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A few months after the blight ended, Alistair took to calling the Warden ‘Spots’. It suited her rather well considering her pale complexion and the black brand which spread over her right eye; it was very much reminiscent of a spotted animal. To her, it was a reminder of an identity that she wanted to desperately shed. She had no qualms with being a dwarf, she was rather proud of it, even, but, she often spoke of her own kind as if they valued less than the dirt beneath her feet. She spent a disenfranchised youth among the poor and forgotten who were little more than disgraces in the nobles’ eyes. When Alistair called her ‘Spots’ for the first time, she refused to speak to him for an entire day. He stopped calling her that, except for when they fell into rows which often awakened a spiteful and childish side in him, one that was inclined to address her by ‘Spots’ to reveal the extent of his frustrations. But, as they grew older, her opinions on Ozarmmer weren’t as strong as they were when she came to the surface. Leske and Jarvis were reduced to names and the nickname ‘Spots’ lost its viciousness and began to grow on Katja.
In the dim light of the room, Alistair studies the brand, wondering if it’s faded slightly in the past ten years. “I was wondering,” he begins, reaching out to trace the outline of the tattoo, “if it hurt.” He can’t imagine what it would feel like - being branded - but they had both felt the absolute limit of pain in battle.
“I don’t know,” she replies, “I don’t remember what it felt like.” If she did, she would begin to describe the sensation as vividly as possible. She must be telling the truth, he thinks to himself. “I’m glad I don’t. I’ve got a pretty long list of things that I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to forget.” She reaches for his hand, probably to move it away from her brand; instead, she wraps her fingers around his wrist.
“That makes both of us,” he scoffs. A terrible silence settles between them, stripping them of the distractions that allow them to ignore The Calling. Even as they look at each other, they know that they’re both suffering. They don’t comment on it. What would be the point? For Katja, she couldn’t possibly bring comfort to him. What would a couple of words provide other than false reassurance that everything would sort itself out. Alistair passiveness derives from Katja’s own reluctance to speak about the dreadful music that beckoned them. So, they stare and wait, wondering what would become of their lives.
With a little sigh, Alistair asks, “is it bad to say that I’m scared?” This draws a smile from her - it is a wan and bitter smile, one that lets Alistair know exactly how she’s feeling.
“No, I wouldn’t say so…,” she replies, “I’m scared, too. This could be our last moment together and I don't have the strength to say what I want to say.” Alistair doesn’t want to think about it, but she’s right - she might not return to Ferelden. If the calling truly does mean the beginning of another Blight… he isn’t sure what to think. With bad omens all around them, it’s incredibly difficult to foresee a bright and rosy future. Was it better to be together in death or misery?
“Please, say it,” he pleads, “you might not have another chance.” She shrugs, finding the notion of saying ‘good-bye’ futile and damning. “Why can’t you say it?”
“I don’t know. What about you?”
“Are you turning this around on me?” Despite his desperate attempts to seem unbothered, anger seeps into his voice. As long as he’s known her, she had tendencies to condemn others but not herself - she was a hypocrite. “Don’t do that.” He sits up to reach for the bottle of ale on the bedside and draws a long swig from it. It tastes the same as it usually does - warm and bitter - but it leaves a rancid taste in his mouth and makes his stomach twinge. Katja pulls her legs to her chest and rests her head against her scarred knees.
She speaks to him, but with her face pressed against her own legs, it comes out muddled and nearly incomprehensible, “I don’t want to fight, Alistair.” Slowly, her face turns towards him, “not now. Not ever.” Her fiery red hair hangs over her eyes, but he can see that she’s about to cry.
“Maker, don’t cry.” He’s never seen her cry over anything other than a particularly gruesome wound. She’s never shed a tear, not even when her mother berated her despite the fact that her daughter had become a Grey Warden. For Alistair, crying is as natural as breathing and is nothing to be ashamed of. Oghren teased him for that. He didn’t care. “Why are you crying?” She breathes in like she hasn’t breathed in a long time, like she’s been swimming for ages and she’s only just reached the surface. There’s an ugly part of himself who resents her for saving her tears for now. He hates himself for thinking like that - without an ounce of sympathy for her pain. Alistair can’t understand himself, sometimes, and hopes that Katja is the same.
“I’m going to cry if I want,” she seethes through her clenched teeth. She falls onto her back and drapes an arm over her eyes while she cries. She doesn’t reach out for him, pleading to be held, and she doesn’t ask for his help. Her chest rises and falls with each strangled sob like she’s fighting for air. Then, as quickly as it began, her crying ceases. The room is quiet again. “I can’t help but feel like this is the end of the road,” she murmurs in a weakened voice as her eyes fix themselves on Alistair who merely watches her with a stupefied expression on his face. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” Neither does he.
“You don’t have to know,” he reassures, reaching out to wipe her eyes with the back of his hand. The sclera of her eyes are a painful red and her nose and lips are swollen; He cannot stand to see her this way - vulnerable, weak and devastated. “You don’t need a reason.”
“Maybe I’m just older now,” she mumbles airily. For Katja, the root of her problems is her age, even if she’s only in her thirties.
“Maybe.” He lies on his side and supports his head on one of his upper arms so he can properly look at her. “You blame everything on your age. I’d be surprised if there was something that wasn’t caused by it,” he teases. She smiles wanly, but, it’s a smile nevertheless. Alistair’s sly little comment manages to break her surly mood or, at least, alleviate it for the time being. She moves closer to him and it feels as though she’s closed a mile-long gap - an enormous ocean. As she presses her face against his shoulder, she heaves a sigh. Then, she looks up with her still-red eyes. She’s in need of sleep.
“Spots,” he whispers, tracing her brand with the tip of his finger. It’s only when she smiles that he realizes that she’s changed. Is it possible that all of those tears and smiles were lying dormant, waiting for what could possibly be their last moment together? He feels as though it’s unfair that they won’t be able to live to see each other transform and change with the years. But, that’s why she needs to leave - to find a way to reclaim the time they’ve been doomed to lose. At twenty years old, death did not seem so scary and he felt prepared to sacrifice himself for the good of all mankind.
As if she’s read his mind, Katja sighs, “I’ve wasted my life.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know. I’ve taken everything for granted, though,” she replies. He nods, acknowledging that he, too, has been pissing away his own life. “Everything… from the first bite of a ripe fruit to a sunrise in the Frostbacks. And, I’ve taken you for granted… all your jokes and the stupid expressions on your face when you drink strong mead.” As sad as her words are, they’re strangely poetic and heart-warming, but they only remind him of what little time they have left.
To prevent himself from tearing up, he pulls her closer, “you’ll come back and everyone will probably lick your boots as they usually do.” She makes a sound, but he can’t tell whether it’s a laugh or a pained cry. “The Hero of Ferelden and… the other Grey Warden,” he says, hoping that it stops her from crying again. She doesn’t say anything, but she holds him tighter.
They lie there for hours, without speaking. They close their eyes and think of mundane and peaceful thoughts but sleep never comes. Sleeping at such a moment is not unlike eating before an execution - futile and useless. Finally, a band of daylight pierces through their room’s dusty window and it stretches itself onto the bed and their bodies. For a while, they ignore it like it doesn’t exist. But, the room becomes brighter and the sun burns their legs, scalding them for foolishly trying to buy time. Katja, who realizes that there is no point in avoiding their inevitable fates, sits up. She’s sleep deprived, uncomfortable and devastated - so much so that tears fill her eyes. “Hey, get up. It’s morning.”