name.”

“Warden-Commander-”

“You can just call me Theron,” he said. “Dalish names don’t work well with this human surname politeness standard. I will take Mahariel. I just thought you’d want to know.”

That was good to know, but this was a serious conversation that required certain formalities.

“Arl Mahariel,” Fergus said. “I would like to ask for permission to court Lady Bethany Amell.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking her?”

“That’s,” Fergus said, fumbling at the question. This had gone off script. “Well of course I won’t pursue anything if she doesn’t want me, but she’s your guest, and ah, family, of some sort? If I didn’t misunderstand that?”

“Oh, not at all, she’s my sister-in-law. Under Dalish law, at least. The Chantry would never recognize it.”

“So as the head of her family-”

“I’m pretty sure that’s her mother?”

“Arl Mahariel - Theron,” Fergus said. “As the highest-ranking member of your family you are the head of it. In-laws and relatives my marriage and children and parents and siblings - all of it.”

“Huh,” Theron said. “If she wants you to court her I’m not going to say no. It’s her choice. But if you push her I’ll run you off.”

“Absolutely,” Fergus agreed, relieved. He hadn’t thought that he’d be refused but there was always the possibility. “Understood. I- could I call on her at your estate?”

“Of course. But why her? You just met her a couple of days ago.”

“Because all the other eligible noblewomen were ten or eleven or so when I was getting married for the first time,” he said. “I’m sure that they’re by and large fine people, but it’s just - awkward. I can’t get away from that.”

“I’m pretty sure Bethany was probably ten or eleven then, too.”

“But I didn’t know her,” Fergus told him. “I have a-”

He went to the side table where he’d hid the letter, just in case.

“This is for her,” he said, handing him the letter - and then the flowers he’d hid it under, too. “And these. Irises and lilies. For, um. They’re traditional.”

Theron looked at them.

“Don’t send the white lilies,” he said. “There was a bad experience.”

“Okay,” Fergus said, and pulled them out of the arrangement. “All right. No white lilies.”

“I like these pink ones.”

“They grow in the estate gardens. Oriana- my wife brought them. From Antiva. Cross-breeding them with Ferelden flowers to get them to survive the winter was her project. She’d finished just two years before- everything.”

“Then I’ll tell her when I give her the flowers,” Theron told him. “Tomorrow?”

“Ah- tomorrow? Yes. In the afternoon? I wanted to take a walk or talk or- however, tomorrow morning, if she’ll have me.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

His fiancé was the one who kept waking up earlier than he had before and was maybe not getting enough sleep, but tonight it was Theron waking early, long before even false dawn, with nothing but an anxious dread of the morning.

Once the sun came up, they had their audience with Anora, about the oath.

Theron had done his best to put it out of his mind. He’d mostly managed until now, a week after court opening. The last week hadn’t been hectic but it had been busy enough.

And now, he was alone with his thoughts. It was no state to be in.

In an attempt to stave off a cycling, pointless spiral, he slipped out from under the covers and prostrated himself on the floor in prayer.

Elgar’nan provide for my position, Mythal protect my people, Dirthamen let be known what I wish to be known, Falon’din, Lethanavir, my own god hear me and help me-

Praying could take a long time if you did it a certain way, and Theron kept it up until it hurt to hold his position.

He didn’t really feel much better. After a few slow, deep breaths as he sat upright, everything came back.

Zevran was still sleeping. Theron got back into bed and laid on his side, watching him.

He deserved Amaranthine. Zevran deserved everything nice, after what his life had been like. He deserved the safety and security Amaranthine offered, the luxuries its riches could buy, the power and freedom the title of its High Lord would bring him.

If Theron lost it, he’d have failed the Wardens, and the Dalish, and Zevran. That was too much - too much shame, too much blame.

He couldn’t lose Amaranthine. But he couldn’t swear that oath and betray his people and everything he was.

But here in the dark, alone but for their breathing, the voice in his head was loud.

Swear or not, and you lose, it said. But one of them makes him happy.

He could... lie. He could swear the oath and not mean it, keep Amaranthine but stay true to The People and his gods-

No, no he couldn’t. If he said it, he had to mean it. You didn’t betray something sacred.

The Dalish will lose the only voice that will speak for them. So will the city elves. Who will protect them? No one. If you have to betray them like this to keep them safe - you aren’t worth all of them.

He’d never be able to go back. When his people found out, he’d be an exile. He’d never be able to face his own reflection. His vallas’lin would damn him for the rest of his life, a constant reminder of what he’d done. He couldn’t have- he couldn’t-

He couldn’t.

Theron lay there unseeing for some time, long enough that when Zevran stirring brought him back to himself, false dawn was greying the room.

Zevran shivered, twitched, and woke with a sharp little breath. He was still a moment, then sighed, and ran a hand down his face - then startled, minutely, when he saw Theron looking at him.

“Ah, apologies. I did not mean to wake you.”

“I was already awake,” Theron told him. “Are you-?”

“The demons still come when I sleep- amora, no, do not look like that. There is nothing they can tempt me with that I do not already have. I have you and my mother and a safe home and a place to belong. What else is there?”

If he lost Amaranthine.

Satheraan had to be safe, he had to be happy; if he didn’t do this Satheraan would be in danger.

“Nothing else,” Theron agreed, and kissed him, because he was going to have to destroy everything else but he could have this, at least.

It would have to be enough.

They stayed there a while longer, until it was Theron’s usual time to be awake. Zevran got dressed for the day and Theron put on his armor for morning practice. They had breakfast. Sparring happened. Theron got cleaned up and out of his armor and then they went to the palace.

Satheraan has to be safe, he told himself as Elthina let them into Anora’s office. Satheraan has to be safe.

“Warden-Commander,” Anora said, sounding distinctly unimpressed to see him. “Zevran - if you are here to tell me that Prince Estefan is going to create an incident, please, let me enjoy my last few moments of a calm, peaceful morning first.”

“He is understandably displeased,” Zevran told her. “But he does not seem inclined to do anything more than avoid us as much as possible. It is actually Theron who is here to see you, Your Royal Highness.”

“Oh?” she asked harshly. “And what news do you bring, Warden-Commander? Not darkspawn, I hope?”

He had to. He had to.

“It’s about the oath you’re requiring for the foreign nobility,” Theron said. “Zevran doesn’t have a problem with it, but I need to tell you that swearing it would violate my position as a Warden and-”

She held up a hand to stop him.

“Arl-Commander, what are you talking about?”

“The oath that you’re going to have all the foreign-born nobility swear to Ferelden. I-”

“It has nothing to do with you, you’re not a foreigner.”

What?

“You were recruited into the Wardens of Ferelden, from your home in the Brecilian Forest. You’re Fereldan.”

“I’m Dalish!”

“From Ferelden.”

“Dalish aren’t ‘from’ human countries! We’re from our clans! We’re of the El’vhen! The oath was specifically to protect Ferelden from being exploited for the interests of foreign powers-”

“Such as the cities of the Free Marches or Orlais or Antiva or Nevarra. The Dalish hardly compare.”

The Dalish-!

“Well!” Zevran said brightly. “It is very good that this misunderstanding was cleared up. Thank you for your time, my Queen.”

“Yes, yes. Now take your fiancé and go, Messere Revasina, before he says something unfortunate and spoils my morning.”

“Your Royal Highness is most gracious,” Zevran said, and bowed, and dragged him out of the room.

She wasn’t- she hadn’t been going to- the Dalish-

Zevran closed the door and Theron broke down crying.

“Vhenan?”

“She said!” he exclaimed angrily. “She said! I’m not Fereldan! I’m Dalish! I’m foreign!”

“Well in this particular instance bigotry is working in your favor. Quite unexpected, but this is an instance I will not argue-”

“Not a power! We are so! You know how long we’ve survived! How much we’ve kept and found, how hard we’ve fought? I-”

“Am going to walk out and continue ranting at home,” Zevran said, steering him down the hallway. “Where the Queen cannot hear you and will not have to change her mind.”

Surely it wasn’t nice enough, but Orana had worked so hard to get something properly presentable for Teyrn Fergus’s visit this morning on such short notice that Bethany didn’t want to say anything about her worries. She’d already worn her nicest dress to court, and her second-nicest one, in Amell black and red, was for the court ball for the last round of choices for selling the bannorns. So this was only her third-nicest dress, a brown underdress she’d thought was rich but now just looked drab, with a cream overdress and a length of blue-green ribbon that matched her nicest dress for a belt. Her mother had made a posy of one of the nicest iris and the nicest lily from Teyrn Fergus’s bouquet and woven it into her hair. It didn’t quite match with her dress.

Oh, she was going to ruin this! The Teyrn of Highever was coming to ask to court her, and this wasn’t going to work!

“Here,” her mother said, reentering the room. She stepped up behind Bethany, and fastened a necklace on her.

Bethany reached up to touch it with her fingers. She could see it in the mirror- gold and rubies, but with an onyx cabochon at the center. It had an engraving, not quite clear in this light. She shifted a little, trying to get a look at it, and oh.

It was the Amell family crest.

“By right that’s supposed to go to the eldest daughter of the youngest generation of the house, when she’s of age for it,” her mother said. “It was Revka’s when I was a girl. I found it in the hidden safe when we moved back in. I knew I was supposed to give it to Marian-”

“But Marian wouldn’t appreciate this.”

“No, she wouldn’t. But you do.”

There was a matching ring, gold with a center ruby and flanking chips of onyx

“Is this,” Bethany asked, suspicion forming. “Is this wedding jewelry?”

“Not specifically. But it’s been worn at weddings for decades.”

Her mother bent over her shoulder and kissed her cheek.

“It will be auspicious. Go wait for him, darling Beth.”

It seemed like such a long walk downstairs to the Amaranth salon, and once she was there, seated on the day couch, all alone, she couldn’t help but feel more out of place. These surroundings were opulent, and she was not. She’d never been a lady, not like this, not like her mother or even Marian, sort of. She’d been a country village girl, watching the big Hinterlands goats and the chickens when she hadn’t been helping her father in his little herbalism business or her mother with the sewing and mending for the neighbors. After that she’d been a refugee and a mercenary, and then almost an adventurer- and then a Circle mage. She’d never had any luxury, and she’d always had daydreams of being a lady like her mother had been, in Kirkwall.

But mages didn’t get to be ladies. She’d anticipated court to be a week or two of the closest she’d ever get to that daydream.

But now the Teyrn of Highever wanted to court her! It would be- it could be nice, it could be romantic, it could be good memories, but she couldn’t- she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t agree, the Teyrn of Highever couldn’t have an apostate Teyrna! And if she let herself have just this little glimpse, this little taste, she’d always-

The door of the salon opened and Bethany rose from her seat, because there he was.

No, she hadn’t forgotten how handsome he was. Or how she liked his voice.

“Please, Lady Bethany, I’m the one who should bow,” he told her, as she curtsied. “For the gift of being graced with your attention again.”

He was so much better at flirting than any of the other men who’d tried it with her, in Lothering or in Kirkwall.

“It was not a hard gift to give, Teyrn Fergus,” she said, and tried not the blush as he kissed her hand and in greeting. She didn’t think she succeeded. “You are too kind.”

“No, only honest,” he said, straightening. His eyes fell on her hair decoration. “May I assume that you liked the flowers?”

“They were very nice, yes,” Bethany said. “I am honored that you would share your late wife’s blossoms with me.”

“I think Oriana would say they went to a good cause, Lady Bethany.”

This was far too much. He was- well, of course any offer of courtship would be serious, but-

He really was serious about this.

Bethany wasn’t sure she had the heart to turn him down. He looked very earnest, and hopeful.

But she was an apostate, but-

She’d kept her magic secret before.

“Would you care for a walk in the gardens, Teyrn Fergus?” she asked, because yes, apparently she was doing this. “They aren’t much right now, but the pines are fragrant, and the crocuses and Andraste’s Grace are blooming. I would like to hear more about you.”

He smiled at it was-

Dear Maker.

You needed nine adults for a clan, and Tamlen had nervously counted on his fingers the day before, after Marethari had burned. Junar, Fenarel, Radha, and Master Ilen, the ones he knew the best of Sabrae from what was left, that was four. He and Merrill and Theron and Ashalle, who’d come down with her bags and some help from Clan Vhadan’ena to carry the rest and started weeping uncontrollably at the sight of him and Merrill, made eight.

The rest of Sabrae’s adults numbered just four, now, and seeing them gathered around the fire for the morning meal and the discussion that had to be had was breaking his heart. Fenarel was of an age to him and his siblings, and Junar and Radha were only a bit older, which was why he knew those three the best. Reathe and Mahnas were a married couple, wives. Reathe made the best arrows of everyone in the clan, and had loved to tease the children by tickling them with the feathers too downy or thin or short for fletching. Mahnas was Sabrae’s best tracker and cook, and the sister of now-dead Maren, the old halla keeper. Rosallin and Sousil were brothers, one still unmarried and the other widowed and bereft of his children by the last six years.

This was what Sabrae was reduced to - a disgraced former First, a long-lost former Second, the Master Crafter, one Crafter, five hunters, two scouts, a half-human mage child, Fenarel and Radha’s newborn Osha, and the Warden-Commander of Ferelden.

Hahren Paivel, he’d learned the evening before, had died soon after arriving in the city after a surviving the late-autumn sickness that had killed most of what had been left of the clan through pure spite and his own refusal to leave for the Creators before seeing the Third City that Theron had brought news of. He’d passed full of joy and at peace with the end of his long life. Master Ilen and Ashalle were their elders now, such as they had.

“We have no Hahren,” Master Ilen said, as Ashalle looked sadly at he and Merrill. “No Keeper, no First, no Second. Unless you can stay, Tamlen, and Theron can return?”

“He can’t,” Tamlen said. “He’s got a place in the human world he can’t get rid of. And I don’t know if I can come back. I’m a Warden now.”

“Keeper Velanna is a Warden,” Ashalle said. “I don’t see why you couldn’t.”

“Then I’ll ask Theron about it. I do want to be Second, Master Ilen, if I can.”

He sighed, relieved.

“Then that is one thing we may have. But a Keeper and a Hahren are vital. A new First can wait, if we must.”

“Well, it would be Hathen, wouldn’t it?” Junar asked.

“He’s half-human,” Mahnas said.

“So was Feynriel,” Fenarel said. “And he’s Theron’s son. Our Hahren wouldn’t let him grow up not being one of the People.”

“Theron isn’t here,” Master Ilen reminded him. “And apparently he can’t be. We need a Hahren.”

“And we have one,” Fenarel argued. “We could get a trained Hahren from another clan, but they wouldn’t be ours and we all know it! They’ll know the stories of the People, but they won’t know Sabrae’s. They won’t know our lineages. They won’t know us. Theron does. He was the only apprentice Hahren Paivel ever took so he’s the only one we have. We can get a Keeper and a First from anywhere. Marethari was from Vhadan’ena. Merrill came from Alerion. It won’t even be hard. All the other clans are here.”

Tamlen glanced over at his sister to gauge her reaction. She seemed resigned to be regarded to outsider status. She’d almost been excluded from this gathering, and made to sit with her human and the Chasind woman across the camp, but he’d intervened and reminded the others that she just wasn’t First any longer. She was still an adult of Sabrae.

“I don’t want a Keeper from another clan,” Mahnas spoke up. “The last good mage we had was Keeper Mahariel. We’ve no luck with borrowing.”

“And what other choice do we have?” her wife countered. He’d forgotten that Reathe just got even more beautiful when she was debating. “Merrill is barred and the only other mage we have is Theron’s boy. He won’t be old enough to be Keeper for two decades yet!”

“The line we had was polluted,” Mahnas said. “Keeper Zathrian set werewolves on his own people out of stubbornness-”

Void-twisted demons, when had that happened?

“-and Marethari was his First before he sent her to us, and then she-"

This was something hard to say. Sabrae was devastated, and they were living it. But it was something not meant to happen.

"-and then her apprentices," Mahnas said, instead of elaborating. "Alas’nidar’mis brought those Qunari with them, and Dadhase’lin has been hiding humans. Can we really trust that any mages we get from other clans won’t be bringing their own secrets? Their own problems that will come and consume the rest of us?”

“We don’t have another choice,” Sousil said bitterly. “Sabrae is almost dead. Fenarel’s right, Theron has to be our Hahren, even if he’s far away. He can come when he can, and he can take an apprentice to train who can come live with us. But even having enough people for a clan, we can’t without a Keeper.”

“So don’t be a clan,” Merrill said, like it was simple and like it wasn’t unthinkable!

Even Tamlen was turning to rip into her for saying that when she realized how that sounded.

“Not stop being Sabrae!” she said quickly. “Not that! Never that! But Houses don’t need Keepers!”

“There are no Dales for House Sabrae,” Rosallin reminded her stiffly.

“But this is a city of the People, isn’t it?” she said. “And this is Sabrae’s land here. There’s no reason we can’t have our Houses and Lords again. If we want to. Lords don’t need to be mages. Sabrae wasn’t. Haurnatha wasn’t. Ilthemien was, and Ghanadin and Thahoris, but they died defending our lands and it was Misedrin who led House Sabrae away, who wasn’t a mage. Ga’len was our first Keeper, but that was years later.”    

“And who would be ha'tar Sabrae?”

Tamlen glanced around the fire, and saw that everyone else was doing the same. No one spoke for a long moment.

“Well,” Junar finally said. “Theron?”

“Of course it would be Theron,” Fenarel said. “Who else could we pick? We have our Third City because of him! The People have already given him a title!”

“He’s a Lord in the human lands,” Reathe said. “It was his Wardens and his money and the people who listen to his authority that got us here.”

“He does have practice,” Mahnas conceded.

“His father was our last good Keeper,” Sousil agreed.

“Is an absentee Lord any better than an absentee Hahren?” Master Ilen prodded them. “Who would lead us day-to-day?”

“You’re doing a pretty good job right now with Ashalle, Master Ilen,” Radha said.

“We don’t have to, Ilen,” Ashalle told him. “I’ve been living here for five years. I know some mages-”

“No one from Vhadan’ena, Ashalle,” he said. “I know they’ve treated you well, but Mahnas is right about that much. We’ve have enough from them.”

“That’s not who I was thinking of,” she said. “My children tell me Theron is marrying Satheraan. His uncle is First to Clan Revasina.”

“Rajrad,” Tamlen put in. “The mage who came in with us yesterday.”

“He has two daughters, both mages,” his mother continued. “His wife is very sensible, and her brother is First to Clan Lavellan. Satheraan’s sister is a mage, wherever she is. It would be good, new blood for Sabrae, and new friends and allies. It would take adjusting, but both of them are good people, and well-meaning. Rajrad has even already given lessons to Hathen, when Theron brought him over the winter.”

“Would they even want to come?”

“I don’t know. But we don’t have to decide today who we want to lead us, or how. We have time to ask.”

Apparently the meeting with the Queen had gone well, even if the Arl had come back furious and had been stewing in his office ever since. Messere Revasina had said it had gone well, at least, and given that he was competent enough at high society that he had recognized his and his mother’s hand behind the successful visit of the Left Hand on such short notice, and had complimented them on it- Damien was willing to give him this much.

And a little more, even, since he’d given his approval to the afternoon lessons for Orana and the children, and had not shot down the idea that Damien might expand the lessons to more people. He hadn’t thought of it until he’d heard Ser Tabris and Serrah Fenris speaking of it, but he’d found that he would be willing to teach more people.

Even glad.

He had not expected this, and he had not thought that this would ever be something he’d do. If he was to teach others in the household, after all, that by default meant he would be teaching elves. In Orlais it had been too dangerous for him to be seen in the extended company of elves, in case anyone got any ideas; and in Starkhaven there just hadn’t been opportunity. But this was Ferelden, and this was the Arl of Amaranthine’s estate, and Damien had found that he wanted to teach the others, he wanted them to be able to read and write and know the things he did, if only so that they would have some opportunity, some chance, some defense and succor in knowledge that had been denied them.

He didn’t want Denerim to be like Orlais.

However it worked out, if it worked out if he was able to bring himself to offer open classes, it wouldn’t be today. Today was regular lessons, with a new book he had picked out specially and been reviewing in the evenings in his room for content and suitability.

This afternoon was an afternoon where the Arl was not having guests and the estate was to be quiet, which was why the sight of someone who was walking up the stairs who was not a servant got his attention immediately upon exiting his room.

No, not walking. Gliding. It was not the walk of an elf servant, nor his or his mother’s practiced soft footfalls, nor the unquiet striding of the Arl or his Wardens. It was entire controlled, careful, calculated-

An elf. Northern coloring, male, clothing that laid just not quite right on him, slightly bulky over something underneath.

The elf saw him watching and faced him straight on.

Tattoos.

 Damien stood there at the top of the stairs holding the book and the Crow came up one, two, three more steps-

The children were just down the hall, in the room with Orana. Clingy Diego and thorny Tiar hadn’t said anything about their pasts but Damien had read it in the way they watched rooms and their hair-trigger nerves and more things, things he couldn’t name but things he saw and things he heard them not say, and he knew them. He had seen it often enough in the most cowed elven servants, in Orlais and in Starkhaven. They had been hurt and they would not be hurt again.

“And who are you?” Damien demanded, looking down his nose at the Crow below him.

The Crow smiled at him. It wasn’t Messere Arainai’s conciliatory smile or his friendly smile or his socializing smile. It was insincere and threatening.

“Does it need to be your business?”

“It is entirely my business when an unannounced stranger is found about to intrude across the periphery of my employer’s area of private residence.”

“I’m not a stranger. I know-”

“The Arl is receiving no guests today,” Damien cut him off. The Crow was only a five steps below him now.

“So the Arl tells you everything?”

“I am His Arlship’s personal manservant,” he told the Crow, putting every ounce of pride and arrogance he could muster into it as he raised his voice a little. The assassin was close, and Damien couldn’t fight. “I know his schedule and I know his guests-”

He stepped sideways and blocked the Crow’s path as the elf tried to go past him and set foot off the staircase.

“-and he is having none today-”

Another sidestep, in the opposite direction, hastily. The Crow was only one step below him and very, very close.

“-and if you had entered this estate legitimately,” Damien said, yet louder again. If the children heard him, maybe they would run. “You would be accompanied by an usher or other servant in livery and as you are not and as you will not give your name and as you are being antagonistic and disrespectful of my personal space it is very clear to me that you are not an unexpected guest but an intruder!”

“Think what you like,” the Crow said.

Damien moved to step in front of him again, but he did- something, Damien wasn’t sure what, but he was facing the wall of the stairwell and the Crow had managed to get past him into the hallway.

The hallway where Diego and Tiar were two doors down.

“You do not have permission, Serrah Crow!” Damien yelled at the assassin, and struck him across the back of the head with the book. He stumbled. Damien dropped the book and grabbed him by the back of the shirt and the top of his pants. “If you will not leave you will be forcibly removed from the premises!”

The Crow was going to straighten up. Damien applied a judicious knee to the space between his legs from behind-

And that was why his clothes fit wrong. He was hiding armor underneath this, and Damien’s knee hit the hard leather of a codpiece instead of soft flesh.

The Crow twisted and Damien’s hold broke and knife!

He jerked his head aside and the blade scored across his cheek, down over his jaw and past his ear and into his hair in a line of pain. The Crow raised his knife again and the Arl came out of nowhere, snarling, and barreled into the assassin shoulder first. He slammed the Crow into the wall of the stairway hard enough to make the floor shake, and they made a banging racket as they fell down the stairs together.

His fiancé pulled up at the top of the stairs and took his arms, trying to guide him into sitting. He was saying things, something-

He reached up and moved Damien’s hand from his face to look at the wound.

“There’s a lot of blood,” Damien finally managed to say, unable to look away.

“Not so much. It only seems like much because head wounds bleed terrifically.”

He wasn’t talking about himself. He tugged on the other man’s shirt, trying to get his attention, trying to get him to look.

“It is a relatively shallow wound, nothing that should not be an easy fix. Simply keep it clean-”

“No, that’s not- it’s- there’s- behind you, Satheraan, the- down there-”

The Crow was gone, and the Arl was lying across the bottom of the stairs in pooling blood.

“Lord Mac Maric! Lord Mac Maric!”

That was the screaming of someone scared. Alistair knew it well by now. He and Lockard stepped away from each other, swords lowering, as Orana skidded into a stop on the gravel.

“My Lord,” she said. “The Warden mages, Lord, they are needed- the Arl has been hurt and if he doesn’t get healing magic-”

They were in the estate. What sort of trouble could Theron have possibly found?

“They should be in their quarters,” Alistair told her. “Hallway behind the drawing rooms-”

She turned in a whirl of skirts and ran off again.

“Excitable, isn’t she?” Lockard said.

“Tevinter would do that to you, I bet,” Alistair said, and raised his swords. “Here, show me again-”

A few minutes later Shianni came barreling by. They stopped again, and Alistair turned to watch her go, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. She was headed in the direction of the stables, and soon after Nehna on her halla went running flat-out for the gates, with another halla following behind.

“Shianni!” Alistair called when she came dashing by again, reaching out to stop her. “What’s-”

“There was a Crow!” she said. “In the house- they fell down the stairs and the Arl cracked his head open and the Crow stabbed him through the ribs!”

Alistair sheathed his swords and he and Lockard and Andreas ran with her back into the estate.

“What do you mean neither of you can heal!”

“Fen!” Alistair ordered the mabari, voice loud to carry over the noise at the bottom of the stairs. “Fen, back off! Zevran, you too!”

“Alistair your mages can’t heal!”

“Zev, if you’re panicking you’re not-”

It took some effort to wrestle him away from Theron. That was a worrying amount of blood.

“Amell, Surana, neither of you can heal?” he demanded, holding Zevran back. “Not even a little?”

“No,” Amell said faintly.

“All right, then we need to send for Anders. Which of you rides better-”

“A ship would be faster,” Shianni said. “Send Kallian.”

“Right- Amell, Surana, go get her told what’s going on and in her armor, she’s on the Arl’s business! Shianni, get her gold for the ship, if she needs to pay off somebody to leave right now that’s what she’s going to do-”

Lockard was trying to hold the wound on Theron’s side closed, and Andreas was gently feeling around the back of his head, presumably where he’d smashed it open on the stairs. Zevran had stopped fighting him and had pressed his face into Alistair’s chest. He could just hear him whispering prayers, and hugged him with one arm, running a hand up and down his back.

“Diego!” Alistair yelled, seeing the children poking around the corner of the hallway into the stairwell up on the second floor. “You know where the medicines are stored, right? Go get bandages! Tiar, we’re going to need a blanket, big enough for Theron to fit on!”

“No,” Zevran muttered. “No, no, no-”

He started pushing on Alistair’s chest.

“No, his skull, there are bone fragments-”

“He can’t stay here,” Alistair said, and had to struggle with him again momentarily. “We have to move him!”

They had to get him upstairs, and behind a door that would lock.

“Damien!” he called. “Damien!”

Alistair knew he was being loud enough, the children had heard him from down here.

“Damien!”

The man finally responded, jumping a little.

“I-”

“Get Bethany Amell into Theron’s bedroom, get all the doors between here and there propped open, and get as many layers of cloth covering the mattress as you can!”

Damien stayed frozen a moment and then went to follow his orders.

Tiar returned with a blanket; Diego with bandages. Alistair traded places with Lockard to get Theron bandaged up, and then he and Andreas got the blanket under Theron. Alistair and Lockard were the ones who carried him up the stairs on it, and Andreas closed the doors behind them as they passed through.

Bethany was in the room helping Damien put more blankets and sheets on the bed when they got there. They put Theron on the bed and Alistair asked:

“Can you heal?”

“Only- only a bit-”

“Then you’re the best we’ve got right now, do what you can.”

Damien got a chair for her and she sat down next to the bed, magic blooming around her hands.

“Zevran,” Alistair said. “Zevran- hey, Zev! Look at me!”

“He-”

“Yes, he’s hurt, but he’s survived a lot and this isn’t going to kill him. Look at me.”

He did.

“Shianni said there was a Crow. Do you know-”

“I didn’t- I did not see him, I- Damien-”

“You saw him, Damien?”

“Yes, Lord-”

“Great, describe him to Lockard. Lockard, when he’s done you go down to the city guard. Speak to Kylon, he’s in charge, give him the description and tell him what happened and not to try to take this Crow in, just report if he’s seen. We don’t need to get Kylon’s people hurt for this.”

Lockard took Damien and ducked out.

“Andreas, you get the blood cleaned up downstairs. Get Amell and Surana to help and have them scour with fire if that’s what you need to get it all out-”

“-and burn used rags.”

“Yeah, that. We’re not spreading Taint to the servants, okay?”

Andreas went off and Alistair pulled Zevran into the sitting room outside the bedroom and sat him down, closing the door between the two. Diego and Tiar were here, hovering or lurking or somewhere in between-

“Diego, go find out if there’s anyone in this house who knows anything about herbalism-”

“I,” he said, voice trembling. “I know plants.”

“Zev?”

“He,” Zevran said after a moment. “Yes, he was helping Anders and Anders was impressed enough to mention to me- and the Crows, they do teach some things-”

“Then go get what you need from the house and go help Bethany, Diego,” Alistair ordered the boy. “Tiar, go to Shianni, have her send somebody for more bandages and anything else Diego thinks he needs and ask her if there’s a decent proper herbalist or doctor or something in this city!”

They left and okay, all right, that was it. He couldn’t think of anything else to do and they were alone in this room and, yes, this was the end of his calm and his focus because Theron was bleeding a lot in the next room over and they’d been stupid and not brought a mage who knew anything real about healing even though they should have known better, Theron always managed to find trouble, or get himself into some, or-

Alistair sat down next to Zevran, put his arm around him, and they leaned into each other for support.

“What if he dies?” Zevran whispered.

“He won’t,” Alistair said, trying to convince them both. Without a healer- “He can’t.”

The estate was in an uproar when Tanis returned from picking up packages at the tailor’s. She was almost at the servants’ gate when Nehna came racing up the street behind her on Eirlin, and the crafter Iro on his halla behind her. They passed Tanis and she sped up, reaching the stables as Nehna was walking out.

“What happened?” Tanis asked.

“There was a Crow,” Nehna told her. “Damien-”

Tanis didn’t wait to hear the rest. Her son-

“Damien! Damien!”

The Wardens were cleaning up blood at the bottom of the staircase. He wasn’t in his room or her room but the door next to the library was open and-

“Damien.”

Her son was sitting in front of the fireplace on a thick rug, hunched over a bit. Satheraan was sitting with him, an arm around him and a teapot and cups and a bottle at their feet. Lord Mac Maric was at the table with the elder Lady Amell and Orana. Tiar was wedged up against the fireplace in the warm corner where it met the wall, clutching a knife and staring at Satheraan.

“Maman-”

“Damien, Damien are you all right?” she demanded, falling to her knees and turning his face so she could look at him. He didn’t seem to be bleeding, but he was leaning heavily on Satheraan. “Your eyes, can you even see me? Damien, focus, please-”

“‘m all right,” he said vaguely, and tried to pat her reassuringly, but missed entirely.

“You are not!” she exclaimed. “Your- your cheek!”

“It is just that cut,” Satheraan assured her. “It has been cleaned and will heal. The rest is he was going into shock and so I made hot drinks. Heavy milk, chocolate, a little embrium, cinnamon to mask that flavor.”

Embrium. That was why her son was uncoordinated and drowsy.

“And the bottle?” she asked.

“Ah,” Satheraan said. “Vodka. For mine.”

A Crow had attacked the estate and he was getting drunk?

“What if the Crow comes back!”

“I am not drunk,” Satheraan said. “I hear you thinking it. I am tipsy. Fighting tipsy is better than fighting panicked, which is what would be happening if I was not doing this, because we have no healing mages and Theron smashed his head open on the stairs falling and the Crow slit his left lung and it is a very large cut and it is a day to Amaranthine by boat and a half day on a horse so it will be three or three and a half days for Anders to come because we did not think we would need him-”

He stopped, tipped the bottle over his cup of chocolate, and drank most of it.

“Apologies,” he said. “I have not had enough alcohol yet. Alistair continues to insist that Theron will not die, but he has never killed someone slowly before. I am very almost to the point of not caring now, I think.”  

“You can’t stay drunk for three days,” Lord Mac Maric insisted from the table.

“I am not drunk!” Satheraan replied, too loudly. “And if Oghren could survive the Deep Roads to even past the Dead Trenches drunk than I can do this tipsy.”

“Consider that I’m not going to let you.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“Uh-huh. You’re going to be sick later and it’s just going to make you feel worse.”

“But right now,” Satheraan said. “Right now- braska!”

Tanis grabbed the bottle before he could, and put it out of reach on the hearth.

“Satheraan, stop!” she told him in Antivan. “It never helped your mother and it’s not going to help you!”

Behind him, Nehna shifted uncomfortably. Satheraan looked at her with wide eyes, and then turned to the rest of his drink.

“If- if you need to not think then go to sleep!”

“No. No, I must not. I know the results of this situation and it will not go well. I will not wake up and if he does then I will have- he will- it would-”

“That is not happening!” Lord Mac Maric said hotly, and Tanis didn’t know what they were talking about, but she knew who wasn’t helping. She fixed Nehna with a look and jerked her chin down at Satheraan, eyebrows raised pointedly.

Nehna put a hand on his shoulder.

“I brought the crafter,” she told him. “Irothal Nu’nin. All Dalish mages learn enough healing to keep an injured clanmate alive until the Keeper can attend to them.”

“And when are Keepers ever three days away?”

“Queen Anora thought you would appreciate the warning, Prince Estefan,” the Queen’s elf maid told him.

“We do appreciate it,” he said. “Please tell Her Royal Highness that. We are grateful she thought to send us the news that a Crow has been discovered in the city.”

The maid curtsied, and departed. Estefan closed the door of the suite of apartments they’d been given in the Gwaren estate, locked it, and then stormed into the second sitting room.

“Were you trying to please me?” he demanded, careful not to yell no matter how much he might want to. Fereldan walls were thick, but someone might still hear. “I called you here so you could explain how you could tell me that Zevran Arainai was dead but yet he’s here! Not so you could kill him!”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him,” the Crow in the sitting room said. “I went to yell at him.”

“And that involved attacking the Arl of Amaranthine!”

“He attacked me!” Salvail Arainai shot back. “I was defending myself and he threw us down the stairs! He fell on my knife and I pulled it out and ran!”

“The messager from the Queen I just spoke to said that he was seriously injured and might be dying! That is more than ‘he fell on my knife’!”

“I wasn’t going to stay there to check on him! Zevran has lost his mind over the man-”

“And how do you know?” Estefan demanded. “If you hadn’t known he was still alive, and spoken to him!”

Salvail sat up very stiffly.

“He was in Antiva,” he said. “Since Satinalia at least, until a couple weeks ago. I saw him. We talked a little. I wasn’t done with him, which is why I went over there to yell at him.”

“I have been paying you for information ever since I found out what House my daughter ended up in and you didn’t think to write-”

“I thought he was dead! Again! He was killing Talons, and then the Wardens he’d fallen in with were in Antiva City and fighting Crows! He’d claimed the Dalish one loved him, and if you want to provoke someone, you kill people they love! Those Wardens were very provoked! They left a trail of dead Crows through the City!”

Zashira’s fan snapped shut, loudly. The sound cut through the moment of silence between them.

“He was killing Talons?” she asked.

“He admitted to being the one to kill Eoman Arainiai and his lieutenants and breaking the House,” Salvail said. “And Grandmasters Runn and Availa. I saw him kill Master Escipo.”

“And the Wardens killed Crows?”

“Plenty of regular ones. Masters d’Evaliste and Lanos, and-”

That was most of the Talon Houses he knew, Estefan realized in the Crow’s pause.

“He killed your brother,” the Crow said. “The Dalish one. Turned him into a bloody smear outside the gates of the Fort Palace.”

No. No, that couldn’t be possible.

“Claudio is dead?” Zashira said.

“He’s dead, and Masters Ibarra and Desoto were killed by somone in the fallout of it all, and now the Crows are little better than nothing,” Salvail said bitterly. “it’s anarchy. I’d call it a civil war but more people are running than are fighting, and the ones with the best claims already tried to take over and destroyed each other and there’s only one-”

“And so that man,” Estefan cut him off. “That elf, the one who- you might have killed his fiancé! Everyone knows we hate him! If the Arl of Amaranthine dies, they’re going to say that we ordered it! That- Zevran Arainai is going to come here, and you - you have put my daughter in danger-”

“He won’t touch your daughter,” Salvail said. “Not to take her to the Crows and not to kill her. He told me some of his new opinions when I saw him in Antiva. He wants the Crows to fall, he says we’re wrong to exist and hates-”

“You are very insolent for a fourth-rate assassin,” Zashira said coolly. “Particularly when we are the ones paying you.”

“Everything’s fallen apart. I don’t have anything left to lose.”

“Out,” Estefan ordered him. “Out. Leave, get- find another room! If I feel like talking to you again, I’ll call!”

Salvail looked at him sourly and disappeared. Zashira was right, he was insolent now. If he had Zashira get Haida, and they ran for the guards - that would be one less Crow.

“Claudio is dead,” Zashira said after a moment, voice trembling.

“He can’t be,” Estefan said. “He’s too good.”

“And why- there are reasons for him to lie about this, but why-”

“He’s not dead. Some woods-savage Warden could never do that. He’s lying. He’s trying to placate us.”

“But I want him dead,” Zashira said. “I want him- he deserves to be dead and I want to believe him-”

“And that’s why he said it,” Estefan told her. “We need to decide what we do, amora, if the Arl dies. Or if Zevran Arainai finds out the Crow is here.”

Zevran lasted a little more than two days. When he first started struggling to stay awake, he drank tea. When that stopped working, he added ginger to it, and kept drinking.

He sat in the bedroom he and Theron shared, watching. Bethany Amell and Irothal Nu’nin would switch off, one resting as the other worked. Of the two, Irothal was better, but there was still little they could do. They’d kept Theron from bleeding to death, but his lung wasn’t healed. They’d managed to pick out the small bone fragments in his skull and started encouraging the larger pieces to fuse back together, packing everything in place with gauze and bandages- but that didn’t mean much. Zevran had known people to hit their heads badly, get up just fine, and walk around until they fell asleep and never woke up, or just dropped dead.

And Theron hadn’t woken up. One of the times he’d gone to get more tea, Irothal had claimed that Theron’s eyes had opened while he’d been gone, but it didn’t- it couldn’t mean anything, not when he hadn’t spoken and his pupils didn’t react to a candle or a little bright light cupped in Irothal’s hand right next to his face, and his breathing was still wet and strained.

They’d been feeding him on spoonfuls of a slow-cooked soup of good meat boiled down to broth and cracked bones thrown in to add in the marrow, standard Warden sick fare, for bodies that needed to feed the Taint to keep it from consuming muscle and bone and organs and life, and spreading, but if he didn’t wake up, if he couldn’t-

“You should eat,” Irothal had said a couple of hours ago, when he’d heard Zevran’s stomach rumble.

Zevran hadn’t replied, because he’d been using his hunger to keep him awake and couldn’t admit that to someone who didn’t know why he couldn’t fall asleep.

But now he couldn’t fight it any longer. He could barely stay awake, and all that had gotten him out of the chair and staggering out of the room was that flocking demons might disrupt the mages, and an abomination would-

“You look really bad,” Alistair said, when Zevran stumbled through his doorway.

“I am going to sleep-”

“Good.”

“-I need you to watch me.”

“Sounds creepy.”

“Necessary,” Zevran said, and tried not to just collapse into Alistair’s bed. He sat down and did not let himself fall back onto the mattress. He was wearing his shoes, they had to-

“It’s really not ‘necessary’,” Alistair said, and he was at his feet, tugging off his boots. Zevran could do that himself, the laces were just being difficult at the moment. “But if it would make you feel better to have someone here, I will. I’ll wake you up if anything happens with Theron.”

“You must stay,” Zevran told him, because this was important. “Yes necessary. You were a Templar.”

“Yeah? So? If you’re trying to make a joke about constant surveillance, it’s not in very- oh, flames no! I am not doing that, Zevran!”

“You must. The demons-”

“Won’t get you! You hear me, they won’t get you, because you’re better than that!”

“I am not better than grief,” Zevran told him bleakly. “I am not better than temptation, or trickery. Theron- I need him, Alistair, I need him and this-”

“He’s not going to die, and you have to be here for him when he wakes up! Or do you want him to be the one grieving, instead!”

If it meant that Theron lived, right in this moment, Zevran wasn’t sure it wasn’t something he’d agree to. Alive Theron was better than dead Theron, even if he wasn’t here to see it.

“No,” Alistair said vehemently, and Zevran was too tired to know if he’d said that out loud or if his silence had spoken for him. “You’re not thinking straight. You’re scared and you’re stressed and you’re tired and hungry and you haven’t been taking care of yourself! Everything is going to be fine.”

“Get your sword,” Zevran told him.

“Lie down!”

“Get your sword.”

“No!”

“Then I cannot sleep,” Zevran decided, and tried to get off the bed. He didn’t move. This was very simple - his hands were on the mattress, were braced properly. He just had to push. But nothing was happening.  

“I won’t get my sword,” Alistair said after a moment. “Unless you promise me you’re going to wake up yourself, because you’re not going to listen to the demons.”

“If they tell me Theron is dead-”

“You have those kids to look after, and there’s me and Morrigan, and Fen will need somebody, and so will Ashalle and Merrill and Tamlen! You just found your mother, Zevran! And Kieran calls you ‘Papa’, did you forget that? Theron is not dying, and you are not dying! You both have too much to live for!”

But he was losing him. He was losing Theron. He was too good, too nice; and they were betrothed so of course it couldn’t last, he couldn’t have this. He didn’t deserve this, he shouldn’t have gotten attached, he should have died on that road on Theron’s sword and Leliana was right, Theron could do so much better than him.

“Promise me,” Alistair said again, softer and gentler and closer.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do that, he wasn’t strong enough for this.

“I need him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know you do. Me too.”

Zevran waited for him to go get his sword, but he didn’t. It took longer than it should have for him to realize what Alistair was doing, and by that time he’d already stripped off his overshirt and belt and gotten his own boots off.

“Alistair-”

“Can’t do it,” Alistair said, dropping down onto the mattress next to him and wriggling around until he was on the other side of the bed. He grabbed Zevran from behind and pulled him down, and what was going on here?

“Alistair-”

It was so hard to stay awake, now that he was lying down. Alistair was warm and comforting behind him, and his arm over Zevran’s side as he arranged them comfortably was heavy, protecting.

“Can’t listen to demons,” Alistair told him. “Because if you turn into an abomination then you’ll kill me too. Can’t have that, can we?”

“No,” Zevran whispered. He couldn’t be responsible for that.

He fell asleep crying, his and Alistair’s hand curled up together against his chest.

Three days could be a long time to wait for magical healing. Anders would be more optimistic about the Commander’s chances, because he was a Spirit Healer, after all, and Spirit Healers could do a lot to help that ordinary mages or herbalists couldn’t. You basically had to be already dead for a Spirit Healer to be able to do nothing to help, much less get you as recovered as you possibly could.

The slight problem in this case was that he was missing a vital component of this equation, namely the spirit.

He’d been trying to fix it! Not as hard as he could have, maybe, but he’d been trying! He just couldn’t attract another spirit. The closest he’d gotten had been a spirit of Purpose, but it had gotten close enough to take a good look at him and said: ‘Ah, Justice’s mortal’.

And then it had left!

He wasn’t ‘Justice’s mortal’! He’d gotten away from that!

Anders kept trying, on the ship on the way to Denerim with Ser Tabris. He’d brought potions to make him sleep and dream lucidly, and plenty of lyrium, and he took enough of both to stay in the Fade for a long time. He called, and he called, and he called - but no spirits came.

 They arrived in Denerim. They started putting in at the dock and Anders had to admit defeat. He’d have to do as good a job as he could without any spirit help. And it would still be pretty good, he told himself, because a spirit was just supposed to help steady things and hold complex spell work and manage some of the really fiddly bits, but he’d been doing this for years! And in some really bad conditions. He could do this!

He got to the estate and saw the Commander and had some second thoughts.

No, he couldn’t afford to second-guess himself now. Bethany had sagged with relief in her chair when he’d walked in the door, and she was relying on him. Everyone was relying on him.

The side wound first. He unwrapped the bandages and examined the wound. A slit lung, collapsed - dangerous and painful.

“When was the last time he was awake?” Anders asked Bethany.

“Yesterday,” she said tiredly. “Maybe a minute. I don’t know if he knew what was going on or where he was or any of that, he only muttered some things in El’vhen.”

Well, language was a good sign. Being conscious for more than that would have been even better, but he could do this.

He could.

Bethany gave him her chair, and he sat down by the bed, hands over the wound. There was damage from misplaced air, and that had to be drawn out to keep things from getting worse. So long as the Commander was still breathing, though, air would leak. He’d have to do both at once.

It was a struggle. He’d start to heal the lung and then draw air out, and one would go too fast or the other too slow and he’d lose both. He tried five, six, seven times before he stopped himself, lowered his hands, opened his eyes, took his own breath.

“Anders?” Bethany asked.

“I’m thinking,” he told her, and tried to look composed. He couldn’t- he could, he had to, he didn’t have a spirit. He’d kept the residents of Darktown alive in Kirkwall for years, he could do this!

He had to go in increments, healing the lung a little, drawing out a little air, healing the lung more, drawing out more air. It was slow going, and it used up a lot of his power, but after what felt like hours, the Commander could take full breaths again. They were wet, which wasn’t good, but he wasn’t in danger of shortness of breath or trapped air rupturing things that really should not have had pressure put on them in the first place.

Maker, he was tired.

Time for more lyrium. With the ship voyage just behind him, he knew he was overdoing it, but he’d have time to collapse later. He had to deal with the Commander’s head wound now.

Skull fracture, he found when he probed with magic. Partially healed, but not much. No bleeding outside, but bleeding inside, and very, very small pieces of bone that would have to be reattached somewhere, or dissolved.

It was too much, and he couldn’t do it. He was too tired and he didn’t have a spirit. Maybe he could get whatever was in the Commander’s lungs out. Blood, probably, but it could be something harder to deal with-

I will help.

Healing, more than any other magic, took you into the Fade. It was easy to hear spirits and demons here, and this was the foundation of Spirit Healing. In another circumstance, he would have cried with relief to finally hear an offer of help and partnership - but he knew that voice.

I got rid of you! he snarled. I don’t want you! Go away!

You need me, Justice said.

No! No! I’m back with the Wardens! The Chantry is already eyeing Vigil’s Keep! I don’t need this, and neither do you, and the other mages don’t either! Leontius and Neria-

I will not leave.

You will! You’re going to!

He will not heal, Justice said. You cannot do all you need. You require assistance. Another set of hands.

I can do it myself!

It would be an injustice for him to-

Shut up! SHUT UP!

Justice will not be silenced-

Anders blasted fire across the Fade. With his physical eyes, he had the vague awareness of Bethany jumping in alarm as she felt the heat against her spirit.

The Love you partnered with before accepting me is gone, Justice said, undeterred by the fire. It will not return, now that you have had me.

I don’t want you!

We were friends, once, Anders. I would-

That was before I started having those thoughts! About the Chantry! About what I might do-

Thoughts are simply thoughts, in the mortal world, Justice reminded him. They mean nothing there unless you act on them. You did not act on them.

I might have!

“Anders?” he heard Bethany ask. It was distant.

But you did not. It is unhelpful to think on it. Discipline yourself.

It’s not that easy!

I did not tell you not to think, Anders. Accept the thoughts. Move past them.

I don’t want to be that kind of person!

Then do not be, Justice told him. Leave your grievances aside for the moment and heal the Commander, with my help. If you still wish me to leave afterwards, if you feel that my presence would be unjust to yourself, or to me, or otherwise damaging- then I will leave. But we were friends, once, Anders, and I would like to be again. I value you. I value the Wardens, and I value the man you have been called to heal.

“Are you all right?”

He is my Commander, too.

He was, wasn’t he? Hadn’t he and Justice fought together, to defend Vigil’s Keep? Hadn’t Justice wielded true sword and shield right alongside the Commander’s? Justice had been a Warden - was a Warden. He was in the registry in Nathaniel’s office. He’d worn the armor.

He was still wearing the armor, Anders saw, as he focused on the Fade, and let the waking world fall away. Justice was a Warden from pauldrons to boots, from the heraldry on the sword on his arm and the wings on the helmet he held.    

“You have your own face” Anders realized.

“Yes,” Justice said. “Zevran was surprised, as well.”

“You’ve been talking to Zevran?”

“We both had business in Antiva. Mine did not-”

It was strange, seeing expressions on a spirit, stranger than a real face.

But not wrong.

“Mine did not end so well,” Justice said, his face shadowed. “I- I have tried. I tried - I succeeded. Or I thought I did. Logically it should not be my fault, but-”

“We’re going to talk about this,” Anders told him. “But later.”

It was just something - Justice had his own face, now. And if he wasn’t going to be possessed, if he was just going to be helping like any spirit would.

If he had his own face, he was his own person, wasn’t he? They weren’t the same people. They couldn’t be.

Anders held out his hand. Justice looked at it, expression matching the ambient feeling of surprise and - pleasure? - that suffused around them.

Justice looked up, smiling, and clasped his hand in return.

“My friend.”

“Anders!”

Bethany shook him back awake, and Anders rose from the chair, familiar blue bright and pulsing around his hands, and pushed the healing magic into the Commander.

Chapter Text

Every Chantry had a crematorium. In rural villages, it was as simple as a back room where bodies were kept until the burning could be done, and designated spot and woodpile out behind the building. In towns, it was an added complex tucked away in one of the back corners, all brick with a room for keeping bodies to be burned, one for the laying-out, and then the pyre room itself, the center of the roof raised a few feet above the rest to provide a path to vent the smoke and heat. In the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, where the bodies of the Divines were burned, it was said that the pyre was a solid block of marble standing over a coal furnace, with hidden flues for airflow and a bed cut in the top so that it seemed like a miracle of the Maker, stone burning to consume the mortal remains of the Most Holy.

The crematorium of the Grand Chantry of Denerim was a stone building with a brick pyre platform. In the usual manner of things the Revered Mother of Denerim would be presiding, for the death of high nobility, but circumstance had left her as the second-highest Chantry official in the city.

Leliana was the one who presided over Theron’s funeral, as Left Hand of the Divine and as a friend of his.

Magic had not been enough to save him. There had been bleeding in his head, and his injured lung had been weak. They weren’t sure if his head had been what had killed him, or if he’d drowned on blood first.

The single mercy was that he hadn’t been conscious for any of it.

Andrastean funerals were generally quick things. Bodies left unburned prevented the cleansing of the soul necessary to meet the Maker, folk theology said. Chantry doctrine held the time limit as a practical concern - intact bodies were easy to possess, and the Veil was weakened around death. So Theron’s body had been taken out of the estate within the hour, for the protection and preparation of the Chantry.

Zevran would have protested. Theron would never appreciate this, being dressed in the long white tunic for the ashes of the body and the cleansing of the soul, and set alight. He deserved a Dalish burial done exactly to standards.

A grave dug by his clan. Washed and dressed in his armor, provided with his sword and shield. Wrapped in the bright green traveling cloak of the dead and placed in the grave with oak staff for the journey and cedar branch to drive off Fear and Deceit, the ravens Dirthamen could no longer control. Buried to the songs and prayers, and the mourning lowing of the halla.

But Warden bodies carried the Taint, and had to be burned to prevent it’s spread. With Leliana presiding, arrangements had been able to be made: his ashes wouldn’t be placed in one of the ceramic urns one of the faithful would have received, but gathered in an oak box and released to the Dalish. They’d sent word with Irothal down south, so that Ashalle could come to collect Theron’s remains, and the belongings they would bury with the ashes in poor imitation of the proper rites.

Zevran would have carried them south himself and presented Theron’s ashes to Sabrae - but there were rules, rules he was bound by as an Andrastean and rules Leliana could not bend for him.

He and Theron had been merely betrothed, never married. He could not receive Theron’s ashes. He hadn’t been allowed to sit vigil in the laying-out room with Theron’s body the night before. He wouldn’t be allowed guaranteed privacy in the side chapel for Andraste after the fire burned itself out, so that he could light the candles and beg the Prophet to defend Theron’s mortal flaws and faults to Her husband as still deserving of a place in His presence, just in case the Dalish were wrong.

To the Chantry, what they’d had was nothing. Their betrothal was nothing. Their love was nothing. He was nothing, next to Theron. What he wanted didn’t matter, what he needed didn’t matter, he didn’t matter. He was alone and he had nothing and he was nothing and no one cared-

A man in Warden armor passed between him and the unlit pyre. Alistair? No, Alistair wouldn’t draw his sword on-

Justice sank his sword into the false Leliana’s chest. Her Chantry robes darkened, shrank; her body curled in on itself. The hooded, hunched form of a despair demon screeched on Justice’s blade and the torch fell onto the prepped wood of the pyre and Zevran reached for Theron’s body, even knowing now that it wasn’t real.

He banished the crematorium, but his own fears fought him and the best he could do was make everything shiver into a late spring day in south Ferelden, on the edge of the Brecilian with Hallarenis’haminathe in the distance. Theron lay on the ground now, in readiness for a burial.

Zevran shut his eyes against the sight and trembled. He heard the clink of moving armor and opened his eyes to Theron’s sightless ones turned on him as he started to roll onto his side, the sound of armor covering those of a stiff, creaking corpse.

Justice’s sword came down through Theron’s throat and pinned the spindly, thrashing fear demon to the unreal dirt. It tore itself to pieces trying to escape, and evaporated.

“This will not come to pass,” Justice said, pulling his sword from the ground. “He will not die. Anders has come and healed his wounds. There is more to be done, but he will wake.”

Anders. Anders had come in time. Theron was safe.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Wake,” Justice told him. “Go.”

Zevran concentrated and forced himself out of the Fade, waking to Alistair reaching for him.

“Nice timing. Anders got here, he’s going to wake Theron up, see how he’s doing.”

His head hurt, and his breath wasn’t coming easily. But it was warm, and he could feel magic against his skin. Keeper Marethari’s aravel, then. He must have-

What had he been doing? He couldn’t remember.

Theron realized that he couldn’t hear the clan moving around outside the aravel. He couldn’t smell the forest, or the halla, and the fire was too close. Wood creaked, but it sounded wrong. He was warm but the blankets weren’t right, thin and a fabric he didn’t know, with no furs.

He struggled to open his eyes and find out where he was, and who was healing him. Maybe he’d gone too far or the forest had shifted, and he’d been found by a different clan.

His vision focused. The person healing him wasn’t Dalish. For a moment, his mind wouldn’t register this, wouldn’t accept it; but then he couldn’t deny it any longer. He wasn’t in the Brecilian, he was in a building, and there was a human mage using magic on him.

Theron punched the human right in the face. He shouted, head snapping back, and Theron pushed past him off the bed. He stumbled when his feet hit the floor, almost overcome with dizziness and nausea, but he had to get out. He had to get back to-

There was a window in the wall he was facing. It looked out over a wall, and beyond that a city, sloping down towards - Creators that was a lot of water was that the ocean? Movement in the corner of his eye stopped him a moment and he glanced over, looking for the new threat but it was just more windows, much bigger, with a faint reflection of himself in them.

They’d taken his clothes what was he wearing these weren’t Dalish-

There were other voices, there were more humans than the one mage, he had to defend himself- there, by the wall, a little table. He lunged and grabbed the knife lying there and turned to face the room.

Three humans, the mage he’d punched and a woman and another man, the mage was holding his broken, bloody face and the woman reached over the bed, hand extended, and she was a mage too and the man didn’t react to any of the magic.

“Hey, hey, calm down.”

He didn’t know this language he didn’t-

“You’re safe now, Theron, it’s okay-”

The humans knew his name who had told them!

“Anders, what’s wrong with him?”

“Sometimes when you hit your head hard enough, you wake up and don’t recognize anything or understand what’s going on. I didn’t think-”

Theron didn’t know what the mage was saying but he spotted an elf behind the human man, and saw the way his expression went terrified.

‘Scared elf’ and ‘human mages’ and ‘city’ and ‘ocean’ and ‘can’t remember’ came together in his head and that meant one thing and one thing only, didn’t it, because everyone knew humans locked their mages up everywhere but Tevinter.

“-just needs some rest and more healing, Zevran, I promise he’ll be fine-”

He’d been captured and they were trying to use magic make him forget being Dalish so he wouldn’t try to escape, so he’d be a good slave. He’d never see the Brecilian again, or his clan. He couldn’t say goodbye to Merrill or Tamlen or Ashalle or anyone. They’d- they’d just have to believe that he’d done this, that he’d made the right choice and done his duty and protected his honor, and theirs.

“Never again will we submit.”

Rinna.

Rinna- Rinna and Theron-

His knife. If he hadn’t left it out on the table- if he hadn’t listened to Taliesin-

If he hadn’t just stood there but said something.

The slash of steel across a throat, the gush of blood, the fall of bodies on the floor, it was all familiar. The sounds echoed back and forth across the years, the sights reflecting, the smell of blood pervading.

He had stood here before, or he would again. He had seen this before, and he would again, because- because he- he-

The sight of Theron slashing his own throat open clear through the windpipe was going to haunt Alistair’s nightmares for weeks, if not forever. So would the look on Zevran’s face when he saw Theron using one of his knives to do it, and the awful, awful sound he’d made as blood gushed out of Theron’s neck.

Irothal was resting in the next room, and Alistair kept his presence of mind long enough to duck in and shake him out of his drowse. Anders had gotten hands on Theron almost immediately, and that would only improve his chances but they needed all the magic they could bring to bear.

The sight of Theron in blood on the floor twice in three days was too much. He pulled Zevran out of the room, deposited him with Tanis because someone had to look after him, and went to the Grand Chantry. It was a short walk to the estate, and just long enough that he worked off the edge of the feeling, the irrational guilt and the sheer terror. He passed Andraste’s birth stone, his stride and height and breadth cutting a path through the perpetual gathering of pilgrims, and shoved through the doors. The Chantry was mostly empty and momentum took him to the front of the sanctuary to the foot of the great statue of Andraste-as-Bride, an Alamarri woman singing atop a mountain. The high windows and recessed mirrors and lanterns bathed everything in light, the Maker’s Glory, and he dropped into the front pew and sat with his head in his hands.

We were in the presence of Your ashes, he thought at the statue. Theron passed Your tests of faith and worth, even though he doesn’t revere you or worship the Maker. Does that mean nothing? Do his gods really weigh that much against him? Zevran was there too, and me. Does it not matter that we love him? He can’t die! He can’t!

“Alistair?”

He raised his head at the question, and the light touch on his bowed shoulders.

“Hey.”

“You look awful,” Leliana said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by, I did hear, but I also heard you weren’t receiving visitors and I- I have had my own troubles. How is he doing?”

What a question.

“I’ve learned a lot about the Dalish from him,” Alistair said. “To get your vallas’lin, your face tattoos, to become an adult, you have to swear this thing. The Oath of the Dales. The last bit is ‘and never again shall we submit’ - there’s a whole bunch of theology and philosophy tied up in that but the simplest thing is that if you get caught by humans and can’t escape, you commit suicide instead. Anders, the Warden healer we called, he woke Theron up. Turns out when someone hits their head that hard sometimes they have trouble with their memory. He woke up and he didn’t recognize any of us and- I watched him slit his own throat not even ten minutes ago, Leliana!”

“No! No, he wouldn’t!”

“He would - he did! It’s a Dalish thing, Leliana, and he’s always taken that so seriously-”

How long had they been in Hallarenis’haminathe this last winter? A month and half? That and more he’d been worried about Theron’s weight of cultural guilt over Kirkwall. He’d let himself be reassured by Theron’s promises that he wouldn’t kill himself for it; and now it had come and fucking blindsided them-

“Is he…?”

“I don’t know!” Alistair said, and realized he was crying. “I left! I got someone else to watch Zevran and I left because- I don’t want to know!”

Leliana sat down next to him on the pew, holding his hands.

“You have been watching Zevran?”

“He’s a wreck. He needs people there, with him. I can’t - I was being that person but I can’t right now.”

“He is taking it so badly?”

What sort of a question was that?

“Of course he’s taking it this badly!” It was Theron and Zevran. “I’m surprised he’s not taking it worse!”

“He always seemed…” Leliana trailed off. “Superficial.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“He was always speaking of his conquests, you know? The people he had killed and the people he had bedded. And making comments about everyone. Even Oghren! I did hear him talking sometimes too, and you know he enjoys killing people? And when Theron was giving gifts he just wanted gold and silver. Killing and sex and money-”

“Flames and ashes, Leliana!”

That wasn’t him at all! That was- what was that!

“If that’s all he is, then what was him and Morrigan cutting through Fort Drakon to rescue us? What was-”

No, wait, he couldn’t tell Leliana about Morrigan and death against an Archdemon.

“-me and him spending a whole winter in Hallarenis’haminathe and trooping all over Ferelden to-”

She hadn’t been there for that, he realized, and clarity hit. Leliana hadn’t been there for any of it. She hadn’t even been in that back alley when Taliesin had come for Zevran.

“You’ve never seen them together,” Alistair said. “Not really. Not together together. That’s not who he is, Leliana, not at all. He’s- the Crows put him through a bunch of shit, okay, and I don’t know most of it but I know that when the Blight ended he was only just starting to break out of some of it. They love each other more than anything I’ve ever seen. Zevran would break himself in ways I don’t understand and can’t even imagine to keep Theron safe, and I’ve seen what Theron will do because he loves him. He tore himself apart all last winter because he was trying to respect Zevran’s autonomy when he went to Antiva, and the only time I’ve ever seen him be as violent as he was against the Crows in Antiva City was those Tevene slavers in the Alienage-”

“You were in Antiva this winter?” Leliana interrupted him.

“More like a couple weeks ago, really. They had Zevran. We - Theron and me, and Oghren and Morrigan - we had to get him back.”

She sat back in the pew and let out a heavy breath.

“What?”

“Suddenly the stories I hear make sense,” she said. “A vicious Dalish slaughtering Crows with the strength of an abomination, and his witch-wife who turns into a wolf - or the Dalish turns into a wolf, or the wolf is a demon, or - oh, there are many variations. But always, the Dalish, the witch, and the wolf.”

“That’d be Theron, Morrigan, and Fen, then,” Alistair said. “Nice to know Oghren and I weren’t exciting enough to be noticed. Morrigan blew up the door of the fortress the Wardens of Antiva live in, did you hear about that?”

“No, only the disarray of the Crows. It has…”

“It’s what?”

“I should not burden you with my own troubles.”

“No, please do,” Alistair said, leaning back in the pew as well, and running his hands down his face, wiping the remnants of tears away. “I could use the distraction.”

“I have been in Kirkwall with the Right Hand, attempting to handle the situation,” Leliana told him. “I was there when we heard the news that the Grand Cleric of Antiva was calling for a break from the Divine, because the Maker had moved in the Circle and cured the Tranquil.”

“Zevran knows something about that, I think,” Alistair said, recalling a mention of the Grand Cleric in that inn in Rialto.

Leliana muttered something that was probably: “Of course he does,” before continuing.

“The Divine sent word for us to investigate that, as well. Cassandra and I, we sent a contingent of Templars and some Seekers to Antiva City. I came here to Denerim afterward, so that I would be a bit closer for contact. The day after court opening I received word that the Knight-Captain in charge of the contingent had decided to retreat to hospitality of the Circle at Dairsmuid in Rivain, because of the news in Bastion of the anarchy of the falling Crows. Two days ago I had word from Dairsmuid, and Rivain. The Templars and Seekers we sent to see the Tranquil, they- they Annulled the Circle at Dairsmuid! They didn’t even send for permission, or advice, or- I could have understood if it had been like Kinloch during the Blight, and there were blood mages and apostates plaguing them! But there weren’t, the Circle at Dairsmuid was just a school, and they were teaching their women mages to be Seers, just like Rivain always has, and- yesterday, a group of Sisters arrived on the docks and came to see me. They are all from Rivain. They’re afraid they’re the only ones who have survived, they said, because Rivain has risen up and are tearing down the Chantries and dousing the sacred fires and throwing the relics and statues into the sea in revenge for the Circle! They are drowning the Sisters and Mothers! The whole country has turned from the Maker and it is my fault!”

“You didn’t tell them to kill anyone,” Alistair told her.

“But they were the Templars and Seekers I sent. I was working with them! In Kirkwall! I should have known the sort of people I was sending!”

“Look- Leliana. I hated being a Templar. I hated it. If the choice had been between becoming King and going back to the Templars, I’d be King of Ferelden right now. I don’t know what I would have done if Duncan had come and taken me into the Wardens, but I’ve met other people who are in jobs they hate. I’d either be taking it out on the mages if I was stationed in a Circle or being nasty to some poor villagers somewhere. The people who enjoy their job? Who like being Templars or Seekers? It’s not a job you can like if you don’t really, really believe. I’d imagine the people who would want to help out the faithful after something like Kirkwall would be those sorts of people. Those are the people who’d see a Circle working differently than they were used to and decide it had to be mind control or demons or something.”

“And I am the Left Hand of the Divine! I should know better!”

“Look,” Alistair said. “If Diarsmuid is your fault, then Kirkwall is mine.”

“That’s not a good metaphor. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s not a metaphor,” Alistair said. “We were in Kirkwall. Theron and I and some others went to get Delilah Howe, because we found out she was one of the refugees there. Her brother Nathaniel’s Theron’s second-in-command, his Constable. We went, there were a lot of other problems we got caught up in, and it was- do you know about what the First Enchanter was up to?”

Leliana nodded.

“Blood magic.”

“Well. We were the ones that found the proof. Or I did, and the group I was leading at the time. One of our Warden mages was recruited from Jainen, but she’d lived in the Circle at Kirkwall for almost all of her life before we got her. She couldn’t believe it, and when she sort of did, she told me I couldn’t tell anyone, because the Knight-Commander would use it as an excuse to kill everyone, and not just take out the First Enchanter. I didn’t listen to her, because the First Enchanter was a blood mage. I gave the evidence to Grand Cleric Elthina before we left. And then we heard about Kirkwall.”

He remembered when Velanna, Fenris, and Ser Tabris had ridden in and brought them the news. He’d hidden his reaction to it, because Theron needed him steady and supporting, but- he still hadn’t said anything. Theron had been with Zevran and Ser Tabris when he’d been the one to lead the group saving Leandra Amell.

Theron didn’t know that he’d been involved in any of this. And Alistair knew his opinions on Circles and Templars and the Rite of Annulment. His only justification had been ‘because blood magic is bad’, and that didn’t hold up so well when less than a week later they’d both sat down at a table and talked through the decision to turn to blood magic themselves.

So he hadn’t talked about this. He’d barely thought about it, because Theron had needed him and then they’d had Zevran back and then Theron had run off and then they’d been coming to Denerim. But it was always easier to think about one hurt when you were trying to avoid another one.

“It’s my fault the city collapsed,” he said. “It’s my fault all those mages are dead, and Templars too. If I’d listened to people who knew the city and the situation at the Circle a lot better than I did, then we wouldn’t be here.”

“You were just doing what you thought was right,” Leliana said quietly.

“So were you,” Alistair said. “The Divine probably thought sending people to investigate was the right thing to do, too. I bet those Templars and Seekers thought they were doing the right thing. I know that us going to save Zevran and tearing through the Crow Talons that he hadn’t already managed to kill was a good thing. They were scum and deserved worse deaths than they got, mostly. But it still got us all here.”

He sighed.

“Sometimes there are bad consequences to good things,” he said. “I’m learning that, now. I don’t like it. The Blight was easier.”

“Your son needs you,” were bittersweet words, a miracle because they meant Satheraan and a curse because they meant he was hurting.

Damien took her to the room she and Tanis were sharing. Satheraan was sitting on the bed, staring vacantly at nothing. Tanis was kneeling in front of him, and had obviously been trying to comfort him. She looked up when they walked in, and stood to come speak quietly with her.

“He keeps insisting the Arl is going to die,” Tanis told her, once she’d explained what had happened. “But he’s not. The healers have him. It was a bad wound but magic can do so much-”

“And sometimes it’s easier to think people are dead, Tanis,” Nehna said.

“This isn’t you and Satheraan. The Arl is just down the hall, and the healers are still in with him. If he hasn’t died yet-”

“He had hope before,” Nehna cut her off. “He was supposed to be fine, or mostly, when we woke up. Now he is isn’t. What if he doesn’t heal from this?”

“He has to!”

“That’s not how this works and you know it. Bad things happen. People are killed. People hurt. Grief is easier than hope.”

“He’s not grieving,” Tanis said.

Nehna looked back at her son.

“Yes he is.”

She made Tanis and Damien leave, and closed the door.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting down next to him on the bed.

“He’s dying.”

“I heard.”

“I was there,” he said. “I saw. It was just like Rinna. I lose everyone.”

“You have me, Satheraan.”

“I lost you, too.”

“Yes,” Nehna agreed. The pain of it shuddered out with her breath. “You did. I’m sorry.”

“It was not your fault.”

She wanted to say again: ‘I should have come’, but this was about his pain, not hers. It was about having no one else, and trying to be a good mother, for once.

“What do you need from me?”

“I do not-”

His hands tightened. Nehna worked one of his fists apart, and held his hand between hers.

“I don’t know what the Dalish say, Mamae,” Satheraan told her. “He is a Warden. They have to burn him. In the Chantry. He would hate it. I should give him what he’d want. But I don’t know the prayers or the songs.”

“I know some, and I can ask Irothal if he knows others. We can go down to where he put the statues up, and say them.”

Her son was silent for a span of moments, and then his expression broke.

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t-”

“Yes you can,” Nehna told him. “You can survive this. You can come to Mont-de-glace with me, and bring your children-”

“The children,” he said abruptly. “I haven’t been speaking to the children. Are they all right? There was a Crow, are they scared?”

Nehna was about to tell him that yes, they were all right, but then realized that she hadn’t seen them in days.

It was a simple problem.

There had been a Crow in the estate.

Why would a Crow be in Ferelden, in Denerim, and attack someone?

Because another someone had hired them to.

Who hired Crows?

Antivans hired Crows.

What Antivan would hire a Crow to attack someone in the estate?

Prince Estefan hated Maestra Revasina. But he  was too good to be killed by just anyone, so either the Crow’s prowess had been overestimated or Maestra Revasina had never been the target. It was the Arl who had gotten hurt, after all, and when you wanted to hurt someone but not hurt them, you went after what they cared about.

So Tiar and Diego were on the roof of an abandoned building on the other side of the palace district from the Arl’s estate, watching the building for someone that matched Messere Daganiri’s extremely simple description - an elf of dark hair, dark eyes, and middling-brown skin, with Crow facial tattoos. Could be almost any Crow, but even with tattoos covered up, the coloring combination would be distinctive this far south.

They’d been watching for as long as they could be awake since Diego had been dismissed from helping the mages. It had been a couple days now, but they could be missing something or the Crow was waiting for the uproar about the Arl to die down. Probably the second one. This wasn’t Antiva.

They had seen a lot of people, mostly the nobility and servants, coming and going. The Queen had put Prince Estefan in the same building as her other guests, and that made for a lot of traffic. This morning had been particularly busy.

“Tiar!” Diego said, and poked her. “It’s Maestra Salvail!”

Tiar hadn’t seen him as much as Diego had, but the face was familiar enough - and Maestra Revasina had been right, covering your tattoos with cosmetics wouldn’t fool another Crow, she could tell what he was just by the way he moved.

He was leaving the grounds. Maestra Revasina wasn’t here, and Savail Arainai could be anywhere by the time they went to go get him, but if only she went or only Diego went and the other trailed him, then they’d still have to search, and Fereldan roofs weren’t meant for following people, anyway.

…It was just Salvail Arainai. He’d stayed alive, sure, but everyone knew he was the most quintessential courtesan type, good at seduction and the bed and trash at the rest.

She could take him.

“Go back to the estate and get him,” Tiar ordered Diego, and he fled down the other side of the roof towards the streets. She got off the building more slowly, and ghosted into the street behind Salvail Arainai. She didn’t have crowd cover but he wasn’t expecting anyone to follow him, was he. So long as she drew her knife far enough behind him that he wouldn’t hear it, and stayed out of his line of sight, she’d be able to sneak up.

He was headed for one of the gates, it looked like, through the old city wall and down to the merchant’s quarter. As they got closer and closer Tiar started looking for an opportune moment. There were guards on the gates and the old walls made this area slightly more contained than the rest of the city. If she let him get down to the main city, he could run anywhere.

There was a sharp corner ahead. He took it, and Tiar started running. The corner would block her approach, and if she was fast enough, she could close the distance between them enough that she could engage him on the cross street.

Three steps away from the corner she had to stop running and take things at a normal pace. She couldn’t attract attention.

Tiar stepped around the corner and bolted sideways as Salvail Arainai slashed at where she’d been.

She’d hadn’t drawn a knife yet. Dodge the second slash, try to draw one, fumble it-

Salvail Arainai kicked at her feet and she tumbled to the ground, rolling in the direction of her momentum and hoping-

Pain lanced through her shoulder and she was open, exposed, on her back. She brought the arm up over her face  to protect from the surely-coming knife. It bit into her leather bracer and skittered off, blocked from sinking into her eyes and further, a killing blow, and cut her open down the face instead. Her legs had come up, she kicked out - one foot connected solidly with Salvail Arainai and his other knife slashed across her stomach, cutting through the leather there to leave a shallow, painful wound.

Tiar forced herself off the ground and into a run as he completed his fall. Crows weren’t supposed to leave loose ends. If she could get back to the estate, to Maestra Revasina, he wouldn’t follow her for fear of him surely, she’d be safe, he’d protect-

Pain again, shooting through her back and side and making her stumble. She reached back to feel the wound- a throwing knife, sunk through leather and into the thick muscle there. She couldn’t run as fast any longer. He was going to catch up. She had to keep going anyway. She kept going.

Another hit, to her spine. Not a blade but a hand, and finger strike against nerves that sent her crashing to the ground, unable to control her legs. She caught herself before she landed face-first and tried to stay on hands and knees, and crawl away from him-

Maestra Revasina dropped out of the sky in a move she’d seen before, in an alley in Rialto on the day they’d met. On that day he’d sunk his knives into the body of a Crow who’d put hands on Diego and crushed her beneath him; today it was Salvail Arainai. The Crow in Rialto had died from it. Surely Salvail Arainai had too, and-

“Didn’t you want to question him?”

“I have no interest in what he may have had to say,” Maestra Revasina told her, and checked her wounds with gentle hands. He didn’t touch her often. It was good. Touching meant hurting, but he’d never hurt her unless she was trying to hurt him first and he always stopped touching if she snapped or pushed or even just looked unhappy. It was good. She liked him touching her. “Theron is hurt, you are hurt, and he was responsible.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He was a courtesan and he wasn’t you, I thought I could-”

He stroked her hair.

“You are not very badly hurt, hm?” he said. “I was scared, yes, but I am not angry at you, my dear.”

She leaned into his hand. It was nice.

“He hurt you. I wanted you to get him. He was going to leave-”

“Shhh, isagadi,” he said, and picked her up, careful to support her back so the throwing knife wouldn’t tear her muscles more. “You did well, looking and sending for help. Thank you.”

This was good.

Her afternoon was not exactly free - royalty’s time was never exactly free - but she was Queen and if she wished to cancel previous engagements, she could. If anyone complained, they were unlikely to continue when they learned where she was going.

An interesting place, the Denerim estate of Amaranthine. Elven doormen, for one, who were very flustered by the sight of her and Erlina and clearly didn’t know how to reconcile the estate’s current ‘no guests’ policy with her royal status. It was resolved when an officious man in the sash of a noble’s personal servant and very nice clothes, for a servant, came and led them into the house.

“Did you have an incident, Serrah?” Anora asked him, eyeing the healing cut across his face.

“I hit the Crow with a book, Your Royal Highness.”

“A book?”

“Astrella Reinadine’s Journeys of Denanti, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “It was all I had on me at the time, and he was intruding.”

His accent was Orlesian. No mere manservant would face up to a Crow unless extremely loyal, and Anora knew that the Warden-Commander hadn’t had one until recently. A Bard?

“And your name?” she asked; because if he was a Bard, Erlina would be able to find out.

“Damien Daganiri, Your Royal Highness.”

An Orlesian given name but an Antivan surname. Odd, but not entirely uncommon, though mostly in merchants and nobility, not servants.

She couldn’t avoid the thought - was he another Crow? - especially when the manservant led them upstairs and into a room where Zevran was bandaging up a girl with the same facial tattoos as his own, watched by a younger boy on a stool, who startled badly when he saw them and shied away.

Zevran said something to him in Antivan, gentle and reassuring, and the boy only stuck to his side instead of retreating to the corner.

“Apprentices, Zevran?”

“Not mine, if that is the question, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “Apprentices once, yes, rescued from the Crows.”

“Your business in Antiva?” she asked.

“Not in its original conception,” he said. “But it has proven to be the most rewarding part.”

Someday she would get him to tell her what his business had been. For now she settled for introductions to the children.

“You have left me a dead body, Zevran,” Anora told him. That was her real business here. “Outside of Arl Bryland’s estate. I hear that Habren fainted.”

“Do you wish me to clean it up and make my apologies, Your Royal Highness?”

“Habren Bryland is in need of a shock,” Anora said, waving him off. “The guards have taken care of the body. I was hoping to learn if you had more information about the origins of this issue.”

“He was Savail Arainai,” he told her. “I knew him in the Crows. Tiar, Diego - would you tell Her Royal Highness where you found him?”

The news that he had been spotted coming out of her estate, and that Zevran’s children had been particularly watching there because they suspected Prince Estefan, was sadly unsurprising. The prince had been her first thought upon hearing the news, as well. The motive was too obvious - which was almost a reason to disbelieve it all, because what sort of prince was that incompetent?

Though things were different in Antiva, when it came to assassins; and Anora was well aware that the reputation of Fereldans abroad was unflattering. Barbarians, they said. Lacking in intelligence and cleverness. Quick to anger and violence. No manners, no sense of society or refinement. He could have thought it would be tolerated, or that he would get away with it.

“So no real proof,” she concluded.

“Unfortunately not, Your Royal Highness. Simply suspicion. Well-founded, I believe. But suspicion.”

“This will require delicate politics. I do not like the idea that anyone could believe that they can have our nobility killed.”

It set a terrible precedent and it reflected badly upon the whole country, not to mention the fact that it was a simple matter of disrespect and national feeling. She’d seen Fergus and Prince Baldewin one after the other yesterday. The difference between the Teyrn’s concern about the Warden-Commander and the Ander’s callous remark about what becoming involved in politics brought down upon those who were not supposed to mettle had been stark, and very unflattering for the prince.

She might not like the Warden-Commander very much, and prefer to think of him in the terms of his usefulness, but that did not mean that she would allow others to disrespect him so blatantly without retribution. At least not unless they had a warranted reason.

Prince Baldewin would be returning to the Anderfels when she chose her husband.

“But stay out of it,” Anora told Zevran. “If it was the prince, your presence will not help.”

“As you say, Your Royal Highness.”

“How is your fiancé?”

She had never seen him worried, before. Or hurting. He had always courteous, in the true sense of the word, when she saw him in court or in private. Charming, mannerly, a bit flirtatious and always complimentary without being flattering.

“I would see him,” she said. She had a responsibility to her nobility, no matter how she might dislike them.

“I will- I will see what Anders says.”

When she saw him, it was…

She remembered him, the day of the Battle of Denerim. She remembered hoping that the darkspawn horde would be the end of him, or the Archdemon Urthemiel if the darkspawn weren’t enough to finish him off. Her father’s death - execution, murder - had been a fresh wound, then.

She remembered the great light off the top of Fort Drakon, herself looking up in the midst of her army as the darkspawn screamed and fled. That had been the end of him, surely, she’d thought.

But he’d walked down off that tower, out of the fort, as though it had been nothing. A Blight, an Archdemon - nothing more than a simple roadside skirmish. He’d emerged bloody and singed, but largely unhurt. A Hero, unequivocally, as much as Calenhad or Dane or any of the Alamarri of legend and pagan myth.

Heroes were not laid low by an assassin who couldn’t even finish the job. Looking at him now, he was… just a man. Not the Arl of Amaranthine, not the Warden-Commander, not a one of his titles; not lying there in the bed with bandages thick around his neck, a broad red-brown line marking where the wound that had surely almost killed him had been cut into his flesh.

This is the man who killed Howe to free you, a voice she didn’t like to listen to when it came to Theron Mahariel Sabrae said. This is the man who fought Cauthrien and her men despite being so outnumbered. He was saving refugees and travelers and clearing roads and dispensing charity when you were still trying to convince yourself that your father was doing the right thing. He disagreed with Eamon every step of the way about replacing you with Alistair. He returned Maric’s sword to be kept with his relics, and brought you Cailan’s armor and ashes. He gave him a pyre with a Sister’s prayers when he could have left Ostagar to the darkspawn and never gone back, and all that would be lost.

He killed my father! she reminded herself angrily.

And how many of the other nobles were happy to see him go? the voice asked, cold and uncaring. For no better reason than because they’d always thought of him as a Freeman who should have been content with a knightship or lordship for what he did for Maric and Rowan, and not given the Teyrnir. At least this man wanted him dead for his misdeeds and not for his heroism.

But her father was still dead, his name still smeared.

And whose fault is his reputation but his? the voice asked. He took Rendon Howe as his right hand, the one man everyone could agree they hated. And he nearly robbed you of your throne, far more effectively than Eamon ever has.

Her father was dead. He could have been alive right now. He could have been a Warden right now. The older one, the one who had died, he’d offered that.

But would he have wanted that? Would he have accepted? From farmer’s son to war hero to Teyrn to national disgrace to Warden? To be subordinate to the Wardens he’d had branded traitors and forced to see his beloved country continue on without him? Or to be sent away from Ferelden to the Anderfels, or the Free Marches, or Orlais?

Her father was dead.

So was Connor Guerrin. So was Rendon Howe. Amaranthine had burned. She had a report from her ambassador in Antiva City full of histrionic language about the Crows he’d killed in Antiva. When the Warden-Commander of Ferelden decided that someone was going to die, they died.

He left Cailan to die. You wouldn’t be scraping around the corners of Thedas for younger sons of malleable breeding if he hadn’t.

And the army might have been destroyed. Ferelden might have fallen to the Blight.

Or Cailan might have been alive, and more of the Wardens, and help could have been called. If not from Orlais, then from the Free Marches, or Nevarra. There were options.

As Queen of Ferelden, she’d been obligated to honor the Warden who’d become Hero, even though she’d hated him as Anora Mac Tir.

As Anora Mac Tir, he would always be the man who’d killed her father. But as Queen of Ferelden, he was a valuable political and economic ally, and one of her nobles, and she had the obligation to defend him even as he’d defended her.

“Is there anything you need?” she asked, still looking down at the unconscious man in the bed.

“Anders is a very good healer,” Zevran said. “He could not have better. Nothing else will help him, except perhaps prayers-”

She put a hand on his shoulder.

“Zevran, I was not asking about your fiancé.”

He stared at her a moment, reorienting.

“Oh,” he said. “I- I am not - thank you, Your Royal Highness, but no, I do not think there is anything you could provide me that would help. Unless you are hiding away the rest of the Urn of Sacred Ashes somewhere, so that he might make an immediate and full recovery?”

“Is he that bad?”

“I love him dearly,” Zevran told her. “For me, it makes no difference.”

“I will ask the Grand Cleric to include him in the service prayers,” Anora said. “And you both have mine.”

“You are very kind, Your Royal Highness.”

“I understand if you - both of you, and I suppose Captain Mac Maric as well- feel yourselves unable to attend the court ball in three days’ time.”

“That is generous of you, Your Royal Highness. The Landsmeet to vote on the candidates for the titles is in five days’ time, and I hope that someone will be in attendance at the ball so that Theron may make an informed decision.”

“He will be well again by that time?”

“That is the hope,” he said. “If not well enough to fight or attend the ball, then to travel slowly to the palace and sit in place for the span of a day’s meeting for the voting. It is five days from now and we have a Spirit Healer. If Anders cannot heal him in that time, then we have far more pressing concerns than his vote.”

An unfortunate truth that, Maker willing, would not come to pass.

“Send word if he gets worse,” Anora told him. “Or better. I could use good news from an out-of-breath runner, for once.”

Zevran managed to give her a brief smile, and promised that he would.

“Erlina,” she said, once the doors of the estate had closed behind them. “I want a plan to get Prince Estefan out of the country before the ball. By tomorrow before dinner, if you can. I will even accept simply telling him to leave, if that is the most expedient.”

It would be problematic. Antiva was not a country to offend if one could help it. But she had her people, and her friends, and her allies; and no foreign prince was going to take them from her.

Chapter Text

It was dark and his throat hurt.

He couldn’t breathe right.

There was a Dalish he didn’t know trying to make him drink. Water? Tisane? It was warm.

“What clan-”

Creators his neck hurt. The muscles pulled and burned and his voice was hoarse and scratchy even though his throat felt wet and clogged.

“I am of Clan Nu’nin, Hahren.”

That wasn’t near Sabrae. He was trying to remember where they were, exactly, but never quite got that far.

There was a Crafter sitting on a chair next to him, whittling.

“Don’t try to talk,” she told him, shaving off a curl of wood. It was… a sparrow? For Sylaise. The body was mostly there, and the wings outstretched for balance.

He turned his head more and it hurt. There were finished figures on the table. A dragon, an owl. Mythal, Falon’din. A raven, a hare. Dirthamen, Andruil. A prayer for healing, a prayer for protection, a prayer for answers found.

“You still need to heal. Go back to sleep.”

There was a room and wood and Alistair was here.

“Redcliffe?”

“Nope,” he said. “Denerim.”

But they’d never been to Denerim.

“…but we haven’t made it to Denerim yet?”

“That was a long time ago, Theron.”

No it wasn’t. They’d just been - there was a lake? A human, lots of humans, in armor. Dead people. The tower-

“Alistair,” he said, trying to organize his thoughts. It was hard. “There are demons.”

“Uh- somewhere, yeah. Not here though.”

“You’re dreaming. This is the Fade-”

“Woah, hey, no! Don’t try to get up, you’ve hurt your-”

“Justice?”

This was his office. The registry of his Wardens was open on his desk, and he was in the midst of entering a new name.

“Yes,” the Warden in front of him said. He had his helmet off, tucked beneath one arm and his hip, shield across his back and sword at his side. “Justice Kristoffsen.”

Very Andrastean they were, up in the Anderfels. He’d heard they named their children after virtues there.

“It’s good to have you, Warden Kristoffsen. How much experience do you have?”

“I fought for you in Amaranthine, Commander. I have been with Anders since he fled. I have guarded your husband’s dreams, and helped Anders in healing you. You must wake. They are scared for you.”

It was dark and the stairs were harder to handle than they should have been. He slipped halfway down and banged his spine and tailbone painfully as he slid a few steps, until he caught himself on the handrail.

He was dizzy, and tired. Opening doors and walking down the hallways had been more work than it should have been. He’d just rest here a moment…

Fen was in his bed. He rolled over to hug him, warm and soft, and fell back asleep.

The Arl of Amaranthine’s - Theron’s estate hadn’t been taking guests for most of the week, but the day before yesterday the Queen had gone by, and the Crow had been killed. Lady Amell the elder had been out and about since as well, so perhaps things had changed?

On the principle that it couldn’t hurt to go see, Fergus took a morning walk to Theron’s. The doormen - elves, there were so many elves employed here, and he was still getting used to that - seemed uncertain about whether or not he was allowed to enter, but when he made it clear that he was there to see Bethany Amell and not any of the ‘official’ household, they let him in. He was shown to one of the withdrawing rooms, and Bethany came down to see him.

It was unfair how beautiful she could be in a plain dress, a simple dark dusty blue with no decoration but the belt around her waist and the sleeves tied up with broad ribbons, her hair pulled up behind an old red kerchief.

“I’m sorry, I’m not very put together,” she said. “I’ve been helping, with the Arl, and I was making brews, chamomile and embrium and those sorts of things-”

“You are as lovely as ever, Lady Bethany. Do the flowers wilt when they realize they can never compare, or do they exult at being torn and rendered by such a bewitching beauty?”

“Teyrn Fergus that was terrible.”

“Yes it was,” he said. “But you’re smiling, and I think you need that.”

Her smile softened.

“I did,” she said. “Thank you. And for coming. I’ve… been wanting to see you, but it’s not a very good time.”

“I thought it wouldn’t be,” Fergus said. “How is he doing?”

“He got much worse two days ago, before the Queen arrived,” Bethany told him. “But yesterday he was in and out, awake sometimes and sometimes not. The Wardens found him asleep on the stairs early this morning. Captain Mac Maric found him, it woke up the whole house. We think he woke up in the night and decided to go get food. He’s back asleep now, but Anders - Warden Anders, their healer, he thinks the Arl will be recovered enough to stay properly conscious by this afternoon.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Will he be at the court ball tomorrow?”

She shook her head.

“I heard the Queen gave permission for them not to attend.”

Well, ‘them’ wasn’t ‘us’, which was a relief. For a moment he’d thought he’d been about to get his legs cut out from under him before he could begin.

“I realize this isn’t an opportune time,” Fergus said. “And that it’s possibly short notice - too short notice, but - Lady Bethany, would you be my companion tomorrow and attend the ball with me?”

She stared at him a moment, lips just parted in surprise.

“With you?” she asked. “As - ‘walking in’ with you?”

“Ah, yes. I- well, as you know I’m an eligible bachelor and everyone is going to be there, except the Arl and Messere Revasina I suppose, and I don’t want anyone getting any ideas, and-”

He was rambling, babbling. He hadn’t done this in a very long time, he should stop.

“…You want them to think that you like- that you want me?” she asked.

Fergus almost said ‘yes, of course, I want you’, before he realized what he was thinking and refused to let himself. He did, oh Maker he did want her. He wanted- she was kind and bright and beautiful and he liked her company and could see how much she wanted this life, a noble life.

And she could be his noble wife.

He was in no way prepared but Fergus had the impulse to ask, right here, right now. He was going to, he realized that, he was absolutely going to ask her to marry him. He had few other options, none of which he particularly cared to consider, and he didn’t love her exactly, not like Oriana, but he could. He’d gotten to know his first wife over a full two seasons of her family at port and he didn’t have that kind of time now, but he could love Bethany. And if he didn’t, and if she didn’t- they could be friends. They already were friends. It would be a good arrangement.

He just had to wait - wait until after the ball tomorrow, and the Landsmeet two days after and the handing-out of bannorns the day after that. Bethany’s mother was angling for a bannorn. It was one thing marrying foreign nobility, but if the Amells received a bannorn, then he’d be marrying within the country. It required different things, contracts and agreements and such.

He just had to wait.

He hated the thought of waiting.

“You are the best company I could imagine having,” he told her. “Will you accompany me?”

“I most certainly will, Teyrn Fergus.”

“Good. Good! Then I’ll- I’ll come pick you up. Tomorrow.”

Anders came to get him when it was time.

“I think he’ll be okay,” Anders said. “I think- I hope. He was fine with Irothal and Nehna yesterday, and he recognized Alistair and remembered Trade and the Blight. And he got up last night and almost made it downstairs. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

Zevran stripped the room of everything sharp anyway. His original goal had been to strip the room of everything dangerous, or able to be used as a weapon, or able to kill someone - but that was just about everything, when you put your mind to it.

“Do you think it would help if we tied him to the bedframe or something?” Anders asked, watching him removing things from the room. “Last time, if he’d-”

“Don’t you dare,” Zevran said, sharper and angrier than he’d thought he would. Anders leaned away from him, unconsciously, and he took a breath and explained in a calmer voice. “Even if he woke up himself, he would wake up panicked. If he does not remember-”

He had to remember. He couldn’t let himself imagine anything else. If Theron didn’t remember him- he would, he was borrowing trouble.

“-it will make everything much worse.”

Everything sharp was gone, except for the secret things he kept on his own person. He locked the windows and outside doors, too. A fall from this height wouldn’t kill, not unless engineered properly, but it could break in ways that couldn’t be fixed.

“Very well,” he said.

Anders shooed Fen off the bed. The mabari needed prodding to move, and whined softly once he finally jumped off the bed, leaning into Zevran’s legs for a moment before morosely taking up his usual station under the bed.

A little glow of healing magic around Anders’s fingers, lightly touching Theron’s head, and a soft: “Commander?” had Theron opening his eyes. They were blank, fogged from waking, and Zevran reminded himself to breathe and couldn’t.

Theron blinked a few times, sleepily, and then woke all at once.

“Satheraan-” he said, voice scratchy, and reached for Zevran; and he was on the bed on his knees and Theron’s hands were touching and tracing all over his face and Zevran leaned into them, caught them, held them close. “The Crow, are you all right?”

“I am fine, I am fine, he never touched me-”

“And Damien?”

“A cut, nothing serious, it is healing.”

“Do you remember what happened, Commander?” Anders asked.

“I broadsided him,” Theron said, and Zevran watched his face, resisting touching him further, for now, because he knew very well where seeking reassurance of alive could lead. It had happened often enough before, with Theron and while he’d been in the Crows. “We slipped off the stairs, and-”

He frowned, and shifted uncomfortably.

“It is all right, it is healed,” Zevran told him.

“I’m a Hahren,” Theron muttered. “I’m supposed to remember-”

“You hit your head hard enough, you’ll forget anything,” Anders said. “Do you remember anything between that and waking up here?”

“…No? Did I wake-”

“I’m going to go take a nap,” Anders said, standing. “Only get if there’s a surprise attack of darkspawn or the Orlesians attack or something.”

“Satheraan?” Theron asked, and Zevran curled up around him, on top of him, his face pressed into Theron’s neck where a half-healed, livid red slash marked where blood and- listen to him breathing, listen to his heart beating. Strong, steady, alive.

Theron held him, one arm curled around his waist and the other bent against his back, solid and comforting, hand stroking his hair.

“I woke up before, didn’t I?”

“The Crow was five days ago,” Zevran said, and swallowed, trying to wet his throat. “Anders arrived two days ago, and healed you, and tried to wake you up. You were stabbed in the lung, and you smashed your head on the stairs, and when you woke up, you didn’t remember-”

Theron squeezed, gently.

“I’m sorry.”

“I do not know what you were thinking but you didn’t recognize any of us and you picked up a knife and I thought you meant to fight us but you said the last line of the Oath of the Dales and you slit your own throat, Theron, I watched you-”

“I’m so sorry.”

“If Anders had not- if we had only had Bethany and Irothal, or- you know very well how to- to- it cut right through- you were breathing blood, and it is a good place to kill someone, and-”

Theron pulled him up and kissed him, soft and reassuring. Zevran turned it hard, bearing down in desperation, and Theron had to eventually tug him up and away.

“It reminded you of Rinna,” he said quietly, and Zevran didn’t even need to agree. It wasn’t a question. Theron already knew it had.

“You almost bled to death,” he said instead. “And then you almost drowned on your own blood. And then no one was certain whether you would be able to speak again, or move or support your head, or swallow or breathe at all, or without pain.”

“My throat does still hurt,” Theron admitted, and Zevran pressed close and kissed him, all along the healing wound. Theron squirmed.

“That tickles,” he complained, and then started coughing, violently.

“Theron!”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “No, I’m fi-aiih!”

Theron clutched the side of his neck, where the knife had cut through the muscles and into the artery. His breath started coming in little gasps, edged with pain, and his eyes watered.

“Theron-!”

He sought out Zevran’s hand with the one not at his neck and clutched it, clamping down hard.

“Theron-”

He tried to speak, whined in pain, and cut off abruptly, holding very still in a way Zevran knew- that was the stillness of not moving because it hurt too much if you did. He breathed shallowly and his eyes unfocused.   

“Theron- amora,” Zevran said, biting down on his terror. “Let me see.”

Theron moved his hand, and Zevran gently touched the healing wound. There was tension tight as a bowstring up and down the muscles, threaded across the thin and fragile reconnections Anders had made.

“Try to swallow for me,” he said. Theron was still breathing and it still sounded right, so hopefully, please, the problem was these seizing muscles and not the wound reopening internally.

Theron did, and his next breath was airy and full of pain. Zevran stroked with gentle pressure down the straining muscles and coaxed him into swallowing again, and again, and one more time, amora, just one more, gently nudging the tension away…

“That hurt,” Theron gasped after a minute or two, after the muscles had finally released. “That hurt a lot-”

Zevran’s fingers came away bloody, and Theron starting wheezing. It was a wet sound.

“Healer!” Zevran yelled, and put a hand on Theron’s chest when he started struggling upright, helping him flip over. Blood dripped onto the sheets, and then spattered when Theron coughed, a great convulsive thing that he could hear the tear in.

“Healer!”

Magic-haloed hands slid into place on Theron’s throat even as he yelled the second time.

“What happened?” Irothal asked.

“We were talking, his neck seized up, all-” Zevran placed his hand on the left side of his own neck, fingertips up behind the ear and the heel of his palm under his jaw. “I- I had him swallow, I put a little pressure on it and it went away but then he started talking again and this-”

“Go get Anders,” Irothal told him.

“I heard tearing when he coughed, what- did- did I- is this my-”

“Go get Anders, Satheraan Revasina!” Irothal ordered, and Zevran fled, mind spiraling with the horrifying thought that this was his fault, he should have called when the muscles around Theron’s wound had seized up, but he’d just- he’d acted like a Crow, you dealt with injuries by yourself-

Anders cursed and snarled under his breath as he poured more magic into Theron’s reopening throat. Zevran stood frozen, watching the healer’s hands go red under the glow. He’d done this, he’d done this-

“Shit!” Anders half-screamed, when Theron’s breath hitched like he was retching. There was no vomit, just a sudden gush of blood through the healer’s fingers.

Alistair grabbed him from behind and pulled him out of the room. Zevran only noticed- only started struggling against it- when he managed to get him across the threshold.

“You’re panicking,” Alistair told him, letting him go, but staying between him and the door to his and Theron’s room. “You need to calm down. Hey.”

Theron was dying it was his fault.

“Is that his?”

Alistair took his hand and Zevran snatched it away, the thought of sticking his bloody fingers in his mouth and sucking the Taint off flashing through his mind.

He’d hurt Theron. He’d made things worse.

“We need to clean that,” Alistair said, and grabbed for his hand again. Zevran curled his fingers in and pressed them possessively against his chest. “Zevran.”

He shouldn’t do that. There were better ways to die- no, that was bad, dead was bad, Theron-

was dying

“Hit me,” he told Alistair.

“Excuse me?”

“Hit me,” he begged. “I- it’s-”

He needed to stop. He needed to stop thinking, if he’d just- this was his fault why wasn’t Alistair yelling, striking out, threatening- Theron had been fine before he’d put hands on him, Alistair shouldn’t be trying to protect him-

“I’m not hitting you!”

He shouldn’t stick his fingers in his mouth. Alistair wouldn’t hit him.

So Zevran ran.  

Nehna only stayed long enough to have news before she took Eirlin and went after her son. She found him on the sheer drop where they’d stopped earlier in their stay, up in the hills overlooking the city, where he’d told her about Rinnala Estefanez.

He was perched right on the edge, huddled up - feet braced against the wall of the drop and hunched over, hugging his knees.

“Satheraan,” she said, standing back so she wouldn’t startle him into losing his balance with an unexpected touch. “Come away. You’ll fall.”

He titled his head so his face was hidden in his arms and his whole body leaned forwards-

“Satheraan-!”

He raised his head, unfolded his arms. His fingers clutched the edge of the cliff.

“You’re going to kill yourself!” she snapped, heart racing.

“It keeps the panic away,” he said, still leaning. “Have you never wanted to die, Mamae, with everything you have lived through?”

“No!”

“Not even when you were in pain?” her son asked. “When you tried to numb yourself with brandy?”

He remembered that.

“I didn’t want it to be happening,” Nehna told him. “That’s not the same.”

“No, it is not,” Satheraan agreed. “After Rinnala- the general of Ferelden’s army took out a contract out on the surviving Wardens. I volunteered - no one else wanted the job. Fighting Wardens was suicide, we all knew. But I wanted to die, so-”

He shrugged like it was nothing.

“I say that I am better now. But I have to wonder.”

“Satheraan, get away from that edge.”

“I am not going to push myself off, Mamae,” he said. It was too calm a statement. “This is a thing Prince Estefan has not realized - I live with Rinna and Tali’s deaths every day. It would hurt less to die, and maybe see them again. But I live.”

“You have the Ar- Theron. You have Theron, Satheraan, come away.”

“I will lose him someday, too. Sooner or later. If it is my fault than the worse punishment would be to live with it. So I will. I am.”

“He’s not dead and he’s not dying,” Nehna told him. “The mages are exhausted - they’ve been exhausted since their first day - but they got the bleeding stopped again and bandaged him up. He’s not allowed to move much or speak and he’s to eat nothing but broth until he can swallow a mouthful of vodka without it hurting. The Warden said alcohol is the best way to keep infections out of throat wounds, so they’ve put him to drinking some every hour.”

“At least he cannot become drunk that way.”

“The mages say that he won’t die of this,” she continued. “But it’s going to scar badly, and they don’t know what his voice will be like. That’s what started this- there are very thin muscles in the hard part of your throat, Irothal said, that let you speak. He cut those the first time, and they weakened when the muscles everywhere else tensed and then tore again when he started coughing and took everything else with it. He might not speak again, if they really can’t do anything.”

“He would hate that,” Satheraan said quietly. “He is a Hahren. He needs his voice.”

“Irothal knows,” Nehna told him. “They’re doing everything they can. Come away from the edge, da’len.”

He leaned back, and looked at her.

It was a start.

It had been an exhausting week, and it just kept getting worse, but he still had more to do.

Leontius and Neria first.

“Nate sent off for your records,” he told them, in Leontius’s room, and looked at the man. “Have you told anyone yet?”

Leontius shook his head, mute with terror.

“Andraste’s ashes Leontius if I have to  make you tell someone, I will! It will come off better if you tell them before Kinloch comes back and asks: ‘who?’”

“But- it’s-”

“If you don’t then Nate’s going to write here all officious and concerned and then, when the Commander is better, he’s going to come asking questions and then it will be an issue!” Anders snapped. “If you go tell someone before that, Alistair, or - oh for Hessarian’s sake go tell Zevran! He’s Antivan, I bet he’s heard of it!”

“It’s the ‘Tevinter perversion’,” Leontius said. “The Commander, I’ve heard, he’s Dalish he hates Tevinter-”

“If you tell someone while I’m here I can get you out if it goes bad,” Anders cut him off. It wasn’t a kind thing to do, but he’d learned in Kirkwall that sometimes you had to be nasty to get people to do things.

“Tomorrow, Leontius,” he ordered. “Or the day after. No later. If you want me to come with you, I will. But you can’t put this off any longer.”

He left Leontius to be comforted by Neria, and went to see the other mage problem.

“Look, I’m just saying-”

“I know, Anders,” Bethany said, as she spread her dresses out across her room to pick one for accompanying the Teyrn of Highever to the ball. “Let me have my fun.”

“It won’t be fun when he finds out and his first though it Flemeth and Conochbar. It’s the same set-up, Bethany! A pretty woman mage, a powerful lord of Highever-”

Bethany threw down the dress she’d been considering and glared.

“I know!” she said. “I know, Anders! I’ve been hiding all my life!”

“Not in Kirkwall you didn-”

“And those records are gone,” she told him. “I watched them burn myself.”

“And if there are copies in Val Royeaux?”

“They’d have to think to look, wouldn’t they?” Bethany countered. “And no one will have a reason to if I’m not married to him.”

“You’re courting him,” Anders reminded her.

“And that’s hardly an engagement.”

“And how’s he going to feel when you blow him off after leading him on?” he challenged. “He’s the Teyrn of Highever. He’s got resources, he’s got power.”

“He’s not-” Bethany started to say, and then faltered.

“People in power don’t like being told ‘no’,” Anders said. “Remember Kirkwall? If you need a way to get out, Bethany, I can get you away and hidden somewhere. Come to me if it gets bad, okay? I don’t want you hurt. And Marian would eviscerate me if I didn’t help you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’d be more reassured if you sounded like you believed it,” Anders told her, and went to settle in for his last conversation. Falling asleep on purpose was always harder than when you were exhausted, but quiet and a bed could get him dozing. From there, he just had to… let go.

Justice was there when he finally crossed into the Fade. Of course he was.

“Your verdict?”

“Pushy, pushy,” Anders grumbled. “I don’t like that about you, you know.”

“I am aware. It was a mistake. I did not understand- I do not understand, entirely-”

“I don’t care,” Anders cut him off. “And bullshit you don’t understand! You were a corpse for, what, a year? You know how the mortal world works! You knew what you were doing!”

Justice was silent.

“I don’t like who you were when you were with me,” Anders said. “I don’t like me when you were with me. Having you help me heal isn’t the same-”

But it was. Justice had helped him heal plenty of people in Darktown, in Lowtown, more than he’d helped him fight. Healing with him had been so easy. They knew the flow of each other’s magic, inside and out, and he’d forgotten what it had felt like, that perfection. He wanted-

“I don’t trust myself around you,” he said firmly. “And I don’t trust you around me. I need a spirit to be a Spirit Healer, but I won’t have you.”

“I tried,” Justice said. “It is wrong, what is done-”

“I know,” Anders snapped. “I’m the one who lived it!”

“We separated and I tried,” Justice persisted. “I remember Karl.”

He still remembered-

“Don’t- don’t talk about him-”

A handful of moments. An overflow of magic, or some- something, and it hadn’t lasted-

“The others do not know where to look. How to look. That they are needed. I remember seeing Karl. I remember his shape in the Fade. I know what dreaming mages look like, and that dreaming mages together is a Circle.”

So what? He’d been spying on the Circles? So?

“There are no Tranquil in Antiva,” Justice said. “I touched them; I breached the divide and I healed them.”

That was- he’d gotten a note about a wild rumor, just one line in a larger piece, updates about the situation in the Free Marches and rumors that could have some real basis, about fomenting disquiet in the Circles-

“It’s true? That’s- it’s really true? You can cure-?”

Justice nodded.

This was the Fade, and he had to control himself. But if this hadn’t been, he would have given over, sunk to his knees and wept because the Tranquil, if Tranquil could be touched, healed, the Chantry couldn’t use it as a threat any longer. They could only kill you.

“I did,” Justice said. “But I did, and Templars killed everyone in the Circle at Dairsmuid. The demons flocked, and those who spoke to the seers cried out in anguish. Some twisted in grief, and pushed through the Veil to claw at the murderers of their friends as demons. Those mages did nothing, and they are dead.”

“They always want us dead,” Anders said fiercely. “They would have come up with some reason - that’s not on you, you’ve done more to help us than they ever did!”

“I wish to heal more,” Justice said. “But I am… afraid. Of what the Templars will do to them. I can restore their souls, but they will not be safe.”

“They’re not safe the way they are now.”

“So I should heal them only for them to die?”

“If you won’t help them like that then tell other spirits how to do it! What to look for! Talk to the other mages - tell them that they don’t deserve what’s happening, remind them this isn’t what they should be like! Tell the children someone cares about them, tell the Enchanters they’re worth more, they deserve better, they should fight - Maker’s breath go haunt the Grand Enchanter! The Divine! The Knight-General! The Lord Seeker! But don’t just walk away!”

“I stood with the people of Blackmarsh since before any mortal who still lives was born,” Justice said. “This is my cause. I will not abandon it.”

“Good,” Anders said. “Good. Now get out there and do something, and stay away from me!”

“You need a spirit.”

Was he listening?

“And I said that I won’t have you!”

“I have a friend,” Justice said. “I think you may be well suited.”

His gaze moved past him, behind him, and Anders turned.

The Commander was walking towards them. He looked well, strong, better - no, if this was a friend of Justice’s who could help, it had to be a spirit.

“Let me guess,” Anders said. “Protection? Honor? Duty? No - Making Nate’s Life Difficult And Full Of Anxiety.”

“Freedom, actually,” Freedom said, in a dead-perfect imitation of the Commander’s straight-faced sense of humor.

This was the Commander how he’d first met him, Anders realized, in that cramped hallway in the Vigil as the darkspawn attacked. This was the Commander who hadn’t cared whether or not he’d killed the Templars who were going to drag him back to Kinloch Hold; the Commander who’d never let them take him back.

“Oh,” he said. “Of course.”

“Will this work?” Justice asked.

“We’ll have to talk,” Anders said. “But- I don’t see why it won’t.”

“Then I will go so that you can speak,” Justice said. “But - Anders?”

“What?”

“I will always come if you call.”

Yeah, like he was going to resort to that ever again.

“And you should tell Nathaniel that you love him.”

Uh-huh, of course he wou-

“Hey!” he exclaimed, but Justice was already gone. “Hey! Justice! I don’t love him!”

“Part of Freedom is being able to accept your own emotions,” Freedom said helpfully, and actually this was why Anders hated Justice.

He was a meddling busybody.

All Rajrad had said when he’d come to tell her about Marethari was that her children were there. She’d known Merrill had stayed in the north and had simply assumed that it was her and Theron-

But she’d walked into Sabrae’s camp, which she had refused to do before because Marethari had been there, Marethari who had left Tamlen for dead and sent Theron away, and it wasn’t Theron.

She had all three of her children again. Her wonderful, precious children were all alive and Tamlen was a Warden just like his brother and Merrill’s human seemed reasonable and Morrigan was back, with Hathen and the news that Satheraan had been returned and his mother had been found and Theron and he were finally betrothed-!

For an evening, for a morning, everything had seemed perfect, even with the losses of the clan and Sabrae’s uncertain future.

But the afternoon after they’d arrived Hathen had started screaming; and screaming and screaming. Wordless shrieking at first, but then words, words to his mother that said that Theron was dying-

Ashalle had had too much experience with Hathen’s odd connection to his father over the last winter to disbelieve it. It was happening, what she’d feared. Theron dying somewhere up in those human lands, alone and without her - she was losing him. They’d gained Tamlen and now they had to give Theron.

Morrigan hadn’t wanted to, but Merrill and Tamlen and even Hathen had insisted on the mirror - the Eluvian, and she gave in. Tamlen led them through the shattered spires and along the crumbling paths and they stepped out in northern Ferelden so soon after - how fast it had been!

Then the road, to Amaranthine the city, and then a ship to Denerim, and Hathen had screamed a second time and a third time he was dying he was dying-

On the Denerim docks they heard of the Crow. Morrigan snarled and threatened and snapped and Tamlen bullied in his Warden armor and they made it to what they were told was Theron’s estate, and the door guards saw Morrigan’s wrath and refused to face it and it had to be Theron’s estate, there were mosaics and murals - no one was telling them anything everyone was running from them but Hathen squirmed in Morrigan’s hold and bolted up a staircase and down a hallway. They followed.

Theron was halfway to sitting up in his bed, propped up on pillows. Bandages wrapped around his neck, layers thick, and she couldn’t tell if he was awake or not.

“Babae!” Hathen shrieked, and tried to climb onto the bed. “Babae!”

Theron stirred and Alistair swooped in from the side and picked him up.

“No, pup, don’t disturb him-”

“Babae! Babae!”

“Shhhhhh, pup.”

Merrill pushed past them to the bed. There was a man of the clans Ashalle didn’t know who left his herb work on the side table and met her there, watching her exploring fingers cautiously.

“He must sleep,” he warned.

“His throat,” Merrill sobbed, and the man took her hands away.

“If he moves he makes it worse. He must stay insensate.”

Alistair was motioning for them to leave the room. Ashalle looked to Marian but she’d already gone to steer Merrill away from the bed. The man of the clans went back to his herbs and tipped something into her son’s mouth.

“Who did this to him?” Morrigan hissed once they’d reconvened in the sitting room outside. “The rumors are of a Crow! Where is Zevran!”

“With his mother, I think,” he said, rocking Hathen. “Or Leliana, I asked her to come by today because she’s been worried.”

“The Sister is here?” Morrigan sneered.

“Yeah. She’s Left Hand of the Divine now though.”

“Oh Maker,” Marian swore. “Merrill, we’re leaving, right now.”

“Theron’s hurt!”

“And the Divine’s personal spymaster and assassin is in this building!”

“I’m not leaving him!”

“Merrill, if she finds out about you- oh no, Bethany, is she-”

“They’re both fine,” Alistair said. “Beth’s been helping with Theron.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and poked him with the point of her gauntlet. She hadn’t put off her armor since they left Hallarenis’haminathe, not even on the ship.

“And where do you get off calling my sister that?”

“I like her, she’s nice.”

“You keep your hands off!”

“Hey, I’m not the one courting her.”

“She’s being courted!”

“Take it up with your mother and the Teyrn of Highever.”

“She’s courting who!”

“Shut it, you’ll wake him up!” Tamlen snapped at her.

“I’m gone for- why do I ever leave them alone-!”

“They’ve been fine.”

“Merrill, I’m going to be back, I have to go-”

“Alistair,” Ashalle said as Marian went off to find her family. “What happened to my son?”

He glanced down at the boy he was holding.

“Um-”

“He has already seen,” Morrigan told him. “He has felt- he deserves to know why and how as much as anyone.”

“Some Crow came into the estate- Maker, six days ago now. He was going to hurt Damien, so Theron rammed him, no armor or shield or anything. They were at the top of the stairs. Theron smashed his head and the Crow stuck a knife between his ribs.”

Merrill gasped and Tamlen clutched her hand.

“But his neck,” Ashalle said.

“We sent for Anders because the only mages who knew any healing were Beth and Iro. He got here, and he fixed what they hadn’t been able to. We woke him up to make sure everything was all right, and-”

The lines around his eyes were tight with distress as he remembered.

“Anders said that if you hit your head hard enough, you might not be able to recognize anything. Theron woke up like that, and it was all- it was me and Beth and Anders and Zevran and he- he panicked, or- he didn’t recognize us or where he was and I guess he- he thought he’d been stolen or-”

“Oh no,” Ashalle whispered, horrified.

“He used one of Zevran’s knives,” Alistair said quietly. “Zevran hasn’t really been okay since. But Theron kept waking up, just for a little bit, and he could recognize people and yesterday, we woke him up properly again and he was fine, he remembered everything up to falling down the stairs. But his muscles seized up around the wound, and it tore some things inside, and then he started coughing and most of the wound opened up again, so we’re keeping him completely unconscious and trying again.”

“But he’s going to be all right,” Tamlen said fiercely.

“Anders says it’s not going to kill him. But he hasn’t promised anything else.”

“I’m helping,” Merrill said.

“Uh-”

“You don’t get to tell me ‘no’!” she told Alistair. “He’s my brother! My clan! And you’ve had the same three mages on him for the last six days! How much have they rested! How much magic can they even call right now! I was a First and I know how to heal!”

“My healing skills are little enough,” Morrigan said bitterly. “But if it is power that is needed…”

“I’m a mage,” Hathen said, squirming in Alistair’s arms. “I’ll help!”

“You’re a little young for it, pup.”

“He can fetch bandages or water as well as I or Tamlen,” Ashalle said. “This is his father. We wouldn’t keep him away.”

“Well, all right,” Alistair said doubtfully. “But Anders is in charge here. If he wants you all out when he comes back…”

“He can try to evict me,” Morrigan sneered, and took her son from him to sweep into the room.

Ashalle went to speak with - Iro, it must be - over his herbs, quietly asking what he needed as whitish light bloomed over the bed from Merrill and Morrigan as they began to work out how to reinforce each other’s skill and power. It washed out the shadows in the room for a moment, until it was joined by a golden glow.

She glanced over - it was Hathen, apparently determined to help no matter what anyone said.

There was a dragon curled up around him, spiky and lean. The spread of its wing blocked the sky, and the light filtering through the membrane made this hollow between side and tail dim and purple. The dragon’s breath kept the air warm and humid, and it’s body was a secondary source of heat, warmed by the burning magic within.

One great golden eye opened, glinting at him, and the sight of it was calming.

Theron relaxed and closed his own eyes. The dragon rustled as it coiled tighter, enclosing and protecting.

Chapter Text

“Yes, Prince Estefan is gone. Do you know, he seemed happy to leave? I did finally get an answer about why he hated the Hero’s fiancé so much, though. An interesting story-”

“-so little information, we had to learn more. You would not believe-”

Rumors are easy to spread. They pass quickly from person to person.

“A Crow, just like what attacked the Hero-”

“Everyone of any standing in Antiva City, I heard. And you know what Antivan parties are like, and he was at all the best ones.”

“A prince’s daughter! That’s regicide! How is anyone letting that stand!”

“-hired by Teyrn Loghain. And he awful close to the Queen, everyone says-”

“Can’t be. Loghain’s dead. The Hero killed him. Doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well - he wanted to keep the throne, he wanted his daughter safe… not so far-fetched, is it?”

“‘Safe’, heh. Oh, I bet.”

“Two or three people a night! Maybe even more!”

“-have to check to see if the Queen turns out elf-bloods. I hear he’s awful pretty.”

“Do you think- do you think that she could-”

“Don’t speak of it! Even Empress Celene admires her, of course she would!”

“A royal assassin-”

“Just a common whore! It’s a disgrace, is what it is! An affront to the position!”

“Any more than the elf savage?”

“That’s our Hero you’re talking about! He’s got a mabari! Don’t you insult a mabari like that, you fancy-footed Marcher, they only pick worthy people!”

“How much did he get paid, do you think?”

“For the killing, or for the sex?”

“Both! Everyone knows Amaranthine has money- so do you think it was a step up, or the only thing that could match what he was earning?”

 “-dropped right off a roof and split the Crow’s head open, all over the street-”

“Crass, that’s what this is.”

“That handmaid of hers is close to her, isn’t she? Never sat right with me, an elf, much less an Orlesian one…”

“You know that elf tart calls her by her name? To her face? It’s true, I’ve heard her! Just like Cailan and her father did and the Teyrn does now!”

“Disgraceful. Ought to teach her a lesson. Should be good young Fereldan girl there at her side-”

“Do you think he sold himself to Teyrn Loghain, too, before he went to kill the Wardens?”

“He would never! The Hero of River Dane wasn’t himself during the Blight, yes, we all know - but he’d just lost Cailan! He loved him like a son, and you know he was never the same after we lost Maric.”

“Nothing’s been the same since we lost Maric.”

“Or, as I was saying, do you think that came free with the rest?”

“No, she’s right, the Teyrn never would have. But do you think he whored himself out to the Wardens? They’re a tight group. And nothing like having some shared fun, that’s what a mercenary captain I used to hire always said.”

“-his bastard daughter, sure, but still his daughter. I’ll be watching the Queen much more closely when he’s around, now-”

“And what good will you be against an assassin? A good one wouldn’t be seen coming anyway.”

“What if she’s suborned him? She likes twisty-minded elves, anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, there’s this one, and that Orlesian handmaid of hers, have you ever had to talk to her? It’s awful. And the Arl - well, he’s the Hero and all, good man, but take a look at him and you have no idea what’s going on in his head. And he never comes to court!”

“I guess he’s busy?”

“Or maybe he’s off doing her business. She did give them Ostagar, after all. What’s she planning, do you think?”

“No no no, don’t you see, that’s all backwards. He’s the Arl’s man. It doesn’t matter what the Queen wants with an assassin, it’s what the Arl needs one for.”

“Regicide…”

“And we were there when he killed Loghain. Totally unmoved. And Maric’s bastard, he was all for it! Not that Loghain was the rightful monarch or anything, but he was in charge.”

“I suppose that is a shocking lack of respect for authority.”

“Do you think the Arl hires him out?”

“I’d rather find out if the Arl is a free as getting engaged to a whore would suggest. I bet under all that inscrutable melancholy he’s really-”

“Queen Anora did take all of Gwaren’s bannorns for herself. She owns a third of the country now! It’s that damned Orlesian she keeps around, influencing her like that, making her all Imperial-”

“Now wait just a minute!”

“What else would she let a regicidal assassin hang around for? Arl and Hero or no, his, ahem, personal history is bad enough without that. It’s a scandal, is what it is.”

“Oh, what, a scandal to distract us from how she’s going to have us all murdered in our beds?”

“Well…”

Rumors spread even faster when they have some basis in truth. Anyone who could play the Game well knew that.

Four days ago Ser Tabris had rushed in, grabbed Anders, and they’d both rushed out. Nathaniel hadn’t even heard that it had happened until it already had, and it had left him with a lot of very pressing questions, mostly involving what sort of scenario the Commander and the others could have possibly gotten into that required Anders.

This had not been helped by the report he’d gotten from Amaranthine City complaining about a very rude Dalish in Warden armor rushing through to the docks with a bunch of apostates and a small child.

First of all, what were Lady Morrigan and the Commander’s siblings doing back in the north? Second of all, why had they been in such a rush to go to Denerim, too?

Something was happening at the capital and he was waiting for the news that someone had attempted a coup, or - Maker, who knew what, it was too horrible to contemplate.

He’d gotten the rest of the Commander’s finished paperwork by courier last week, though, so that was something. He and Delilah had been busy putting his orders into action. Money was flowing, people were being hired, and Delilah said that the census for the Queen was coming along.

It had been months ago, now, that he’d gone into the arling’s records and tried to find Anders’s family. He was resisting the urge to ride out to the village in his free time and go ask. Anders wasn’t here right now, and anyway, what would he say?

Did you have a son, or a brother, twenty years ago or so, who was a mage? You lost him on the way to the fair, you were driving the goats - yes? Well, he’s all grown up, he’s a Warden, he really hates the Chantry and he’s saved all our lives a couple of times with how good he is at healing, just stop by the Vigil any time-

It just didn’t sound right. Better to focus on the problem of reorganizing the Wardens. The Commander had confirmed Anders’s promotion to captain of the non-existent Mage Corps, but, well, they had to exist now. The Wardens of Ferelden had three captains where it had had two before, and this Mage Corps business was… new, at the very least. How was it going to be organized? Where would the Command be? The mages couldn’t all be in one place, they should be spread out, surely, but who to where and how would they rotate and so many other questions of logistics plagued him.

Not to mention the fact that the Commander had never actually said any of the Wardens could go back to their posts, so Kal’Hirol and Soldier’s Peak were standing empty of Wardens. King Dace had started forwarding complaints from the Legion of the Dead, and just this morning he’d gotten a similar one from King Harrowmont. Ferelden’s Wardens helped patrol the clear path in the Deep Roads, and without them, people were getting nervous.

Nathaniel had called them here, but he wasn’t sure he was allowed to send them back. Since the Commander was in contact, now. Nominally. More than he had been over the winter, anyway.

But he probably would send Oghren back with his group soon. They could keep organizing the period sweeps of the southern farmlands to check for hidden Taint sources from here, and with some of the Wardens gone back to Kal’Hirol it would be easier to feed everyone, but-

There was a knock on his door - more like a thud, because Oghren still thought of all doors as dwarven doors that needed a heavy to fist to be heard.

In true Oghren fashion, he didn’t wait to be invited in.

“Tabris is back,” he said. “No Anders, but she’s lookin’ worried. Probably comin’ up here once she’s got the horse settled.”

“Good. Thank you.”

He started straightening his desk.

“Oghren.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still here.”

“I ain’t missin’ this,” he said, plopping himself down in one of the chairs and putting his feet up on the raised ring of decorations around Nathaniel’s desk. He was going to scar the wood like that. “Girl comes runnin’ for the healer and hightails right out again? Then the witch comes tearin’ through Amaranthine? Commander and Chantry Boy got themselves into some shit, and I’m findin’ out what.”

“I could tell you to leave.”

“And who’s the Senior Warden here?”

“It’s still me, actually.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t there for the Blight, boy, so you can shut your trap.”

Oh, Oghren. A delight as always.

Ser Tabris arrived as predicted.

“The Arl-Commander needs you in Denerim,” she told him.

“And what has been going on in Denerim?”

She told him.

“And you’re sure he’s not dead,” Nathaniel said, voice too high and squeaking on the edges, because his mind’s eye was filled with twenty to thirty years of being Arl-Commander and nooooo, he did not want that. The Commander had Delilah now, he should ask to retire, this job was far too much stress on him, anyone else could run the Wardens - you needed nerves of steel for this job, and he’d worn his out, quite a lot, because the Commander was a handful and he just kept- he just kept being himself.

Which was a good person, but still.

“And how panicked are they all?” Oghren asked. “Nah, don’t tell me, I can see it on your face. You don’t want him, you want me.”

“No, they need the Warden-Constable,” Ser Tabris said. “Because he’s Acting Arl-Commander if the Arl isn’t available, Captain Mac Maric said. And he won’t be, by the time of the Landsmeet to decide the bannorn apportions.”

“But I don’t know anything about that,” Nathaniel protested.

“This is your job and you’re stuck with it,” Oghren said. “Don’t worry your pretty pants off. I’m comin’ too. You can’t stop me. Your gonna be in need of a level head around there.”

He should tell the Commander to fire him and make Oghren Warden-Constable instead.

Maxwell Trevelyan liked his chances, statistically speaking. There had been six appropriate men in Denerim for taking to husband last week, and this week-

Well, Prince Estefan may never have been a serious consideration, but he’d been an option. He was gone now. Prince Sebastian was another unclear candidate, since he hadn’t been properly invited and it could cause trouble with Starkhaven, if the contender for the throne turned up King of Ferelden. But Prince Sebastian had been coming out of his brooding over being dismissed from the Chantry to have talks with the other Marchers in the city. Just days ago the two of them had had a nice luncheon, and he’d agreed to send a letter of introduction to his parents for the prince.

He hadn’t said, but it had been clear to Maxwell that he was working on reclaiming his throne. Well, good luck to him.

So that left him, Rosaire, Prince Baldewin, and Ser Reynaud. Ser Reynaud had never even tried to disguise his boredom, and would flirt with anyone who stood still long enough and seemed vaguely interested.

And Prince Baldewin, well-

“Why are you accommodating him?” the prince was demanding over lunch. This had become a habit of the Queen’s. Every two or three days she would invite them all to lunch, and they’d have fifteen or twenty minutes together, because the Queen was a busy woman.

“I am ‘accommodating’ the Arl, as you so put it,” she said frostily. Couldn’t he tell that he was earning her ire? “Because he is an Arl. He needs time to send for his second and for the Warden-Constable to arrive, and he will have it.”

“He’s a Warden! He has no business in politics!”

“Perhaps that is not the way in the Anderfels, Prince Baldewin, but it is how things are here.”

“The Wardens have been gaining power in the Anderfels since my father was a boy, and they’re more than willing to use it! Once you let them in, they never leave! Don’t you see, Your Royal Highness, you owe them for your throne and they’ll never let you forg-”

“Prince Baldewin,” she cut him off. “Are you suggesting that I am not capable of recognizing when I am being used?”

Oh, the prince had really put his foot in it.

“I-”

“I will not be the accessory of your political views,” the Queen informed him. “I find your presence and your lack of consideration for Ferelden’s political milieu irritating and very nearly offensive. If you cannot let this be, you will leave.”

Prince Baldewin got up and left.

So it was just him and Rosaire Desroschers now. Perfect.

“And have you opinions about pushing back the Landsmeet?” she asked them, tone still sharp.

Maxwell let Rosaire go first, so that if the other man made a hack of it, whatever he said would look better by comparison.

“I think it’s very kind of you,” Rosaire told her. “In Orlais, people would be gleeful about it, and do their best to exclude him for the rest of the season. I see why they say Fereldans aren’t any good at the Game, but I like this way better.”

Of course, if he’d learned anything about Rosaire Desroschers in their - albeit short - acquaintance, is was that he was an earnest young man who seemed honestly, simply happy to be here.

“A wise political move, Your Royal Highness,” Maxwell said, since Rosaire had adequately covered her emotional virtues. “Excluding anyone, especially a powerful lord, would only cause troubles later.”

He wanted to ask if she’d taken the rumors from the ball into account, but it wouldn’t be wise to bring that up. It would sound like doubt, and anyway, she was far too intelligent not to already have someone handling it.  

There were two archery butts set up in the gardens on a run of unused land, tucked in between the back of the stables and the cliff-corner of the wall. Nehna had taken to practicing here with her throwing knives, as a good distraction and as keeping up a skill she didn’t often use. Throwing knives were really for people, not hunting, and she’d had little enough reason to kill anyone since she’d become a merchant.

The morning after the sudden arrival of the rest of the Arl’s family, his mother silently walked up when she was practicing with a pack, quiver, and bow and started taking shots at the other butt. 

Nehna eyed the woman’s aim as she kept up her throwing. One of the arrows seemed to miss its mark, falling in the outer ring, and Nehna lined up her next knife to make a better hit on her own butt.

It landed solidly in the center of the middle ring. The Arl’s mother’s next arrow stuck in the inner ring. Nehna tried to match it but fell short- the third arrow of her opponent stuck cleanly through the center of her target.

“Ashalle Lyna Sabrae,” she introduced herself, lowering her bow.

Nehna flipped the knife she’d been about to throw around in her fingers a few times. So they were doing this now.

“Nehna,” she said.

“You don’t claim your clan?”

“I haven’t lived with them in thirty-six years,” Nehna told her. “None of my children are Dalish. Talanulea declared me an exile without a name. If my parents or their Keeper wanted to contest it, where are they?”

“Your brother knows,” Ashalle said. “But there wasn’t much time between my children arriving and us leaving again. I’m sure they would have-”

“They wouldn’t love the man I left for,” she cut her off. “And now I-”

No, she didn’t need to know about Tanis.

“-they wouldn’t accept my family, either. Or my friends, my business. I won’t go back to them.”

“To Revasina?” Ashalle asked. “Or to the Dalish?”

“My company has been trading with Hallarenis’haminathe through the Chasind ever since clans moved in,” Nehna informed her. “The Crafters of the clans have iron and mineral salts and raw materials from the Chasind and the Avvar and the Sulfur Lakes and all down the Sundering Sea because I arranged it. If I was going to go back to the Dalish, I would have already.”

Ashalle was silent a moment.

“Then I owe you more than I thought.”

“And what have I ever done for you that you would owe me?” she demanded.

“Are you not responsible for your son?” Ashalle asked, and Nehna stalked down the archery run to wrench her throwing knives free. ‘Everything he is he made himself’ and ‘I didn’t give him to you, he’s mine’ warred in her head.

Ashalle came down to pull out her arrows.

“My apologies,” she said, surprising Nehna. “I mean that - when Theron was sent away with the Wardens, I was certain it was the last time I would see him. He was sick and grieving for Tamlen and keeping his hurt close. I left Sabrae, because I couldn’t stand to live in the same clan as a Keeper who would send away one of our own in need to die. But when I saw him again, he was healthy and he was happy, with a second family and in love and Satheraan was at the center of it all. And just this year, it was Satheraan who found Tamlen, and made sure he was brought back to us. If not for your son, I wouldn’t have mine. And he wouldn’t exist without you.”

“It has been a long time since any of the People cared,” Nehna told her stiffly.

“Satheraan is family of mine,” Ashalle said. “And so are you.”

They walked back to the end of the run together. When Ashalle picked up her pack, it clinked. Nehna had been trading and traveling too long not to know what metal sound like, and had suspicions that were confirmed when Ashalle invited her up to the section of the wall that overlooked the private area of the garden and set up a sitting rug and a samovar with cups.

“Is this really an appropriate time?” she asked.

“My son will not die,” Ashalle said. “I trust my daughter on this, and she also assured me of the Warden healer’s competence. Why not talk about something happy?”

“I don’t have any negotiating gifts. My assets are all down south.”

“We don’t need to worry about that yet,” Ashalle assured her, and set the samovar to warming. “This is just discussing them. Something has come up with my son, you see.”

The man was bedridden, what new developments could there possibly be that she wouldn’t have heard about?

“Sabrae’s Keeper,” Ashalle said, once they’d both gotten settled comfortably. “Marethari Talas Vhadan’ena Sabrae. I was not there for this, but she took in a demon for fear that it would tempt my daughter instead, and she had to be killed. Her mismanagement has made Sabrae small. With my children and I here, there are only eight adults of our clan in Hallarenis’haminathe, and only one child. When Theron left - the last I had seen them - we had some hundred adults or more.”

It was good the ise’haurasha wasn’t ready yet. The Blight was six years ago, and one hundred down to twelve made about one dead adult a month at the least. And that didn’t count the children they must have lost, with so many adults.

“We have no Keeper,” Ashalle continued. “And she had no First. Merrill is barred, and the only mage we have is my grandson. He’s a child. Sabrae doesn’t really want a mage from another clan called in to be Keeper. They were at least ambivalent about my suggestion of inviting your brother with his wife and children to take up the job, and that was really because they have a family connection to Theron. But Merrill suggested, when we were speaking of what to do, and the clan was much more interested in, making Theron Lord Sabrae.”

“‘Lord’?” Nehna said, because she knew she hadn’t misheard, but it was such a thought. “You would-”

“As my daughter reminded us,” Ashalle said. “The People did not have Lords because we had no lands, and so our Houses became clans. But we have our third city. There is nothing stopping us.”

A House with a Lord.

“And he is a lord in the human lands, and he is hailed as a hero by them. We have given him a naming title, but it isn’t the same. Surely we couldn’t let the humans do better than us?”

“My son brings nothing to this,” Nehna said, uneasily thinking of everything amassed on the other side of the marriage-to-be. The wealth of Amaranthine, the power of being Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden, the respect of being a Hahren, the honor surely granted to the man who’d secured land for homes again, and now perhaps the Lordship of a House.

“He brings himself and he brings his love,” Ashalle reminded her. “That’s enough.”

They were having an argument.

“It would make him happy!” Diego insisted, keeping his voice low.

“He’s upset, we should leave him alone!” Tiar hissed back.

“Captain Mac Maric has been saying-”

“I don’t care what he thinks!”

“But you were saying that you needed better training and better training isn’t going to be doing what you’ve been doing because there’s only so far you can get practicing forms by yourself and we know he isn’t going to hurt you and he’d really like it because it would show you trust him and he’s not happy and he was before so if he has something nice maybe he’ll smile and mean it,” Diego said all in one breath, because he knew how to keep her from getting a word in edgewise.

Tiar crossed her arms.

“He’s in a bad mood.”

“He’s in a sad mood,” Diego countered. “I’m going to hug him because I like hugs and I’m going to tell him you want to see him and you can’t stop me.”

She could, because he’d told her what he was going to do, but he ducked and rolled when she snatched for him and after he was out the door, well, it wasn’t worth it. Someone would see and they’d get a scolding.

So Tiar took her knives and went down the graveled practice area and sulked under Diego’s tree to show that she did not approve. Diego came down leading Maestra Revasina by the hand and she had a spike of feeling about that. He could do that…

“Ah,” Maestra Revasina said, mustering a tiny smile. Maybe it was real, maybe not, but the trying was genuine. “Missing training, hm? I am sorry.”

He’d been busy being upset, why was he sorry.

“Train me,” she said.

“Of course. Where were-”

“No,” Tiar said. “Knives. With knives. Real training. I thought I could take Salvail Arainai because he was just a courtesan and I couldn’t. If I’d been really fighting-”

“Isagadi,” he gently interrupted. “My dear. He was a graduated Crow, nearly my age. No Crow survives so long without a good deal of skill. Not even the courtesans.”

“But I should have been better.”

“Failure is not so bad, Tiar,” Maestra Revasina said. “It is not a thing I would have you scared of.”

“And when it means I die?” she challenged.

“Not scared of, except when reasonable,” he amended. “If you really want me to do this, Tiar-”

“I do!”

“Very well. Diego, could you fetch my knives, please?”

He sped off to get them, and Tiar shifted her weight. They were going to do this. It was going to be real. Soon.

“If we are to do this-”

“I can do it!” she snapped. “I’m not weak! I’m not- I’ll be good enough!”

He held up his hands.

“That is not so much what concerns me,” he said. “I will not have this be like training in the Crows. We will both be armed and fighting against each other this time, yes. But I want you to tell me to stop if I scare you, or if I hurt you and I have not realized it. If there are things you are not sure of, because I did not explain well or you are not certain of your skills, tell me. I do not want you telling me everything is well when it is not. There are no punishments here, not for that.”

“I’m not weak.”

“It is not always bad to be vulnerable,” Maestra Revasina told her. “But you are not weak, Tiar, no matter how well or not you fight. It was not weak to run from the Crows. It was not weak to make the journey from Rialto to Vigil’s Keep without guidance. And it is certainly not weak to put yourself in this position, to give me the trust to spar with you with real blades and sharpened steel. You are a brave young woman, Tiar, and I- I am very proud of what you have accomplished.”

She wanted to hear him say that again. And again, and again, for the rest of her life, he’d said he was proud of her-

Diego returned with Maestra Revasina’s knives, and Tiar resolved to never, ever stop making Maestra Revasina proud.

She’d start by being so good that she’d never fall prey to something like Salvail Arainai’s attack again.

Anora Mac Tir had put off the Landsmeet until Theron was well enough to attend. A message was sent the evening Nathaniel and Oghren arrived from Amaranthine that his second-in-command had come to stand in for him. The message went out to the nobles from the palace that the Landsmeet would be the next morning, catching everyone by surprise at dinner.

It should have been the end of it, but-

“I’m sorry,” Nathaniel said again. “I did try to argue. But Arl Mallory, she made a ruckus about the real holders of titles appearing. Eamon Guerrin agreed with her, I’ve never seen her look so sour before.”

“She wasn’t like this before,” Alistair complained.

It did seem out of character for her, from their interactions before. Theron wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“I think she was honestly trying to look out for the Commander’s interests,” Nathaniel said apologetically. “It does look a little suspicious. With my father, and stepping in, and - well.”

“But he’s not well.”

He was sitting right here.

“The Queen has already delayed once.”

Theron pushed himself out of bed. Zevran and Alistair both yelled: “No!” at the same time.

Just because he wasn’t supposed to talk didn’t mean he couldn’t stand up!

He was a little light-headed. But he wasn’t going to show that. They’d force him back into bed. He could walk around, and he could go sit in the palace hall for the day and listen and vote.

“Theron, please-” Zevran started to beg, and Theron reached out and ran a hand comfortingly through his loose hair, gently trailing down to cup his cheek, covering the tattoos.

Zevran placed his hand over Theron’s.

“You are not well,” he stressed.

Theron dropped a kiss in his hair and pulled away to the wash basin, pouring water to clean off.

“Your bandages-!”

They had more of them, and it would be nice to feel the air again. He could feel that his skin was damp under the linen. It was uncomfortable.

The bandages came away with dried crusted blood and yellowy fluids. Theron started to carefully wipe his neck clean, and Zevran sidled up and took the cloth from him as Alistair and Nathaniel got into a hushed argument behind them.

“So intractable as always, my dear Warden,” he murmured, focused on Theron’s neck and not looking up at his face. He’d been doing this since Anders had let him out of the induced sleep yesterday evening to sign and seal Nathaniel’s authorization to the Landsmeet that hadn’t worked. “If you must go-”

Theron nudged Zevran’s chin up so he’d have to look at him, but his eyes skittered away despite that.

This wouldn’t do. He leaned in and kissed him, and then took his head in both hands, pressing with a bit of insistent pressure.

Zevran finally looked him in the eye. His expression shuddered briefly, but then he let the fear show through.

How Theron wanted to be able to say something, to reassure him. He dropped his hands instead, folding both over Zevran’s heart and looking at him intently. He’d keep him from pain. He would.

Zevran smiled weakly and took his hands with the one that wasn’t holding the washrag, and started dabbing away at Theron’s neck again.

“Fine,” Alistair said loudly, a minute later. He’d lost the argument, by the sound of it. “But he’s not going alone! I’ll go with him! I’m a Freeman, I’m a Lord, I can’t vote for him but I can help! If he needs to have something known I can read out what he writes.”

“It would be hard passing a paper around the entire Landsmeet,” Nathaniel allowed. “He needs to get dressed for it.”

Theron took a step forward and kicked the wall to get their attention, and glared at both of them when they looked over.

“He is currently mute, not deaf,” Zevran helpfully interpreted. “Perhaps you should speak to him and not about him.”

“Right,” Alistair said, starting to turn pink from the embarrassment. “Sorry.”

Nathaniel’s guidelines for being properly dressed for the Landsmeet was partial armor and his sword, because ‘you’re Warden-Commander before you’re Arl, really, and the Hero as well. Put on the cape and you’re representing both as much as you need to.’

They had to rebandage his neck before anything else, and it was very annoying needing to have help to get into his quilted gambeson and the breastplate with the Warden’s device on it. He’d never needed help with armor before, and he insisted on putting on the long leather gloves of dressed-up armor by himself, as well as his boots. Alistair had to tie on his cape, and he let Zevran do his sword belt, because Zevran was still reluctant to let him go anywhere.

He hugged him once he was done buckling the belt.

“Be careful,” be pleaded in a whisper, and Theron hugged him back firmly. He was walking to the palace and back, he’d be fine.

Alistair ducked out to put on his own armor, and Zevran and Nathaniel escorted him very carefully down the stairs. It was entirely unnecessary. His balance was fine.

They stayed with him until Alistair returned. Zevran only let them go after he’d gotten Alistair’s promise that he’d make Theron come back the instant it looked like he might need more healing or rest, and scritched Fen behind the ears and told him to be good and look out for Theron.

Theron understood why he was nervous but this was still a bit much, especially when Alistair followed it up by insisting on walking slowly to the palace.

The area out front of the palace was crowded with the hopeful Banns, extraneous servants of the nobility, and those Freemen who’d come to witness the Landsmeet. Alistair had to push the first few people on the edge of the crowd out of the way, but then recognition set in at the Warden plate. People started moving out the way on their own, and then-

“Hail to the Hero, hail to his health!”

“Andraste’s Blessings, Arl-Commander!”

“The Wardens! The Wardens!”

Oh, people still liked him here. That was nice! He should go out to the city - he hadn’t done that since they’d arrived, but to learn about coinage. He should go to the alienage, and see how people were doing. There had been an Orlesian flower-seller during the Blight in the West Market. Maybe she was still around. He could get flowers for Zevran and Merrill. That would be good.

Theron waved at the crowd and smiled, and nudged Alistair to do the same. His friend followed suit with noticeable embarrassment and discomfort, but taking notice of people noticing him made him speed up, so that when they actually reached the palace they were going at an acceptable pace.

The Landsmeet hadn’t started yet. The nobility were standing about in the antechamber, talking or grumbling in groups. Everyone took note as they walked in.

“Arl Theron!” Arl Mallory called, and stepped up to clasp his arm in greeting. “I knew you could make it.”

“It was concerning to see Nathaniel Howe stepping in for you,” Arl Eamon said, as others converged on them. “You are well?”

Theron reclaimed his hand and unbuckled the strap that held the high collar of his gambeson up, showing the thick swathe of bandages against his neck and pointing at Alistair.

“He can’t talk right now,” Alistair explained. “Slit throat.”

The Arls and Fergus, battle veterans all, simultaneously hissed in sympathetic pain.

“Is it…?” Leonas Bryland started to ask, and trailed off uneasily.

“It’s healing,” Alistair said. “But it’ll go better if he rests his voice.”

“It is well to see you up awake again, Arl-Commander,” the Queen said. “Now, we can proceed.”

Everyone filed into the palace hall. Anora took her seat on the throne on the dais, and everyone else found their designated places at the two long tables set out for them. Most of the chairs were empty, as the bannorns still had seats at the table no matter if there was someone there to fill them or not. It was a heavy reminder of how much Ferelden had lost, and still had to regain, to see the tables so sparse. An extra chair had to be fetched for Alistair, but then, they began.

It didn’t take long for Theron’s complete unpreparedness for all of this to make him burn in silent humiliation. The Crow’s attack and then his own concussed actions had kept him out of what socializing he could have done, this late in the process. Names came up for bannorns and sometimes people gave short speeches on the merits of a favorite candidate or talked down one they didn’t like, and he had no way of judging them. He’d never really met any of these people. He hadn’t been to the parties and fêtes that people must have thrown, or luncheons or whatever else it was people did. He couldn’t gauge how much of any of this was an accurate assessment and how much was political maneuvering. He had no baseline, no standard, no experience.

This was awful. He paid enough attention to the first couple votes to get an idea of how they proceeded, and then nudged Alistair and indicated that he wanted something to write with. Alistair beckoned someone over and asked after paper and ink in a low voice. An elven servant delivered them, and Theron gave her a smile and tucked a gold coin into her hand. You were meant to tip palace servants in silver, and humans more than elves, but this sort of ‘propriety’ was nothing he’d have a part of. The servant’s eyes went wide at finding the gleam of gold in her palm, and she ducked briefly to a knee before hurrying off.

“Someone’s going to accuse you of buying the servants,” Alistair murmured to him.

The first thing Theron wrote on his paper was: ‘They can think what they like. Maybe they’ll pay their servants more to keep their secrets safe.’

Alistair sighed, and Theron got to business, keeping half an ear on the proceedings as he wrote. Some bannorns were named but immediately dismissed as having ‘no suitable lords’ available. All of the bannorns of Amaranthine passed thus.

“For the Bannorn of Lothering, in the Arling of South Reach,” Anora finally announced from her throne. “We have received the petitions of Elspeth Bevis, of Ostwick; Leandra Amell, of Kirkwall-”

Theron hurriedly finished his thoughts, foregoing the last few sentences to simply write down a few points, and handed the paper to Alistair as Anora finished announcing the last of the names of those who had put in for the title. There were a few - Lothering was a large bannorn, as they went, and while it was still suffering the ravages of the Blight, it had been an important trade town once, and would be again.

“Lords and Ladies of Ferelden, are there any who would speak for one of these petitioners?”

Alistair stood.

“Amaranthine would speak for Leandra Amell, Your Royal Highness.”

She acknowledged his following of the script with a shallow nod of her head.

“Then speak.”  

“The Amells are a noble of family of Kirkwall, this is true,” Alistair recited from what Theron had written. “But Leandra Amell is the widow of a Fereldan Freeman, one Malcolm Hawke, formerly the apothecary for the town of Lothering. Leandra Amell left her life in Kirkwall as a young woman to marry for love, and spent almost thirty years living as a Freewoman of Ferelden. Her family served Lothering as they could, in healing and neighborly assistance, even after the death of her husband. Her elder daughter and her only son fought in the army at Ostagar, and were forced to flee ahead of the horde. She lost her son on the road to darkspawn, and the family lived as refugees with the rest of the Fereldans in Kirkwall until her eldest’s martial skill won them fortune enough for Lady Amell to reclaim her ancestral home in Kirkwall from the later misfortune and debt of her house. The family was known for assisting the refugees and the other poor of Kirkwall until they were forced to flee again from their home after the catastrophe in that city.”

“That’s well and good,” one of the current Banns spoke up. “But there are Fereldans who didn’t run who are also asking for this position.”

Alistair looked to him, and Theron held up his free hand as a sign for patience to the rest of the room while he finished writing out this reply. Creators, was this slow. The necessary delay made him feel like his response was losing impact.

“Where is the shame in leaving?” Alistair was finally able to read out for the room. “Lothering was the first place in Ferelden to fall to the horde after the defeat at Ostagar. The people who went to rebuild after the Blight was defeated must be afforded honor for that, yes. But how is it a lesser deed to help your people when they are poor strangers in a foreign land? Kirkwall was not nice to those who fled the Blight. The Amells were the only ones able to secure a position, and I saw for myself how much they were respected by their fellow Fereldans when I was in Kirkwall last year. As well, have any of the others considered that the Bannorn of Lothering now borders Dalish lands? Lady Amell’s daughters have proven themselves to the Dalish. They are known as honorable and respectful, and should there be tensions sometime in the future, things would proceed easier with an Amell in the position of authority on the Fereldan side.”

“Are there any who would speak for another petitioner?” Anora asked, and Alistair sat back down. Theron listened as the Bann who’d challenged his speech gave her support for one of the Fereldan applicants.

Anora asked for anyone who would speak against any of the petitioners. No one wanted to, for Lothering, and the vote was called.

‘In favor of Elspeth Bevis’ was the first vote. No one raised their hand. ‘In favor of Leandra Amell’ was second, and Theron and Fergus had their hands up before Anora had even finished saying ‘Amell’. One or two of the Banns voted in favor as well, a few seconds later, but the rest of the room kept an eye on Bryland. This was how it had been the whole Landsmeet, so far - people held off on Bannorns under Arls or Teyrns until they knew where the opinion of the higher noble in question lay.

Bryland raised his hand for Leandra. Most of the rest of the room followed suit.

“Then by the will of the Landsmeet,” Anora proclaimed. “Leandra Amell is created Bann of Lothering.”

Theron watched in satisfaction as Erlina, acting as the court scribe, quickly filled in the official writ. Anora and Bryland approached the table, and both affixed their signatures and seals.

The good feeling lasted until the final vote on the bannorns, buoyed by his imaginings of how the Amells would react. Leandra would be relieved. Merrill would be happy, because her human family would be close to her Dalish one, and she’d never have to spend very much time away from either. It was a simple matter of taking the Imperial Highway. With the Amells in power, perhaps his people could make a real effort to trade with Ferelden. Or maybe he could convince Nehna into extending her company-

“Is there any other business of the Landsmeet, Lords and Ladies?” Anora asked. Another formal statement, the beginning of the close.

Except that Arl Eamon stood up.

“Respectfully, my Queen,” he said. “I have a point of business.”

Anora wasn’t so far away that they couldn’t all see her eyebrows raise as she said: “Then speak.”

“My peers of Ferelden,” he said, still standing. “This morning we have heard a great many petitions to become part of our beloved country, and I believe that we have shown true discernment and perspicuity in our decisions. I congratulate you all.”

Surprising, Theron wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but this wasn’t it. Nice of him, though.

“Regretfully-”

Oh?

“-there is one who is poised to join our ranks whom I fear is entirely unsuitable to be afforded such an honor.”

…Well, if he wanted to use this opportunity to cast doubt on one of Anora’s suitors, Theron supposed he could. It didn’t feel like a particularly good move, though.

“We are strong nation, and justly proud of our people and our endurance and our history,” Eamon continued. “Above all, we value our honor - our trustworthiness, our adherence to our oaths and promises, and the full and proper execution of our duties. Other countries may not give us the respect we deserve, and in most cases I would say: ‘Let them fall to their own misconceptions’. But there are times in the matters of international diplomacy where we must take into account those opinions.”

So who was it going to be?

“There are rumors circulating amongst the ranks of those who came to petition for bannorns - rumors not far from truth - and I can only hope that they have not written home of them, or that their servants are not gossips. I cannot imagine the damage it could cause, if what I have heard said was to spread more widely. Surely we are already suffering from the shocking attack on our Hero, and in his own household-”

It wasn’t that much of a problem. It had been handled. And publicly.

“-and it pains me to say that I cannot find the topic of the rumors surprising, with this horrible deed. It was a Crow that did the deed and it has already, in fact, caused diplomatic incident. As you all know, Prince Estefan of Antiva was told to leave for his own country earlier this week-”

Because that Crow had come from him, people had updated Theron on this.

“-and I have learned why. It is understandable, and while I sincerely hope that there has been a mistake somehow, for this pains me to say-”

He hadn’t actually said yet. Was he finally getting to the point?

“-that I must contest the favor shown to Zevran of House Arainai of the Antivan Crows, currently engaged to our own Warden-Commander, who is the willful murderer of Prince Estefan’s eldest daughter and well-known in the capital of his country as a courtesan, and an easily-had one at that.”

It took a good full minute for Theron’s brain to catch up, because this-

This-

“He is an assassin and a regicide - of more than Rinnala Estefanez, my Lords and Ladies, but also of at least one brother and sister of King Fulgendo- and a shameless, profligate harlot. For the safety of our beloved Queen and our honored Hero, whom I am certain has been cruelly deceived and to whom I offer my sincerest apologies to be the one to deliver this news-”

He couldn’t shout Eamon down. He couldn’t speak.

But he could slam his hands down on the table, and stand, and storm across the room to punch Eamon right in his sodding mouth.

Chapter Text

There was a certain awful inevitability to the scene.

Theron’s hands slamming down on the table as he rose, pushing the chair away. The dull thump as the blow vibrated down the table. The surprised, then shocked looks on the faces of the rest of the nobility at seeing Theron angry. The ripple of excitement as the Freemen and the servants realized they were about to witness a scene. The half-step back Eamon took as he saw the reaction his words had roused. Banns flinching away from Theron’s fury as he passed. Anora starting to rise from her throne as she saw what was about to happen.

The crack as Theron’s fist hit Eamon square in the mouth. The spurt of blood as Eamon’s nose broke and his lips split. The second crack as he reeled back from the blow, falling, and smacked his head on the table. He didn’t quite collapse to the floor, but it was a near thing- he fell, but caught his upper body on his chair.

Everyone sitting within three chairs of Eamon retreated, very quickly. It was helped by the way Fen shoved his way through the chair legs, snarling.

Alistair caught Anora’s eye as she finished rising from her throne, and they exchanged a look. It said: here we are again.

“Arl Mahariel,” she said, voice ringing out through the room. “If you wish to seek restitution, it must be done through the proper channels.”

Theron crossed his arms and scowled up at her. The room was drawing away, a slight lean to everyone’s bodies as they realized what Alistair had known for years: calm Theron had a settled, quiet presence. Angry Theron took up about five times more space through sheer force of will and intensity of emotion.

“Do you wish to issue a challenge to a duel?” Anora asked.

Theron uncrossed one arm and emphatically pointed his hand at Eamon, who was clutching his face.

“Very well,” she said. “Shall you fight yourself, or declare a champion?”

Theron drew his sword. He was one of the few exercising the right of nobility to bear arms at the Landsmeet. Almost everyone vacated their seats and backed away from the tables.

Arl Mallory drew her own sword, slammed the pommel of it against the table in front of her, and let loose with a thundering Alamarri warcry, following up with a yell of: “Kovraig, kovraig!”

Some of the spectators answered back with scattered calls of: “Kovraig!” Issued and witnessed, in the Alamarri way- it was fight or forfeit honor and respect.

“That’s a duel, Eamon, you dried-up old snake!” Mallory yelled gleefully. “Will you defend your own honor for once, or send one of your knights to do it?”

He pushed himself to his feet. Theron didn’t budge, so Arl Eamon had to stand away from his designated spot at the table.

“I am hardly the warrior the Commander is, Mallory,” he answered, still holding his face. “I’m an old man-”

“I’m older than you, you feckless coward!”

“Arl Mallory!” Anora said sternly. “Do you also wish to issue a challenge to duel?”

“I’ll wait to decide until the Commander beats his sorry hide into the dust, my Queen. Depends on if he looks like his pride needs some more flaying.”

“Arl Mallory.”

“I declare my nephew as my champion,” Eamon said.

“Hey!” Alistair exclaimed, catching on. “Hey- no! No! I don’t agree! I won’t do it!”

“You would back down-”

“There is no honor in forcing a man to fight one he owes allegiance to,” Anora overruled him before he could finish. Good.

“Then I would prevail upon my old friend and knight, Bann Per-”

“I will fight, brother,” Teagan volunteered himself, stepping forward. “There is no need to declare others without consulting them.”

“Then the duel is set,” Anora announced, and clapped her hands together once, sharply. “This Landsmeet is concluded. Arl Mahariel and Bann Teagan will duel over the accusations leveled by Arl Eamon upon the hour after lunch, in the square, with any who care to watch as witness.”

He had not been expecting to be turned away from the Landsmeet. Of course there was a question of legitimacy, but the Commander had signed and sealed written permission for the substitution, and Anora- the Queen had been informed.

But he was a Howe still. Nathaniel had gotten used to it meaning nothing, in the ranks of the Wardens and around the Vigil and the city of Amaranthine.

The Landsmeet remembered his father. Rendon had never really had friends, and while Nathaniel had been away in the Free Marches, he’d only made enemies. The looks Bann Sighard and Arl Alfstanna had given him-

He’d just stay here, in the estate, in his room, until it was time for him to go back to Amaranthine.

Anders pushed the door open without knocking. That was fair, there were only so many extra rooms in the estate so the two of them were sharing.

But he had the new mages with him, so he should have said something. He was the Constable! He should have been professional to greet them but no, now they’d seen him flopped face-down on his bed!

“Anders-”

“Leontius has something to tell you,” his friend said, and looked pointedly at the mage in question, who quailed and looked around nervously.

“Anders-” Leontius started to plead.

Anders cut him off with sharp, insistent clapping.

“You have to do it, Amell! Darkspawn are worse than this!”

“I-”

“-am going to do this or I’m going to do it for you!”

Leontius folded in hands in front of himself and looked down at his feet. Neria edged closer to him.

“You ran away from the tower! You can do this!”

He shook his head mutely.

“Anders, what’s going on?” Nathaniel asked.

Anders sighed, the sound frustrated, and turned away from the new recruits.

“Leontius’s papers aren’t going to come back from Kinloch,” he told Nathaniel. “You’re going to get a polite ‘what?’ because the only records they have are for Solona Amell.”

Nathaniel had to sit on that a moment, because that was a bit odd. Changing names when running was something people did, of course, but this was a step further.

“But that’s-”

“He had more reasons than being a mage to run from the Circle!” Anders snapped, crowding the bed to glare down at him. “The Chantry calls it the ‘Tevinter perversion’ but it’s not! There’s nothing wrong with him-”

“I didn’t say there was,” Nathaniel hastily interrupted. “I don’t get it, Anders, but I trust you and you know more about it and him than I do. I’ll send another letter to the Circle and explain that there was a- a clerical error or something.”

Anders had developed a new habit, in Kirkwall, of puffing up when he was angry. Nathaniel watched him deflate, and then turn back to Leontius and Neria.

“See? No problem, just like I said. Training now, come on, outside, I got Hawke to agree to help. You’re going to be Wardens, you have to know what to do about swords.”

It was good to see that Anders was taking his job as Captain seriously. He’d do a good job. Nathaniel was happy for him, and a little excited to see how the mages he trained would turn out. If there was one thing he’d learned from the years they’d thought Anders dead, it was that Anders was an exceptionally good mage. No one else they’d ever recruited had ever quite measured up.

Unfortunately, now he’d started working, even a little, he felt like he needed to keep doing. He put his boots back on and left the room. Getting some snacks from the kitchen let him check the time. The Landsmeet was likely to be over soon, if it wasn’t already. He could go wait for the Commander in the entrance hallway.

It didn’t look like Zevran had moved an inch since Nathaniel had last been in this room. That seemed a little much, but Nathaniel was well aware that he was in no position to judge people on the basis of how nervous they were.

The wait wasn’t long. Nathaniel had judged the time correctly, and the Commander stormed in- oh what had happened now- and caught Zevran up in a big hug.

“What happened?” Zevran asked, words muffled by Theron.

Alistair shuffled in place, nervous and uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, glanced over at Nathaniel, and shut it again.

“It’s not… um,” he said after a moment, then took a deep breath and spit it all out, in El’vhen.

Nathaniel didn’t know that language, but Zevran flinched violently in the Commander’s hug. The Commander held him tighter and Nathaniel got a look at his expression. Rage was very unsettling look, on his face.

“Was it Kirkwall?” he asked quietly.

Alistair’s answer was: “No,” which was very good but not that much of a relief. They wouldn’t have to discuss blood magic, at least-

“It’s more personal,” Alistair continued. “Theron- well, Redcliffe might hate us. A little. I’d say ‘sorry’, but-”

He looked at Zevran.

“I can’t believe he did that,” he said, so quiet and distressed that Nathaniel was pretty sure he hadn’t meant to say it.

“Why might Arl Eamon hate us?” Nathaniel asked, dreading the answer.

“Theron punched him right in the face in front of the whole Landsmeet. He’s dueling Teagan after lunch.”

Well, wasn’t that just typical.

Nathaniel went to go lie back down before things got any worse.

Grief weighed the limbs and fogged the mind. Guilt tangled up the threads of thought, turning everything round and round until everything came back to what you’d done. Fear was sharp, most often like the sting of a whip but sometimes paralyzing.

This feeling, the shriveling at the corners of his heart and soul, sensation of filth under his skin, the want to curl up in the dark and dissolve away- he didn’t know what it was.

 Zevran would have preferred never to experience it. It turned Theron’s arms around him into just a reminder that once, things had been different. The safety and comfort of it was stolen.

Out there, somewhere, in the city, who knew how many people were talking about him. Gossiping. Saying whatever they pleased about his past. He could see the tittering, the solemn looks, disgusted faces, the grave nods as the information spread and people said to each other: ‘how unsuitable, what a scandal, this can’t stand! A whore and a murderer, it isn’t right-’

The speculation. Everyone knew what happened with rumors. What were they saying now? How many people were-

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Zevran knew he should go to the duel with Theron. He should take his knives and wear something flattering almost to the point of indecency and he should saunter and smile and laugh and wink and show everyone it didn’t matter. He had a kind, compassionate, handsome man who wanted to marry him right over there, dueling for his honor. What were words from people who knew nothing? Nothing, because he was untouchable.

 But they knew. Everyone knew. It would have to be juicy gossip, the best scandal, perfectly preceded by Salvail’s attack and death and Prince Estefan’s sudden departure from Denerim. They knew. He wasn’t Zevran Revasina any longer, he’d go out there and he’d be something to stare at, to whisper about behind hands, to give looks.

He would have to attend court with these people. Go to their estates. Speak to them at parties, look in their eyes and know they were thinking about what they’d heard, what he’d done, imagining it, wondering if it could happen again, if it could be them, making laden remarks, sly looks, coy touches-

There were strokes up and down his back and his chest seized, his heart raced, he couldn’t breathe, skin going blazing hot as everything inside froze. He was nothing-

He pushed away but he was still bleeding into them, swirling, he didn’t exist there was just what they wanted what they fantasized about what they were going to do and take and this was it, this was it, this was all it ever was-

The air was close and full of the scent of candles and flowers and expensive perfume. That rustling was silk and delicate linen, slippers on polished floors, gauzy curtains fluttering in the open glass doors facing gardens and terraces and porches. The chink of glasses on the handles of fans, against tables and trays. Light shining on burnished brass and glass, glimmering on silver and gold and gemstones, glowing on silk and warm skin and oiled hair.

“Zevran-”

Murmuring in Antivan. High-class laughter. Whispers. Sideways looks. Hands, fingers trailing, toying with cuffs necklines laces-

Zevran tripped and fell on the top of the stairs and the brief burst of pain separated him from the spectre of every society party in Antiva City he’d been sent to just enough for him to notice the hallway in the Denerim estate, distant and thin and dull, unreal behind the memory of- of-

A door opened. It was the creak of a thousand darkened bedrooms in city villas and of his mother and Tanis’s room all at once, and his mother and Tanis-

Tanis’s face jumped from distant to immediate in one dizzying moment, sharpening and shifting and she was looking down at him, crying sparse silent tears because she couldn’t ruin her makeup for the night and she was very tall and there was a room, down the hall, in the back, and there was someone waiting for him, a stranger, some adult he’d never seen, because-

She walked into the sound of screaming, and Leliana hiked the skirt of her robes and ran towards it. It was at the top of the stairs and this was a busy area, but servants and Wardens gave way at the sight of a Sister, and she had gotten close enough to stand next to Oghren- Oghren was in Denerim?- when the screaming stopped.

Zevran was curled in on himself, pressed against the wall, making little scared noises and trembling. Theron was sitting, sprawled back like he’d been startled out of a crouch, expression more terrified than she’d ever seen him.

“What happened?” she asked, and Oghren looked up.

“Dunno,” he said. “Just got here myself. Didn’t know you were in town.”

His breath didn’t smell of alcohol any longer, and the only thing he smelled of was honest exercise. He seemed… groomed, and alert. What had-

Leliana reminded herself that she’d already made assumptions about her old companions once this trip, and there was no call to go making more.

“I didn’t know you were coming, either,” she replied. “You seem better than you were last we met, Oghren. It is good to see.”

“Heh,” he snorted, put almost sounded a bit pleased. “Yeah, I got myself sorted. You hear about my Thrune- ah, this ain’t the time. Somethin’ up?”

“I heard what people were saying about Zevran, and I thought I should come be a friend…”

Her eyes drifted back towards Zevran. Theron was hovering awkwardly, reaching out but not touching him. Alistair was trying to coax Theron off the floor, and Morrigan was glaring at anyone who looked like they might come closer. Her golden eyes flicked towards them, and she and Oghren caught each other’s gaze.

“Right,” Oghren said suddenly, and smacked his hands together. “Move it, go on! Nothin’ to see here! You, Tabris, Brant, clear ‘em out, this is private business.”

The tall Ander Warden and two elven women moved to send the servants and Wardens back where they’d come. The elves seemed mixed up in each other for a moment, but then the dark-haired one in armor stepped back, leaving the redhead in the- oh, that was the Housekeeper’s uniform!- to usher everyone away.

Oghren turned back to her.

“What are they sayin’? Can’t be good if you came right over here.”

“Rumors about Antiva,” Leliana told him. “About his… conquests, chiefly. Every noble and merchant of the slightest importance. There are wagging tongues about the scandal of it all. The Hero’s fiancé the seducer-”

Which was when she’d come here, because Alistair had told her in the Grand Chantry not so many days ago that Zevran was a reformed character, and Andraste forbid that she be one to smear another for a past they had repented of. Alistair and Theron thought he was a better person, and she could hardly do different. She had to make up for what she’d thought of him earlier.

“‘Conquests’?” Morrigan hissed unexpectedly, turning on them in outrage. “‘Seducer’? ‘Twill be many a tongue-”

“Leliana!” Alistair said, noticing her and butting in worriedly. “Is it- could you do something for him?”

“I hardly know what’s happened-”

“Theron and I came back from the Landsmeet and I told him what had been said and then a minute later, he was all-”

He gestured helplessly at Zevran, still on the floor.

There was a quiet “oh,” from close by. Leliana and the others looked over- it was the elven woman in the armor.

“What’s that ‘oh’ for, Tabris?” Oghren asked.

“It’s-”

She shifted uncomfortably.

“Sometimes when you remember things,” she said. “Really awful things, that happened to you. That you saw. You remember it all at once and you forget it’s not happening right now.”

Oghren grunted in understanding.

“Roads madness,” he said. “Didn’t think that was somethin’ anybody who didn’t survive darkspawn got. We need some real gutrot brew to shove under his nose.”

“It’s not darkspawn,” Tabris said. “It’s shem fear. You have to wait it out and keep going.”

“‘Shem fear’?”Alistair asked.

Leliana watched her eyes dart around for a few moments before Tabris settled again- on her, and not on Alistair- to answer the question.

“It’s not other elves who see the chambermaid or the stable-mucker or some kid in the market, decide that their lust is the only thing that matters, and call it ‘seduction’.”

It took a moment. Tabris was gone by the time it sunk in. Leliana had been- was a- bard, and she moved in dark circles in the name of the light. She knew that rape happened, and she knew that it happened to elves most of all.

But it was- well, it was something that happened to other people. To quiet, timid elves who lived in alienages and worked in noble houses. Not to loud elves, armed elves, deadly elves. Zevran-

But people didn’t whimper in terror and cower when remembering sexual conquests sealed by seductive confidence and suaveness.

“I can’t believe,” Alistair said, and Leliana was about to agree with him. It was inconceivable. It was- awful, and to have happened to someone she knew- “I can’t believe he said that.”

Oghren started swearing in a furious mutter. What it lacked it creativity, it made up for in sincerity.

Leliana was about to ask Alistair: “Who said what?” when he turned to Morrigan.

“You knew,” he said.

Morrigan crossed her arms.

“He told me in Antiva,” she said. “He wanted my advice on how to tell Theron secrets kept.”

“It wasn’t-?” Alistair started, and then swore. “Shit. So he’s barely- that day, when they were being weird around each other-”

“Yes.”

“Oh Maker. He told him- the same night they got betrothed.”

“Yes.”

Alistair’s expression was going slowly horrified. Leliana didn’t know the exact thoughts behind it, but this situation was bad enough.

“And- he said-”

“Who said?” she got to ask this time.

“Eamon,” Alistair said bleakly. “Arl Eamon. He brought up the rumors at the Landsmeet, and Theron went right for him, punched him straight to the floor. I thought- I knew it wasn’t a good way to bring up a concern and with the way Theron was all winter- at least he didn’t go for his sword first-”

They all hushed as the noise changed. Zevran had been whimpering, but now there had been a breathy edge there, a moment ago.

Leliana looked around Alistair to see Zevran push Theron away again. He was sitting now, back against the wall and knees drawn up, hands curled in front of his face.

“Ma’len-”

“Mamae,” Zevran said brokenly, ignoring him. “Mamae-”

An older Dalish woman edged over and gingerly sat down next to him. He curled into her immediately, and she wrapped her arms around him to hold him close.

Alistair went to coax Theron off the floor, leaving the rest of them standing there. While Oghren and Morrigan watched the scene, Leliana stared blankly at the wall, remembering Eamon and his wife- his Orlesian wife.

The Game played with a heavy hand could be far more damaging than the Game played in subtlety and secrecy.

He hated what had been done to Zevran.

He hated what Eamon had said.

He hated not being able to help.

He hated-

Theron’s hate drove him through leaving Zevran to his mother, gathering his armor, strapping on sword and shield, and going to the duel. He was trailed by Alistair and Leliana and Oghren and Morrigan, with Nathaniel in the back, uneasy but present, sticking to Anders’ side and on high alert.

The crowd that had gathered was large, far larger than the number of people who had been sitting in on the Landsmeet.

Good. Let them all see what happened when someone dared hurt his sal’shiral.

He found Eamon on the edge of the gathered crowd and watched him. Him and Isolde. Standing there, Isolde fussing over his bruised and battered face, Eamon not looking apologetic or regretful in the least.

How dare he.

How dare he-

“Arl Mahariel? I want t-”

Theron looked at Teagan, who’d come over to them, and the Bann stopped dead.

Alistair leaned in.

“Your eyes are going all Warden-y,” he said quietly in El’vhen.

The part of the Joining people got hung up on was the darkspawn blood, but that wasn’t what made a Warden. Anyone could contract the Taint, and no matter if someone could have survived the Joining or not, pure Taint would kill. It was the Archdemon blood and the lyrium that made a Warden. Alistair had brought back the explanation of how the Joining worked from Weisshaupt, a final Warden secret they’d learned too late.

Darkspawn blood for the Taint, for the strength and stamina and durability it provided. Archdemon blood for the sensing of Taint, in darkspawn and Blight animals and ghouls and the land. Lyrium to bind it, to hold it at bay with the strength of your soul and put it at the direction of the conscious thinking mind, as much as you could. It was the lyrium that made the cold icy feeling inside, the lyrium that gave the darkspawn dreams, the lyrium that could cause instant death at the Joining, when it drew on the soul’s strength to counteract the Tainted blood- too much or too little, no one was sure, but that mattered less than the death itself.

And it was the lyrium that made Warden eyes, a phenomenon that was, most times, easily overlooked. When there was Taint close enough to sense, the irises of a Warden would shine piercing, unworldly bright white-blue, like pools of liquid lyrium. This was the common form, a relatively normal part of being a Warden that even the newest recruits exhibited.

It took older Wardens, more exposed to the Taint, to develop the less common form. The full white-blue glow, with the candlesmoke mist of lyrium in air, as thick as breaths in mountain cold. He and Alistair hadn’t gotten so far during the Blight despite the sheer numbers of darkspawn and their trip into the Roads and the stress of the year- but Alistair had said that Theron’s eyes had done it, killing the Archdemon; and then reported that it had happened to him the first time he’d gone out with other Wardens in the Anderfels.

It had only happened to them once or twice each again after that- and until today only against darkspawn. It was something that could happen when senior Wardens got particularly incensed, but that was Wardens of ten or fifteen years.

In another time, Theron might have been worried, being only five years Joined. But he was furious, and Zevran was hurting, and he was supposed to be untouchable, safe, protected-

Something hit him in the side of his waist and he had a visceral flash of wanting to tear Oghren’s head off with his teeth.

“Yeah, you’ve found your rage,” Oghren said, giving him a long look when he turned on him. “After this, you and me, out in the practice grounds. You’re gonna learn how to harness this and go berserk, or you’re gonna learn how to calm down so some nughumper doesn’t make a comment about him and then get in a stupid soddin’ lucky blow.”

“Is he all right?” Theron heard Teagan ask Alistair in a nervous undertone.

“I mean, he’s really, really angry,” Alistair answered. “But the blue eyes is just a Warden thing. Happens sometimes.”

“I just wanted to say- my brother was wrong in how he went about this, and I don’t agree with him. But I couldn’t let him simply appoint someone, so I had to step up. I wanted to make sure he knew.”

He wanted to be facing Eamon here. Eamon had said those things, he’d-

Teagan. Teagan was here right now.

Theron turned from Oghren and nodded to him. Teagan seemed relieved.

“Thank you, Arl-Commander. Best of luck to you. Your arbiter?”

His what.

He glanced over at Alistair, who looked confused for a moment, then nervous.

“Uh-”

Nathaniel stepped forward unexpectedly.

“If you would have me, Your Lordship.”

At least Bann Teagan seemed as surprised as he and Alistair were.

“Nat- well, yes, I suppose you’re a reasonably neutral choice,” he said. “Not that I was concerned. You’re an honorable man, Arl-Commander. I’ll leave you to the final preparations.”

He turned and went back to his brother. There was a servant there, ready to hand him his shield and helmet.

“Nate, what’s an arbiter?” Alistair asked.

“The one who starts and ends the duel,” Nathaniel said. “And keeps watch during to ensure the rules are kept. You didn’t-?”

“Templars aren’t supposed to duel, and who was going to challenge a Warden after, y’know.”

“And… final preparations?”

“Traditionally, any amendments you want to make to your will. Or last wishes- blessings from a Sister, if one’s around.”

He wasn’t taking a blessing from Leliana.

“These days, it’s mostly for checking your armor.”

His armor didn’t need to be checked. He needed to have this duel started and finished, so he could go back to the estate and make sure Zevran was all right, and get him to explain what exactly was wrong so they could fix it.

Zevran needed him and he was angry, so angry-

Teagan turned, Rainesfere’s blue-gray cat on the lighter gray field of his shield, his helmet slightly pointed and open-faced in the manner of Fereldan knights. He started into the clear space in front of the crowd, and Nathaniel gave Theron a look over his shoulder as he, too, stepped up, taking careful, measured strides across the space, pacing out the dueling ground.

Theron pulled his own helmet on. Most of his Wardens preferred the Fereldan style, as Alistair did; or the traditional half-visor of Warden plate, for those who came from other countries.

He’d favored full-face helmets made in the influence of the Legion of the Dead, since… after. Through the Blight he’d happily used whatever helmets they’d scrounged, but then, in Fort Drakon-

It had been years, but they’d tried to tear his vallas’lin off, and done enough damage that Zevran had had to take ink and needle to it in the dead of night, after the rescue, so Theron could face the world again. Ever since, he’d felt safer with his oaths secured behind heavy steel or silverite.

“Destroy him,” Morrigan hissed quietly from behind him.

Theron stepped out into the clear area. His breath deflected back on him where it hit the silverite of his helmet, warm and thick and familiar, as Nathaniel paced out the length of dueling ground again. He and Teagan chose their places and started getting settled. There was a faint shine on the inside of his helmet, a minor distraction, that let Theron know the Warden eyes had come in completely. Teagan watched him in slight trepidation as he settled into his stance, a wide-legged slight crouch, dragonbone shield in raised in front of him where he could just look over the top and the point of the old El’vhen straight sword Zevran had gifted him in Antiva held parallel to the ground, tip protruding just past the edge of his shield.

The crowd was silent as Teagan chose his stance, a much more traditional easy stand at rest, a good position to move into attack or defense from.

Nathaniel stepped in between them.

“Shall yae duel to first blood or first down?” he asked, in the tone of a ritual phrase.

“I think blood might be difficult in this instance, Warden Howe,” Teagan said. It was an attempt at levity. It failed.

“Then to the first of yae to yield or be stricken to the Fade be the defeat,” Nathaniel said, and took three large, quick steps back.

So this was it.

Theron knew his strength in battle, and his speed. He had to go home, to Zevran. Zevran needed him. Teagan was only here to spare anyone being forced to fight for his brother’s- his brother’s-

His opening move against any opponent was to ram them with his shield. Teagan was no darkspawn and saw what was coming. He twisted to the side but Theron was no darkspawn either and his shield clipped Teagan, the force behind it enough to send him stumbling back. A crack in the stone made him trip; he fell and rolled back to his feet, countering Theron’s next ramming attempt with a bash of his own shield to deflect the dense plane of dragonbone. Teagan’s sword came down towards Theron’s neck and he ignored it entirely, not bothering to block. This was his armor, made for his rank and his favored tactics. The silverite plates were thick, carefully jointed and fitted by Wade to take blows like this. Theron was a front-lines fighter and always had been, and the more experience he’d gained the better he’d gotten at taking hits. In battle, he charged into clusters of darkspawn, breaking through ranks in fights against groups in the Roads to knock emissaries off their feet and stop their casting, or hamstring ogres, or engage genlock and hurlock alphas and kill them before they could call to their kin and bring to bear what coordination darkspawn had without an archdemon behind them. Those of lesser strength would mob him, and he had to be free to ignore them until he finished with his selected target.

When he was armored like this, his armor was his defense more than his shield, and his shield just as much a weapon as his sword. Theron took Teagan’s hit at his neck, the man’s sword skittering straight off the plate, and thrust his own sword at an armor joint on his side. It sliced through skin in a singing slide of metal on metal and the edge of Theron’s sword came away bloody.

Too easy.

Teagan jolted back, surprised, and there was a murmur from the crowd as droplets flicked from Theron’s blade as he sank down into a modified version of his starting position, sword tip held over the top of the shield now. Good for deflecting, good for ramming. Teagan spared a moment to examine the stance and then came in for a side swing at his left side. Theron ignored this strike too, letting his armor take it, and struck out at the same time with his sword. It was a feint, after a fashion- his starting position had been overhand, and Teagan reacted to the threat to his shield arm by bringing his shield up to block.

All Theron had really needed was for him to move his shield. There was space now to lunge forward, and up-

There was a resounding crack as Teagan’s head snapped back, entirely bearing his throat and the angry red line the top edge of Theron’s shield had left imprinted into the soft skin under his chin. He collapsed immediately, making pained choking sounds. His helmet flew off, clanking against the stone and rolling away.

Theron waited a few moments. Teagan was prone, but not unconscious. He could put a foot on his chest, or place the point of his sword against his neck, and ask him to yield.

But he’d gone back to the estate, and held Zevran, and felt him flinch in his arms when Alistair told him what Eamon had said and what everyone else was saying about him. He’d heard Zevran start to breathe too heavy and too fast, felt the ache of the loss of warmth against him when he’d twisted out of his hug and run. He’d sat there in the hallway by the top of those damned stairs where everything always seemed to go wrong and tried to comfort his love and Zevran had screamed in fear and denial at his touch and he hadn’t been able to speak to ask him what was wrong, to calm him down, to tell him he was loved and safe maybe it was right that he hadn’t been able to because that last was a lie, his sal’shiral was supposed to be safe here but he wasn’t and Theron had to make him safe.

So he waited until Teagan fumbled his way to his hands and knees, hastily trying to get back into the fight on trained instinct not to stay prone and vulnerable, and then Theron slammed the hilt of his sword into the back of Teagan’s head.

Teagan fell face-first into the square, unconscious.

It had been an easy fight, a quick fight- an unsatisfying fight. On the edge of the crowd, Eamon was frowning behind his beard, and Isolde had gasped in shock and dismay as Teagan fell.

Eamon was the one who had said those things to his face. But how many people were saying them behind closed doors? In the privacy of their homes or rented rooms? Around the servants? In the streets, in the taverns, in the kitchens- anywhere he wasn’t, where he couldn’t stop it.

How many of the people here were hurting Zevran?

He’d pulled the rage back when Teagan had spoken to him but it roared forward now. Zevran was back at the estate, Zevran had been hurt, Zevran needed him, Zevran had trusted him and he’d failed, the sanctuary Ferelden was to be for him had been breached, the limits he’d set on his past violated, and it wasn’t going to stop, not unless he stopped it, not unless no one would dare touch Zevran, if not for the respect and care he deserved than for the fear that he would put into all of them of his wrath, these shems who had no right to anything of Zevran, who didn’t know his smiles or his sorrows or his sweetness.

He was supposed to rest his voice, but:

“Zevran Revasina is a hero of Blight as much as any of us.”

His voice was awful and scratchy as he swept his sword out to point to Alistair, Leliana, Morrigan, and Oghren. The muscles of his throat clenched in warning and pain sparked down through his shoulder- he ignored it.

“He stood at the gates of this city and defended it from the hordes. He risked contracting the Taint to save this country and keep the Fifth Blight from engulfing the world-”

The scratch in his throat went dry and burning, and he could only wheeze on his next breath; and then cough, and cough. Nathaniel and Anders, who’d come to wake Teagan and carry him off the field, gave him worried looks.

“Comman-” Anders started to say.

Theron snapped out a hand to stop him, and tried to breath properly.

“Zevran-” he finally managed to say. “-Revasina-”

Another cough, and his throat felt clear again, for the moment.

“-traveled to the Temple of Sacred Ashes with me,” Theron said, fixing Eamon with a look. “He passed the tests of the Gauntlet and was found worthy to be in the presence of Andraste’s mortal remains. Close enough to touch.”

He wasn’t Andrastean, but he could appreciate how important the ashes were.

And because he wasn’t Andrastean, he was more than willing to exploit them.

He let ‘so who are you to judge him wanting’ hang unspoken over the crowd.

“He has endured more, survived more, than any of you ever will. He had the strength to walk away from the Crows and he walked away a good and caring and loving man and I will not stand for anyone slandering him. He will be my husband, and he will be High Lord of Amaranthine, and you will respect him.”

He had grown up with the old statues of the Dales dotting Emprise- the wolves of Fen’harel, broken and partially smashed Evanuris in hidden corners and atop inaccessible crags, Emerald Knights and el’vhen warriors keeping watch and standing ready. He’d always wondered what they’d look like if they moved, in their draping robes and armor, and the curves of their swords.

Now- now Rosaire knew. The Hero didn’t carry one of the curved Dalish swords and his armor had little in the way of the flowing lines of the statues, but the way he moved echoed it, spoke of a foundational training in a form different to any knight or chevalier he’d ever seen. His own taste for fighting clearly ran towards overpowering, but the moment in his first bout when he’d resettled his stance had been a thing of pure beauty, one fluid movement perfectly resolved with the easy grace of the arc of his blade as he’d flipped it over in his hand to resettled into his new grip.

‘Hero’ indeed. He wasn’t very good at poetry, but now he had that urge again, because that had been amazing-

“That was terrifying,” Maxwell said, and Rosaire realized he’d said that last out loud. “I could make a fortune betting on him in the Grand Tourney. He must be a nightmare on the battlefield.”

Even after Bann Teagan had received healing and been escorted off the field, there had been those who’d taken the Hero up on his challenge. Prince Baldewin had stepped up immediately, given a short spiel about his usual Wardens in politics complaints, and proceeded to get beaten into the ground by the Hero. Prince Baldewin had held out longer than the Bann, but it wasn’t saying much. The second challenger was Bann Cauthrien, and Rosaire wasn’t stupid enough to have not seen that there were politics involved somehow, but he wasn’t sure exactly what. That one had lasted the length of a real bout, seemingly more from the Bann’s stubbornness rather than her martial skill.

The third challenger had been the real surprise- Reynaud Dufort, who’d casually told the Hero that he had no issue with his choice in husband and no particular care for the gossip, but that if he was going to get anything out of a spring away from Val Royeaux, fighting the man who’d killed the Archdemon would be a good story.

Reynaud had been quick on his feet, as befitted a chevalier and a duelist. The Hero wasn’t faster but he also wasn’t fooled by fancy footwork and feigned attacks. Doubtless he sparred against his fiancé. Reynaud had lost with grace, and thanked him for the story as he’d been carried away, covered in forming bruises and paying ginger attention to his smashed but magically-healed foot and shoulder. He’d be laid up in his quarters for a while.

No one else had stepped forward to answer the Hero’s challenge, after that.

“I wonder what he meant when he talked about enduring more than any of us ever will,” Maxwell mused, as the crowd started to break up. “And the strength to walk away from the Crows.”

Emprise du Lion was an old marquisate, large in size and prestige and rich off it’s mines and ice. It was rural and not the most accessible of places. The winters were long in the Frostbacks- but fortunately for him, Rosaire had always been a curious one, and Orlesian gold made books cheap.

He knew things.

“Some people say the Crows use Qunari torture methods to keep their assassins in line. Others say they must use something better, because there are plenty of Tal-vashoth around, but since when has there been an ex-Crow? Prevailing opinion is blood magic.”

“Blood magic?”

“There was a famous Guildmaster who was a known blood mage. There’s a rumor that that’s how the Crows supposedly know everything, and are so good at killing difficult marks. They have demonic help, in spying through the Fade and knowing the past, present, and future.”

“You know a lot about this sort of thing, then?” Maxwell asked.

“My father wanted me to be a bard,” Rosaire told him. “I want to go to Arleans and study at the University of Orlais. To make him happy I studied the bards a bit, just in case maybe I would enjoy it. The best work on the subject is a three-volume autobiography of Renette la Doujer. She had a very busy life, knew all kinds of people, got all kinds of places. She talks frankly about what being a bard is like and compares a bard’s work to the Antivan Crows, the House of Repose, and other underhanded mercenary organizations. It’s a very rare book, actually, but it has such good information on methods and means of hired deceit and death from Orlais to Tevinter. She was very passionate about her work. Not a nice woman! But wonderful documentation.”

“You have hidden depths, Lord Desroschers,” Maxwell said.

“No, I just really like knowing things.”

Maxwell gestured for them to start walking, and they proceeded away from the dueling area.

“Are you one of those sorts of noble scholars who always knows who has the best library, no matter where you go?”

“Ferelden has never been much for libraries, and with the Blight, it’s hard to say what’s survived,” Rosaire said, with a pang of longing and sorrow for the possibility of ruined private collections. “Fereldan nobility have never been big readers.”

“But they can read. Surely someone has at least a small private collection. My parents have five hundred or so of note in their private collection, being avid readers themselves, and we’re the caretakers of the family collection. About ten thousand volumes all told, mostly copies of the Chant and devotionals and biographies of important officials and the like.”

He’d never seen ten thousand books all in one place. It sounded wonderful. There were only three hundred and fifty-nine in Emprise’s library. He’d counted. More than once.

“The Couslands were known to have two or three thousand books in their library,” Rosaire said sadly. “But I’ve heard most were burned or lost during the civil war. A number of Banns had very small collections of very old, very good manuscripts, but the Blight…”

It was a tragedy. It really was.

“Have you asked the Queen if she has a private library?” Maxwell asked. “Or the Hero? He seems like the sort to like books. You should ask him about it.”

Rosaire would. The Hero had agreed to talk to him about the Dalish- it would be easy enough to ask about this, as well.

The challenge in Hallarenis’haminathe had been bad enough. It had been politics, but at least it had been Dalish politics.

This had been Fereldan politics, and if his response to all politics was going to be issuing challenges to duels-

Well, good thing they were in Ferelden.

But he couldn’t care about that right now. Nathaniel and Anders had Theron in hand, scolding him for speaking when he wasn’t supposed to. Theron was making loud gestures and facial expressions that expounded upon his opinions on not talking, and how quickly he expected this condition to be fixed. Doubtless Theron would have Merrill and Bethany and Iro in some room with him and Anders soon, to force more healing.

That meant Zevran was left to him, for the time being.

“Do we have,” he asked in the kitchen. “Some really fancy, good-tasting wine? Or, uh, brandy?”

The kitchens eventually, after some discussion, provided him with an old bottle of Tevene peach brandy. Alistair took two glasses and went in search of Zevran.

He was in his and Theron’s room, wrapped in blankets on the bed. His ‘come in’ when Alistair knocked was muffled, and exhausted.

“I brought brandy,” Alistair said, sitting down on the bed. “I, uh- I already knew Arl Eamon was being really inconsiderate, but- well. Kallian said. Some things. About the rumors Leliana said she heard, and-”

There was really not a good way to ask this.

“-wellshethinksmaybeyougotraped and I mean, yes or no, you’re still really-”

“Yes,” Zevran interrupted.

He’d had the wind knocked out of him before. This was like that, but accompanied by a sick feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh.”

“Often,” Zevran said, and sat up. The blankets twisted around him, and he’d huddled so far in them that they hooded over his face. “In the Crows. And before. It was my job, my entire life. That and killing.”

Alistair put one of the glasses down and filled the other with brandy. He drained it quickly, and Zevran slid a hand out from the blanket wrappings to pick up the other and hold it out. Alistair filled both.

“So. The… seduction-”

“Oh, it would have been. But it is not a seduction when your choice is ‘go have sex when we tell you or we will do it to you anyway and then kill you slowly’.”

“Oh,” Alistair replied dumbly, and drained his second glass. His hand trembled filling it a third time, but he didn’t spill any. “That’s- that’s really bad.”

And that had been a stupid thing to say. He swallowed a gulp of the brandy.

Zevran’s “yes” was pure dry amusement. Was that good.

Alistair had a thought. He felt guilty and wrong just thinking it; but it had been thought and now he had to be sure.

“You and Theron, are you-”

Zevran looked up, and Alistair could see his face now. He was tired and worn from crying, eyes red and drooping, hair messed.

“He is very good to me,” he said quietly, and leaned forwards until his forehead was resting against Alistair’s shoulder. “Thank you for asking.”

How could he have thought that?

“Good! I’d beat him up, I’ve seen him fight but I could take him, and anyway I’d have to, because I couldn’t let him near you again if he- I mean, not that he would, he’s a good person, he’s got to be one of the best people I’ve ever met, he just cares so much and he’s kind, and he always wants to help and you know he’s always really sincere about it, and he can get possessive and it’s annoying but it also seems kind of nice? He cares so much that he’ll do everything he can to keep somebody safe and happy. And his honor! His piety! You know, when I figured out he was religious I was expecting to be annoyed, it was another thing about Templar training I didn’t like, but it just works for him? He’s devoted to his people and to his gods and to his Wardens and to everyone he cares about and that’s where he rests his honor and it’s a really good place to do that, I hadn’t thought about it that way before, but it’s a really honest sort of way to live, with love and compassion, and he really lives it, I had a home with the Wardens I hadn’t before, and purpose, but even with Duncan, he knew about my father and the other Wardens didn’t but they knew that I was Duncan’s personal junior Warden and I was a part of it but I didn’t really feel accepted, or at least I thought I did but then I met Theron and he just genuinely likes me, and that’s so amazing, do you know how long I spent thinking no one would ever like me or really want me? And then all of a sudden here’s this Dalish elf, thinks I’m a good friend and a competent person and just- likes me and Zev, you’re really lucky to have him, there must be-”

Zevran sat back up and looked at him.

“-plenty of other people who- want- what?”

Alistair nervously swallowed another mouthful of brandy.

“What did I say?”

“You love him,” Zevran said.

“Uh- he’s my friend?”

“Yes, he certainly is.”

“…there’s a ‘but’ there.”

“No, no, my dear friend, there are two of them. A very fine pair. One on yourself, and-”

“No!” Alistair said, very loudly. “No! No, I see where this is going! No! Not like that!”

“I am not convinced.”

“He’s- he’s- you two! The two of you! Getting- married! Husbands! Married couple! No!”

“That hardly keeps your heart from going where it will.”

“It hasn’t!”

“Are you quite sure?” Zevran asked, and yes, he was. “I was not the only one who went searching for him after the burning of Amaranthine. You have lived on top of a terrible cold mountain to staff Soldier’s Peak-”

“That’s my job-”

“-and you write very many letters about how well it is going and how terrible things are in that joking way of yours-”

“And what’s the use if you can’t find humor in it?”

“-and you left your morals behind for him,” Zevran said, suddenly turning to serious matters. “You agreed to the magic in Kirkwall to save me because you knew what it would do to him if I died. You stayed with him when I did not; and I may still not know all that occurred while I was away but I know you were there with him, Alistair, and doing all you could to keep him well. You have known him for six years now, and in all those six years I have yet to hear you express an interest in anyone.”

“Well maybe I’m waiting for the right person!”

“And what would your sort of person be?”

“Appreciates my jokes, and- and likes me, and isn’t weird about the Warden thing, and kind, and welcoming, and-”

There was more, he was sure there was more.

“And all those things you extolled about Theron.”

“I’m not in love with him!”

“And how does it feel when he kisses you?”

The first time Theron had gotten drunk around the rest of them, they’d just cleared Soldier’s Peak and had settled in to camp, as it were, in the fortress. They’d used the central gathering hall, with the large fireplace and the hanging painting, spreading out bedrolls and tent canvas to keep the chill from the stone off as much as possible. Old broken crates and benches had been their fuel to bring the fire up to a blazing heat, almost too big for the hearth, once dinner had been cooked. Levi Dryden had offered everyone wine in celebration of the Peak being cleared, and everyone had drunk.

Oghren had been the same as usual, to no one’s surprise, and hadn’t even seemed to notice that he’d been provided with something that wasn’t ale or beer. He’d had to confiscate Leliana’s knives and bow because she’d decided to prove her marksmanship and nearly skewered Morrigan in her attempt to impress. Morrigan hadn’t seemed particularly bothered by it, which was the weird thing. She’d just laughed and slung an arm around Leliana’s shoulders when she’d started grumping about her weapons being taken and started playing with her red hair in apparent fascination.

Zevran had drunk enough to go boneless and divested himself of armor, shoes, and loosened his shirt and pants in a worrying manner. Alistair had always had a high tolerance for alcohol, as a rule, and had been trying to keep one eye on Morrigan and Leliana and another on Zevran, flopped languidly by the fire, convinced that someone was going to start a catastrophe, when Theron had kissed him for the first time.

He'd been cherry-sweet from the wine and smoky from the fire, warm as sunlight and thrill-edge of an unexpected fight you knew you would win. It had been brief enough, and Theron had pressed closer to him afterwards, all legs and arms, and mumbled about how great he was until he started crying. Alistair had held him in his lap and patted him on the back and tried to tell him, yes, he knew Theron liked him, it was all right.

Alistair hadn’t thought about that in a while. The second time Theron had kissed him, it had been after the Archdemon. They’d been drunk on surprise and relief and victory and not alcohol. It had been sharp and metallic with blood, spiced with salt from a few tears, and Theron had broken it after a few seconds to rest their foreheads together and just breathe. Alistair had urged him away after, to go see his mother and Zevran.

The third time had been the night before he’d left for the Anderfels, and-

“You’re blushing,” Zevran said.

“It’s embarrassing!” Alistair insisted, and wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t. It had never been. It just… was something that was. It was just part of Theron, and he liked Theron.

“And if he came to you sober?” Zevran asked, serious and low. “In the night, in the firelight? If he looked at you with his sweet smile and reached to touch you-”

-the leather of his glove sliding over his cheek, the fire gilding one side of his face in light that illuminated the warm tones in the brown of his skin and throwing shadow across the other, on the side of the hand that would reach for his left and hold it, twining their fingers lightly until his grip tightened to hold their palms gently together, the hand on his cheek continuing into his hair and around the back of his head- Alistair’s arm around Theron’s waist, and Theron’s around his head, Alistair’s free hand on Theron’s ribs and Theron’s on the small of his back, gentle pressure and shared breath and honey and cinnamon this time, woodsmoke and rich earth, cool night and warm bodies made warmer by the simple perfect knowledge of care and companionship-

“Alistair?”

Zevran and the bed were what was real, not the camp and the night. Zevran with his weighty look, shadowed by unnamed emotions; not Theron’s weight against his body, shadowed by the fire.

“He was my first kiss,” Alistair said weakly, feeling delicate and shaky all through his body, tears pricking at his eyes. Theron- his friend, his Commander, his fellow Warden-

The one who was getting married to the man in front of him, who’d given him plenty of second looks- but only ever in friendship, and chosen Zevran and taken Morrigan to bed, leaving ‘brother’ to him.

He’d never fantasized before, like that. He’d had everything he’d wanted. Someone cared for him, someone called him family. He’d never needed more love than that. He’d die for Theron, and that was what Wardens did, they died.

They didn’t fall in love with each other. He didn’t fall in love with men- he’d never thought of it before. He’d always known he wanted someone to love, but in all his vague imaginings he’d assumed a woman. But for all that, he’d never found one he wanted to love. A couple crushes, here and there, on pretty young Chantry initiates, come and passed in a few days’ time once he’d realized that they’d never give him the time of day.

All this time, Theron had been kissing him- had given him all the kisses he’d ever had- and somehow he’d never realized.

Maybe Zevran called after him as he left; he didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything until he found himself sitting on a bench in the gardens, hedged in by pussy willow and a bed of just-blooming daffodils at his feet, that he even remembered going downstairs and passing Fergus coming in with a bouquet for Bethany.

 Alistair looked down at the daffodils and buried his face in his hands and tried not to cry, or shake.

He wanted to get Theron flowers.

Chapter Text

Somehow, she’d expected this.

The messenger had come, in the Queen’s livery with the patent with the Queen’s seal. Mother had held it in her hands and sat down in the armchair by the window in their suite’s sitting room and cried. Kirkwall was done and finished, had burned them too many times. Lothering had treated them better.

Her sister had, predictably, stood pensively in the corner, lurking, arms crossed. 

“Mhua vakyadr, Maryam?” she’d asked, after reassuring Orana that everything was fine, and taking her place in the corner chair, feet tucked under her skirts, working on her embroidery.

Marian startled, as she always did when someone spoke Rivaini to her unexpectedly. Their father had spoken it to her when she’d been little, and had been the only of three of them who was even partially fluent, before Bethany had gone off to the Gallows. It had been a little point of pride to yell Rivaini curses at the top of her lungs when Marian had turned up looking for her in the chaos of falling Kirkwall and see her sister jump at least one whole inch higher than she had the first time Isabela had looked her up and down in the Hanged Man, noted the shade of her skin, and come on to her in their father’s language.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Marian had said defensively. “It’s back home. It’s closer to Merrill. Mother will be happy-”

She’d continued on in this vein for a handful more moments, but then there’d been a knock on the door.

And it was Fergus. With flowers, and a nervous air. He smiled briefly at her, more anxious than she’d ever seen him, and inclined his head to her mother.

Marian pushed off the wall.

“Bann Amell, my congratulations on your new title.”

“It is much appreciated, Teyrn Cousland.”

“May I speak with your daughter?”

He hadn’t asked like that before. Had the protocol changed, now that they were both Fereldan nobility?

At least her mother seemed surprised, as well, even if just for a moment.

“Why, of course.”

Marian loomed in front of him suddenly. For a two-handed warrior, she’d always been fast and quiet, and unexpected. Fergus leaned back from what must have been one of Marian’s signature ferocious looks- or perhaps Rabbit stalking up next to her and rumbling at her feet. Perhaps both.

“Marian, please,” Bethany said.

Fergus rearranged the flowers he was holding and held his hand out.

“A pleasure to meet you. Bethany has spoken of you. How is the Arl’s sister?”

Marian glared at his hand for a moment before clasping forearms with him.

“Worried,” she told him.

“Will you be in Denerim for long? I was told you’d gone south to the Dalish. That’s quite a journey.”

Marian stayed stone silent and didn’t let go of his arm.

“Well,” Fergus said, plastering on a smile. “I hope to see more of you. Any family of the Arl’s is a friend of mine.”

Bethany had to actually get up and kick Marian in the back of the ankle before she’d let Fergus go.

“Let’s go somewhere more private,” she suggested, and hooked her arm into his, throwing a look over her shoulder at Marian as she led Fergus into the anteroom of her bedroom. She just knew that her sister was going to be looming outside the door as soon as she closed it.

So, for good measure, Bethany threw the lock on it as well, before turning back to him.

He’d brought her more of his wife’s Antivan flowers.

“Bethany,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Lady Bethany-”

He faltered. This wasn’t like him. Unease seized her gut.

“Is there something-”

“You are very nice,” Fergus said. “And kind, and pleasant, and well, I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone I really liked, at least that I didn’t know already, and it could have been- well, odd-”

“Teyrn Fergus, I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

“I’d be very happy if you just called me by my name,” he said. “And the easiest way to make that happen was if we were closer. Equals.”

He held the flowers out to her.

It took her a moment, because this wasn’t how proposals went in books and ballads.

“Are you asking me to-”

“Yes.”

What was she supposed to say? She liked him, certainly, and being a Teyrna would- well she wouldn’t get a better offer, and she liked being around him, and they got along, and certainly she hadn’t gone fluttery over a man even a little bit ever before, and she was for him, some. But was that reason enough to marry him?

She didn’t want to see him disappointed.

They don’t like it when you say no, Anders’s voice wormed it’s way out of her memory.

…he wouldn’t.

But what reason did she have to turn him down? He’d want an answer, surely. And she couldn’t tell him the truth, that she was a mage and couldn’t marry. He’d have the duty to turn her in. It would disgrace her mother, and her new title, and she couldn’t go back to a Circle. She’d die first.

But she couldn’t lie, or give him no answer. It would be cruel, and there would be talk, and her mother-

Fergus was waiting.

Bethany put on a smile, reminded herself that she’d hid her magic for years already, and said: “Yes.”

“Recite something for me,” his sister pleaded when the other mages were finished and gone.

“‘In the days of our enslavement, there lay then as today in the town of Airothous the villa of Magister Gevinctes. The lady of the House was a mage taken with her power and her position, Lutena. She was cruel and careless and loved of the humans, and her husband Berenicus was a mage of no little talent, though overshadowed by his wife. He brought with him from his family’s estates a woman by the name of Irien, and her young daughter Sabrae-’”

Merrill grabbed his shoulders and kissed him. Theron kissed her back and rested their foreheads together, touching vallas’lin.

“-who were made presents to his wife who had them as her personal slaves, serving her in her chambers.’”

Her hands drifted to his newly-healed neck.

“I was scared I’d never hear you as Hahren again.”

Theron swallowed. It was blessedly free of pain.

“So was I.”

“There’s things Tamlen and Ashalle and I have to tell you-”

“I have to go see Satheraan.”

“His mother had him, she said he needed rest,” Merrill told him. “It’s about Sabrae, brother.”

He couldn’t ignore that.

There was a small back hallway of guest rooms on the second floor of the estate. Alistair had one of them, and Ashalle and Tamlen had been given the others, shuffling out some of the Wardens to parts unknown. Both were sitting on the floor when they arrived, engaged in a game of tali stone, a dexterity game played with pebbles for children, and small polished stone and bone beads, as his brother and mother were using, for adults.

Tamlen tucked nine beads between his fingers and flipped the bone tile back and forth across all his fingers as they walked in, winning this round of the game, and then dropped everything as he looked up. The beads bounced t-t-tics off the wooden floor as he snatched Theron into a hug.

“I’m all right,” Theron reassured him quietly, and kissed his hair.

“Is your life always this full of shit now, brother?” he asked, voice muffled but still obviously rough. “How many times have you almost died since we got separated?”

Theron thought back and started counting. Tamlen pounded him on the back.

“Fuck you!”

“I’ve been very good at not getting killed,” Theron said. “I’ve been well, brother.”

“I can’t lose you,” Tamlen mumbled against his shoulder. “So much is gone, I can’t lose you too.”

“What’s gone?” Theron asked, and the atmosphere of the room turned uncomfortable.

“Theron,” Merrill finally said. “You remember how the clan was smaller, on Sundermount?”

“Yes.”

“It was autumn when Sabrae came to Amaranthine,” Ashalle told him. “It’s not the best time of year to travel. There was sickness, on the ships to Gwaren, and in Gwaren. The humans weren’t much bothered, Ilen said, or the city elves, but Sabrae-”

Sickness generally wasn’t a catastrophe in the clans. There were too many mages, all taught in rudimentary healing and herbalism, to let things go that far.

“Keeper Marethari-” Theron started to say, dread creeping its way down his spine.

Tamlen lifted his head.

“She was possessed,” he said. “We killed her. There are only twelve adults of Sabrae now, Theron. And your son, and Fenaral and Radha had a daughter.”

Fourteen. Sabrae had been a healthy clan, one of the smallest in Ferelden, some two hundred and sixty adults strong. On Sundermount they’d been about a hundred, still vastly reduced and minuscule by Dalish standards, but it had been salvageable number.

Fourteen was not a salvageable number.

“Who,” Theron asked. “Who’s still alive?”

“Us,” Ashalle said. “Ilen, Fenarel, Junar, Radha, Rosallin, Sousil, Reathe, and Mahnas.”

Keeper Marethari was dead. Hahren Paivel was dead. Halla Keeper Maren was dead.

There was no First to step up and no Second to guard the clan.

Theron pushed away from Tamlen and put his hands on his vallas’lin, covering his eyes.

Was this the cost of his family? Was this what the Creators wanted, demanded for the good of the People? His life, Tamlen’s life, Merrill’s safety?

Falon’din had used his old, ruined temple to bring him to the Grey Wardens and take Tamlen away from Sabrae. The Tainted eluvian had taken Merrill’s security in her magic and cost her her place in the clan.

No Hahren, no Second, no First. They’d been the future of Sabrae, he’d grown up knowing it, grown up having it said less often than it was implicitly assumed, in the responsibilities they’d been given and the lessons they’d been taught. Keeper, Second, Hahren- a trifecta to lead Sabrae safely and soundly into the future, into new prosperity, out of the slow decline they’d been enduring over the last two centuries, less children and less mages. He and Merrill would marry, have a great sprawling family of mage children for Sabrae, and all would be well again with the blood of Sabrae strengthened by Merrill’s direct descent from the lords of House Alerion, once rulers of Lydes- curators of the vast library, leading mage-scholars, and lieutenants of the Fade Hunters. In the last fourteen generations of Theron’s father’s line only three had been born without magic- Theron himself, his grandfather Soleanathe, and Soleanathe’s great-great grandfather. Theron’s father Mahariel had been Keeper, and his grandfather before him, and his father, and his father, and his grandmother, and her mother, and her father, and his grandfather, and his mother, and her-

 Sabrae ended here. A great family of the Dales, descended from a leader of the revolt against the Magisters and her followers. There would be no more heroes here- no more like Sabrae Irienes, who released a taipan into her slavers’ bedsheets and to left them dying with venom in their blood while she raised the El’vhen of southeastern Tevinter’s vineyards to Shartan in the false dawn. No more like Lady Haurnatha, the great poet who put her pen aside in favor of taipan venom on the knife’s edge when her cousins would have seen her line killed for the prize of the House Sabrae’s ancient enchanted hold on the rise of the Frostbacks. No more like Lord Ilthemien, middle-aged and the proud father of three, who took up his son’s sword when the Knight Thahoris fell at Montsimmard, and fell himself defending Halam’shiral. No more like Thahoris’s sister Ghanadin, fallen to Templars as she killed the cornered Fade Hunters she’d been assigned to guard to shred the Veil on the edge of the Emerald Graves and ensure that the Chantry’s mage-warriors were unable to stop the second-to-last rally of the El’vhen army from breaking the siege on Verchiel. No more like Misedrin, the youngest, third child, last Keeper of the Hold, who’d kept the mountain road to Orzammar and Ferelden safe all through the war with his own knives and skill in night and the cover of stone, the proud last master of Sabrae’s bana’raselanala tradition.

Misedrin had held the way out of the Dales for the People fleeing the eastward march of the Chantry even past the fall of Halam’shiral. House Sabrae had been the last to leave their lands, staying until the Templars had overrun Sabrae’s  town of Esa’ir and stood at the bottom of the path that led up to the hold that guarded the western mouth of Gherlen’s Pass. Misedrin would have spent his own life to set the blood seals that presumably still held Sabrae’s Choice in secret until this day, had his sisters-in-law not sealed his wounds and gathered the House to flee through the hidden back path. Misedrin had led House Sabrae across the Alamarri lands of Ferelden and into the Brecilian, where the Veil was always thin and the Chantry feared to step, where the inherent liminality of the vast forest would strengthen the mages Sabrae would birth and house; mages like first Keeper Ga’len, and Keepers Iveani and Dhavasangr and Mahariel-

There would be no more of them. Falon’din had put him on the path to secure a home and the Third City of the People. The cost was his life, his future- and Sabrae.

“We are a dead clan,” Theron said, voice catching in his throat in a way that not hours ago would have meant he was about to tear his wounds open again. Now, it was merely the verge of tears, of weeping that would never stop, as the chasm he felt opening in his chest would never heal. His clan- he had no home. Ashalle would join Vhadan’ena, and the others would go where they willed. He was no Keeper, no First; he could not ask the other clans for new families and rebuild from nothing. He would never be able to call himself Theron Mahariel Sabrae again- he would have to lose his names, be Warden-Commander Theron, Arl Theron, Theron of the Wardens.

Sworn to the Oath of the Dales, but without a place. Without a clan; homeless, hopeless, bereft.

They would have to hold a funeral for the clan, have Sabrae mourned by the rest of the People. In the proper way of things he should have, as the old Hahren’s graduated apprentice, committed the stories of Sabrae to the memory and keeping of the People, then sacrificed his life to the Creators but he couldn’t, he was Arl-Commander and Hero and why, why did it always come down to this? His two duties, contradicting, leaving him inadequate in both!

He would rather have been named an exile, rather have given in to being i’tel’melin and willingly given up his name and family and love to be as the other Dalish Wardens, than this.

He would have rather died than this.

“The line of Sabrae Irienes has ended-”

“It hasn’t, Theron,” Merrill said. “You have Hathen-”

“It is not enough,” he wept. “He cannot be Keeper, Merrill! You were struck from the succession! You cannot become Keeper! Without a Keeper; without families, without children or-”

He reached out, unseeing, through his tears for comfort. His family provided, drawing close and granting warmth and encompassing touch, some reassurance of safety.

“It doesn’t have to be the end of Sabrae,” Ashalle said, after a time. “I had a thought. You will marry Satheraan, and that is a clan tie of a sort. Rajrad already knows us, and Hathen. We could bring him.”

“But why would he come?” Theron asked. “The family he knows is in Revasina.”

“Which is not so far from us now,” Ashalle reminded him. “Some walking, at an easy enough distance for any Dalish in reasonable health.”

“The clan wasn’t very happy about it,” Merrill said. “They don’t want any more… foreign mages.”

Theron freed an arm and hugged her around the waist.

“It sounded like,” Tamlen said. “From what they said- which wasn’t a real decision, we were just talking about what we could do- the clan would rather leave ‘Clan Sabrae’ behind and be ‘House Sabrae’ again.”

“But we don’t have- we’re not back in the Dales, we don’t have Esa’ir back. We don’t have the House seat, we don’t have the House lands-”

“We have land in Hallarenis’haminathe,” Merrill said. “The People have been building in the city, we know they have! We can build a new House seat. Just because we have something new doesn’t mean we forget the old. When we get the Dales back, we’ll be ready. We’ll have a Lord to release the blood wards and sit in the hall and rule again. We’ll have a Keeper of the Hold, and a Commander of the House, Masters of the Towns- all of it.”

“But-”

The Houses were something of the Dales. Surely- surely there was something wrong with resurrecting them in Hallarenis’haminathe? Wasn’t that giving up on the Dales? Wasn’t it-

“It is a bit fanciful,” Ashalle said. “The other Keepers would have to agree-”

“It’s our clan,” Merrill argued. “Why should they get to decide if we can or can’t be a House again?”

-wasn’t it death to Sabrae if they didn’t resurrect the House? Could it be cheapening of the Third City to say that there couldn’t- or shouldn’t- be Houses there? But-

“Who?” Theron asked. “A House needs a-”

“You, brother,” Tamlen said. “Sabrae would have you as our Lord.”

He’d pushed too far, it seemed, trying to bring himself out of his own head. All Alistair had wanted was to offer some help, and he’d sent him off in a mire of emotions instead.

Zevran had more of the peach brandy Alistair had brought. He didn’t know if alcohol was a good choice or not at the moment, but the peach brandy was insufferably sweet. The taste helped ground him- Ferelden meant Antiva was behind him, and the disgusting sucre in his mouth was better than the filth he felt in his soul and the-

He took another large mouthful, almost too large, and had to swallow carefully to keep from spilling on the sheets.

The door opened- no, it wasn’t, Zevran realized as he put the bottle down. It was the panel that led to the hidden passageway to the Arlessa’s suite. The panel was cracked open a smidge.

“Diego?”

The panel was pushed open, but it was Kieran who wiggled through first. He tried to clamber up onto the bed, but it was too short. Diego lifted him up before Zevran could unwrap himself from the sheets, and climbed up himself. Zevran untangled himself and pulled them both into a cocoon of blankets with him.

“Babae has lots of emotions,” Kieran said, pressing close.

“Your Babae is a very emotional man.”

Kieran made a huffy grumbling sound.

“He was scared and mad and upset and surprised and he’s not here.”

He’d left?

“He’s with Aunt Merrill and Uncle Tamlen and Hamae but I want him.”

“So you went to Diego instead?”

“And Tiar,” Diego said. “But she’s pretending that she thinks it’s a bad idea to come because you were screaming so we shouldn’t bother you but I know she’s just pretending she doesn’t care because she’s scared.”

Dread hit him straight in the gut.

“She is scared of me?”

“No, she trusts you, but-”

Diego scrunched up his face in thought.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “She’s scared. She gets more fight-like when she’s scared.”

“It can be a source of great fear, trusting someone,” Zevran said, remembering his own conundrum- he’d trusted Theron with his life long before he’d let himself even think about even simply being friends, and not in a contract for his life.

“But she doesn’t need to be,” Diego complained.

“She’s safe,” Kieran agreed grumpily. “Mine.”

Zevran laughed.

“Ah, you are your Babae’s son, Kieran,” he said. “Emotional and cuddly and adopting anyone who needs a kind life.”

Kieran frowned at him.

“So are you, Papa.”

He could feel Diego wilt a bit on that last word, and- and could it be-

“Well,” he said to Kieran, keeping his tone light and amused. “If you have adopted them does that mean you have found yourself a brother and sister?”

“They’re yours so they’re Babae’s so they’re mine,” Kieran said, and wriggled out of his hold to flop face-first against Diego, who caught him.

“That is quite the train of logic,” Zevran said, keeping a subtle eye on Diego. “Very good. Though I believe it is generally polite to ask before declaring yourself siblings.”

Diego tensed a moment, and then asked, very carefully:

“You can do that?”

Zevran stroked his hair.

“You can always choose your family.”

Was it time to take a chance? Would it be too much? Too soon?

Tiar and Diego weren’t the same terrified hunted apprentices he’d saved in Rialto. Tiar was still prickly, but Diego seemed to have shed his shyness. After these months knowing them, Zevran knew why that was. Tiar had protected him, in the Crows. It was clear with every interaction. He’d had someone to trust, someone who was safe, and he’d come off the better for it, able to latch onto new trust. Tiar hadn’t been able to trust.

But just because she didn’t show it didn’t mean she didn’t feel it now. Diego had said as much.

And both of them- well, they’d defended him. They’d ganged up on his mother and set their own watch for Salvail. When there was no danger, they behaved more like children. They acted out, they bickered with each other in a way only those who had been close for years could.

Tiar and Diego were siblings already, even if they didn’t realize it, or say it. But would they-?

He would only know if he asked.

“I did it,” Zevran continued, still stroking Diego’s hair. The boy leaned into it. “More than once. Theron, and then his mother. Then Alistair. Morrigan and Kieran.”

He ducked down and put a kiss on the back of Kieran’s head, in a ticklish spot he knew. Kieran squirmed and giggled.

“But he’s-” Diego said. “He’s the Arl’s son, and you and the Arl are getting married.”

“And I could still have refused,” Zevran said. “But I did not want to. I wanted Kieran to be-”

Had he- he hadn’t actually said this before, he realized, as the words left his mouth.

“-my son-”

His son. He was a father. He was thirty-three, he was free of the Crows, he was loved, he was going to be married, he had a son.

Ten years ago he’d known he was likely to die young and hard, within the next few years. His only real hope had been that it would be fast, not slow; and on a difficult contract, and not a betrayal. A dead Crow, longer-lived than most taken by the assassins, proud of his skill and his rank as his soul was taken to the Void- they’d had no place amongst the godly in life, so why should they be blessed in death? Grab pleasure in life, where it was safe to, and endure through the rest.

But now Theron had a slew of endearments to call him, and Morrigan would use his name and Alistair seemed to have slipped into ‘Zev’ without realizing it, and there were people who called him ‘da’len’ again and Kieran looked at him and called him ‘Papa’.

That last hadn’t felt real until now.

“-as well as Theron’s. And I would-”

Could he? Could he say this? It was- but he-

“-be more than happy to have you and Tiar, as well.”

There was a loud thunk from the passage to the Arlessa’s suite.

Zevran did his best not to laugh, but amusement ended up in his tone regardless.

“You can come out, Tiar. It’s all right.”

He waited a moment. The moment came, and continued.

Diego glanced anxiously over at the hidden passage, and Zevran got out of the bed, draping the sheets over the boys.

The passage was empty, but closed on the other end. He had to feel on the inside of the other door panel with his fingers to find the catch in the dark, but it was simple enough to manage.

He started to push it open, and it was slammed shut from the other side.

Zevran put his hands on the wood, and rested his forehead against it.

“Tiar?” he asked gently.

No response.

“Isagadi-”

Tiar slammed a fist against her side of the panel to silence him.

He waited a moment to see if she would say something. She didn’t.

“Do you want me to-”

“How could you say that!”

Her voice was rough, and full of tears, and pain, and– yes, fear. He closed his eyes, remembering. 

“I could say it because I mean it, Tiar.”

 She hit the door again.

Zevran sat down in the passage, one side pressed up against the hidden panel.

“I will leave if you want me to,” he told her through the door. “But I would like to help you. I know how difficult emotions can be.”

He waited again, and no reply.

“If you talk about how you are feeling, I will help as much as I can.”

Again, nothing.

“Well,” Zevran said. “What I can offer from observation is this: you seem angry.”

He thought he heard some noise of derision from the other side of the door, but it was likely that he’d imagined it.

“Now, anger, I have found, is a tricky emotion. It seems very straightforward, and that is the great lie of it. Anger is a defense, one so overwhelming that the reason for the defense is easily hidden, sometimes even to one’s self. I have had plenty of experience with it. Kieran’s mother was- well, she is still, no?- a rather caustic person when the mood strikes her. She is prideful and bent on power and knowledge. An admirable woman in many respects, even in the sharpness of her tongue. But the sharp words are a cover for feeling out-of-place, or mocked, or perceived as stupid or having feelings. She did not have a good mother, Morrigan, and it has left it’s mark. She pushes at people because she is trying to keep them away, so she will not be vulnerable. I have done the same to Theron a few times, feeling scared that I would not be understood or listened to, dismissed or not treated with empathy or an honest attempt to be cared for. I have lashed out at him for that, and done my apologies. Theron has had his moments as well- not with me, mostly, but more often for me. Hurt can be a complicated thing as well. I have been hurt many ways by the Crows, and I have plenty of anger over that- you have heard it. Theron has been angry- furious- when I am not respected. Sometimes it is a bit- hm.”

How to put this?

“More often he is angry because if I have been hurt then he feels that he has not protected me, and he feels guilty about it. That is his hurt. But he has also been angry because of injustice against people. And he has been angry over loss. In Antiva City, tearing through the Crows was because he was scared I was dead, and if I was dead, it would hurt him deeply. Being angry was a way to keep from feeling fear or grief, and to make other people hurt like he did. That is what we do with anger, when we attack other people in it. We are hurt, and the way we are expressing it is by making other people hurt like we do, so that they understand. Or to hurt them so that they go away, because we are scared of being hurt further.”

“That’s why we get angry?” Kieran asked, and Zevran looked over. The boys had followed him into the passage.

“Yes, it is,” he told Kieran, and pulled him into his lap.

Diego crept in and pressed against his side, wedging himself between Zevran and the door.

“I don’t think I get angry when I get hurt,” he said quietly. “I- I want to hide. And cry. But I can’t cry.”

“When I am the most scared, I wish to hide as well,” Zevran told him. “Hiding is the only thing that makes me feel safe again. I am sorry about your tears. It took me some time after leaving the Crows to be able to cry. It will come back, as you feel safer.”

The door clicked as the catch was released from the other side. Diego’s weight on the panel opened it enough to have a view of the room.

Zevran put Kieran down and stood, going into the room. Tiar was huddled on the other side of the door, just past the hinges, knees drawn up.

He knelt next to her and put a gentle hand on her back.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he told her. “Do you want a hug?”

For a few moments, it seemed like the answer would be ‘no’; but then she shoved off the wall and toppled into him. He held her tightly.

Diego jabbed her in the ribs with a finger and hissed: “Tell him!” at her.

She shoved him away with her foot.

“I’ll tell him,” he threatened.

“No,” Zevran told him. “It is her choice what she wishes to share.”

Kieran came and tried to squeeze himself into their hug.

“Kieran, I am paying attention to Tiar right now.”

“I want a hug.”

“I will hug you again after Tiar is ready to be finished.”

Kieran scowled. Diego sat back up and pulled him into a hug. Zevran gave him a grateful smile, and dropped his cheek against the top of Tiar’s head.

“I am listening, if you wish to speak.”

She didn’t, for a few minutes. He waited until she finally did.

“Why would you want me.”

“Because I like you,” he told her. “Because I want to make you feel safe and happy. I want you to have a good life, and I think I can give it to you. It would also- hm. You are very important to me, and you will not be any more or less important whether I am your parent or not, and I will still think of us as family, but-”

This was frustrating. He didn’t want to scare her, he didn’t want to pressure her, but he thought of ‘family’ and it seemed as though rationality fled. It was all pure emotion, it was all warm feelings, bright aching things that he wanted to share.

“It was-”

No, that wasn’t right either. He sighed.

“I am loved. I am wanted. I am cared for. It has changed my life entirely for the better. I want to give you a life like that, where you are not alone and you feel secure in yourself. I can- I will give it to you, if you will let me. However you want me. As a mentor or a guardian or some sort of family or-”

Tiar slipped her arms out from where they’d been stuck between his body and hers, and hugged him back, just holding on.

“You do not have to answer me,” Zevran told her. “I want you to make a decision that pleases you.”

“Satheraan?”

Theron’s question came down the passage. From the sound of it, he’d just stepped in the other room.

Tiar pushed at him.

“Go.”

“Are you certain?”

“Go away,” she said, and pushed him harder. Zevran let go and stood, pausing before he went back to his and Theron’s room to pick up Kieran and give him his promised hug.

“Can you leave I and your Babae alone for a while?” he asked the boy. “We must have serious conversations.”

Kieran nodded, even if he whined a bit at being put down again.

Zevran closed both doors in the passage as he went through them. Theron had begun to take off his armor, and he went to help.

Theron didn’t let him. As soon as Zevran was close enough, his love cupped his face and looked him right in the eyes.

“How are you?” he asked, and from this close, Zevran could tell that he’d been crying recently, and there was another layer of worry behind what he was showing now.

“How are you? You look worn-”

“No,” Theron cut him off. “You were collapsing and screaming. What was wrong?”

Zevran’s eyes flicked back to the open peach brandy and the glasses. A drunk Theron was useless for everything, but this conversation-

“You will not like it,” he said. “Finish taking your armor off first.”

Theron let him go to follow orders, and quickly downed almost three more glasses of the disgusting sweetness. He wanted to go wash his mouth out, but he’d need that grounding.

It took a handful more of minutes before Theron was finished getting out of his armor. He clambered up on the bed and held his arms open for Zevran to cuddle.

Zevran lay down carefully with him.

“I told you,” he said. “About-”

It was still so hard to say, and it was harder now given the day. He thought back to the night they’d gotten engaged and buried his head into Theron’s shoulder- don’t look it’s easier- remembered why he’d drunk the disgusting brandy- Ferelden that’s home now- it wasn’t enough he sought out Theron’s hands and squeezed, squeezed- the pain now not the pain then this is better this is better-

“Satheraan?”

-losing myself don’t want to go back hurts scared don’t want to go back don’t want to-

“Go back where?”

His mouth was disgustingly sweet. Pastries, candies, little cakes, fruits, parties arms around him heat close another body touching touching him-

When he came back to himself he was shaking, his face was wet, and Theron was half-off the bed.

He fisted his hands over his eyes, trying to calm down.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Theron lifted his hands from his face, slow and deliberate, and gave him one of his so-gentle kisses.

“It’s all right. Do you want to be held again?”

“I don’t know.”

Theron eased them into it, slipping an arm under his shoulders and resting the other lightly over his stomach, not restraining, just close. He let Zevran decide to turn over on his side and shift closer.

“Can you tell me where now?” Theron asked quietly.

He couldn’t say it directly. Zevran cursed himself- all this time he hadn’t been able to admit it with the truth of what he’d been through, and now he couldn’t talk about it!

“What I told you when we became engaged,” he said, trying his best to stay oblique, and Theron kissed his hairline. “At the Summer Lily. I had no real memories of it. With the Crows, not so much when I was younger, more when I was older. But I enjoyed it.”

He heard Theron take a particular breath, steadying and disbelieving.

“Enjoyed?”

“I had orgasms,” Zevran said. “I know, now, that it is not the same, but then- it was one of the few good things I had. There were handsome, beautiful people; good liquor, exquisite food-”

Sweet cakes- NO

“Ma vhenan, ma vhenan,” Theron said, raking a hand into his hair. A hesitation- and then Zevran felt Theron’s hand tighten. He arched a little into the pull and tried to remember Ferelden, snow, dogs, Dalish, Theron- “It’s passed, you’re safe.”

Breathe. He could. He could stay here, here with Theron.

“I had some pride, being good at it,” he continued. “And it was-”

He swallowed, because this one hurt. His eyes pricked.

“-they told me I was good,” Zevran whispered. “The Crows. The- other people. I did it and they told me I was good, for doing it. I wanted to be good-”

“You are,” Theron told him. “You are very good, Satheraan, you are so good, I learn more about you and it’s such a wonder, all the good you have tucked away and never even realized, I love you-”

Theron’s spill of praise hit him where it always did, the place that started to bring the warm, peaceful fog. He’d never experienced more than the slightest touch of it, but it seemed so nice and he wanted to wallow in it- but right now, a touch was enough. It was calm, it was good.

“It makes no sense,” he said. “I enjoyed it when it was happening. But I remembered-”

He faltered. This was dangerous. If he talked about it, the remembering, surely it would swamp him again.

“You are safe,” Theron told him, stroking down his back. He pulled out the last word, tone descending. The pattern, and this stroking- this was what he did to scared animals. “You are safe-”

Regardless, perhaps it was working.

“Fear,” Zevran told him. If he kept it a list, maybe the memories would stay further away. “Shame. Revulsion. P… powerless-”

“You are not now,” he was reminded, as Theron tried to soothe the tension out of his shoulders.

“I feel filthy,” Zevran finally admitted, and it was so humiliating to say, he didn’t know why.

“You were-” Theron began, and Zevran could hear where he decided not to say a word. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

He buried his bitter snort in Theron’s chest.

“There are plenty of things wrong with the people who hurt you,” Theron said firmly. “And it does make sense, remembering it like this. If you were feeling that, you wouldn’t have been able to do what you’d been told, and you would have been killed. So you only noticed what you liked. You were doing the only thing you could do to protect yourself and stay alive. And I-”

“You what?” Zevran asked after a moment, when he didn’t continue.

“I don’t know if it’s a bad thing to say or not.”

“I want to hear.”

“You’re sure?”

“Theron,” he said, and finally looked up at his love. “It will not be even near the worst of what I have heard, I am certain of that. And I know you do not want to hurt me. That does make a difference. To me.”

Theron looked extremely uncertain as he finished his thought, and watched him carefully. Zevran tried to keep a neutral expression, but wasn’t sure how well he did.

“It was absolutely awful, what you lived through with them, but I am so happy that you’re alive and I- I’m proud of you for making it and it sounds so bad to say-”

“I think I would like you not to say it again,” Zevran told him. “But I understand.”

Theron took a deep breath and unsuccessfully hid his nervous guilt in his eyes.

“Okay. Okay. I- with what you’ve been saying, that’s what you remembered from the Crows? What about the Summer Lily-”

The smell of flowers and perfume and cooked food permeated the hallway and hadn’t quite faded here yet, the door shut, it wasn’t well-lit, the-

“NO!”

“I won’t I won’t I won’t I won’t-” Theron promised in a frantic rush, and Zevran stared at his face, trying to stay present, while Theron’s fingers slid along his cheekbones and jaw. It was a light sensation, almost ticklish, and left his skin tingling. Focus on that, follow the lines of Theron’s vallas’lin with his eyes, that was fear and guilt on his face, emotions, outside him, not his, Theron was his, this was his, that wasn’t, he’d cut it away, smashed it against darkspawn and Amaranthine silverite and stone and he would never take it back, would never go back to that.

He dropped his head back into Theron’s chest and let Theron hold him tightly as he focused on his breathing.

Nehna came to see her after she was done with Satheraan. Tanis wasn’t surprised. She’d had Damien go off with Orana, arranged herself comfortably on the bed with some embroidery, and been waiting for this.

Nehna came in silently, closing the door behind her, and sat next to her. She examined the pattern Tanis was stitching for a few moments before saying anything.

“He didn’t remember- working,” she said. “When I was- but he just did. And- with the Crows-”

Tanis put her embroidery aside and took Nehna’s hands.

“The Crows?” she asked gently.

“I knew,” Nehna said, it seemed as though she was forcing his word out of a choke, high in throat, pure gag reflex at a thought. “What they did to- to-”

It shouldn’t have surprised her, the end of the sentence, but it did.

“-Adan,” Nehna managed, and that- they just didn’t talk about her husband. “I knew about the- what they- but it wasn’t-”

“Nehna?”

“They- he was- a slave-”

The breaks in her words before had been sheer fear and pain of approaching the topic head-on, but now it was fighting down sobs.

“-they-!”

Tanis guided her into her arms.

“He’s not a Crow now,” she reminded her. “He’s safe.”

“It was bad enough- it was bad enough!”

“And it’s better now.”

“It wasn’t!” Nehna screamed into her shoulder. “That man sold him to the Crows and they made him work just the same! That man-”

Tanis held her close, staring at the far wall, trying to keep her thoughts quiet.

“I want him dead,” Nehna snarled. “I’ll go back to Antiva I’ll go back just to kill him-”

“Satheraan told me he’s dead,” Tanis said, because this was some comfort she could offer. “Ashera killed him.”

“Good,” Nehna sobbed, viciously, hoarsely.

Tanis paused a moment, because Nehna was in a state, but this was implying that...

“He told me that Ashera killed him because she found out he’d been poisoning you,” Tanis told her. “He wasn’t doing it properly. That was why you were sick.”

Nehna inhaled sharply, choking on air, and looked at her with wide, wild wet eyes.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t sick-”

“You were, because of the poison.”

Nehna shook her head fiercely.

“No, no! I wasn’t sick, it wasn’t- it wasn’t my fault-!”

Tanis let her cry herself out and then laid her down on their bed when she fell asleep from exhaustion, then took her embroidery back up.

She kept at it until she had to light the oil lamps and turn them as high as they could go to see her work. Tanis still had to strain, but her thoughts stayed quiet.

It was all quiet.

Alistair hadn’t slept well, and hadn’t eaten well either. He’d avoided the others after he’d run away from Zevran the afternoon before, and only eaten a small, late dinner.

Today he was up even earlier than normal, trying to cram in food before anyone else could come keep him company. It didn’t quite work- Oghren came down when he was only halfway through.

“Heh,” he said, clearly satisfied with himself, as he sat down with his food. “Made it.”

“Made what?” Alistair asked.

“Down here before Theron. Didn’t get him yesterday for trainin’, but I ain’t lettin’ it go any longer. Basic berserker technique for him this mornin’.”

With Oghren in the kitchen, eating with him, he wasn’t able to leave as quickly as he’d meant to. Theron and Zevran arrived and he’d- hoped to avoid that.

Theron’s entrance wasn’t anything unusual. It was the same as every other day they’d spent in the estate.

But he walked in, looking tired, and Alistair had to hide a blush behind his cup because Theron walked in and Alistair could imagine him walking over and giving him a quick kiss good morning, like he’d seen Theron do for Zevran plenty of times.

Zevran was watching him.

Andraste help me be strong.

Oghren bullied Theron into agreeing to berserker training, which in reality meant that Theron had already been mostly in agreement and Zevran had poked him under the table when Oghren had started insisting on it.

So they all went out to practice together. Oghren took Theron off to the main area. Zevran touched him on the arm as he watched them go.

“I owe you a spar, yes?”

That was right, he did.

“Sword and shield?” Zevran asked. “Or your new skills?”

“You’d win.”

“Ah, but you learn by losing, yes? A spar and lessons?”

Well… Zevran was good at what he did.

And good at teaching, too, it turned out. Predictably, with two swords against Zevran, he kept losing terribly. But Zevran went through every bout with him again, much more slowly, and explained what had happened. After some time of this- enough time that the sun was well up, when had that happened?- Zevran stepped back and looked him over.

“What are you planning on this being?” he asked. “Will you fight like this on the battlefield? Will you put away your shield?”

“No, I’m too good at it,” Alistair told him. “That’s why I started training for dual-wielding anyway- I don’t have anything else to learn in technique for sword and shield. I got bored.”

He stopped a minute. He’d had vague thoughts, but at the same time he didn’t want to commit, but also what if he did-

“I might use it in real fights if I get better at it,” he said. “Switch it up a little. Probably not against darkspawn, but nobody thinking would ever expect an opponent to totally change their fighting style halfway through.”

“That could be a very good tactic if you choose to perfect it,” Zevran said. “I will tell you- I will always rely on speed and agility to fight. You, less so. You use your strength too much to leave it behind simply because you have taken a new style. And you should not! Strength can break defenses. Not that you should not attempt to go around them, or learn how. But there is no point in ignoring a strength."

He looked him up and down.

“Though I would say that lighter armor would be an asset in going around.”

“I was kind of thinking about switching, anyway,” Alistair admitted. “The massive heavy armor is really more Theron’s thing. He needs it, the way he fights. But I’m not so, y’know, chargey.”

“You run in after him often enough.”

“Yeah, but that’s just because-” Alistair said, and then realized that he didn’t really have a reason. Not one that made practical sense. Theron was long past the days of needing someone to guard his back in any typical battle. He just-

Oh no, he couldn’t say that to Zevran. Bad enough the other man had already realized that he was in love with Theron. He shouldn’t go around making it obvious. Saying ‘because I don’t want to be far from him’ was not at all appropriate.

“He does rush things, yes,” Zevran said. “I am glad you are also protecting him.”

Okay. Okay, problem avoided.

“I’m more of a mid-lines guy. Theron and Oghren can go charging in- I’m best holding our line.”

“I remember you being the one to run in-”

“Yeah, well, that was the Blight and I learned better. I can take lighter armor. The shield will take blows and I’ll be a little faster. Won’t use up so much stamina either. I’ve got a Warden’s one, but I could make it last even longer.”

“A good plan,” Zevran said. “Staying power, as opposed to overwhelming force.”

His eyes slid over to Theron and Oghren.

“Not that there is anything wrong with such force…”

They had taken a break, or- no, Theron had gotten worked up, and Oghren seemed to be trying to talk him into getting himself down. Theron’s protective fury was-

Well-

Now that it wasn’t a problem-

“You like what you see?”

Alistair turned away because he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t be thinking these things, not now, not in front of Zevran, not ever, Theron got protective and possessive like that over Zevran and not him, this wasn’t his to take and he wasn’t going to.

“I won’t steal him,” he promised Zevran.

The other man gave him a curious, faintly puzzled look.

“You couldn’t possibly.”

And that was just it, wasn’t it. Theron had made his choice years ago. Alistair had missed his chance, and now Theron would never give him a second look.

He was telling himself that he’d used up all his anger and related emotions with Oghren that morning, but the problem was that it wasn’t really true.

About nine or so, after they’d finished training and he and Alistair and Oghren had gone for another go at breakfast, people started turning up at the estate to see him.

It wasn’t even about anything reasonable. They all tried to poke and pry for information about the Landsmeet accusations and the duels yesterday and about Zevran, and he was trying to be polite but there was only so far he was willing to go, and it did not include gossiping about his sal’shiral’s personal life or the past he wanted to keep that way.

The only good thing today: Damien coming to deliver a rather unnecessary invitation to Fergus and Bethany’s betrothal party in tomorrow evening, and to inform him that his next guests were Rosaire Desrochers, and with him was Brother Genitivi. He was happy enough to go meet them in the front hall.

“I’m sorry if this is a bad time, Your Arlship,” Rosaire said quickly. “I can come back another time, it’s just that I wanted to talk with you about your people’s history and Brother Genitivi shared what he learned from you with me and I have questions and also it’s fascinating.”

Talking about the Dalish sounded like a great idea. It would also prevent him from receiving more visitors he didn’t want to see.

“I have plenty of time,” Theron said, and invited them both in.

“How fascinating!” Brother Genitivi exclaimed immediately upon entering the receiving hall. Rosaire gasped- in delight? Theron hoped it was delight- as he saw the work the Dalish crafters had put in to properly decorating the estate.

Brother Genitivi’s cane clicked rapidly against the floor as he went to inspect the largest fresco panel, directly across from the door.

“Does this have some meaning?” he asked. “And such use of color! Bold lines and blocks offset by delicate detailing, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“You wouldn’t have,” Theron said, stepping up next to him. Rosaire was still looking around in excitement, trying to take everything in, but caught up. “The last place there was art like this was in the Dales. What the Chantry and the Orlesians didn’t destroy degraded from lack of care, but for a few remote areas where our Crafters can regularly travel to restore their work without the threat of humans.”

“This is one story, isn’t it?” Rosaire asked, taking a few steps to the right. “Here, there’s- I can see a narrative but I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s the founding of Arlathan,” Theron said, and walked them down to the far end of it to narrate the story. “Here- this is where it starts.”

The People lived in a beautiful time of peace, green and alive, and the Evanuris gave us all. Sylaise brought us fire, Mythal taught us to hold the law, Elgar’nan made night and day, Andruil showed us the ways to sustenance, Dirthamen instructed us in writing, and Falon’din gave us mercy and compassion.

June had not yet given a gift. He had his skills and he meant to teach, but the People went as they willed and forges and workshops could not be carried.

So came one day June to Sylaise, and asked of her: “Your fire is sacred and it gathers the People around it. How may I keep the People in one place, to receive my gifts?”

And Sylaise promised she would provide a way. She went deep into the green forests of the sea where all three of the worldly powers met, and lit her great fire, unending, open to the sun and set upon the earth and surrounded by the waters. And all the People gathered, for this fire was as no other fire that ever was or ever shall be, and the other gods even to Falon’din stopping from his travels gathered as well.

So did June show all gathered his gifts- the working of stone, the planing of wood, the means of moving by water and air, and the bending of the metals and sands with Sylaise’s fires.

And his teachings grew and grew as he taught them again and again so that they would be remembered; and the gods walked among them with the People.

And Mythal stood before a teaching of stone and said: “This will be a place of justice, where disagreements are settled and punishments assigned.”

And Andruil stood before a teaching of wood and said: “This will be a place of animals, to store what is taken and care for those closest to you.”

And Sylaise stood before a teaching of water and air and said: “Here will be a place of growth, where the healers may heal and the children may play.”

And Dirthamen stood before a teaching of metal and said: “Here will be a place of recording, where inscriptions may be made and last as long as the earth.”

And Falon’din stood before a teaching of sand and said: “Here will be a place of seeing, for any may look ahead or behind or within.”

And they added their gifts to June’s, and the People saw it and wondered at it and knew it was good, and called it Arlath’an, and their home had the most glory of all the world.

There was a respectful silence for a moment as Theron stared up at the giant fresco of their First City, and Rosaire and Brother Genitivi absorbed what they’d been told.

“Not to pry unduly,” Brother Genitivi eventually said. “But a question of clarification: ‘the green forest of the sea’?”

“That’s the literal poetic translation,” Theron explained. “It’s a rainforest, because the air is so thick. But it’s also the forest of Arlathan specifically, because Sylaise looks for a place ‘where all three of the worldly powers met’-”

“‘Worldly powers’?” Rosaire asked.

“The earth, the sea, and the sun. Or sky, depending. Elgar’nan was born where the sun and the earth touched heads, and Mythal walked out of the sea.”

“So they don’t have their own gods?” Brother Genitivi asked.

“We don’t worship them, no,” Theron said. “Elgar’nan has some sun things, but he’s not… important, so much. Where all three of them met, though, that’s Arlathan. It was built in a massive clearing- the sky or sun- in the rainforest- the earth- on islands in a lake so large you couldn’t see across it- the sea.

Brother Genitivi hmmed.

“So there are layers to the meaning ‘of the sea’,” he observed.

“There are layers to everything,” Theron said, and took them into the hallway that led to the Amaranth salon. There was another story there he wanted to tell.

In the days of our enslavement, there lay then as today in the town of Airothous the villa of Magister Gevinctes. The lady of the House was a mage taken with her power and her position, Lutena. She was cruel and careless and loved of the humans, and her husband Berenicus was a mage of no little talent, though overshadowed by his wife. He brought with him from his family’s estates a woman by the name of Irien, and her young daughter Sabrae, who were made presents to his wife who had them as her personal slaves, serving her in her chambers.

So Irien slaved in the chambers with her daughter following behind, and beaten if Magister Lutena Gevinctes felt capricious and wished to hurt her mother. When Sabrae came to the age of old enough to reach the highest shelves, the Magisters threw her mother out to the fields and kept Sabrae for the chamber, forbidden to leave.

But Sabrae knew the importance of family, and snuck out in the night to the quarters of the field slaves to see her mother. And she continued to sneak, dark in the shadows and silent as smoke, as invisible as the Magisters wish their house slaves to be, and would bring what food or healing herbs she could to the field slaves in the night.

And did time pass, and did Sabrae grow, and did she bring not only food but information of the house, so that there could be slaves in the fields who could escape. The Magisters were furious when slave after slave disappeared past their guards with no trace, but never did they think it was clever quiet Sabrae who slept in a cabinet in their own room who would give them such information and such drugs to make the guards sleep or poisons to make the guards fall.

And did time pass again, and did Sabrae go down to the field slaves one night and be brought to her mother, who was dying in agony from the bite of a taipan, the shy calm golden snakes of the wine country the field slaves were assigned to kill. Sabrae gave her mother mercy, and then did not come to the field slaves for a time, but listened to the Magisters’ guests and listened to the Magisters’ guards and listened to the Magisters themselves, for knowledge brought freedom and those free could have vengeance and vengeance she would have, for a life unfree and the abuses and the beatings and her mother’s exile and death in the fields.

And did time pass once more, and the Magisters’ friends whispered of an army come of the south, come to kill the Magisters and burn the empire. Then were there strange elves in the quarters of the field slaves who spoke of Shartan in the west, and asked the field slaves of her for the information to go west. And came slaves of other Magisters to ask the same.

And so one night did Sabrae go out and walked in the night-shrouded fields in bare feet, seeking the shadows. And there she sat and prayed as her mother had taught her. She prayed to Elgar’nan for her vengeance, and to Andruil for her favor, and to Dirthamen in thanks for her knowledge, and to Falon’din in plea for her mother’s happiness in death.

Then came to Sabrae a taipan, gold and dark under the moon, and Sabrae gave it her arm and it curled about her neck, and did she walk into the house of the Magisters and hold out her arm above their bed, and did the taipan bite and the venom stopped their hearts.

So did the slaves of Magister Gevinctus walk away free, and so did Sabrae do unto the other Magisters of the vineyards, and so was she greeted by Shartan as the Taipan, as the Smoke in the Darkness, and so was Sabrae made a lieutenant of the forces.

And by these means did she hear the promise of Andraste for lands for the People, and did she follow the daughter of Shartan to the south when Andraste was betrayed and Shartan with her, and did bow in worship in Halam’shiral where the daughter struck her father’s standard.

And did Sabrae Irienes travel with her loyal to the mountains where Andraste’s people dwell beyond and strike her own standard on the overlook of the pass and name it Sabrae’s Choice, and become Ha’tar Sabrae and rule her choice and it’s city-seat of Esa’ir and found her House and train them in her tradition of the bana’raselanala until her death.

“My goodness,” Rosaire said weakly, some moments after Theron had finished. “You even know the names of the Magisters.”

“‘To forget is to die’,” Theron said. “It is one of the Twenty-Four Maxims, and it is one we will never ignore. We know who enslaved us. We know where they are from. We know who rules in their name now. We know our homes in the Dales; and the oldest of our lineages we know back to two generations before Shartan.”

“And your lineage?” Brother Genitivi asked politely.

“Esahni was the mother of Irien who was the mother of Sabrae who was the mother of Nintir who was the father of Venirathe who was the father of Tualsyl who was the mother of Nehnabela who was the mother of Suremathe who was the father of Lanunasha who was the mother of Havhen who was the father of Joliseth who was father of Iseholmal who was mother of-”

Brother Genitivi held up his free hand pleadingly.

“There are eleven hundred years between the present day and the granting of the Dales,” he pointed out. “I’m fascinated and deeply impressed, Theron, but we will be standing here for some time.”

“-Radasha who was mother of Falonhaur who was father of Haurnatha who was a great hero of our clan, and descended in Ilthemien who was the last Ha’tar Sabrae and the father of Misedrin who founded our House as Clan Sabrae and was descended in Soleanathe who was father of Mahariel who was my father,” Theron concluded. “Fifty-two generations and about one thousand one hundred and fifty years.”

“My father can’t count that far back,” Rosaire said. “The Theirins can’t. The Valmonts can’t- the Pentaghasts can’t.”

“There are plenty of Magisterial families who can’t,” Brother Genitivi said. “If it truly is age that makes nobility, you’re one of the most noble in the world.”

“It’s not just me,” Theron said. “Everyone else in my clan-”

Because there were so few and he couldn’t think of that right now-

“-but my sister, she’s from Alerion originally, is related to me by blood within the last fifteen generations. We’re all Sabrae’s bloodline. And Merrill’s is from Alerion. Not quite as old as Sabrae’s, but he and his descendants were ha’taraan in the Dales.”

“‘Ha’taran’?”

“A longer ‘a’ at the end,” Theron corrected Rosaire. “Ha’tar is the noble title, for the Head of a House. You’d say ‘Lord’, I’d suppose, but there’s also no higher titles but the ones we give the gods. So actually- maybe ‘Prince’, like the Princes of Starkhaven.”

“And- Esseer?”

“‘Eh-sah-ear’. The small city attached to Sabrae’s Choice. You call it Eziores now.”

Rosaire blanched.

“That’s- Emprise du Lion. That’s- my father- that’s the west stop of Gherlen’s Pass- he- we- that’s where the villa is, that’s where I- it’s my father’s capital.”

“I know,” Theron said, and didn’t break eye contact with him. “How many times did you see Sabrae’s snake in the carvings of the ruins you explored?”

“What about ‘bana’raselanala’?” Brother Genitivi said, obviously trying to relieve Rosaire.

“It doesn’t have a good translation out of El’vhen. You’d have to say ‘assassins’, but assassins are mercenaries. A bana’raselan doesn’t work for money. They work to protect the House and their lands and their honor. So- poisoners, knives in the shadows, ambushes on the road. It’s a long and honored part of our House that lapsed. We had no one left to teach it.”

Brother Genitivi was quiet for a moment.

“Your fiancé-”

“Is a wonderful man who will fit right in with my family and I won’t force him to teach anyone. I’ll never force him. Not on anything.”

“I’m sorry!” Rosaire burst out.

“I’m not mad at you,” Theron told him. “You didn’t do it.”

“But we shouldn’t have! It’s yours and I can’t- I’m the bastard son, I can’t-”

“I’ve never expected you to,” Theron said. “We’ll have the Dales back someday, and Sabrae will return to our lands then, with a Lord of Sabrae to sit again in the Choice. It’s clear enough you care and you’re trying. It’s a lot more than I expected when I heard you were being invited. But you wanted to know more about the Dalish from me, and I had to tell you this part of the history before we went any further.”

Rosaire wasn’t meeting his eyes. Theron clasped him just under the jaw and tilted his head up. Twenty-three- that wasn’t so much younger than his own twenty-six, but right at this moment, with a Blight and an Arlship and this history between them, it felt like decades. And Rosaire looked even younger, blinking back tears and trying to school his expression into something that wasn’t abject shame.

“Come tell me about the ruins you’ve seen,” Theron said, tilting his head towards the Amaranth salon. “I’ll make ise’haurasha for you and Brother Genitivi, and tell you what you found, and their proper names.”

Chapter Text

He couldn’t go up high this was Fergus Cousland’s estate he couldn’t just run off this was the best he was going to get this corner of a dark side room while Theron talked politely with the nobles he liked and refused to acknowledge Eamon Guerrin’s existence and he’d promised he’d be fine when his fiancé had expressed concern this morning he was fine he was going to be-

Parties, sweets, laughter, political currents under the smiles knowing looks once-over assessments lurid glances when no one was looking

He had to have some nice memory of a party he had to if he couldn’t avoid going there couldn’t he-

Late summer, unusually cool. A merchant’s party that had spilled out into the garden. Master Valisiti holding his own court while Messere Palince stood and engaged in witty repartee on behalf of his Crow ally.

There were lots of Crows here tonight, fishing for information rather than using it as cover for a contract. Messere Palince was Master Valisti’s ally. Only he or those he assigned would fulfill a contract in this house. There would not be a breach in the rules. It made Messere Palince’s parties glamorously dangerous. Nobles and merchants and the rich could mingle with Crows and feel safe in their thrills of fear.

Plenty of courtesans. Salvail had gone off with Lord Hamunti’s wife. There was Taliesin, pretending to be a servant. He passed Rinna, and she shot him a sideways smile and groped him discreetly.

He had to find someone. He wasn’t allowed not to. But the courtesans knew who were the kindest or easiest or most pleasant in bed and they’d been picked through by the time he’d arrived with Taliesin and Rinna, courtesy of Rinna’s connection to Master Valisti. Later arrival was an honor, but it wasn’t much of an honor if he was going to be stuck with-

A new face. Young. Ignored. Beautiful. A Rivaini woman, dark hair curling slightly, in a wonderfully-expensive, modest dress, not hiding her boredom or her scowl from the corner. Looked like she’d been drinking the entire night so far.

He sidled up. Flattered, prepared for the seduction, turned on the charm-

“Oh, you’re fun,” the woman told him, outright leering at him for a moment before turning on her own charm, doing her own seduction- someone knew how to do this, an unfamiliar rich woman who never properly should have had a trickster’s smile and the glint of conquest in her eyes, but not for power not for money not for influence- for experience, for fun, for-

For he didn’t know what but he knew whose bed he was getting into tonight, no one else could tempt him or entice him after this and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pretend when there was this woman.

He gave her his name started to say something smooth-

“Naishe,” she told him, and turned and walked away and threw him a wicked inviting smile over her shoulder and well who was he to say no to a lady?

He gave her another name, in the cool night, warm and pleased as they drove each other to exhaustion on soft sheets.

Isabela, isabela, isabela, me isabelanna, what a shame that even a little of your beauty should be so ignored-

Zevran surfaced from his memories and held himself as he huddled in the corner and tried to calm his breathing and his heart.

If he had to lose himself in something- yes, he could handle it being Isabela. He had plenty of memories of that, Rinna and Tali had yelled at him the next morning for going off with the lady of the house but he’d ignored them and gone back to her, and back, and plenty had been slipping off to see her while her husband was away, for sex and after not too long also for talk and the teaching of knives; but plenty had been at parties and those he could remember safely.

That had been his choice. He had to pick someone at the parties he was sent to, and it was all the better for being able to pick her.

It had been far harder to go back to the way the party assignments were supposed to be, after he’d killed her husband and Isabela had taken off with the Siren’s Call for a life of the sea.

They’d had a final night together, after he’d killed Luis Palince in his bed. Isabela had walked in right at the beginning and leaned on the doorway and watched as he’d done it, and gone for him as soon as her husband was dead. It had taken them one, two, three, four tries to get back to her room, and then Isabela had gotten up, taken Luis’s papers, and gone off to take the “prettiest ship in the bay”.

He hadn’t asked if she’d placed the contract, and she hadn’t told him. But she’d given him a pouch of gold coins from Luis’s secret stash and most of the contents of her jewelry box with a final lingering kiss and a whispered: “I know you’re not getting paid. Stay alive.”

He’d promised he would and Naishe Palince had disappeared and Zevran had taken Luis’s earring in remembrance of Isabela. The gold he’d hoarded or changed for smaller coin, and the jewelry he’d fenced in far cities as he’d taken new contracts.

There had only been a few pieces left when he’d sauntered down to the docks in Antiva City and flirted with Isabela until she agreed to drop him off in Denerim. He’d thought about returning them, but… she’d told him to stay alive, and he’d gotten on her ship because he wanted to have a goodbye and some sweet memories before he threw himself at the Wardens. He hadn’t wanted to ruin them by tipping her off that he was intending to break his promise.

It had been a relief to see her again in Denerim, and he’d been glad he hadn’t said anything about the contract to her. Then he’d given Theron Luis’s earring, and up on Sundermount in Kirkwall he’d had a moment of trepidation because Isabela would surely recognize it-

She’d pulled him aside and given him a smirk and look and asked very seriously if Theron deserved that earring more than her husband had. His heartfelt “yes” had made her smile.

Go back to the party. Theron. He had to go back to the party. Theron was there. He was going to be safe. He had to go back. He could do this. He’d been hurt so much worse than embarrassment and unwelcome looks. He’d lived through worse. This wouldn’t ruin-

Theron was there and he’d told him once that he’d storm the gates of the Black City if it meant they could have a chance of staying together. A party and bad memories were nothing compared to that. Or the Blight. Or the Crows. Or-

If he’d smiled and lied through things like this before, he could do it again, and he would.

Theron hadn’t wanted to say anything while they were at the party, but now that they were home, he had to check.

“Satheraan?”

“I’m fine.”

“It doesn’t seem like that to me.”

“I am,” he said cheerfully, but his smile still looked shallow. It was either that his love had just been socializing too long at the engagement party and had forgotten to take his defenses down, or that he was lying.

Theron took a moment, and breathed, and reminded himself that Satheraan didn’t want him to try to fix everything. It was possible, even very likely, that he hadn’t been totally comfortable at the party and was trying to pretend he was so that he, Theron, didn’t cling onto it and turn this all into another sort-of argument.

“Okay,” he said, and Satheraan looked a little surprised for a moment before everything went back to the same smile.

He’d been right then. Satheraan had been expecting him to push and try to make him feel better. It was an almost guilty feeling, that Satheraan would rather lie about how he was feeling than be honest because of how he’d been reacting, and well-

He needed to talk to someone about this.

Theron changed the fanciest parts of his clothes for something more toned-down, then took Satheraan by the hand and kissed him quickly.

“I’m going to go talk to Alistair.”

“Ah. You should ask him how he is feeling.”

“Has he not been well?”

“It is has been a very stressful time for him lately and you could do some good for him.”

Alistair needed him!

It took some doing to find his friend, but he eventually located him in the hayloft of the stables, after a surprise run-in with Damien cooing at the halla and telling Oriana the story of how they’d been created. He hadn’t known Damien knew some of the myths of the People! He’d have to ask what else he knew.

“Do you like hay?” Theron asked, poking his head into the loft. Alistair jumped, then fidgeted, glancing away.

“Stables remind me of Redcliffe.”

Theron pulled himself into the loft and sat down next to his friend, leaning into his side.

“You know you deserved better.”

“Yeah, well. I do have good memories. Did I ever tell you about Wolf? One of the stable cats. No clue if Wolf was a tom or a queen but that cat was the darkest black I’ve ever seen, all lean and fast and quiet. I was the only one Wolf would ever stay around. Or Penny, she was this old mabari who decided I was her pup, I hoped for a while she’d chosen me but she just decided I needed looking-after, or that’s what Horsemaster Dennet said, and I’d hoped for a bit that he and his wife would adopt me, they were always really nice and giving me food, but they never did.”

“If they were nice I wish they had,” Theron said. “I’d miss you being a Warden, though. I don’t think we would have met if you’d been a horsemaster’s son.”

Alistair glanced away again.

“Yeah, well…”

It sounded like there should have been more, but there wasn’t.

“Are you all right?” Theron asked, trying to lean around to see his expression. “Zevran said I should talk to you-”

Alistair choked on nothing and went wild-eyed, almost banging his head before Theron grabbed him to keep him from shooting to his feet in the wrong place.

“He said you’ve been having a hard time lately but if it’s personal then I won’t press and we can talk about that instead!”

“About what?” Alistair said frantically.

“I was going to come find you because I need to talk to someone about Zevran.”

That got Alistair focused.

“Is he in trouble? Does he need-”

“No, its me,” Theron admitted, and failed at not sounding miserable. “He’s not being really honest about his feelings like he used too and it’s my fault because I keep trying to help but I don’t know how to fix it!”

“I can’t help you,” Alistair said.

What?

“But you’ve always had advice or an idea at least-”

“I’ve never been in a relationship you should ask someone else-”

“Why is this differen-”

“Find someone else!”

Alistair sounded almost angry. Theron drew back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, trying to be quiet and calming. Regret passed through Alistair’s expression momentarily, quickly followed by others too obscure for him to catch.

“No,” Alistair said, and huddled in the hay.

Confused and worried, Theron left the hayloft to find someone who would listen to him. Tamlen and Merrill, maybe. Or Ashalle.

It was a small relief to take out her braids at night, relieving the tension on her scalp. Sometimes, on particularly stressful days, it gave her a headache.

This special spring season of court had been very stressful.

Anora raised her brush to her kinked hair, but familiar hands took it firmly from her and started to pull the bristles down a flattened hand of hair.

“Would it surprise you to know that the information was volunteered to me before I could finish my questionings?” Erlina asked.

Anora sighed. It didn’t, particularly.

“The servants like him,” she said. Easy enough to guess. He gave gold and silver like water- as though it were a common resource, but never without the knowledge of how vital it was.

“In general,” Erlina agreed. “He is our Hero. But the Alienage in particular.”

“Of course.”

“It is not really because he is an elf. It helps, to be sure, but even almost exclusively hiring out of the Alienage for his household staff did little more than reinforce their good opinion.”

The brush caught on a snag; Erlina detangled it gently with her fingers.

“He is the one who walked into the Alienage and saved them from slavery in the Imperium-”

The slavery my father approved, the cold voice whispered to her. It was the same one that had come to her when she’d visited the Amaranthine estate and seen the Warden-Commander lying unconscious in his bed with a wound that had barely missed killing him. It kept worming its way in unexpectedly, and she tried to ignore it. Again.  

“-and came back with charity and back again to protect their gates and their families from the darkspawn. I won’t say they all love him, because that statement has never been true in all of history, but very few would hear a bad word against him. Elf servants are everywhere, and even the ones brought along with households to the estates know what he’s done for the elves here, and in his arling.”

Another universal truth - servants talked.

“So who has been whispering in Eamon’s ear about Zevran?”

“No one.”

Anora took that thought and examined it from a few angles. Erlina finished brushing out her hair and set the brush back on the vanity table.

“So Prince Estefan simply hates him that much,” she said, as they sat on the bed together. “I am glad he is gone. That was not the sort of trouble we needed.”

“It wasn’t the Prince,” Erlina told her, tone grave. “The servants here report hearing gossiping nobles recounting scandal sourced as such, the Prince through Eamon, but the servants assigned to the royal guests say there was never a meeting between them.”

Anora closed her eyes.

“It was Eamon, then.”

“And Isolde. From what I have uncovered, it seems likely that they were using her family’s connections to get their questions to the right ears in Antiva. His servants report expensive gifts sent to the Duforts, perhaps even straight gold, and we know that they are at least on good enough terms to convince her family that their promising young chevalier could win a marriage to you.”

Anora snorted. Reynaud Yann Fay-Dufort would not be her husband.

“Snake.”

“A known one, at least,” Erlina pointed out. “It is better to know who and where your enemies are than not to.”

“It is an incredibly roundabout way to attack me. Where is the point? Rumors of Zevran and I are already falling to nothing, because everyone knows that this season is the longest we have ever been in the same vicinity of each other. And if he wanted to imply that I was sleeping with an elf-”

“-I am a much better candidate, and the rumors already exist to boot,” Erlina finished for her. “Yes. But I think attempting to tarnish you was a side benefit for him. It is the Warden-Commander and Zevran himself who have been most hurt.”

Anora almost made a fool of herself asking why Eamon would make such a politically stupid move as attacking the Hero of Ferelden when the obvious answer occurred to her, just in time.

“They are attacking the Warden-Commander,” she said. “For killing their son. He took something they loved away; and they will take something of his. But killing Zevran is return is too direct, and deeply impractical. They barely scraped by Eamon’s declaration at the Landsmeet. Character assassination is the safer option. And the less expensive.”

Suspicion bloomed.

“They didn’t.”

Erlina reached into her dress and pulled out a letter. The wax seal had been slit, not broken, and the parchment itself had sharp, clean folds. This letter had seen very little handling.

“There was a mortally terrified servant in the Guerrin household who learned of the contents of this letter and positioned herself to be in the right place to be given it to deliver in a packet of formal post to the courier. She kept it, and hid it, and brought it here to slip to the Warden-Commander at some unobtrusive moment. I convinced her it would be better served going to the hands of the Queen.”

And once again, Erlina had saved a situation before it could develop.

“Did you-”

“Of course I hired her. She has already left the Redcliffe estate and I will find the best place for her. I am thinking one of the embassies. She is an elf, and idolizes the Warden-Commander as much as anyone else does, but I believe it was more Fereldan outrage that drove her to keep the letter from being sent than anything.”

Because besides everything else, the Arl of Redcliffe had turned on the Champion of Redcliffe. The Warden-Commander had saved his life, his wife’s, his brother’s, and those of everyone in Redcliffe Village, if not the entire arling. Eamon owed the man, and it was the height of dishonor to do what he’d tried to. At the very least he should have arranged a duel on the real issue he had with the Commander instead of involving his fiancé.

“Has he paid wergild for Connor?”

“No,” Erlina said. “But it’s because Eamon never asked.”

Refusing wergild was one thing. It was Eamon’s right as the injured party to demand payment in gold for the loss of his son and heir. From what Anora knew of the Warden-Commander, he would have paid it, and not disputed over a just cause of the death to her ruling.

It was also Eamon’s right to not ask for wergild. By not asking for all these years, he had implicitly agreed that his son’s death had been necessary. But not asking for wergild and looking for revenge from a third party-

A duel on false pretenses and hiring assassins wasn’t illegal.

But there was legal, and then there was acceptable. Eamon and Isolde had kept to one and far overstepped the other.

Anora opened the letter Eamon had written to the House of Crows enquiring about a contract on Zevran and scanned it over. His first offer on the price of the contract made her eyebrows raise.

“He doesn’t have that kind of money. If this were ten years ago, he’d have enough to pay that. But he has abandoned farms and repairs from the Blight to make.”

“A loan from the Duforts, or perhaps they would pay part of the cost,” Erlina suggested, but didn’t sound very confident about it.

Anora didn’t believe it, either. Shortchanging your lands for your own benefit was another thing that wasn’t illegal, but it was not how you behaved with an arling. Everyone knew that, and knew it well enough that they commiserated with Leonas Bryland about the problem of Habren’s spending and possible cruelty. Everyone had thought he’d eventually name one of his Howe nephews or niece as heir in place of his daughter, but now that they were occupied, there were some wagers on what he’d finally do, because everyone but Habren seemed to know that she wasn’t going to get South Reach. Leonas was in denial about it, but people who knew him well enough knew that he was losing the hope that somehow she’d turn out something like her mother, and slowly coming to terms with the fact that he had to go looking elsewhere.

She closed the letter and tucked it away in a locked letter case kept hidden in a compartment in the wall, disguised by paneling. There were a few other things in there- treasured letters from Cailan, and her father, and one from King Maric.

It was also where she kept the letters the Warden-Commander had collected with her husband’s effects, from Ostagar. The letters that showed Eamon had been prodding Cailan in the direction of Empress Celene.

He hadn’t been this way with Maric. He’d doted on Cailan and never said a word about her where her husband could hear, but she knew that he’d disapproved of her even before their marriage. He hadn’t approved of her father being named Teyrn, even if it only came with Gwaren and fishing and logging villages, a reasonable income for nobility but nothing even half so grand as Redcliffe’s farm and horse money. He’d been eyeing her ever since she’d become betrothed to Cailan and started taking a royal role in politics. He hadn’t been able to speak against her with Cailan as King, and with Cailan dead he couldn’t overthrow her with her bastard half-brother, and with her as Queen he’d yet to succeed in undermining, discrediting, or outright overthrowing her.

It was not a chance she’d allow him to have. Ferelden needed strong, trustworthy, honorable leaders, now more than ever.

Eamon could only wriggle into that criteria if being rich made you strong. Maybe it did in Orlais and other foreign places, but mere money could only get you so far in Ferelden. It was still far, to be sure. But trust and honor and respect was worth more.

He’d tried going to the Crows over his son’s death five years after the fact. Delayed vengeance was still vengeance; and he had been cheated out of more than an heir during the Blight. He’d nearly won a Kingdom, and in the long-term, for politics, for the Game he played, that was a much greater loss. His retribution would come, eventually.

If the Guerrins were going to do things the Orlesian way, well. She could and would reciprocate.

“I want him gone,” she told Erlina. “Him and Isolde. We will all be safer with him politically destroyed. Do not use his plotting against the Warden-Commander. I will have nothing cast suspicion on him or Zevran; and I have no desire to try capturing and sentencing the Warden-Commander for the murder of the Guerrins. He escaped Fort Drakon once, and I am not fool enough to believe the Wardens would let this pass. Or Zevran. He might spare me for the good of the country, so long as the Warden-Commander was retrieved before he was executed, but we would lose him.”

“And you don’t want to lose a friend,” Erlina surmised.

Anora sighed.

“It would be bad for politics, as well.”

“You like him. You can’t fool me. I like him too, but he-”

There was a pause. It was a familiar one, heard and used every day as they went from Queen and Personal Companion to what made those roles possible in the first place - friends.

“-well, Annie, he scares the shit out of me.”

That was unexpected.

“He does?”

“The Crows are the best,” Erlina said simply. “There’s no denying it. There are other assassins. The House of Repose. The Orphetasi. Bards can and will kill, of course. But you don’t mess with the Crows.”

“Zevran and the Wardens seem to have.”

“Wardens, they fight darkspawn,” her friend said dismissively. “They fought the Archdemon. There’s something going on behind all those secrets and it’s probably magic and you and I both know it. They’re something special. But Crows are just… skill. Pure skill. The Game - If you want someone ruined, you get a Bard. If you want a someone eliminated, you get the House of Repose. If you want someone run to the other side of Thedas, you get Orphetasi. If you want someone dead, you get Crows. Crows get contracts for Magisters, for blood mages with demons and abominations and mansions full of guards and magical traps, and they complete them. Crows have killed generals in the middle of their fortresses at the heights of wars, Emperors and Empresses of Orlais guarded by every sense the Game sharpens and Bards and chevaliers besides, Qunari on Par Vollen, and lived.”

“Zevran has done none of that, if only because no people of those descriptions have been assassinated in living memory,” Anora pointed out.

“But Rendon Howe specifically asked for the best they had, and was willing to reinforce the request with a year’s worth of revenue from the amaranth dye trade. They sent Zevran. Zevran who walked off into the Blight without any Wardens and survived long enough to make his attempt. Zevran who broke into Fort Drakon and fought his way through the garrison two ways and walked out the front gates in only a couple hours. Zevran who’s run with the Wardens through a Blight and the Deep Roads and who knows what the Warden-Commander gets up to and keeps up, and wears light armor and kills up close and has absolutely come out of many fights with darkspawn blood and viscera on himself but has not contracted the Taint.”

“He had help with Fort Drakon,” was about all Anora could say to that.

“Everyone saw the Wardens and the mage,” Erlina countered. “But we know Zevran was there because they’ve all said he was, and no one ever saw him. People were just dead. Just like other Crows are ‘just dead’.”   

Anora inhaled sharply.

“You have proof on Antiva.”

“No,” Erlina had to admit. “But I have damning coincidences. He leaves for Antiva five months after the Blight ends. After long enough for a ship to sail that distance, Crows from House Arainai start showing up dead, clearly killed by another Crow. The Grandmaster of the Crows, Arainai again, is assassinated. After long enough for a ship to sail that distance, he’s back in Amaranthine, and there are no more dead Crows that have the rest of them whispering until he left on his ‘personal business’. The entire organization is set to paranoia when Grandmasters die as if struck down by the Maker Himself over Satinalia. Masters of Talon Houses are suddenly dead. And then the Warden-Commander and most of the people he fought the Blight with tear through Antiva City and most of what was left of the Crows’ highest echelon to rescue him from the Crows. He comes back, he has Crow children, another Crow follows him from Antiva, and he’s dead as soon as Zevran finds out where he is. He’s proved he can kill other Crows as easily as the Warden-Commander can knock Teagan on his ass. Zevran was a Crow who turned on the Crows and the Crows couldn’t turn on him back.”

“He had help with that,” was, again, the only thing Anora could really say.

 “The House of Crows is the next thing to gone, right now,” Erlina continued. “The Warden-Commander just broke through the veneer. They would have already bounced back from this if they hadn’t been driven to new levels of paranoia and had a command structure that didn’t keep getting sabotaged. There were some whispers, very quiet and very localized to the outsiders Crows typically used, about a ‘black shadow of the Crows’, but it’s wriggled out and I heard about it. Others will too, soon. The Crows ruled Antiva for the last four hundred years. They were feared for a couple Ages before that. They had their knives so firmly at the throats of powers great and small that no one could touch them. Now one winter and they’re being slaughtered in public and the royal family is moving on them. The Crows own the Campanas, and everyone knew it. When the Warden-Commander got attacked, I spent every waking second waiting for the news to come that the family line had been terminated in our guest apartments and I knew that it would mean we had only, oh, a week before civil war broke out in Antiva over which family would take the Campana’s place, and the Waking Sea trade imploded because the merchant Houses were angling for political profit and not coin. Nobody can dock in Kirkwall. It’s good for us, because Denerim and Amaranthine and Highever-”

“-couldn’t compete with Kirkwall the same way,” Anora picked up. “But our port revenue has always been more from taxes on ships passing through than high-profit trade happening on their docks. Taking in the ships Kirkwall has always gotten is money we sorely need. If no ships came through on the routes between Orlais and Antiva, we’d just bleed ourselves dry of coin and resources to Orlais, because they would hitch the prices so high without competition from Antiva.”

“Zevran Revasina could have taken it up personally with Prince Estefan and fucked over a lot of Thedas,” Erlina said, after a short silence of contemplating the horror they’d avoided. “And you know he’s not stupid enough not to have known that the Crows would throw everything off the balance we’re used to, because he went at it systematically enough to do it in the first place. He understands politics far too well to also know that he could finish off the Campanas, and with the Crows in disarray, something would give, and it’d echo everywhere. He could have done it. He cut through most of the Fort Drakon garrison to save the Warden-Commander. The Warden-Commander fought a city full of Crows to get him back. If he hadn’t found Zevran alive, I am certain there would not have been any Crows for Prince Estefan to drag out of hiding in Antiva City. I’m also certain that Zevran would go after anyone who cost him the Commander just as fiercely as he did the Crows. And given the way the Commander doesn’t seem to care a lot about what he does so long as Zevran or some sort of vengeance for him was at the end of it, I really don’t think that it would matter at all to Zevran who he killed or how much it would destabilize, if he could get the same for the Commander.”

Anora admitted this truth to herself silently.

“If he wanted to kill you,” Erlina continued. “There would be a fucking thing I or anyone else could do about it. He could announce it, right out, stand in the middle of court and say he was going to do it and say when and how, and he’d still get it done, and we wouldn’t catch him, and we never would.”

She shuddered.

“I’ve had nightmares about that, Annie,” she said. “So yeah, Zevran scares the shit out of me. Even more so when he insists he’s not a Crow.”

“I believe he does it because he wants, very much, his life here with the Warden-Commander; and because he is trying to emphasize that he has absolutely no plans for assassinating any of us.”

“Sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps me from tearing myself apart whenever he gets close to you,” Erlina admitted. “You have no idea how many times he could have killed you in the last six years. I lost track after I got to a hundred, and that’s just the ways I know a very good Bard or a Gentleman or Lady Reposer could do it, because I have no idea what he really knows about killing. I think about the fact that he’s had so many opportunities and hasn’t yet, and it’s what keeps me from screaming.”

The silence was heavy after that. Too heavy for a pre-bedtime conversation. Anora was looking for something lighter when Erlina spoke again.

“Do you still want me to observe lunch tomorrow?”

That wasn’t really lighter, but at least it wasn’t the assassination capabilities of Zevran Revasina.

“I do,” Anora said, and she must have given some tell, something she’d managed to not get trained out of during the lessons from her Bard, because Erlina’s gaze sharpened, then melted again into concern.

“Annie,” she said softly, placing a hand atop hers on the bed cover. “What is it?”

“I know which one of them I want, Lina,” Anora said, keeping her composure even as things clenched in her chest. “But I can’t- I have to marry for Ferelden.”

Erlina’s hand tightened.

“I can sell any decision you make. But I have to know which.”

“Tomorrow. I want your opinion-”

Anora took a deep breath.

“I have to know if you see in him what I do.”

He couldn’t avoid breakfast and morning practice with Theron, but Alistair was bound and determined to stay away from his… friend… as much as possible.

At least until he’d gotten himself sorted out. Tackled his heart into submission and all. Maybe if he stayed away because Theron wasn’t his, the rest of him would get the message.

Problem was, there weren’t many places to stay away from others on the estate unless he wanted to confine himself to his rooms, and he didn’t. That made him too easy to find. And now Theron knew about the hayloft.

He was in a far corner of the garden, trying to convince himself to go out to town, when Morrigan found him.

Or rather, Morrigan and Leliana, which was a very interesting combination.

“There you are,” Morrigan said, staff thumping against the dirt meaningfully as she stalked towards him. “‘Twas far too much effort to have Theron and Zevran watch Kieran with Diego and Tiar for you not to be available.”

Alistair looked to Leliana.

“What’s this about?”

“I have no idea,” she said as Morrigan tched at being blatantly overlooked. “I was just arriving and found Morrigan stomping about. She said that Hawke isn’t here, so I thought I would come see you again.”

Alistair was pretty sure Marian was here, since she didn’t like going places without Merrill and Merrill was laying low in the estate until- something, he wasn’t really sure.

Interesting that Morrigan liked Marian enough to cover for her.

“So….?”

“Explain yourself,” Morrigan demanded. “Theron came to me for emotional advice yesterday. Because you turned him away!”

“I couldn’t help him.”

“Oh, couldn’t you? Seemed simple enough a task for you. Or was it another who was at him about Zevran over the winter? Strange how you are somehow unqualified to opine on the matter now.”

“Well I am!”

“A lack of previous romantic involvement was never an obstacle to you in the past!”

“Look, I couldn’t help, okay? What does it even matter to you! Leave me alone!”

“I do not take orders from you. This is a matter of my concern because while I may not be the sort of friend he deserves, I am one of the friends he has, and I will not allow other people’s petty stupidities to keep him from having the help he desires!”

“And I know well enough when I can’t give him that, so shove off and go bother someone else! It’s none of your business what he and I decide so stay out of it!”

“He is engaged to Zevran you know,” Leliana said, and Alistair went hot and cold all at once.

“So?” he managed to squeak, because Leliana was a bard and the Left Hand of the Divine, what if she knew things.

“Because you are arguing about his well-being like rival lovers,” she said with an amused smile.

Oh. Well. She wasn’t - they weren’t! And she didn’t know! That was just a friendly observation. Good. Good!

They were both looking at him.

“You are very red, Alistair,” Leliana said. Alistair floundered for something to say, but before he even had an idea Morrigan’s sharp, amazed “Hah!” cut through.

“You are in love with him!”

“I-”

“Oh dear,” Leliana said, taking a second, searching look at him. “Oh Alistair, I am so sorry.”

There wasn’t any use denying it. He knew he wouldn’t even be able to get through the words.

“How did you even know?” he asked instead, because if he was being so obvious about it then he really needed to stop.

Morrigan looked off to the side.

“You are not the only one,” she said scathingly.

“You too?” Leliana asked. “I had wondered. You always seemed very close, during the Blight.”

“And you?”

“I had a crush,” she admitted. “But I knew it would have never worked.”

“He would make it work!” Morrigan declared, sounding actually insulted that she could have thought Theron wouldn’t have.

“No,” Leliana said. “We both believe too deeply to truly honor each other’s faiths. It would have ended badly and I knew it. We were much better being friends, as you and he are.”

Morrigan scoffed.

“He is the father of my son.”

“Well, he isn’t marrying you, is he?”

“We are more than friends.”

“Having had sex does not confer that on you.”

“Hardly! Were it such, he would be ‘more than friends’ with his sister, his brother’s best friend, his brother’s best friend’s now-wife as well as everyone else of their age group in Sabrae, an elf trapper from near Gwaren who passed through for a few seasons, Keeper Lanaya-”

“Keeper Lanaya?”

“-before she was Keeper, naturally - two or three of the older Hahrens during an Arlath’vhen, a stranger Sabrae hosted one night who may or may not have been an incorporated Spirit of Curiosity, and a reputably-beautiful young elf apostate woman with a babe-in-arms Sabrae gave shelter to for a winter but whom they could not convince to join the Dalish.”

That was a list. Alistair tried not to be jealous of everyone on it. He had a closer relationship with Theron than most of them ever had, and dear Maker was he really resenting strangers for having had sex with Theron, when chastity was hardly a Dalish virtue and it simply made sense with Theron as he was, so happy when he made other people happy and free with his touches and hugs and kisses and smiles, he would have been kind to them all and so very earnest about the act of it-

“Alistair? Are you-?”

Leliana’s voice and his own thoughts were drowned out by Morrigan leaning in and saying, voice a smooth, low whisper hinting of dark rooms and rich sensuality: “Is it imaginings that turn you red? I have known how he runs hands along flesh and the warmth of him so close and how he can lose his breath-”

Alistair fled because, Andraste have mercy on him, he wasn’t sure if never knowing or having Morrigan give him the details would hurt more.

She had to dismiss the court soon, so that the nobility could attend to their holdings for plantings. That meant she had to pick someone to marry, the sooner the better.

The only question - it was just that the only two candidates she would consider weren’t exactly ideal. She had her pick of Orlesian and a bastard, or very young and ambitious.

It was good that she’d established lunch together as a tradition, but today, she deviated. She would dine twice, once with each of them.

Maxwell Trevelyan was first. Talk passed inconsequentially, the topics of his extended family and their current doings filling the time until a light dessert was delivered.

That was her self-given cue to ask the real questions.

“What do you think of Rosaire Desrochers?” she asked him, taking a small spoonful of the sorbet.

“He’s nice,” Maxwell answered easily. “It’s unfortunate he was born the way he was - if he’d been born a Trevelyan, we would have sent him to the Chantry to learn. He probably would have turned out a lot like Brother Genitivi. He’s a scholar - or an explorer, maybe? He likes knowing things, and I’ve never seen anyone else be so interested in subjects I’d never even thought of.”

“Oh?”

“Like the ruins and relics of the heathen Dales. Or the history of Bards and assassins. He doesn’t really care about the Chant or Chantry history, which is a shame. I bet he’d do great work analyzing texts. He wouldn’t turn to that now though. He belongs in a university somewhere, or a library.”

“It’s been a thought of mine to create a university for Ferelden,” Anora dropped into the conversation, as though it was a recurring flight of fancy and not a dream she’d had since her first tutor had told her they existed, her plans drafted over and over in private as she grew and learned and refined her understanding of the world. Her university was something she’d only ever shared with Erlina before. It wouldn’t have been practical enough for her father, or glorious enough for her husband. “What do you think?”

Maxwell paused, and took a few moments to think about it.

“It would be hard to compete with the University of Orlais and the Retoria and Academia in the Imperium,” he said. “It would take many years to compete with anyone else, if only because you would need high incentives to entice people away from Orlais. Though if Antiva continues on the path it seems to be on, it could be possible to pick up some of their educated class and their libraries. But no matter how slow the start, or small the size, or the quality of education, Orlais would see it as an attack on their prestige. The only question would be whether they laugh it off or try to strangle the project in its infancy.”

“That sounds like something my father might have said,” Anora remarked. It wasn’t quite true. He would have said something about badly-spent money and being proud of the Fereldan way and mutter darkly about Orlesians. “I think about him often, and wonder about what could have been. I have been curious - what is your opinion on him? In my first year I heard the opinions of Fereldans so often I could dream of them.”

“He was a hero,” Maxwell said smoothly. “And he should be remembered for the good he did and the service he gave his country. In the end he was a good man in a terrible situation, whom I suspect was desperate to keep his people safe. People have done worse, facing a Blight.”

Except he refused to believe it was a Blight even as we hemorrhaged people to the Free Marches and our farmlands rotted and our Banns and Freemen died to the horde, the honest part of her said. She’d gotten a politician’s answer, as she’d expected.

“Truth enough,” she replied. “The Antivan throne has yet to recover their power from when the Fourth Blight swept into their country. Ferelden was very lucky, and I have always known that. Still, I have times where I find myself uncertain if he would be proud of me.”

“Of course he would, Your Highness.”

“Oh?” she asked. “Even when I gave land to the Dalish? He was always of the opinion that Fereldan land belonged in Ferelden lands, and that we should never give it up.”

“It was an extraordinary time that required an extraordinary reward. And I’d think it was a net gain in the end, Your Highness. Some hilly, rocky land that’s difficult to farm, the ruins of an unused fortress, and the edges of an inhospitable swampland - quite a small cost, in the long run, to prevent groups of Dalish wandering about in your lands proper. Less clashing in the woods and the farmlands, and it is a reward big enough that you could extract favors for and goodwill towards Ferelden for some time, if you were delicate about it.”

Anora steered the conversation into the territory of political negotiation, which was where Maxwell had the most sheer natural aptitude, and let the talk meander until a sufficient amount of time had passed. They parted pleasantly, and she had some time to breathe and prepare for her second lunch, which was to follow the same pattern as the first.

“What do you think of Maxwell Trevelyan?”

Rosaire sat there and thought about it.

“He’s a politician,” he finally said. “If he was a brother of mine Father would send him to the Imperial court and be beside himself with glee when he played the Game. He might have even tried to pressure him into being a Bard instead of me.”

“He wanted you to be a Bard?”

“I’m not the type,” Rosaire said, almost apologetic. “I might be able to do the sneaking, and the singing and the finding secrets would be fun. But I don’t want to ruin people. And I don’t want to kill. I’m not a warrior or a soldier or a chevalier or any sort of fighter, and I know it. In the Game, someone always eventually dies. It probably would be me.”

“So what would you do with your life, if not be a Bard? Roam about in the Emprise and take notes on all the old ruins?”

“That sounds wonderful. But I don’t think- it’s not really appreciated, except by a very small group. And two of them are here, at your court. It’s the largest concentration of scholarly minds to gather in human society to think about the Dalish since there was politics between the Dales and the Empire. There are four in Antiva who would care, and three in Nevarra, and one at the University and someone who we’re all pretty sure writes under a pseudonym, but we’re not sure if they’re Marcher or Orlesian.”

“‘We’?” Anora asked, intrigued.

“Oh, we all exchange letters,” Rosaire told her. “I started by writing Professor Bram Kenric, at the University. Really he’s interested in the Nevarran Accord and the Inquisition, but the Old Dales overlaps some. The others are like that, too. The Dalish, or elves, are tangential but important to what they’re really interested in. Professor Kenric wrote me into the correspondence circle, and we’ve been writing ever since. I could get very good recommendations to the University, if I could go, and I’d hope to study under Professor Kenric. I wouldn’t really be able to talk about what I really want to study until I was established, but he’d help me until then.”

International academic contacts were not something Anora had expected from him. He had an in at the University, and depending on who he was writing in Antiva and Nevarra, his potential network of contacts could spread through all of Thedas, as you worked off of introductions from friends and friends-of-friends.

“If you could go to the University?” she asked.

Rosaire’s face fell.

“Father doesn’t see the point, if I won’t be a Bard. I still hope, but-”

He shrugged.

“I’ll probably be made Assessor of the Marquisate for the Emprise, because, as Father says, I’ve ‘trekked all over it getting to ruins and scaled mountains no one else is crazy enough to look twice at’. It would mean I have to travel around. I could keep doing my work and publish as an amateur. That, Father wouldn’t mind at all. He loves me, and he doesn’t want to pay for the University when it would be more practical to give me a purse and have me make maps and estimate taxable revenue while I’m out searching. He wants me to be happy, and he’s right at least that the University is involved in the Game too, and I’d have to play it there to get anywhere.”

“That seems counterproductive for a center of learning and research,” Anora commiserated. “I’ve had a long fascination with the University myself, though I knew I could never go. I dreamed of making one in Ferelden, instead.”

Saying that Rosaire’s expression ‘brightened’ was a bit like saying snowmelt ‘trickled’ out of the Frostbacks in the spring.

“That would be wonderful! There’s so many old documents here - though I don’t know what survived the Blight, so much was lost - but what is left could be properly studied, and there are people who still speak Alamarri and it’s not the same as what the oldest copies of the Chant we have are in but it’s definitely closer and there’s a lot to be said about the cultural mindset a language makes, and besides that there’s plenty of history here, if only in ruins but you can learn a lot from ruins, most of the Old Dales was lost except in the Emprise because people tore down old structures for building material and the same things have happened to the old Imperium ruins but Ferelden has the largest extant original sections of the Imperial Highway, because they’re newer than the rest and they’re actually better than the roads in a lot of places because of the rain, and you can really study things that predate Chantry influence since it was Calenhad who really endorsed them and brought them to power, there’s plenty of places I bet where older things are kept and there’s always the Chasind and the Avvar.”

“And you would talk to them, would you?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips as she imagined Rosaire peppering Avvari with questions. He’d proclaimed himself no fighter, so it should be worrying, but it was somehow amusing.

“Brother Genitivi did,” Rosaire pointed out. “And he’s all right. It was Andrasteans who ultimately tried to kill him, even if they were also a dragon cult. He just got dinner with the Avvar. Even the Dalish only kept him stuck in the rope snare he’d gotten caught in until they stopped being willing to answer questions and turned him out. The Arl-Commander said they must have done it because they recognized he was a sort of Hahren.”

“I recall that being on his list of titles,” Anora said, remembering the first day of court. She hadn’t expected him to include Dalish ones- she hadn’t even known he had Dalish titles.

It could be worth something to know what they meant, but it could mean losing more of Erlina’s people if the wrong questions were asked.

Rosaire nodded seriously.

“It’s very important. They’re the historians of the Dalish, and the priests, and a lot like that one person in the village everyone goes to help resolve conflicts or unload their worries to. They’re the- they give advice, and know the laws and customs and traditions. The Arl-Commander has recited some stories from their histories for Brother Genitivi and I. He seems a lot like a Chanter when he does it. He was trained to memorize all the history of Sabrae, all the history the Dalish share, all the lineages of everyone in it, all the- the liturgies, I guess, the prayers and the rituals and when and how to do them. He’s sort of - he keeps the soul of Sabrae. That’s how it sounded when he explained it to me, because I didn’t know any of that from the ruins. That’s not the sort of things people write down, it’s things everyone just knows. I thought, when he was explaining it- I don’t know. But every clan has a priest and historian in the Hahren, an organizer and a mage in the Keeper, and a navigator and weaponsmaster in the Second. It’s just, I know the Dalish Clans come from the Houses of the Old Dales, and the Houses were like their own little countries, like the Free Marches or- or the Alamarri Banns and Teyrns before Calenhad. Revered Mother - Hahren. Seneschal - Keeper. General - Second.”

Anora tried to reflect on that, but it was a job that would take more than the moment’s pause she could politely or practically have in this conversation. She put it away for later, and simply said: “It seems I know less than I thought about the Dalish, though they are entrenched on our southern border now.”

“Most people know less about the Dalish than they think. I knew I know next to nothing about the Dalish, but I didn’t really know how much I didn’t know until I talked with the Arl-Commander.”

He looked her straight in the eyes.

“It was a good thing you did, giving them land,” he told her. “We - humans, Andrasteans, Orlesians, whomever - they were promised land and we broke that promise. It’s not what they had before, but it was the honorable thing to do, and it’s the most kindness and respect they’ve been shown in a long time. I bet it counts for a lot. You should ask the Arl-Commander.”

“I should ask him many things,” Anora sighed, thinking about her list of grievances and unanswered questions, but Rosaire nodded again.

“They won’t actually be fundamentally different, you know. It might be hard to understand right away, but we’re all people. We all want things like knowing those we love are happy and cared for, and we’ll have food, and a warm dry place to live, and be safe from attack, and that we’ll be treated decently. How we think about it and go about it can be really different, is all. You just have to be patient and listen.”

“Which I have not done,” Anora admitted. “I would excuse it as a family trait, for my father had trouble with that as well, but I would feel it was a disservice to his memory.”

Rosaire’s face did some very interesting things, contorting through trying to stay neutral but wanting to grimace.

“Whatever you are thinking, it’s likely not the worst I’ve heard. Tell me.”

“I didn’t know him and I really don’t know a lot about him,” Rosaire said. “But it seems like he was scared. His King who was also the son of his best friend and his son-in-law had been killed, and there were darkspawn everywhere. The chevaliers and Wardens King Cailan had asked for were camped in Emprise, so I heard about things. He was scared and he didn’t listen when people were telling him it was a Blight, and he just kept shouting them down, I heard.”

He had. Her father had done a lot of shouting, in his last year.

“And he had Rendon Howe as a close advisor - I know he wasn’t liked in Ferelden but nobody liked him in Orlais or the Free Marches either. I heard his son only got squired in the Marches because of a favor someone owed his mother and hadn’t repaid before she died. And-”

He grimaced again, and hesitated, but continued without prompting.

“The Tevene slavers. I heard about them. He was selling his own people, and in Denerim-”

He bit the inside of his lip.

“‘All men are the Work of our Maker’s Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings’,” he recited. “And- and I know it’s a Dissonant Verse and they call it heresy but it wasn’t right up until the March on the Old Dales so it was politics and not faith.”

He took a deep breath.

“‘Andraste said to Shartan: “Truly the Maker has called you as He called me, to be a Light for your People. The host you see before you march, bearing his will north to Minrathous, City of Magisters, and we shall tear down the unassailable gates, and set all the slaves free.””

Anora was familiar with the Heresy of Shartan as an academic thing, a bit of Chantry history you learned but never really discussed, like any of the other Heresies pepper throughout the Ages. It was against the Chant and the Divine, and that was all that needed saying on the matter. She’d never met anyone who’d actually read it, or believed it.

But here Rosaire was, sitting stiff and awkward and nervous across the table, still biting the inside of his lip and likely clenching his fists on the fabric of his pants but meeting her eyes and trying for wary defiance anyway.

“The Arl-Commander said he met spirits, as part of a test to get to the Urn of Sacred Ashes. He said Andraste’s mother was there, and her best friend from childhood. And the Aegis, and a zealot Alamarri mage. And Maferath, and Hessarian, and Hessarian’s wife. And Shartan. He was The Liberator, who died in his lone charge at Andraste’s pyre to free her. They were friends, or at least allies, and the people who are supposed to hold her words and her Chant and the Maker’s Will that she spoke cut it all out, to have their war on the Old Dales and I don’t know why but I know that that's when Orlais, at least, started selling elves into slavery to the Imperium. Your father didn’t know it was strictly against Andraste’s word. But he didn’t think about the fact that Andraste was a slave too, once; and so were a lot of the Old Alamarri. A lot of people don’t think about that.”

Anora put her glass of sorbet down. She’d ordered cherry for the second lunch instead of apple, as had followed the first. The taste of it was sharp on her tongue, reminding her of what he’d said.

Be patient. And listen.

“We don’t,” she finally said. “But it was less disregard for respecting people than the fact that this is the land of Andraste, and we are proud to stand against the Imperium, than the presence of slavery. Selling our elves as slaves to them is supporting them.”

“It was wrong.”

She wanted to open her mouth and say something about that. It was illegal, and it was unworthy of the man her father had been, and it was dishonorable and besmirched the good name of Ferelden.

The only other person who would have ever brought this up to her, like this, would have been the Warden-Commander.

Him, she could have looked in the eye, and found a spark of anger, or betrayal, and a voice that said he’s an elf, he’s too close to it, he’s a Warden, he was falsely accused a traitor - he was too emotional and it was a bad situation but that didn’t excuse execution without real judgement, didn’t excuse murder in the Landsmeet.

“It was,” she agreed quietly, because she couldn’t do that, with Rosaire.

If Cailan had discovered- if she had been Queen, and deaths and history had fallen out differently, and she’d found that Urien Kendalls had been using his position as Arl of Denerim to sell elves to Tevene slavers, she would have had him hauled to Fort Drakon, then presented before her throne and she would have passed down cold, furious judgement and he would have been executed, because that was not what you did with lordship. Not in Ferelden. They were the descendants of the Alamarri, proud and free and steadfast and honorable, and lordship was earned. The Freemen declared their allegiance to a Bann, and a Freeman who enough others turned to would become a Bann. The Banns declared for and raised an Arl or a Teyrn, or at least they had and it was a matter of descent now, yes, but if you weren’t good enough, if you didn’t fulfill the standard-

Rendon Howe had not been the first Ferelden noble to be killed for failing his duties, and he would not be the last. Other countries hunted down and executed those who killed Kings; Ferelden celebrated the uprising against King Arland and its leaders were heroes and Anora had had a caution upon her coronation, as had Cailan and Maric and down, down the line, about what would happen if she went mad with power the same way.

But it had been her father.

And he was supposed to have been better than that. She remembered a time when the elf servants wanted to serve her father, a rare level of respect and trust that had driven some to walk halfway across the country and through the Brecilian to come looking for employment, because it was better, with the Hero of River Dane. Her nanny had been one such, a woman from somewhere on the Imperial Highway between Lothering and South Reach, and she’d told her plenty of stories about the Night Elves. Her father’s Night Elves, and she’d been proud to serve, proud enough to leave everything she knew and reject mercenary work and the freedom that came with it because Loghain Mac Tir had a little girl who needed someone to watch her.

Sancha had been the one to teach her how to shoot a bow, too. It had been the elf woman’s favored weapon, and had served her well in the rebellion and with the Night Elves. It had also been Sancha who had found Erlina running from her last job as a Bard, a nasty one about the current Orlesian embassy that had gone wrong, and brought her to the Gwaren estate in Denerim when Anora had been fourteen.

It had been her father who had come to look over this Orlesian elf in his estate, and huffed, and scowled, and told Erlina that his daughter was going to be Queen and needed to know the important things no tutor could teach. How to read a person. How to know when someone was playing her. How to play the Game, if she had to.

He’d said that if Erlina accepted the job, the problem with the Orlesian embassy would go away, at least so long as she stayed in Ferelden, because he could put in a word with the King and Maric would politely dismiss them and politicly request a new ambassador and staff.

If she didn’t accept the job, he could only protect her while she stayed within the Estate, and she’d have to earn her keep some other way. Erlina had taken the job and the two of them had never been apart since.

Her father was not supposed to have invited Tevene slavers to the Alienage, where Night Elf veterans and surviving family lived, where he had standing orders to Seneschal to leave things too worn out to be used in the Estate but in reasonable repair as proper Andrastean charity, where their most loyal and hardworking servants returned to in the night and took the tailings of dinner and the occasional little extras her father willfully ignored them sneaking away. 

She couldn’t think about this right now.

“What else don’t I know about the Dalish?” she asked Rosaire.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably everything but the stereotypes.”

A moment of quiet.

“You should talk to him,” Rosaire told her. “He likes talking about his people. It means a lot to him. He’d be happy to share.”

“You get along with him, don’t you?”

Rosaire smiled widely, and nodded. She would have known just by the way his eyes lit up.

She steered the conversation away to lighter topics, as she had Maxwell’s, and all the while the threads of a plan were coming together.

Dalish. The Warden-Commander. Zevran. Questions that needed answering.

She had one last one for Rosaire, before he left.

“Do you know how the Dalish…”

Anora wasn’t quite sure what, exactly, she was looking for, just that she’d know when she heard it. It made phrasing a question hard.

“How they are? What they…”

She waved her hand vaguely. It was supremely unqueenlike, and even she didn’t quite know what it meant.

Rosaire frowned, brow furrowed in thought as he too tried to puzzle out what the question was.

“I’m not really sure what you’re asking for,” he finally admitted. “But if it’s something like- like-”

He sighed out his nose.

“The thing. The thing is. When Brother Genitivi and I went to see him, the first thing we asked about was the mural right in the front hall. It was the founding of Arlathan by the Dalish gods. Then he took us directly to another one. And he-”

Rosaire’s face pinched in pain and shame. It was not an expression Anora had been anticipating.

“It was the story of Sabrae Irienes. The woman who founded his Clan Sabrae back when it was House Sabrae in the Dales. He knows exactly who the Magisters are who enslaved her, and where they lived. I looked it up. House Gevinctes, in the wine country, vineyard villa in Airothous. The family line goes back into the Ancient Imperium, long before Andraste. Known hazard of the area is the taipan, which carries the deadliest venom in the world. The story matches. And after he was finished with it, he stood there and very nearly started reciting his entire paternal lineage as far back as it could be traced. All fifty-two generations of it.”

Only fifty generations had passed since the time of Andraste.

“Brother Genitivi convinced him to only give the important parts. It started at Sabrae Irienes’s grandmother and went through her right down to the last Ha’tar Sabrae and his son who founded the House as a Clan. He translated ha’tar as ‘Lord’ first, but then said it didn’t really properly convey the authority, because ha’tar is the highest title anyone who isn’t a god can have. He translated it again as ‘Prince’. ‘Like the Princes of Starkhaven’, is what he said.”

His expression intensified, the pain deepening.

“And then he looked me right in the face and told me that Eziores, the marquisial seat for the Emprise, was rightly called Esa’ir and it was Sabrae’s capital before it was my father’s. I- I stood there, sick to my stomach because it should have been his but he’s only even standing there in front of me because there was a Blight and he saved a country he should have been holding embassies and arranging mutual court visits with and if he hadn’t done that just about anybody would have said he was worthless and people still look down on him because he’s Dalish and all I did was get born and wander around Emprise and if everyone else died it would go to me and not him and there is no possible way that I could give it back to him and his House instead and I tried to beg his forgiveness, but he wouldn’t hear it. “We’ll have the Dales back,” is what he said. Not ‘if’. ‘When’ and ‘will’. It’s not a question for him. He didn’t need my apology because I wasn’t responsible for it and I cared enough to be interested and it didn’t matter, because it would all be right again and Sabrae would sit in Esa’ir and all the old Houses would be ha’taraan again. It is a fact. It will happen. It’s not even like- ‘when the Maker returns’ or ‘when the Chant of Light is sung in all corners of Thedas’. That’s a goal. It’s a promise. Maybe we’ll never earn the Maker again. It’s- it’s ‘when Empress Celene dies, they will crown a new monarch, and Orlais will continue’.”

The breath he took could be more like a gasp, or a bit of a sob.

“It is real to them. It’s just a matter of time. ‘To forget is to die’. He quoted that at us. It’s one of the Twenty-Four Maxims, one of the truths they were told by their gods. Now, when they become adults, there’s an oath they make. It ends: ‘never again shall we submit’. Submitting to some other power, and forgetting their own knowledge. That’s everything they strive to never, ever let happen. Remembering and staying themselves, to the point where they will fight to the death and take everything with them - that’s what makes them Dalish. That’s why people remember ‘the blood-soaked Dale plain, sanctified by the sacrifice to the Maker, honored in the rising sun’, and the Exalted March as a series of Dalish generals and warriors and mages taking glorious last stands and scouting groups facing down armies. They’ll run to fight another day, but if you corner them, they will slaughter everything you throw at them until someone lands a killing blow or they drop dead from exhaustion. Half the stories he told us were about that. At least half.”

His eyes dropped to the table.

“I watched the Warden-Commander duel,” Rosaire said. “When I was watching, all I could think was that it was beautifully executed and it explained some of the more martial things I’ve found in the Emprise. But when I went to record my day that night, I didn’t end up writing that. I wrote: ‘I have seen the essence of the Dalish’. That’s all. If you really want to know about the Dalish, you’ll get no one better than him.”

 Rosaire was dismissed, and when the door closed Anora let her head hang heavy and dropped it to her crossed arms on the table.

“The Rose of Ferelden, the Golden Queen,” she heard Erlina say behind her. “She doesn’t need a politician, a player in the Game. She needs someone who she can trust will sit next to her, and say ‘this is wrong’, and not let it go.”

She settled her hands on Anora’s arms and bent down, enveloping her in a hug. They had a few moments. It was all right to be vulnerable.

“He’s what I was waiting Cailan to grow up to be,” Anora whispered, and knew Erlina heard her. “He could have been a great king, like his father was, if he hadn’t gotten himself stuck on the idea that doing good is a victory and victories are glorious, so therefore he needed to seek glory. If he’d survived Ostagar, he’d have gone riding all over the country trying to help people, and he’d be doing it in that stupid golden armor of his and he’d struggle through whatever he needed to, because that makes the victory all the sweeter, and the harder-won the victory the greater the glory earned, and he’d go riding off into the sunset to find the next person to hero at and he’d never notice that the world is more complicated than that.”

“Cailan wouldn’t tell you were wrong because it was wrong,” Erlina agreed. “He’d say you were wrong if you didn’t fit into the script in his head.”

“He liked things simple. It was nice to come to, at the end of a day. He could strip everything off a problem until he could see a story and then he’d have an answer, just like that.”

Erlina hugged her a little tighter.

“They were pretty crap answers, though, Annie. Remember the pedigree problem?”     

Anora did, and she laughed quietly. It was wet, and when she focused on her breath, she found her nose a bit clogged.

“They were always crap answers,” she agreed. “But it was part of his charm, Lina. He was exactly the sort of king to sit on the biggest charger in the parade and wave to the crowds. He loved it. His heart was in all the right places.”

“Well, Annie,” Erlina said conversationally. “Seems like Rosaire’s got his head in all the right places too- so one up for Orlais, Dog Queen.”

Anora laughed louder, and sat up, and Erlina helped her clean up her composure.

“Ferelden’s still winning, you know,” she said, wiping at her eyes with her fingers.

“Well, look, if you’d traded half the Blight for half the Game, we’d all be even.”

“Would that I could. But we’d still win, because we have puppies.”

“Puppies are tough competition,” Erlina agreed, nodding seriously. “No dancing slipper is safe. You’d have half Orlais in hysterics within the hour, and none of them would ever recover. You could ride right in and they’d never know, because they’d be too ashamed to show their faces when everyone knew they had itty bitty teeny teeth marks on their leather soles.”

“The perfect invasion,” Anora intoned. “Glory be to the Wolves of Dane, who have coursed the Imperial Lion and piddled on his claws.”

Their straight expressions cracked at the same time, and a minute was lost to stifled giggling. They ended with Anora’s head resting on Erlina’s shoulder, their hands clasped together loosely over their touching knees.

“He’s Orlesian,” Anora said. “They’ll never forgive me. Arl Mallory will yell the mountains down and Elfstanna will give me that look.”

“Say something to Mallory and Elfstanna about more favorable tariffs over the Frostbacks and better grace areas on the border, since Emprise is right there down the whole west side. Mallory will get too busy plotting how far she can push the grace areas to yell, and Elfstanna will finally relax about having the money to build herself an Arl’s seat.”

 “Everyone’s going to think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Annie, that is the most Ferelden Orlesian I’ve ever heard of. You know he’s been heard to happily compare the weather here to the weather in Emprise?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Apparently the air here is ‘crisp’ and the temperature is ‘refreshing’ and the mud is much better than slush, because it won’t melt through your boots and the mud will actually come off. Give him some furs and a cute puppy and nobody will mind the accent. If he can be almost in tears at the thought of not being able to give back land lost in a war seven Ages ago to the people who used to own it, he’ll cry his heart out if people talk about the Occupation.”

Anora sighed.

“Speaking of the Dales.”

“When?”

“Is lunch tomorrow too soon?”

Erlina thought about it.

“Better. Anything I should prepare for?”

“Zevran and the Commander,” Anora said. “I want the private dining, only your people, and I don’t want them in earshot. I want you joining us, and I need whatever the Commander submitted for his lineage for the title validations.”

“Something big, then.”

“Well,” Anora said, with a tired, twisted smile as she raised her head from Erlina’s shoulder. “If I’m going to marry an Orlesian, I might as well go for sheer audacity. Give them enough to yell about that most of the arguing will be between them on what’s worse.”

“Really, what should I be worried about?”

“Nothing specific yet. It depends on what answers they give me to our questions.”

Erlina’s eyes lit up.

“You’ve finally got something.”

“Rosaire is going to be my husband,” Anora said, and it was… good, to hear. “I should start considering his opinions on subjects he’s more learned on than I, don’t you agree?”

Mistress Archieros would be leaving.

They weren’t talking about it, but they both knew enough about how servants worked to notice that Mistress Archieros wasn’t going to be around much longer, because Lady Amell had received her bannorn and would be going there soon, and Lady Bethany was getting married to a Teyrn, and Serrah Hawke didn’t seem like the sort of woman to want a lady’s maid.

So Mistress Archieros was going to be going away. Very far away. They wouldn’t see her again.

Tiar didn’t like it.

But that was how things worked. The only thing to do was to spend as much time around her as possible.

It was convenient that they could do that and keep watch over Messere Daganiri.

Watching Messere Daganiri was important. The express reasons, the reasons Diego had given when they were pretending they hadn’t already decided to do it, now that Maestra Salvail was dead, was because he was Maestra Revasina’s brother. He’d be upset if he got hurt again. Mistress Archieros would be as well, because they liked each other. So would Mistress Daganiri.

The real reason, the one they hadn’t voiced to each other, was that Messere Daganiri had tried to protect them. Tiar had learned it from hearing other people talking. Messere Daganiri had held Maestra Salvail up on the stairs and hit him with a book and gotten in a fight with him even though he knew that Maestra Salvail was a Crow and that he’d probably end up killed, or really hurt. But he’d done it anyway, because he’d thought Maestra Salvail had been sent after Diego and herself.

Thinking about him getting hurt made her tense and anxious inside. He wasn’t trained. He shouldn’t fight.

So they guarded him. Right now, that meant lurking on rooftops around the West Market and watching Messere Daganiri take an early leave after the daily lesson to escort Mistress Archieros while she shopped.

Watching them was frustrating. It was easy work, which was nice. They could talk or play watching games on the roofs without sacrificing the concentration necessary to keep surveillance. It was just that they kept stopping at random points, and standing there. There was nothing interesting about those spots. They weren’t near stalls or stores, so it wasn’t like they were considering anything. They just looked at each other, and then Messere Daganiri would turn away very quickly and go very proper and they’d keep walking.

Why.

 It took Diego sneaking into an alley and observing them, hidden, to explain it.

“He’s having feelings,” he told her earnestly, when he returned.

It maybe was something like Maestra Revasina and the Arl-Commander, Tiar decided, scrutinizing them as Mistress Archieros finally finished her shopping. But it didn’t seem as comfortable as it was between the two of them. It must have been Messere Daganini’s personality.

They shadowed their teacher back home, and then doubled back to the West Market, as they’d decided to do earlier in the day, when they’d learned that Messere Daganiri and Mistress Archieros were planning this trip. They’d used their guard time to do some surveillance and inspection to prepare for this.

Windows were easy, and they were Fereldan windows. That meant no complicated locks, no smooth-polished sills, no spikes, nothing to deter someone who’d climbed up the wall or down from the roof from getting into the Redcliffe Estate.

The Arl of Redcliffe had hurt Maestra Revasina. It was much, much worse than when Nehna had done it. Retribution would have to be proportionate, and they’d learned from their first revenge that targeting was important.

So while the Arl and his wife were out somewhere, she and Diego were taking the opportunity to break in and surveil the private rooms.

One entrance from the interior hall, that opened into a sitting area, which they stopped up with a rock that would buy them the seconds they needed to get out the windows if someone came in unexpectedly. Unlike back home, it wasn’t situated between the Arl’s office and the bedroom. You went through the sitting room to the bedroom, and then you had your choice of three doors. The two to the right, when you stood by the bedroom window, went to a small bathing chamber and then the Arlessa’s parlor. The door to the left led to the Arl’s office.

They dismissed the Arlessa’s parlor immediately. The bathing chamber had potential, but there was nothing like getting someone in their own bed, where they slept, where they always had to feel safe.

Tiar left Diego to inspect the bedroom so he could determine the best sorts of traps to make and went to look over the office. It wouldn’t be as frightening to, say, dump ink all over his desk and ruin every bit of his correspondence and books, but it would be costly and annoying and, if he kept accounting books here like Antivans did, potentially devastating.

A quick scan of the desk showed one locked drawer. That would be where the important things were kept. A few seconds and Tiar had picked it open, revealing a soft leather letter case. She took it out, memorized the knot as she untied the flap, and drew the papers out. Sure enough, the top one was a ledger sheet, noting expenses and income - no, just expenses, and shuffling some money around. It looked like he was trying to cut money to pay for something. The last entry was a large sum of gold that he’d unevenly divided. The larger portion had been added to whatever he was trying to gather. It was a lot, what could be that expensive that he didn’t already have?

The second page was a letter from someone in Orlais. It was addressed to the Arlessa, and called her ‘cousin’, and thanked her for handling things for her son in advance in Denerim and the expense purse was enclosed.

The third page made her want to destroy something.

From Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe in Ferelden, to the House of Crows in Antiva City.

I sent a letter requesting the purchase of a contract some time ago, and I did not hear back. I am writing again to inform you that I sincerely hope that the Crow recently killed in Denerim by your own Zevran Arainai was not your answer to my query. I would remind you that payment will not be forthcoming, as he targeted the wrong person, and did not succeed in the assassination besides.

For clarification, in the hopes that this was some form of misunderstanding, here again are my requested terms of the contract:

600 gold for the death of Zevran Arainai.

This is a very simple request. Perhaps my phrasing in my previous request was too complicated or unclear. I am paying not for the death of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, but to strike a blow against him. Given the trouble both have caused you, I suppose I should have thought that your House may wish to take the opportunity. If you succeed in killing both, know that I am only paying for the death of Arainai- however, if the means of his death is sufficiently grievous to the Warden-Commander, I am willing to negotiate to pay extra.

The letter wasn’t finished, and behind it were other draft attempts, but it was enough.

Tiar put it all back how she’d found it, and she and Diego left, unblocking the sitting room door.

She didn’t say anything about what she’d found to Diego. Diego was - attached. He’d started calling Maestra Revasina ‘Papa’ when it was just them, and referring to him like that when she and he talked about him. That word, it made them both happy.

She wasn’t sure what she felt about it, still. But no one was taking Maestra Revasina away from them - from Diego, who- who loved him. And Mistress Daganiri would cry and- and everything would be awful and Maestra Revasina protected them.

Tiar couldn’t do less for him than she did for Messere Daganiri.

She was not brave.

A brave woman would have fought for her husband and - not live, likely, not against Crows, but it would have been an honorable death.

A brave woman would have run from Antiva and the Crows and found a new clan to join. A brave woman would have stayed on the streets or lived the life of a wandering elf farmhand rather than take her son into a whorehouse. A brave woman would have put her fear aside and clung to painful hope and gone searching in a country she hated for a son she’d lost. A brave woman would have learned how to stop clutching at the rags of her heart and stitched it back up again like the Crafter that she was and gone on to love her other children and raise them well. A brave woman would have married the one who’d stayed with her through it all, because a brave woman would have known herself. A brave woman wouldn’t have taken a quarter-century to realize that most of what she’d done was hurt the people who were the ones she should have been protecting, because she would have seen better.

A brave woman would have already begged forgiveness of those she could, and admitted her love.

But Nehna Revasina was not a brave woman, so she was sitting in Eirlin’s stall in the back corner, the halla’s head resting her lap, as Irothal’s halla nuzzled at her hair from over the stall partition, trying to build up what courage she had.

Things were easier, with halla. They’d always been there for her.

“Have I messed it up too much to apologize, do you think?” she asked Eirlin. He pressed up against her hand and gently butted her stomach.

Tanis…

She and her were a mess, and Nehna knew it was her fault. A viciously honest answer, one that took into account their entire history, showed very well where the balance fell.

Tanis had taken care of Satheraan when she hadn’t been able to. Tanis had loved Damien when she couldn’t. Tanis had taken Damien as her own son when Nehna had been too ashamed to take him to the Dalish. Tanis had held onto hope through years of hearing nothing from her that she’d come visit in Lydes. Tanis had accepted Sylaise’s flame from her, when Nehna hadn’t really followed up on it. She’d had plenty of chances to, now that they were actually living in the same place again, but she just hadn’t.

Tanis had been there for her for decades, from the Summer Lily right up to this very second. Tanis had held her when she cried, listened to every painful and unfair thing she’d said, taken her to bed when she’d needed comfort, and taken on her responsibilities when she couldn’t or wouldn’t and had taken every hit Nehna had come at her with, intentional or not.

Yes, she’d been suffering for years. But Tanis had been as well, and when was the last time she’d been there when Tanis needed her? When the Duchess of Lydes had thrown them out for Damien being mixed blood? No. They could have walked to the nearest town without her.

Had it really been escaping from the chevalier that had bought them? That long ago?

Mythal, she owed such a debt.

The only way she could start paying it, the only fair thing to Tanis, was to do what she’d asked and stop running.

But it was hard.

Eirlin raised his head, ears perking up. The other halla stopped nuzzling her hair and pressed eagerly against the front of her stall.

“See, they can smell it from here,” Nehna heard Damien say.

“Or they’ve just learned they get attention when we come,” someone else suggested. A woman. Who would Damien be coming out to visit the halla with?

“They are by far intelligent enough to know both. Yes, beauties, hello, you get treats today-”

She’d never heard Damien talk like that, soft and cooing. Nehna stood when Eirlin, and caught Damien by surprise. He had a soft expression, gentle and happy, and was holding out a piece of honeycomb.

Eirlin delicately took it out of his hand while they stared at each other. Damien was trying to rearrange his expression into professional, and in a sudden startling moment, Nehna realized that it reminded her of the way Salladin had looked at her.

“Can we talk?” she asked, because this could be a first step.

“I suppose,” Damien answered, fully professional now. The woman with him, the Amell’s maid, took the basket of honeycombs and spring flowers from him, and started quietly parceling out the blossoms one by one as Nehna and Damien withdrew to the corner.

They spent another moment just staring at each other.

“Is your mother mad at me?” Nehna asked.

Professional Damien did not scowl, but the tiny downturn of the corners of his mouth was just as bad.

“Amazingly, no.”

“But I’ve hurt her.”

“Yes. Yes you have. She’s deserved better than you all these years.”

If there was anything Nehna had learned in her life, it was that people rarely got what they deserved.

Yet another moment.

“Was that all?”

“If you hum at the halla low, and with your mouth open, they like that,” Nehna told him, on impulse. “It calms them down. It reminds them of the sound mother halla make at fawns.”

She wasn’t sure if Damien would thank her or not, and didn’t really want to receive one if he decided to, so she turned around and left the stables.

It wasn’t hard to find Tanis. She was in the set of rooms set aside for the children - and the rest of the Arl’s family, now that they were here - with her lap loom, quietly demonstrating it to Lady Merrill while Lady Morrigan and her son played a game with colored mage lights on the floor.

Tanis looked up when she entered, and asked: “Nehna, have you seen Tiar? Diego has been following the staff around all morning and said he hasn’t seen her.”

“I don’t know where she is. Can- can I talk to you?”

Tanis handed Lady Merrill her loom and stood, tugging her skirts into arrangement, and walked with her out into the hall. Nehna led them to Tanis’s room, and closed the door behind them before turning to face Tanis, who was waiting patiently for her speak - as always.

“I’m sorry,” Nehna told her.

“What for?” Tanis asked, face scrunching in puzzlement.

“A lot of things,” Nehna said. “Everything. I’ve been unfair to you since- since I turned to drink in Antiva. You’ve been putting up on me and waiting for me and it’s like you said, all I’ve done is run away, and you didn’t deserve that. I couldn’t exactly stay. We were right about that, at least. Lydes was better for you, and the Sundering Sea was better for me. But I should have stayed in contact. I should have come to see you earlier. I shouldn’t have come and just dumped my problems on you and left. Or come and then not stay. I- I carved Sylaise’s flame for you in the Dales, and I told you why I did. But I haven’t lived up to it and I should have. I should have handled myself and my problems better. I should have talked to other people about them but I didn’t. I stayed stuck in myself.”

“Nehna,” Tanis said softly, reaching for her. “It’s all right. I understand. It hurts you. I’ll be there for you, no matter how long-”

“And I should be there for you in return, and I haven’t been.”

“Your problems are deeper than mine-”

“Still,” Nehna pressed. “Tanis - I’ve thought, for a long time, that I was broken, or, or too damaged, by what happened to Adan. And Satheraan. And that was why I couldn’t love my children.”

“You aren’t broken. Damaged - well. It’s understandable, and I know you’re getting better. You made your company, you have friends, you’ve found Satheraan and-”

“I should have known better and if I’d been a good friend and a decent person I would have realized years ago that that was wrong and that the problem was me.”

“You couldn’t,” Tanis said. “It’s in the past. I understand. It’s all right.”

“It’s not,” Nehna insisted. “I wasn’t thinking right and I should have because I knew I could go to you and I knew- I felt. With you. After Adan. And after Satheraan, I still cared about you. And then we separated after we got away from the chevalier and I’ve been fucking it all up since!”

“Nehna-”

“Please stop trying to tell me it’s all right, Tanis, it’s not and if you don’t hold me accountable for how I’ve hurt you I don’t think I can and then I won’t change anything I’ll just keep sitting around and thinking about it and I’ve been doing that for years!”

Tanis squeezed her hands.

“I think this is where I quote your son,” she told Nehna. “I’m not going to be mad at you because you’re mad at yourself, Nehna.”

This wasn’t getting them anywhere. They were just doing the same thing as they always did.

“Fine,” Nehna said. “Fine. Don’t be mad for what’s happened. You forgive me. Fine. But don’t when I do it again.”

Tanis frowned at her.

“You can’t tell me how to feel,” she said, tone sharpening. “I can forgive you if I want and I do and I’m going to keep choosing it, because you need me and we’ve bene through too much and I won’t-”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Words failed her, or she swallowed them, but the hardness of determination in her eyes filled it in.

Tanis wasn’t going to leave her, and really? Nehna thought that was something else she should have realized long before; or at least noticed that she knew before she’d gotten tangled up in herself this time around. If Tanis hadn’t left yet, there wasn’t much else that Nehna could do to run her off.

“Damien told me you deserve better than me.”

Tanis sighed, still frowning.

“He should know better than to say that out-”

“No, he’s right,” Nehna cut her off. “You could do better than me. I haven’t treated you properly. If I had been, I would have-”

She dropped her gaze to Tanis’s chest, where she knew her friend kept Sylaise’s flame hidden under her clothes.

“-I would have told you properly what’s supposed to accompany that. Tanis-”

Nehna dug up the memory of a dinner in her room at the Summer Lily, dulled by time and soft-edged with the happiness and relief of that particular night. Of what had been said and shared between them, the moment when they’d become who they really were to each other- Tanis and not Jacqina, Nehna and not Nina- as Nehna had held Tanis’s thick black hair in her hands.

“-Tanis nin Zagan-miri of the Khaghti,” Nehna said, and tears welled up in Tanis’s eyes and started to drip down her cheeks. How long had it been since someone had called her the name she’d been born with? Long before Lydes, when she’d pressed ‘Zagan-miri’ into ‘Daganiri’ to sound acceptable. How long since anyone had called her Khaghti, of the people she’d been born into and grown up in and been forced to abandon, and not Antivan? “I’ve loved you since you told me your real name and I’ve never said it and I’ve never honored it like I should and I want to try better but I don’t know how good I can be and I’m sorry.”  

Tanis stepped closer and reached up. They settled easily into Nehna’s arms on her waist and Tanis’s arms around Nehna’s neck. It was too easy for something they’d never done before.

“Nehna Revasina, I have loved you since you told me your real name, and I- I-”

She pulled her arms back so she could try to wipe her tears away. There were too many for that, so Nehna drew her closer.

“Please,” Tanis whispered against her. “Please don’t run again.”

Nehna knew she couldn’t give up Mont-de-glace and the Sundering Sea and her company; and Tanis wouldn’t ask her to. They both understood this- there was a difference between ‘leaving’ and ‘running’.

“I won’t,” Nehna promised. “What do you want me to do to prove it?”

Tanis mumbled something. Nehna couldn’t understand it, and had to step back.

“What?” she asked, and then realized she hadn’t needed to. Tanis had a hand pressed against her chest, where Sylaise’s flame hung beneath her dress.

That was easy. Not so long ago, she wouldn’t have thought so, but they’d said- they’d finally said it. They couldn’t pretend any longer, and it had been decades, and things - it would never be all right, what had happened the first time. But things were better, and they always would be.

“Ma taasha,” Nehna said solemnly, placing her own hand over Tanis’s. “Un’bellanaris.”

“I don’t,” Tanis sniffed wetly, trying to compose herself. “I don’t know what that means.”

“‘My lady’,” she translated. “‘Forever’.”

It took a moment, and a few hitches of breath, but Tanis’s face broke out into a smile and she almost managed to make the laugh come through the tears.

“A merchant’s wife,” Tanis said, reaching for Nehna again. “Forty-six years unmarried, and now I’m a merchant’s wife. My son is grown and now- the only thing that would make it more respectable would be to have a Chantry ceremony, but they’d never marry the two of us.”

“Well,” Nehna said, leaning in for the impending kiss. “Fuck the Chantry.”

Anora took an hour before lunch was scheduled to review her points, consider how to steer conversation, and looking over the lineage the Arl-Commander had provided when her request for the family lines of the established nobility had gone out. It was… far more extensive than she’d expected. And took much far more parchment.

Of course, given her guests, the plan was deviated from as soon as they were brought in.

“You seem very happy today, Zevran.”

He beamed at her, or rather, continued beaming but now in her direction.

“My mother has finally married!”

“Good fortune to her and her-?”

“Wife,” Zevran provided. “It is beyond me why they hadn’t before, but! It is never too late!”

“It is not,” Anora agreed, and bade them to sit. The Arl-Commander was eyeing Erlina, who was actually sitting with them at the table for the meal, and definitely noticed how the servants who brought in lunch were all elves.

And vacated the room immediately once all the food had been brought, as per their orders.

“Before we move to the main business I wish to discuss,” she said. “Arl-Commander.”

“I haven’t done anything since the last time you yelled at me,” he said immediately. Anora resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t believe that.

“I wish to hear you recite your paternal lineage, beginning with yourself.”

He gave her a suspicious look.

“I sent my family history to you like you wanted,” he said. “On both sides.”

“You did,” she acknowledged, and tapped the stack of parchment next to her. “It is very extensive. Regardless. A recitation.”

The look he gave as he began wasn’t quite a glare.

“Theron of Clan Sabrae, son of Mahariel, son of - his father’s family or his mother’s family?”

Anora checked which lineage he’d recorded first.

“His father’s.”

“-Soleanathe, son of Isthaeri, daughter of Rashan, daughter of Linnarel, daughter of Thenlas- mother or father?”

“Mother,” Anora chose.

“-son of Dhavasahngar - mother or-”

“Both.”

“-whose mother was Leilani, daughter of Alhanvenieran, son of Mienis, daughter of Hanedrin, son of Ilshan, son of Iveani; and whose father was Haleisal, son of Terise, daughter Dhearas, daughter of Thessaron, son of Lasera, daughter again of Iveani, son of Ilthelan-”

“And now your grandmother’s family.”

“Theron of Clan Sabrae, son of Mahariel, son of Nesara, daughter of Thelan, son of Yara, son of Halera, daughter of Dianisahnla, daughter of Athras, son of Emadys, daughter of Onathra, son of Revas, son of Dheramanras, daughter of Isaron, son again of Iveani, son of Ilthelan, son of Belannaris, daughter of Sauajua, daughter of Esemalas, son of Linnon, daughter of Alasnierelan, son of Olasenaste, son of Enansevari, daughter of Ghimyashem, daughter of Halerelin, daughter of Adahllen, son of Danathir, son of Rajbana, son of Fenoris, daughter of Misedrin, son of Ilthemien, son of Evbana, daughter of Kyris, daughter of Inar, son of Inaera, daughter of Nanisa, daughter of Isenatha, son of Elgarise, son of Haurnatha, daughter of Falonhaur, son of Radasha, daughter of Iseholmal, daughter of Joliseth, son of Havhen, son of Lanunasha, daughter of Suremathe, son of Nehnabela, daughter of Tualsyl, daughter of Venirathe, son of Nintir, son of Sabrae, daughter of Irien, daughter of Esahni who is the earliest of our People known through the inhumanity of the Tevenes.”

Anora tapped the pile with a finger. She could keep testing him, but- he’d born out Rosaire’s claims when he gave the recitation perfectly, no matter where she’d interrupted him or what she’d asked.

“Very well,” she decided.

“What was that?” the Arl-Commander demanded.

“I called you here for lunch to discuss a proposition,” Anora informed them. “Your time here at court has been troublesome, and you, Arl-Commander - well. We have spoken previously about your stewardship of Amaranthine. I wish to trust you.”

He was outright glaring at her now. Zevran, at least, was sitting quietly and waiting.

“But this is difficult when I have no knowledge of what exactly you do, or why you go where you go, or what the reasons for all of it are. And I, in turn, would like both of you to trust me.”

The Arl-Commander opened his mouth, but thankfully, Zevran placed a hand on his arm to stop him. Thwarted, the Arl-Commander picked up his drink and scowled at her over the top of the cup.

“So what is your proposal, Your Royal Highness?”

“The two of you tell me what happened in Kirkwall and Antiva. I, in turn, will go with you to the Dalish to open official diplomatic relations with the intention of installing an embassy here in Denerim.”

The Arl-Commander didn’t quite choke on his drink, but it was a near thing. The sound of him slamming the cup down on the table was just as gratifying, in conjunction with the stricken expression on his face.

“Well,” Zevran said cheerfully. It was at least a little bit of an act, but Anora sensed that it was for his fiancé’s benefit, and not for hers. “How unexpected!”

The Arl-Commander tugged insistently on his sleeve and they turned to each other, heads close, and the Arl-Commander started speaking in - well, it would have to be his language. She didn’t understand any of it besides the sporadic instances of names and places, but it was darkly amusing to watch him at war with himself over whether or not to accept her proposal.

Erlina leaned over to her while their guests were distracted.

“Interesting tactic,” she whispered.

“I doubt that anything less would work,” Anora whispered back, and took the opportunity of the unintelligible conversation across the table from her to start eating lunch.

She was reasonably confident that the Arl-Commander would accept her terms. What Rosaire had said seemed to be true, and if the memory of the Dalish was so long that they remembered generations so easily and spoke of reclaiming the Dales as a when and not an if, Anora had no doubt this was the largest offer she could make besides giving them land in the first place.

After all, if, oh, Nevarra had come during the Occupation and said they still considered Ferelden a country separate from Orlais, Nevarra would have been their new best friend.

“You mean it?” the Arl-Commander demanded after a few minutes.

She gave him a look.

“Did I ‘mean it’ about granting Ostagar and the Hinterlands to your people?”

A moment’s pause, and then he looked over at Zevran again. It wasn’t an expression Anora had been anticipating. It was concern, and pain, and care, and his eyes tightened when Zevran gave him a slight nod.

“We stop if Zevran gets upset and we can keep going when he feels ready to,” the Arl-Commander told her. “And you had better keep to what you promised.”

That called for an answering frown.

“I am Ferelden, Arl-Commander. My word is my honor.”

“I will fight you,” he warned.

“Theron,” Zevran sighed.

“I would expect nothing less,” Anora said. “Now- where will you begin?”

His mouth pressed into a thin line, despite the accord they’d struck, so it was Zevran who began.

“Shortly after Summersday last year, Nathaniel Howe received a letter from his sister. It was addressed to a man who had died in the darkspawn attack on the Vigil, and it was through this that he learned that his sister was alive and that she believed him dead. By the end of the month we had put together a group to fetch her from Kirkwall, and arrived on the first of Kingsway. It was meant to be a short trip, but-”

He sighed.

“-it is things like this that have decided Theron’s friends on the fact that he is not allowed to travel alone. A situation is inevitably more complicated when he actually arrives somewhere.”

“There was a Taint source in Kirkwall,” the Arl-Commander said. “So we ended up staying to look for it. We called for more Wardens and searched the city. We found some people who could point us in the right direction. One of the expeditions that set out from Kirkwall to explore the Deep Roads when the darkspawn were still preoccupied here found Tainted lyrium.”

“Tainted lyrium?” she had to interrupt, because if ever there were two dangerous things that didn’t need combining-

“When it was found, it drove one of the members of the expedition mad. He ran off with it. Our information said that he’d sold it before he was killed, but we knew where he’d lived. We - Zevran and I, and Ser Tabris - went to search his house to see if there were clues, and-”

His jaw clamped shut, and a he couldn’t quite stay still through the flinch. Zevran slipped an arm through his and leaned into his shoulder. He kept his eyes closed as he continued the story.

“We were surprised by a blood Magister. She decided that three elves would be a nice catch, and that Theron especially would make a good catch.”

That was something that she should have known earlier. It was her responsibility as Queen to address a situation when it involved a foreign attack on her own nobility.

“Who?” she asked, already reviewing her schedule and coming up with ideas for confronting the Imperium’s ambassador.

“She is dead,” Zevran told her. “And it was not-”

“She didn’t know who we were,” the Arl-Commander said, and it was low and wrathful, quiet, even as he stared at the table as though he could will the wood to contort and splinter. “She didn’t care. She just saw that Zevran was- pretty, and that I’m Dalish, and-”

Zevran reached over with his other arm to give him a brief hug when his fiancé’s rage cost him his words. His eyes were still closed, but the Arl-Commander’s had flashes of blue in them. It was a testament to how well they knew each other that Zevran opened his eyes and turned his head, shifting from hugging his fiancé to gently trail his free hand down the Arl-Commander’s face, murmuring something that mad the man get up from his chair suddenly and stalk towards the wall.

The blow he gave the wall probably would have broken a man’s face, but here it just made the Arl-Commander growl in pain through clenched teeth.

Zevran was at his side in an instant, and Anora listened to them long enough to hear the quiet exchange of “Because I couldn’t break the wall” and “But you can break your hand” before ignoring them in favor of her thoughts, to give them their privacy.

So here was the origin of his temper, it seemed - a blood Magister bent on slavery who had actually managed to capture him. Rosaire’s conversation came back to mind. ‘Slavery’ and ‘Dalish’ did not go together.

Erlina nudged her with her foot, and Anora glanced over. Erlina had written something on the paper she’d brought for taking notes on.

‘Ask about the pretty and Dalish’, it advised. She heeded it as soon as the Arl-Commander had composed himself enough to sit at the table again, carefully stretching his hand out.

“And why would being Dalish influence her decision?”

“It would have been an accomplishment.”

It was Zevran who answered her, instead of the Arl-Commander. 

“There has not-”

He asked something of his fiancé quickly.

“There has not been an adult Dalish in slavery in the Imperium since the Houses became Clans,” Zevran explained. “At least that the Dalish themselves know of. If slavers try to take you, you must fight them so fiercely that it is you or they who die. If you are overpowered, you must then escape, or die trying. If there is no opportunity to escape, then the only honorable thing to do is to commit suicide.”

 “And if you do?” Erlina asked.

“Then you are no longer Dalish, but an exile; and you can never return to the clans.”

“You are dead to your family,” the Arl-Commander said. “You are nameless. No clan will shelter you. If you try to return, you are to be treated as we would any other demon trying to wear a clanmate’s face to gain entry. You will be killed, and all will be shamed. It is better for your clan to presume you honorably dead than confront them with - that.”

Anora considered it a moment.

“Rosaire was telling me what he learned of the Dalish from you, Commander,” she said. “These seem odd laws for a people who fight so hard to preserve themselves.”

“If you are captured then you are already lost,” he spat, harsh and bitter. “You have submitted. You have forgotten what your ancestors gave, so that you would live free, you dishonor all the Dalish-”

“Thankfully it did not come to anything so drastic in Kirkwall,” Zevran cut in, and Anora would let this go - but more had been said than she thought the Arl-Commander had meant to. He would not be the first person she’d known to lash out in self-loathing as they tried to fix the mistakes they were convinced they’d made. “We were rescued. But, ah - not quite in time.”

“Yet you are all here in Denerim now.”

“After three incredibly harrowing days, which I have no memory of, the entire situation was resolved. It was - well, it has been said already that the Magister was also a blood mage. Blood mages make thralls, and so was I. Unfortunately killing the Magister did not break the magic, and those three days were spent looking for a solution. I am told that I was entirely unresponsive and would not eat or drink or sleep, and that I was actively dying when the solution was finally implemented.”

And here was the other piece of the question of the Arl-Commander’s sudden temper. He had found something he couldn’t fight, and almost lost himself and Zevran to it. The carnage in Antiva City made sense, as did the reckless fierceness he’d thrown himself into his duel with.

“We finally returned to Amaranthine after a month in Kirkwall, and then I-”

Zevran’s smile had a twist to it that made it self-deprecating.

“If I am to be honest, and I should be, I ran away. I was scared and I made a stupid decision, and compounded it by both sneaking out in the middle of the night and leaving a letter asking that I not be followed.”

That… did not make much sense. If the Arl-Commander was in the state that she’d been reading off him, he shouldn’t have left Zevran alone.

“I find it surprising that he listened,” she told Zevran.

“I won’t force him,” the Arl-Commander said fiercely. “Never. Not on anything. If he wants to leave he can leave and if he wants to stay he can stay and if he can’t stand to stay in one place he can always come back-”

“He is very insistent on respecting my freedom,” Zevran answered her, and this time his smile was more sad than anything. “So I ran to Antiva with no plan and no real aim except for where I would disembark from the ship. I was in Rialto for most of the fall and winter.”  

She and Erlina tried to ask their questions at the same time.

“And the dead Grandmasters?”

“What do you know of Rosso Noche?”

“My doing and unfortunately, much,” he replied. “I went to Rialto because it was the city where I was born and where I spent the first years of my life before the Crows bought me. I did not know that Rosso Noche had taken it over, and learned this in a very unfortunate manner-”

“Zevran,” Anora interrupted him. “A- I heard you properly? Before the Crows bought you?”

“When I was seven? Eight? I do not remember the time of year properly - regardless. Yes, they did, for three gold coins from the man who had been prostituting me. My life changed very little, except for that the Crows collected coin for the rights to my body as a tool for killing as well as fucking.”

Suddenly, she couldn’t fault the Arl-Commander for punching Eamon Guerrin in the Landsmeet. She was resisting the urge to do something unwise to him as well, and she knew that Eamon hadn’t been retelling hearsay but twisting the facts he must have learned from Antiva to suit his own ends. That was what you did, in politics, but there were extents to which it should not be taken, and this was vile. This was the sort of thing she’d expect from the Imperial Court of Orlais.

“Thank you for not beating him to death,” Anora told the Arl-Commander, who straightened in his chair. “A challenge to duel is allowed and expected. Murder is not.”

“I won’t promise for the future,” he said. “If someone hurts Satheraan-”

“You will let me handle it,” Zevran cut him off, irritated and sharp. It seemed this was a standing argument.

“‘Satheraan’?” was her next question. Erlina stepped lightly on her foot under the table, informing Anora that she wanted her question answered, please.

“My mother is Dalish,” Zevran explained. “That is the name I was born with, and not the one that is the result of what Antivans found easiest to pronounce. This one-”

He smiled fondly at his fiancé.

“-he is quite fond of it, especially since it was confirmed. He had to guess, you see, because I had been told my mother was dead when she had really simply been taken very far away, and the Crows did not- encourage remembering anything from before. I forgot it, and it is one of the things Theron has returned to me.”

Anora took some moments to focus on her breathing. It had always seemed clear, before, that Zevran did not talk about his past because he was intent on leaving it behind, because he had changed his ways. This was something worth forgetting, and much worse than she ever would have guessed.

“If you need anything…” she said quietly.

He smiled at her, just a quirk at the corners of his mouth, remembering the day she’d come to see the Arl-Commander after the attack as she was.

“It is handled now, I believe,” he said gently. “But if I should require something, I will remember.”

She nodded, and returned Erlina’s step on her foot.

“Rosso Noche?” her friend asked again.

“Ah. Yes. An unfortunate group, full of idealists, incompetents, and a scare few people who actually know what they are doing. I was, hm, forcibly guested at the house of one of the prominent members in Rialto. They are against the Crows, you see, and did not trust me. The hypocrisy eventually became grating.”

“Hypocrisy?”

“They were owned, though they did not quite realize it, by a Crow Talon by the name of Lauro Escipo. I was fortunate enough that he did not recognize me and of the mind to believe the accepted ‘wisdom’ that Crow courtesans are stupid and incapable of ‘serious’ assassin work. I was tolerated, and no one checked the validity of the name I was living under.”

He paused, and cocked his head.

“I take it you are interested chiefly in them for reasons of politics?”

Erlina inclined her head.

“Names, then. Hm. The people who may accomplish something first. Captain Heliz Daganin, who sails out of Rialto on The Eastern Charger. She is the leader of the organization of ship captains who no longer wish to be beholden to the whims of the merchant houses and would prefer to handle their own affairs and contract on their terms. Also in Rialto is Liliva Melcarati, the Revered Mother.”

That was unexpected. The Chantry was not the place one looked for social change.

“I know of only a small portion, I suspect, of the group in Antiva City. Ezecil Romão is a writer and academic, as such. He studies Old Antiva, before the Chantry and the Imperium. He is a bit florid and fond of dramatics in his writing, but nothing too unreadable. If you wish to understand some of the foundation of Rosso Noche, you will find it in his books. They hold Old Antiva as an ideal - a time before the Orlesian Chantry, before the Crows, before the monopolies of the merchant houses, and a time when royalty could be trusted to do something for their people. Otherwise, the important members are Itzar Josa, Marcel Loyola, and Illermo Pane. They are the Grand Cleric of Antiva, the Knight-Commander of the Circle in Antiva City, and the First Enchanter.”

“The Grand Cleric?” Anora asked, almost ready to disbelieve him.

Zevran shrugged.

“She was one of the founding members of Rosso Noche. She is very committed, I am given to understand, as she happily worked with the network of Antivan apostates and seized the opportunity to plausibly claim Andraste and the Maker’s favor for a split between the Chantry in Antiva and the rest of the world.”  

That was far more information than Anora had been hoping for, and likely much more than Erlina had ever expected to learn.

“I don’t suppose you know anyone in the network of apostates?” her friend asked hopefully.

The smile Zevran gave her said very clearly that he did know names, but what he said was: “I would hope that you would understand, if I wish to leave them their anonymity. For the time being. I would pass on a warning, though.”

“What?”

“Do not trust Yves Montilyet, should you ever be in a position to deal with him. He gave one son to the Crows and was attempting, in an incredibly fumbling way, to maneuver Rosso Noche onto a path that would benefit himself. Lauro Escipo was born Laurien Montilyet, you see.”

Anora had the feeling that ‘Montilyet’ should be a name that was familiar, and judging by Erlina’s expression, she agreed.

“His elder daughter is Josephine Montilyet, the Antivan ambassador to Orlais,” Zevran helpfully provided, and that could be a complication.

“You killed the brother of the ambassador to Orlais.”

“He would have killed me first,” Zevran said. “And he was hunting my children. If he had caught them-”

It was easy to forget that Zevran was an assassin, but not when his eyes turned hard like that. Anora decided she would not push. She’d learned enough about this particular subject.

“And Claudio Fulgendez?”

“Claudio Valisti. Yes. Unfortunately he recognized me when the Wardens of Antiva decided I was untrustworthy. He was done in by his own hubris, in the end - he could not conceive of a world where a ‘Crow whore’ such as myself could amount to anything without a team to do everything I was surely incapable of.”

His smile was sharp.

“He had me in a cell and was torturing me, and he believed that I had gone to the Wardens in a convoluted attempt at finishing my contract on Theron and Alistair. He even suggested to me that he might keep me around long enough to be used to root out their ‘Black Shadow’ that had been killing Grandmasters and Talons - or as bait, I suppose, being a courtesan. A difficult proposition, as it would be hard to assassinate myself. In the end, he made the mistake of setting up a ‘competition’ with the other Talon Masters to determine who would succeed to the position of Grandmaster, as they have been fighting about it since I killed Eoman Arainai.”

“And this competition was…?”

“Whichever House killed me won,” the Arl-Commander said. “And then Valisti tried to bargain us walking away in exchange for cancelling the contracts on me and the- the privilege of killing Zevran.”

And there, she had them. All the answers about Kirkwall and Antiva that she’d wanted. She knew the hows and the whys, and could make sense of the madness the Arl-Commander kept running into.

“Another question,” Erlina said, glancing at her. “The last one, I think. Why were the Crows fighting about who would be Grandmaster since Eoman Arainai was killed?”

“The position of Grandmaster comes with a symbol of office, passed down - well, it has continued to be the signifier of office since the days when the Crows had yet to be more than a monastery that had a reputation for poisons. Only one Grandmaster has ever died of old age, but it is only this that makes it so that it cannot be said that every change of office has come from the Grandmaster being assassinated and the successor proving themselves as the new Grandmaster through their possession of this signifier. It was not found, you see, when Eoman Arainai was killed, and no one ever came forward with it. He never had a legitimate successor.”

Anora looked at him. He looked at her. She didn’t ask the question, but Zevran leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.