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They flee Denerim in a blizzard as hostile as the templars on their tail. Malcolm covers their tracks with a snowstorm of his own.
Eventually the clink of chainmail and growling of hounds are lost in the fierce whistle of whipping winds. Safe for now, but Malcolm and Leandra keep pushing forward.
Far away from any sign of life, the howling storm dies down. Yet snow still drifts silently from the black sky; it is an ominous blanket across the desolate landscape.
The threat of the Chantry grows smaller behind them; Malcolm’s staff serves less as a weapon and more as a walking stick. He drives it into the snow with every step, gauging its depth and masking their footprints.
Leandra’s enormous belly peaks out from under thick wool layers.
Malcolm drapes his cloak over her. She protests that he will freeze, but magic and lyrium warm his blood, “Our child needs it more.”
She looks at him with round eyes, but draws the cloak closer. The snow comes up to her knees.
They trudge along the forest’s edge. Barren branches reach to the starless sky like skeletal hands as if in solemn prayer to the Maker. Malcolm and Leandra, hands clutching his staff and shoved deep in the folds of their clothes, pray too: pray they need not shelter here.
Looking back, Malcolm dares a small flame in the palm of his hand. The flickering light barely permeates the darkness and does nothing to alleviate their fears.
A chilled hand takes Malcolm by the arm. Leandra is pale. Her teeth chatter; she shivers violently. Malcolm feels guilty he cannot share the natural heat coursing through his veins, but he lowers the flame so she may draw some warmth from it.
“Where will we go?” her voice cracks, knowing Malcolm has no answer.
If they managed to brave the storm, the templars will have alerted any farmer on the outskirts of Denerim of an apostate mage on the loose. They dare not take that risk.
“How would you like to live with the elves?”
It is a bad joke, but Leandra’s lips twitch upward all the same. There is comfort in his humor, though it can provide little else.
They travel silently, straining their ears for the howling wolves or the ringing steel. Progress is slow and hope of sanctuary is a distant dream.
Hollowness seeps into Malcolm’s chest like the snow soaking through his boots.
His arm is tugged down when Leandra stumbles. He tries to help her stand again, but Leandra protectively folds herself over, clutching her belly.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he disguises his panic poorly.
Her face pinches tightly and vigorously shakes her head.
“Is it the baby? What can I do?”
Leandra bites her tongue hard.
Malcolm doesn’t know what else do to. He stoops into the snow to hold Leandra’s shoulders firm as she fights back against whatever pain she’s in.
A minute passes and it feels like an eternity, before Leandra swallows and meets Malcolm’s terrified gaze. “We have to find somewhere. Quickly.”
The urgency of the situation impresses itself on Malcolm, even though he cannot grasp its full breadth. Leaning on his staff, he supports Leandra as she stands. Her breathing as uneasy as her feet are unsteady, they turn their backs on the forest.
Leandra winces at odd intervals. They stumble through the dark for hours; the glow of the moon too dim to light a path and fire no longer an option. Occasionally, she keels over and buries her screams in Malcolm’s shoulder; fear of losing Leandra and the baby grips tighter than fear of discovery.
At the crest of a hill they see it – a light in the distance. Malcolm and Leandra cry out for joy, until Leandra’s voice is strangled by another contraction.
“Go! Get help!” she manages breathless.
Malcolm is torn. Leaving her alone in the dark is unthinkable, but he can move faster on his own – faster to help, faster to a safe haven.
Leandra grits her teeth, her pain streaming out in tears instead of screams, “Go.”
But Malcolm doesn’t move. He stays and lets her nails dig into his hand – too large for her to squeeze. He stays until her nails are dug out of his skin, leaving puncture marks.
He pulls the tattered blanket from their pack and tucks it tightly around her. Then puts his staff firmly in her hand and casts a shielding barrier.
“Don’t let go. I won’t be long,” he promises and wrenches himself away from her side.
Malcolm sets off at a run. He slides down the hillside and leaps over snow banks, despite how sore and tired he is. He didn’t feel it before – he couldn’t; he had to be strong for Leandra. He feels every bit of it now, but the longest night of their lives has only just begun. He must keep going.
The light draws nearer. Malcolm prays every prayer he knows it is not snuffed out.
In a burst of energy, he hurtles the fence and pounds the farmhouse door. A mabari barks loudly in response.
“Somebody please! My wife needs help! Please!”
He is about to pound the door again when the farmer shushes the animal, “Quiet you!”
The door swings open and the mabari races outside. Malcolm’s desperation is greeted by two middle-aged women. One carries a sword, the other a lantern.
“Please,” he begs them. “My wife is having a baby. Please, can you help us?”
They waste no time throwing heavy cloaks over their nightclothes.
The one with the lantern gives directions, “Erna, take the boy; find his wife. Bring her to the barn. I’ll see to it, we have everything.”
Erna gives a brusque nod and whistles for the dog. “What direction did you come from, son?”
Malcolm barely has the energy to raise his arm and point the way, but he takes the lead retracing his steps back to Leandra.
They must be halfway to her when more light floods the untouched snow.
“That’ll be Meggy in the barn. Let’s keep moving,” Erna drives them forward.
On the edge of the light-touched snow, they lose the trail. The mabari bounds ahead, nose trained to the ground for a scent, while Malcolm and Erna struggle to keep up.
They trust the beast’s howls in the darkness more than their eyes, but what a sight it is when Leandra comes into view, at last. She is half-frozen, but alive; Malcolm’s staff fallen into the deep snow, barrier gone.
She stirs as the mabari’s rogue tongue laps at the side of her face. Malcolm breathes a sigh of relief; she is conscious.
“What took you so long?”
“Don’t you try to be funny. That’s my job,” he teases, heart still racing.
“Rub her joints,” Erna instructs. “Make sure she can walk.”
Malcolm obeys without question, aiding Leandra to her feet.
“Just a little further,” he assures.
Without thinking he picks up the staff too; he doesn’t see Erna shrewdly eye the weapon, before offering her shoulder to Leandra’s other arm, and the three of them make their way to the barn.
Her contractions are closer together; Leandra can hardly stand for the pain. She screams outright for the first time, piercing the thick blanket of silence over the field. Even with the end in sight, the journey takes all the longer.
The barn door rattles open and slams shut just as Malcolm and Leandra collapse onto a bed of hay. Their chests heave up and down, wordlessly rejoicing in their safety. His staff rolls from Malcolm’s grasp.
A few old cattle and scrawny sheep watch curiously from their stalls while Erna and Meggy make preparations.
Unable to lift their heads, Malcolm and Leandra wait for the next contraction.
Any moment now, Malcolm’s head tells him. He wants to roll over and squeeze Leandra’s hand to reassure her, but his muscles stiffen and resist movement.
So he waits. He breathes and he thaws and he waits. The melting snow drips to the floor, keeping time. Seconds turn into minutes.
Minutes break with exhausted moans and angry screams. Frustrated tears roll done Leandra’s face, “Why is this so hard?”
Malcolm’s aches mean nothing. He pushes them down and himself up to support Leandra. She leans back into his arms and sobs.
Meggy sets a pail of water down with a thud and looks Leandra hard in the eye, “You’ve gotta push now, you hear me? Baby won’t come if you just lie there and complain. You’re its mama, it’ll listen, you understand?”
Leandra’s head bobs; the older woman’s words seemingly strengthen her. The next contraction is met with the conviction to embrace it, not fight it, and Leandra pushes.
It is all Malcolm can do, support her back and hope that he could possibly absorb even part of her pain.
“You can do it, love,” he whispers between contractions, progressively getting closer.
She returns the sentiment with screams in his ear.
“I see the head!” Meggy declares. Erna readies a clean blanket as Meggy coaches Leandra, “All or nothing now, dearie! Push! Push hard!”
Malcolm can’t see clearly over Leandra’s stomach or through his own tears of strain, but in his arms, he feels Leandra push with all her might. Meggy pulls and receives the infant with lungs like a dragon.
Not wails, but roars bring drained and radiant smiles to the faces of the new parents. Their child is alive, in spite of everything they’ve endured this night.
“You sure that’s a newborn, Meggy? I’ve never seen one that big.”
Malcolm hears Erna, but doesn’t believe her till the babe is laid in Leandra’s arms and then he doesn’t know where Leandra finds the strength to hold all that weight. His own arms are limp and content to stay wrapped around his wife.
He rests his chin on Leandra’s shoulder to get a better look, the loose tendrils of her hair falling into his face.
The baby settles down, finding comfort in the nest of Leandra’s arms, and yawns.
Their eyelids may be heavy, but as if by a miracle, neither of them are ready to sleep. Malcolm and Leandra stare, entranced, as the child wriggles in the swaddling.
All that was disquiet and hostile is suddenly at peace. The livestock, agitated by Leandra’s labor, have settled. The wind’s blowing hushes to a whistle. And when Meggy leaves the barn to fetch something from the house, there are stars in the sky.
They are too absorbed in the rhythm of the baby’s breath to notice when she returns with more blankets. Or when she slips out again, followed shortly by Erna asking no one in particular where that damn dog got to.
The bright light of the fire dims to a warm glow and finally drowsiness catches up with Malcolm and Leandra and neither of them willingly shut their eyes.
The mabari reappears, standing sentinel as they sleep.
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Son and mabari howl together, waking Leandra from a dreamless sleep.
She is annoyed Malcolm is not also roused by the baby’s screams for milk. He rolls over in the hay and continues to sleep like a rock, leaving Leandra to fumble around in the dim, grey morning light.
She struggles, baby in one arm, through the layers of cloaks and clothes to satiate the baby’s needs. He cries louder the longer he waits, encouraging the hound to bark louder too.
“Garrett! Hush up!” Meggy scolds, the barn door groaning as she enters. “You’ll wake up the next farm, you great beast!”
The mabari quiets and Meggy spots Leandra, frantic in her desperation to heed her child’s needs.
Putting down the basket she carries, “Hand the boy to me, dearie.”
Grateful to be unencumbered, Leandra undoes the clasps and pins so she can breastfeed the baby. He is laid back in her arms and holds fast.
Once he is settled down, Leandra can smile at her son again. Loving him will be the easy part of mothering. It is everything else that will take time to learn and grow into.
“Just like a man to be unhelpful,” Meggy mutters, filling troughs with hay. Calling over her shoulder, “Don’t forget to feed yourselves now. There’s breakfast in that basket for you.”
The old farmer moves along, Garrett the mabari at her heels, leaving them alone again. With the slam of the barn door, Malcolm stirs.
Leandra watches him take in the sight: mother, child, a new day – the long night past.
“Would you pass me something from the basket, love?” Leandra requests.
“Hungry as our little man?” he teases.
“Famished.” She extends her free hand for the fruit he offers. Juice dribbles down her chin and onto the blanket as she takes a bite.
“Why don’t I take the baby –?”
“Garrett.”
“Garrett?”
She nods.
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Marian’s a fine Ferelden name, sturdy as his own; it will serve their daughter well.
He bounces her in his arms and imagines she smiles back up at him, but she’s too young for such a feat yet.
The sun has parted the clouds enough for him to brave the cold with a newborn and introduce his daughter to the world and the country to which they were both born, letting Leandra rest. Maker knows he’s already had his fair share.
Erna’s presence is preceded by the mabari bounding up to meet them.
Malcolm scratches behind the beast’s ears, “Without you we might not have found Leandra in time. Thank you.”
Erna watches him sternly, a bow hoisted over her shoulder. She whistles and the mabari heeds its master.
Harshly, “I know what you are, mage.”
Malcolm’s hold on Marian tightens.
“It’s alright. Meggy and me, we won’t turn you in, but you’ve gotta leave.”
He swallows, “Give us one more night, please. Let us figure out where we’re headed.”
Erna nods curtly, “One night. Then off with you. I won’t have the templars at our door.”
“Thank you. We’ll never forget this.”
The woman grumbles something then calls, “Come on, Marian!”
Malcolm’s brow knits looking down at the baby girl in his arms then back up at Erna and the hound trailing at her feet.
The knots in his stomach untie and Malcolm laughs at the source of Leandra’s chosen name.
Marian: a fine name, indeed, as sturdy and as weathering as his own, and none quite so Ferelden as to be named for a mabari.
“You’re lucky your mother’s not a true born Ferelden,” he coos. “If she was, you would have been named for the dog, even if you were a boy.”