Chapter Text
Nova Mahariel’s feet ache with every step. It’s not as if she’s never walked this much; she is Dalish, after all. Often while traveling, the older children and adults would take turns walking alongside the aravels as they drifted through the forests. It was both to give the halla a break and to better understand the burden they undertake each time the Dalish move. No, she is no stranger to walking.
What she’s having a hard time with is the Ferelden muck.
It’s been a week of marching since their group left Lothering with two new allies. While it hasn’t been raining on their heads yet, the wide, open fields they traverse are perpetually wet in a way the forests she’s used to never were. The crowded, thirsty trees did much to pull water from the ground, leaving the spongy moss to drink the rest. Nova tortures herself with the memory of stepping on soft moss in just leather foot wrappings, springing up energetically.
Looking down, she laments her feet being encased and trapped within these clunky leather boots. She yearns for the freedom of grass between toes and the feel of tight leather binding high arches. Each step leaves her straining to separate her boots from the mud that threatens to absorb them.
Bodahn gave them the news at sunrise, passed along by a trader who scarcely made it out alive. They had missed the darkspawn horde by a single day. With Lothering burning at their backs, the group has fallen into a quiet introspection.
For Leliana, Nova could guess that the news reinforced her belief in the vision she claims to have had. For Sten, well…she cannot begin to guess at his thoughts. Alistair’s mind has most likely turned to Ostagar and how dire their situation truly is. Morrigan, however, seems only that much more determined to press ahead as quickly as possible.
“We should set camp soon. Unless you wish to lose your shoes, as well as your will…?” Morrigan tilts her head toward Alistair, smugly awaiting a response…and receiving none. Thankfully, Leliana effortlessly smooths over the awkward pause.
“Personally, I would be most pleased to be rid of these hideous boots.” The bard swings each foot high as she walks to show the pair that she had picked off of a bandit two days ago. “Ferelden does not seem to know the difference between fine footwear and dead animal.”
“There is much this country does poorly,” Sten huffs agreeably.
The mabari, meanwhile, whines softly and sticks to the side of Nova’s fellow warden, earning himself a half-hearted scratch behind the ears and a soft, distracted, “Good boy.”
When Morrigan is sure he won’t rise to the challenge, she looks nearly embarrassed. She retreats into her mind, where she needn’t worry about polite conversation, suicide missions, or moping Grey Wardens.
Nova is quiet as well, pulling up a threadbare scarf to protect her long ears from the chill as she analyzes her…superior officer? Fellow warden? She isn’t sure. Alistair was strangely silent all day—or so she thought, anyway. It’s not as if they really knew each other at all. But when they had first met, he was kind and outgoing and joked quite a bit. After, well…it seems to be an uphill battle for him, so far. Not that she can blame him.
Nova chalks it up to shock and sleep deprivation—not to mention a healthy dose of panic and a feral instinct to survive—that has kept all emotions in check so far. While she may not have lost as much at Ostagar as Alistair, her greatest sorrow happened just before she had arrived. The chain of events that led to being spirited away by Duncan was quick enough that she feels she’s outrunning the past just as sure as she’s outrunning the Blight. Not one to look a gift halla in the mouth, she only hopes the future mental breakdown doesn’t come at an inconvenient time.
For now, she settles for fielding any questions that Alistair doesn’t have the head for. Temporarily, of course.
“Good idea, Morrigan.” Nova rakes a hand through white hair and smooths over her face, hoping the bruises under her eyes are hidden well by the arcing purple design of her vallaslin. She wills herself to look like a more presentable and less irritated leader, if only for a moment. “If those clouds are any indication, the rivers will flood quite a bit tonight.”
“Of course it’s a good idea. I’ve smelled rain for at least the past half-day. This land will be slop by the evening.” Morrigan’s tone is as condescending as usual, but Nova catches an expression akin to approval.
“To higher ground, then,” Sten rumbles.
The clearing they find is on the crest of a hill overlooking the unfortunate, Blight-ravaged lands to the south. Sten and Alistair help push Bodahn’s cart up the steep slope while Leliana directs them around sharp rocks, fallen logs, and sunken fox holes. Morrigan shifts into a cat to scout ahead, leaving Nova alone to merely watch the teamwork unfold.
At the top, the wind cuts through the trees with a horrible howling, but the power behind it is thankfully muted by the time it reaches the camp site. The air smells cleaner here compared to the valleys; the stink of mud and dog gives way to fresh grass and tree bark. It’s also wet here—as all of Ferelden is—but at least the rain won’t pool in their tents.
Camp is set with little fanfare beyond Bodahn offering to sell larger backpacks or ale or delicate little cakes. Leliana quietly contributes to pitching the tents as Sten builds the fire. Morrigan almost-kindly offers her cooking talent to the group when it becomes clear that Alistair wouldn’t be eating.
(Yet the offer hinges on a deal between herself and Nova that the dog shall stay at least one hundred feet from her tent at all times. They shook on it, and Nova felt a skitter of magic cross her heart when she did.)
Alistair retires to his tent immediately after it’s pitched, mumbling something about the rain. The rest, meanwhile, try their best to ignore the fat raindrops falling into their stew and dampening the fire. The winds pick up soon, though, and each withdraw to their tents to hide from the weather.
By the time Nova decides to pack it in, Bodahn and Sandal have retired to the confines of their wagon. Hell, even the mabari is miserable; he quietly whines until her will breaks, and she invites him in the tent.
“Now we’ll both smell like wet dog,” she whines playfully and earns a lick. With a quiet laugh, she pushes him to the end of the bedroll and settles in for a long, wet night.
Nova awakens to the sound of rain. The tent canvas is dark, assuring her it isn’t morning. Yet surely, something had awoken her. The war hound sleeps soundly at the foot of the bedroll, warming the tent with his mass. The rain is loud, but it’s a comforting, droning sound, lacking any thunder or wind. She pauses, waiting for…something. Her muscles tense, expecting the draw of a knife, the twang of a bow, the growl of darkspawn—
Instead, she hears a muffled, watery gasp coming from the tent closest to her own.
Oh.
Nova sighs and lets the tension and adrenaline fade. She winds the leather twine from the pendant from her Joining around her fingers, weaving them in and out and back again.
This has been a common occurrence no matter where she goes. Clan Sabrae was not without it’s hardships. With the freedom of their nomadic life also came great sorrow, at times. Nights would often be peppered with children crying over the loss of a parent, hunters sobbing through their injuries, or flat-ears remembering the life they used to have.
More than once, Nova herself was the one whose sorrow interrupted the sleep of her clan mates.
Since joining the Grey Wardens, this trend hasn’t much changed. What she and Alistair went through at Ostagar would’ve broken weaker men. But while they still struggle and fight back against the darkness, they were not left unscathed.
The other warden infrequently allows himself nights to break down. He’ll be subdued during the day, refuse dinner, and retire to bed. He’s remarkably quiet about it all, but she supposes she only knows because of her tent placement. Being the last of the Grey Wardens and the only two people willing to be within spitting distance of a mabari war hound, they tend to camp close together and a bit further away from the group.
The problem with his breakdowns is that she doesn’t know how to react to them.
Surely if he wanted attention or consolation, he would be more open about his grief. If he needed help, he would probably ask her for it. After all, subtly certainly isn’t one of Alistair’s strengths. But because he hides it in the night, Nova feels uncomfortable approaching the subject.
Listening to his gentle sniffles in the dark, she’s overcome with a memory from long ago. A time before wardens and darkspawn. Before daggers and poisons.
The night that Nova’s childlike curiosity drove her to ask Ashalle about her parents was one of the most important days of her life. To this day, she is unsure why she asked, or what made her think she would receive a different answer this time. All she remembers is the compulsion to finally know.
“Ashalle,” she began, and the talented fingers intricately braiding her white hair paused. “I know I do not have parents like other children but…why? Why am I raised by you and the clan instead of them?”
“You know better than to ask this of me, I think,“ Ashalle tells her kindly, but firmly.
“I know I have asked before who they were and you would not answer,” Nova said smartly, as if it was just a clever riddle to solve. “Now, I am asking why—“
“The Dalish do not morbidly poke and prod at wounds of the past, child,” Ashalle’s voice was hard, like jagged chips of stone on the riverbank. “You will not ask of them again.“
“But this is not fair—“
“What is not fair? It is not fair to be Dalish? Are you not proud of your heritage? Would you rather join the flat-ears in the alienage, where humans keep them confined like animals, like beasts?” Ashalle's voice was angry in a way Nova had never heard before and it scared her into speaking her mind.
“It is not fair that Tamlen gets parents and all I get is you!”
Nova ripped her hair out of Ashalle’s hands, panting and red-faced. She had overheard stories of magelings summoning the elements during an emotional time and she had known she was the correct age for it. For just a moment, she swore she could feel fire at her fingertips, thrumming through her veins and scorching her heart.
Ashalle rooted Nova with a stare. For years, Nova had thought it was pity. In retrospect, she can recognize it as the look a hunter gives an injured animal, just before the mercy kill.
Quietly, carefully, Ashalle told her what she already knew to be true.
“They are dead, Nova. They will not come back for you. I…I am sorry, but I am all you have.”
Nova remembers feeling small. So young and so burdened with sorrow that her tiny form couldn’t keep it all in, and so it welled outwards in heavy, racking sobs. She remembers the dewy grass beneath her feet, the constellations above her head, and her name catching on the wind as she ran.
It was no secret where she ran off to. The moment the aravels stopped moving, the children had claimed the biggest tree they could climb. Since then, the clan had allowed them their personal fortress—if only to make it simple to find them when they were late to supper.
Still, it was the only place she knew to go and at the time, she was sure that just a moment of quiet solitude would make the answer she received make sense. Or at least hurt less.
Ashalle did not come. The hunters did not come. She wept a long while, cradled only in the boughs of the tree, loud enough to mask the footsteps approaching her.
A mop of blonde hair and a spatter of freckles followed small hands that reached toward her branch. His eyebrows were furrowed in dismay, mouth open to show the gap his tooth left when it fell out a tenday before.
“Nova?”
“Tamlen?” Her voice was thick and hoarse and did no favors to pronouncing his name.
“I heard Ashalle calling for you. Are…are you okay?” Tamlen struggled a little, but managed to carefully climb onto her branch without straining it.
“No, and I will never be okay again!” Nova’s tears returned in a wave and sent out another wail to echo into the forest and startle the nearby fauna.
“Do you…want to talk about it?”
“No!” she warbled. And she truly didn’t. She didn’t want to give voice to the pain she felt. She couldn’t put into words the jealousy she felt of her friend’s parents. She wouldn’t dare speak of the shame that came from treating Ashalle with such disrespect.
Tamlen looked at her from across the branch for a while. Finally, he dug out a pouch and carefully emptied the contents into his lap. He picked a few objects out and put the rest away. He waited patiently for the violent sobs to pass, when fat tears and sad whimpers were all her tired body could manage.
“Hold out your hands.”
Exhausted and confused, she held them out to him. He gently took one hand and placed it against the bark beneath her.
“When I am sad, it helps me to focus,” he explained and placed his own hand beside hers. “Touch the tree.”
Nova quietly touched the tree, as instructed. The bark felt cold and hard beneath her uncalloused hands, and sticky with sap. Tamlen nodded as he pulled her hand back and placed a little bundle of dried pine needles in her palm.
“Smell it.”
It smelled familiar, though the aravels hadn’t moved through pine forests in a few years, at least. It pulled from her memories of holding Ashalle’s hand as it was their turn to walk beside the aravels. Tottling footsteps as she tried to keep pace, and the strong arms that lifted her when she could not. The sharp, green scent cut through her runny nose.
Tamlen took the bundle back and replaced it with a lock of fur. As white as her own hair, it was short, tickled her skin, and was bound together with a short leather string.
Nova smelled this as well, needing no instruction. Gamey, yet clean. The unmistakable scent of halla. It brought to her mind a clear picture of beautiful, twisting horns and long, strong legs. It also brought a memory of Ashalle first lifting her to eye level with a halla, and the blessed feeling it gave her. Her breathing evened as she thought on it.
Tamlen took the fur as well and replaced it with a final gift: a child's handful of berries. They were a little squished and the juices stained her hands the prettiest shade of purple. Nova remembered berry picking with Ashalle two moons before and staining a strip of leather with the dye they had made from it.
Tamlen laughed a little, took one from her hand, and ate it. Nova picked one up as well, gently placed it in her mouth, and reveled in the taste as they burst. One by one, they ate in silence and only after did she realize she had stopped crying. When they were finished, she carefully went to his side of the branch and hugged him tightly.
“Thank you, Tamlen. I do not think anyone else would…” she trailed off, unsure if she should admit it. “No one but you came after me.”
“You are my best friend, Nova.” He shrugged his shoulders before he returned the embrace. “I will always be there for you.”
A particularly loud sob from Alistair startles her from the memory. Nova swallows the lump in her throat and swipes a hand across her eyes. She throws a cloak on over her clothes, lights the hip lantern on her belt, and gently shakes the dog awake.
“Come now, Tamlen. There’s a bone in it for you if you help me cheer up Alistair.”
Two big, intelligent eyes crack open only to squeeze shut in a big yawn. With a stretch, Tamlen dutifully trots out of the tent, careful not to knock over any poles. Nova follows close behind, redirecting him with a few discreet clicks.
“Bodahn first. Lamb or ox?”
She receives a deep boof in reply.
“Ox it is.”
Nova peeks inside the traders’ wagon and thankfully sees a dim lantern still lit within. She knocks quietly to bother anyone sleeping, but loudly enough to be heard over the rain.
“Bodahn? Sandal? Can I have a quick look at your wares?”
“Anything for my favorite Warden!” The wagon door cracks open and Bodahn’s face peeks out. “What can I get for you?”
“A piece of quartz, if you have any, please, and one of those little fancy cakes.”
The mabari whines low at her hip.
“Oh! And an ox bone.”
“Midnight snacking, eh? You know, in my day, we had second supper ‘round this time. Dreadful how folk up here are expected to starve through the night—“ his voice trails off as he retreats deeper within the wagon to fetch the items. A moment later and she’s given what she asked for, in exchange for a handful of coin.
“Thank you, Bodahn, I appreciate this.”
“Have a good evening, lass. And go easy on the bone marrow, you!” He shakes a finger at Tamlen, who gives a quiet boof around the bone in return.
“Put the bone away somewhere dry, for now. This comes first.”
A little horrified, she watches as the dog trots into her tent to deposit the bloody ox bone. With a small prayer to the gods that it wasn’t on the bedroll, she takes a moment to dig through a pouch looped through her belt.
Under the vials of poisons, a whetstone, and a little fish knife, she finds it: a small bale of halla fur. It was the only thing she brought from her clan before she left with Duncan.
There wasn’t…they never found a body. With nothing left, Nova wasn’t able to take the original as a keepsake, nor return his father’s bow or his mother’s favorite hunting knife to the clan where they belong. She was left with nothing but memories and crudely made replicas. Moments before leaving the clan, she had whispered to the halla her desire and received permission to cut a bundle of fur from the eldest’s shining tail. Though it’s been through much since she first cut it, it still smells of home.
Nova holds the tightly-bound halla fur over her heart, takes a deep breath, and pushes into the tent.
Her fellow warden is sitting in his bedroll, nearly hugging his knees. In the flickering light of the hip lantern, she can tell his face is splotched red and wet from tears and snot both. Without his heavy armor on, he looks…small. Vulnerable, in more ways than one. The long sleeves of his shirt are pulled down to cover his hands as he smears them across his face to sop up the mess.
“Alistair…?”
He’s startled out of a particularly rough sob as she enters and his knees fall open as he sits up. Tamlen, a giant in these cramped quarters, pushes past her and rests his massive head onto his lap. Ferelden instinct takes over from there as Alistair begins to absentmindedly scratch behind Tamlen’s ears as he stammers through a congested nose.
“I…Nova? Maker, I didn’t wake you, did I? I didn’t mean…I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone to…what are you doing?”
As he struggles to hide his face—now red from tears and embarrassment—Nova settles herself down next to him atop his bedroll, knees folded gently beneath her. She’s close enough to feel the body heat radiating off of him and smell the stink of sweat from a rough day.
Nova holds a hand out to him, which Alistair stares at blankly. She gently takes the hand that’s not petting the dog and puts it in her own, kindly ignoring how wet it is. His composure threatens to break under scrutiny and she watches calmly as his lips begin to wobble and his eyes tear up again. She softly squeezes his hand in affirmation.
“Duncan was a good man and an important person in your life. You’re allowed to mourn him.”
The floodgates break as he collapses in on himself with a sob. Nova gently tugs at him until he willingly falls onto his side, toward where she sits. His head atop her knees, she pets his hair, gently pushing it back and away from his face.
They stay like that for as long as it takes for him to calm down. The canvas of the tent is still dark, and Tamlen hasn’t yet fallen asleep. The rain continues to fall to the ground in an arrhythmic beat, if slower than before. The tent is hot and humid now from the two extra bodies crammed into the tight space.
Once Alistair’s cries become more manageable, Nova pauses her ministrations momentarily. She shifts to gain access to a bag at her side that has Tamlen sniffing the air at the sweet scent. First, she takes out the piece of quartz she had bought earlier, slipping it into one of his hands which curl around it almost immediately.
“Feel the texture of the stone: the highest point, the rough underside. The smooth, glassy planes of one side, the craggy pits of the rock it grew out of. It’s a cold, hard stone…but you change it just by holding on. The warmth of your hand will heat it just as if it were alive.”
Her voice is soft and low, as if he were an animal to avoid startling. Alistair sniffles as he brings the mineral to his face and she watches him pet it gently, with intent. she waits for his breaths to even and his hiccups to stop before she holds a hand out to take it back, meaning to replace it with the halla fur bundle. There is a pause as she stares at it in silence. Cautiously, she hands him one of the most precious items she owns.
This, he examines with more interest. He brushes a thumb over the leather strap, feeling the difference in texture on each side. He pets the fur itself, marveling at how the lantern light shines golden against it. Then, to her surprise, he leans in and smells it.
“Deer…?” he asks, small and curious.
Nova takes the bundle from him without answering, ear points burning with embarrassment. Of course a shemlen wouldn’t hold the same understanding or memories of halla as her people do. She feels foolish for not thinking to gather wet leaves or a handful of Tamlen’s short fur or a cup of Ferelden mud. She places it back in the bag and grabs the cake, instead.
“You haven’t eaten yet,” she tells him. He looks at the cake hesitantly, torn between his legendary Grey Warden appetite and the obstinate self-destruction he attempted to nurture by skipping supper.
“Eat,” she implores. At the order, the war hound raises his head and eyes the treat jealously. Alistair, sensing his food is in danger, acts quickly to scoop the cake out of the dog’s reach. Nova winks at Tamlen, receiving a snort in reply.
Alistair sits up to admire the little cake. It’s small, made even tinier in the center of his large hands. Neither of them have eaten one yet, for good reason: the cost of buying the absurd amount necessary to satiate either warden has led to them avoiding the things entirely, until now. He picks at it, tearing off laughably-modest pieces at a time and savoring every bit. Nova, still satisfied from Morrigan’s stew, is content experiencing the too-sweet icing smell that fills the cramped space. When it’s finally gone, he takes a long, deep breath.
“I feel like apologizing, but something tells me you wouldn’t accept it. So, thank you. I…it’s been hard for me and I appreciate you. This. I’ve never had anyone…well, no one’s ever cared enough to…” Alistair coughs, embarrassed once again. “Anyway…thanks.”
“Any time, Alistair. But let’s keep it to one cake per day, deal?” Nova nudges her elbow into his ribs and he laughs genuinely.
“Fair enough! So…if I may ask, was that something they taught you in your clan? Was that like a…I don’t know, a Dalish mourning ceremony?”
Nova blinks, startled for an instant before erupting into fits of laughter.
“A ‘Dalish mourning ceremony’?” She attempts desperately to mute the laughter through her hands, sure that she’ll wake their other traveling companions. “Is that what they teach you in your Chantries? That everything the Dalish do is some sort of anti-Maker cult ritual?”
“Well, now you’re just insulting me,” Alistair’s sputters indignantly. “I’ll have you know, I didn’t pay attention to anything in the Chantry that wasn’t breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Or the occasional fire drill.”
“Well, I did bring cake for you, just in case your mind wandered.”
“You’ve cut me deep, my lady, you truly have.” His laugh settles, but the smile stays on his face, much to Nova's relief.
“To answer your question, the Dalish don’t believe in poking at past hurt. But there are some that believe some wounds need to be…lanced, so to speak.” Nova watches him wrinkle his nose at the analogy. She takes a deep breath before continuing. “A…friend showed this to me, long ago.”
Alistair has enough sense to feel the tension in her response and thankfully lets it go.
“So…was I right?” He glances toward the bag at her belt. “About the fur, I mean. I like guessing games as much as the next man, but only if I win. Strange that they’re only fun after you’re given the answer. The whole guessing process is actually a bit infuriating, if you think about it.”
Nova pulls the halla fur bundle from the pouch, handing it to Alistair for further inspection. He turns it over in his hands, examining it again before giving another quick sniff.
“It is deer, right? It’s too straight to be lamb or sheep, but not gamey enough to be some sort of…I don’t know, rare white boar. Unless…”
He pauses, looking between the bundle of fur and Nova’s own white hair.
“Unless I just put my foot in my mouth with that one,” Alistair begins to panic a little. “I, for one, think it’s great that you embrace this whole ‘children of the forest’ thing that the Dalish have. Very humble. And you know, many men like their women…um…gamey.”
Nova laughs, whacking his arm playfully, which he takes to dramatically rubbing it.
“No, it’s not mine. It’s halla fur. They’re…well, alright they’re similar to deer, from a shem’s point of view, anyway. They have pure white fur and these long, twisting horns. They carry our aravels—the landships—for us.”
“So I was right! Sort of. Well, close enough, anyway.”
Their laughter dies down into a quiet, tired sigh each. Tamlen picks up on the mood and awakens fully, stretching out and heading towards the tent flap.
“Well, I think I’ve kept you from sleep long enough. Thank you again, Nova. I…really appreciate your help. You’re a good—“ he cuts himself off, just as uncertain about their relationship as she is.
“Person?” she supplies him. “Elf? Traveling companion? Fellow work associate?”
“Ha-ha, very funny. I take everything back, you’re just as much a menace to society the Chantry warned me about.”
“And don’t you forget it. Goodnight, Alistair.”
Nova stretches her legs out from under her and playfully ruffles his hair before following the dog outside.
In the middle of camp, she pops the cork on a particularly caustic fire bomb she made earlier and pours the contents into the fire pit. It ignites instantly, smelling gently of burnt fat and black smoke. It begins to warm her bones and dry her clothes, though she knows it will only last as long as the fuel does.
Tamlen steps into her tent briefly to fetch his new bone. She watches as he goes, marveling at the thoughtful way he avoids dragging the bloodied bone against the tent canvas. The mabari rivals the intelligence she has witnessed in the halla of Clan Sabrae and it calms her soul to have one imprinted with her. He spreads out on the ground nearest her, safely away from the fire, to gnaw contently on the ox femur.
Quietly, secretly, she pulls out the halla fur and says a small prayer in elven, absorbed at once by the sizzling of the fire.
“Creators, grant me the knowledge to help these people, the courage to end the Blight, and the strength to endure my sorrow in the coming days.”
Nova looks down at the mabari—her mabari—and swallows the lump in her throat. At first, she was adverse to naming a creature so intelligent. But almost impulsively, she named him after both the greatest happiness and the greatest sorrow she’s ever known. Her personal war hound has come to represent both a fierce partnership, and her own trivial rebellion against the culture of her people. She never believed that ignoring old pain would make it go away.
And neither did he.
“Good boy, Tamlen.” The short, stubby nub of his tail wags excitedly as his chest rumbles a response.
Staring into the fire, she can nearly see his face. In the hissing of waterlogged wood, she can almost hear his voice. In the wet leaves and dewy grass, she can nearly smell him.
“I miss you, lethallin. Every single day.”
Nova settles into a comfortable position to wait out the night, sure that sleep will continue to evade her while there is still a job to be done. Looking up, she notices with a bittersweet smile that rain has stopped. The sky above has cleared of the dark clouds and the stars shine down upon her little campsite as she guards it from the night.