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Sometimes you see her in dreams.
Sitting there beneath a willow, a slow river across the way, murmuring gently. Staff laid out at her side, robes clean and pressed, and always, always turning to smile at you before you're at her side, a look of surprise contrasting with her expecting smile, crows feet crinkling at the corners of her eyes.
“Are you a spirit?” Always the same question. Always met with the same knowing smile in a not-answer, a hummed response, before the elderly mage pats the soft grass beside her in welcome.
You join her there, beneath the old tree at the rivers edge. And you share quiet company before your old mentor finally speaks.
“What troubles you?”
Too many things. You’re dead. I’m dying. The world’s gone to shit. Again. I don't know what I should do anymore. What can I do.
“You didn't talk about griffons last time,” you answer.
The mage laughs, full and bright and you rub the moisture at your eyes because it almost sounds real.
“Not every story has griffons in it, my friend,” is her reply.
“That's why I never liked reading,” and she chuckles.
Silence falls once more, nothing but a river's murmur between you both. The distant trees that line the glade blur at the edges, details only stretching so far. You know this is a dream you’ll forget when you wake. You always forget.
Was it really her or was it just a spirit? You never care enough to consider it when you're here.
You look over at the mage--old hag, you used to think-- more grandmother than mother. But when you try to think of your mother now the first face that swims into thought is hers and for a moment you wonder how long that's been so.
The answer’s not long in coming. Your own mother's face does appear in your mind just easily as hers. But the last time you had looked on it, her eyes were as wide and open as the slash on her throat and you shove the image away immediately.
“Am I doing the right thing?”
Am I worth saving? Are we worth saving? Am I a coward because I'm afraid to die?
Adamant burns hot behind your eyes and you picture how it must have looked to see desperate Wardens sharing hands with demons, the damned music ringing to their terror.
"What is your purpose?" She turns to you, eyes soft and smile kind and your heart ache as you remember you never got to say goodbye.
“To stop the Blight,” you answer immediately. By the slight frown quirking at her lips, you know you spoke too quickly.
“And that's all?” Her gaze needles into yours and wafts of old lectures among starry sky and burning wood knit into memory, fragments of a past long gone by.
“No,” you admit, ducking sheepishly. You are no longer the Warden-Commander here, no Hero of Ferelden is yet known. Only a novice Warden overwhelmed under an impossible task, an old hag who feels too much like a mother you would rather forget.
“It's to serve. To protect,” you add. Because Wardens serve all and give all for the continued existence of others. Words now ten years gone, wisdom from a lecture your younger self had no patience for.
You snort, clawing the grass at your sides in clumps.
“But who were the Wardens serving when they summoned demons,” you snarl. “Who were they protecting when they killed the Divine?”
Divine Justinia. Dorothea. Leliana's savior and friend. Leliana who's left with the darkness of spies and whispers to see an ancient darkspawn dead. Darkspawn you should be fighting.
“What Wardens are worth saving now?” Your voice drops, almost a sob, releasing the clumps in your hand as flecks of dirt stick to them like blood. But your grandmother's gaze never wavers, understanding pooled in its depth.
“What does being a Grey Warden mean to you?”
You almost laugh, the familiar question ringing as an echo from the worst times of your life. Times you sometimes wish had never ended.
“The same as before,” you sigh, gesturing vaguely, casting a glance over the rippling water-- too clear to be real. This has to be a spirit, you think. And for a moment you wonder if stabbing yourself in the gums would be less painful than talking in circles like this.
But then, didn’t Wynne always ask questions over and over as well? Spurning you on to earn the answers yourself, no matter how much you used to wish she would just shut up.
“To stop the Blight, to serve and protect--”
“--And save all.”
You cease your fidgeting and look back at her.
“A Warden's life is one of sacrifice,” she looks sadly on you now, hands folded gently in her lap. Only a child you were, when the world ripped at its seams and somehow needed you to put it back together. A child an old hag thought worth following into battle, even death.
“You sacrifice all to save all. So the world may live.”
“Even the ones I hate,” you mumble. And another face comes to view, an enemy turned friend turned brother. The Cousland who had taken first watch this night, nagging you like a mother hen to sleep. “So long as it is right.”
“So long as it is right.” Her eyes gleam and you remember distantly the embers of Denerim and her touch on your shoulder. Words of pride and love filling you and an absent wonder of what your own mother would have said at the gates before the battle.
You close your eyes, almost able to feel a breeze. You know when you open them, all of this will be gone.