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The woods were eerily still. Of course, Mahariel was used to such stillness. He was Dalish after all. The stillness of the woods should have made him feel right at home. But they didn’t. They only reminded him of the silence that enveloped the woods when he had gone looking for Tamlen. That damned mirror. If only he had tried a little harder to drag Tamlen out of the cave. Away from the mirror. To get the Keeper or just someone else in general that might have known what they were doing.
Mahariel sighed as he shook out his bed roll. No use dwelling on it now. It was done. He was turned into a Grey Warden. Tamlen was still missing, likely never to be found again. Silently, though, he hoped he would find Tamlen. He prayed to the Creators that he had been able to lay his head down in soft meadow grass and return to the land peacefully. As unlikely as he knew that was, it was the only hope that kept him sane all this time.
He stirred the campfire back to life, feeding it the dry wood they had managed to scrounge up from the land. He stared into the glowing coals, watching the sap of some of the fresher wood fizzle and pop as it heated. He’d likely be the one to cook tonight. Not that he minded. He understood. He was used to constant travel, but his companions were not. A bit of pity panged in his chest, knowing that he may have pushed them a bit too hard today. Especially when they were practically fresh out the Deep Roads.
He ran a hand through his tangled red hair while flipping through their rations. From the corner of his eye he peeked at his bow. It wouldn’t do any harm to leave camp for a bit, would it? Just to hunt? They could definitely use the fresh meat, and Mahariel needed the distraction. Needed the thrill and familiarity of the hunt flowing through his veins. He hummed as he picked up his bow, inspecting the strings before walking through camp with a noncommittal grunt. His own way of saying he’d be back considering that he hardly ever spoke. Fade-tongued, his Keeper called it. Mahariel just thought that he didn’t need to speak. People around him seemed to understand well enough. Especially Tamlen.
The warden shook the thoughts from his head again before they could spiral again. He’d have plenty of time to truly mourn after the Blight. Not now. Too much to do. He just couldn’t afford to lose himself to that grief just yet. That and he didn’t think it’d do much good with his current relationship with another certain blonde elf. A city elf of all things. Tamlen would’ve teased him relentlessly.
Mahariel huffed, slinking further into the woods until he couldn’t hear the little noise the camp made or see the flames of the small fire they kept. He wondered if he would ever be able to return to clan life after this as he crept about the underbrush, keen eyes flickering the ground for tracks. He knew it was unlikely, but it was a nice thought. To be welcomed back by his clan with open arms. Maybe Zevran would agree to come with him. Varathorne would scoff seeing that he was involved with another blonde elf. Tease his pupil about his tastes. Such an annoying thing until you haven’t heard the little quips and pesterings in so long.
Elk tracks were stamped in the mud, still fresh with dew. A bit further north most likely. The chill wind blew against his face as he followed the tracks. Damn that Ferelden wind. Could freeze the knickers off Loghain. Though, that’d likely be a funnier sight to see. Maybe he could convince Morrigan to do it at the Landsmeet. The soft patter of hooves in the wet ground broke his train of thought. It was by no means a massive beast. Lost from its herd or perhaps even exiled. Likely the latter. Mahariel didn’t let himself dwell on the thought too long, but as he raised his bow and looked the creature in the eye, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of kinship to it. Two lost souls, far from any semblance of home. He hoped the herd in the next life would be kinder than this one.
The sting of the arrow’s feathers against his cheek was a welcome distraction as the iron tip pierced the beast’s hide with a deep bellow. He could feel the earth below him almost shake in sorrow as he approached and kneeled to pray for the elk’s safe journey, and to thank it for its sacrifice, as unwilling as it may have been. Better than those who only kill for the sport or for a new hat. His nose wrinkled at the very thought.
Mahariel hefted the beast onto his strong shoulders, strolling back to camp where he could artfully pelt and divide the meat. Perhaps Zevran could use the tanned hide as a new blanket or cloak since he complained of being cold so often. Not that he could blame the Antivan. Ferelden wasn’t exactly known for being a land of sunshine and spring meadows.
He expected camp to be as quiet as he had left it, but the closer he got, the clearer the sounds of shrieks and battle became. He cursed as he dropped the elk and drew his blades, going into the battle just in time to fend one of the abominations off Wynne’s back. Why were there shrieks here? They had inspected the surrounding areas so thoroughly that there should have been no chance. It wasn’t the time to try and figure that out, though. He needed to be focused or he’d lose whatever hearing he had left.
He rested his hands on his knees, panting and grimacing as he realized he was once again caked in demon blood once again. How fun. He sheathed his own blades once again and turned to return to the woods for the elk when he noticed yet another shadow lurking at the trees’ edge. Hands on his hilts, he crept towards the figure which neither attacked nor fled from his presence.
“Lethallin…”
The voice gave Mahariel pause. A voice so different and yet so familiar. A voice he didn’t want to believe he knew. That it was just an ignorant hope in his mind warping his senses. The tainted hands that lifted to touch his face were real, as if the tormented creature before him could scarcely believe in its own blighted eyes who it was seeing. Mahariel had a feeling the same expression was mirrored in his own eyes as he took the chill hands into his own warm ones and brought them to rest on his cheeks. No matter what twisted their blood, he could recognise Tamlen in any lifetime.
He wished he didn’t. How the warden wished he could be just that, any other warden that could put the abomination out of its misery. But not Mahariel. Not when it was Tamlen. Not when it gave Mahariel the silly, futile hope that he could cure Tamlen as he had been. He figured it would be futile at least. Mahariel had been cured early on, before the sickness could spread through his blood. Before he became truly tainted. Tamlen hadn’t gotten that chance. Hadn’t been given the luxury of time.
As twisted as the man was before him might have been, the hands that cradled his face seemed to have never changed. Just colder. But it was still Tamlen. Mahariel closed his eyes, wanted to pretend he didn’t hear Tamlen silently begging him to have mercy. To end the torture he had been subjected to since he touched the mirror. But what if.
What if Tamlen could be cured by the Joining ritual?
What if there was a chance to have Tamlen back?
Then came that last, niggling little thought.
What about Zevran?
He knew the Antivan would ask about it. It was inevitable. He still loved Tamlen, he knew, but he couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through his chest when Zevran whispered to him in his mother tongue or spun him wild tales or reminisced about memories that no other soul would hear.
He didn’t know what to do. It was almost hilarious he found himself thinking that despite most decisions being placed upon his shoulders. Maybe he should be the next King of Ferelden if this kept up even after the Archdemon was killed and he couldn't disappear into the woods with Zevran.
Tender as one can be, Mahariel took Tamlen’s shaking form into his arms, holding the tormented man with all the love he could in his soul. He murmured gentle prayers in hopes it would calm Tamlen’s mind and distract him as he drew his blade and plunged the cold steel into his love’s heart. He held Tamlen well after what little life the shriek had held onto left its mortal shell, still praying to every Creator, Maker, and every possible higher power that it makes a safe journey to another life. One where famine and Blight never strikes and the meadows are always lush and teeming with life. Where the halla grazed freely and the elves danced among the stars once again.
He could feel the other’s eyes on his back, but he wasn’t ready to answer their pitied gazes or tentative questions. He covered Tamlen’s body in the softest hide blankets he owned and got to work on the solemn task of a burial. He was far from a hahren or a keeper. The furthest thing from it in all honesty. But he was well acquainted with death by now, even before becoming a Grey Warden. The others seemed to know him well enough to not approach for a while. To leave him be until he returned to the fire at least. But Zevran lurked on the edge of camp. Watching as Mahariel dug the hole deeper than any wolf or bear could dig so the dead’s bones could rest in total peace. Waiting for Mahariel to finish his prayers as he covered the grave once more before folding himself silently into warm arms and Antivan leather.
Zevran would recount that as the first time ever feeling Mahariel cry. He never saw a tear drop, but he could feel the dampness spread over his tunic. The grip of a man clinging for dear sanity. The shake of a man burdened with too much in one young life. Neither spoke. They knew it would do no good. Mahariel didn’t want to speak, and Zevran didn’t want to ask. Not out of the lack of curiosity, but out of knowing. He knew the gaze of a mourning man. He’s worn it himself at times.
Mahariel fell asleep in his arms that night, as he had many nights before. The feeling was different, however. Gentler. Like Zevran knew secrets of his warden that no other soul would know, including the warden himself. In some ways, perhaps he did. Zevran knew in his patchwork heart that he'd trade every cloud the elves had danced upon before he handed over the one that danced before his very eyes, on and off the battlefield.