Of Wardens and Pariahs ch22-- Remembrance

Trinne charged into the fight with no real plan beyond kill darkspawn and hoping the others followed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Leliana pause ever so briefly, hands faltering as she nocked an arrow.

Alistair showed no such hesitation, barreling past the mage as she conjured a lightning spell. He rammed hard into the heavily armored hurlock leader, lowering his shoulder at the last second to put extra force behind his shield as he struck.

With a flick of her wrist, Morrigan froze the nearest genlock archer, and Sten's sword connected hard enough to shatter it into a thousand crystallized shards. Cousland darted through the newly created gap, heading for one of the darkspawn who lurked further back. The rest of the monsters were dispatched easily enough. The six of them were working better as a team than Trinne had dared hope. The pair of mabari and nearly even numbers to their foe helped, sure, but they were still shaping into a good team.

As Leliana and Cousland turned their attention to seeing if the darkspawn carried anything they could use, Trinne turned hers to the pair of dwarves they'd just rescued.

The older of the two introduced himself as Bodahn and the other as his son, Sandal. "Mighty timely arrival, my friend. We're much obliged."

"Not a problem," Trinne replied with a smile. "I'm always happy to kill darkspawn."

Bodahn chuckled. "I can see that. I don't suppose there's any chance we might be traveling in the same direction?"

"You do not want to travel with us, dwarf," Morrigan interjected dryly. "On that, you have my word."

He glanced back at Trinne, eyebrow raised in an unspoken question.

She sighed, rolled her eyes. "Me an' these two--" one hand waved in the general direction of Alistair and Cousland-- "are Grey Wardens. Fighting darkspawn's a major part of our job description."

"I see..." Bodahn looked over at his son and pursed his lips. "Then perhaps it's better if we go our own way. No offense taken, I hope?"

"Oh, no, none at all," Trinne assured him. "Stay safe."

"We shall do our best, Warden." With a last nod of thanks, Bodahn turned his attention to cleaning up the supplies that had tumbled from his cart.

"Got everything?" Trinne asked the rogues, receiving a pair of nods in return.

"Everything we might use," Leliana clarified. "There wasn't much, I'm afraid."

"Every little bit helps," the mage shrugged. "Let's go. We can still make some good progress today before we lose the light."

"Progress to where?" Alistair piped up. "We still haven't figured out where we're going first."

Trinne gnawed at her chapped lower lip for a minute, debating the merits of the choice she wanted to make. Oh, sod it. Let's get it over with... "The Circle. That should be quick. An' then we'll go talk to this arl of yours." This would be best. They'd walk in, flash the treaty, and be out plus one ally before Greagoir could do much growling about seeing her again.

She gave a deliberate nod. "Yeah. We're going to the Circle first."

"And that's where D... Where you were recruited, isn't it?" Alistair commented, covering his verbal stumble with a cough. "You doing the asking should make it easier for them to swallow, right?"

Oh, sure, Pretty Boy. The Knight-Commander is going to be thrilled to see me... Trinne thought ruefully, not wanting to dwell on That Series of Events. But all she said was, "We can only hope."

The less they knew about That, the less they'd pry. And Maker knew it was the last thing she wanted to talk about.

>>X<<

It was amazing how quickly the little details could slip your mind. For instance, she managed to completely forget how long the road to Lake Calenhad would be. She'd had wildly optimistic estimates of making it at least halfway before they stopped for the night.

A hope Alistair had quashed the first time they stopped to rest, when he pulled out a tattered map to show her what road to take.

"How long d'you think it'll take us to get there?" Trinne asked, wanting to figure how the distance on the vellum translated to time estimates.

The warrior bit his lip and calculated briefly. "Rate we're traveling? Two more days. Maybe three? Depends on the weather, and if we get, um, sidetracked."

"Three more days?" Trinne glared at the map, as if doing so forcefully enough would cause the distance to shrink.

"Yeah, sorry," he shrugged apologetically. "If we'd gotten an earlier start and hurried we could maybe have shaved off half a day, but we spent more time in Lothering than I think any of us were expecting."

"But we needed supplies an'... stuff," the mage muttered, shoulders rolling almost sheepishly under the weight of her leather jerkin.

"No, I know," Alistair hastily assured her. "And I'm sure the extra help will be good. I'm just saying  the amount of time we spent in Lothering is why it might take three days to get to Lake Calenhad. Might."

"Still longer'n I was expecting." Trinne glowered as she stood and resumed walking. Two more days. Forty eight more hours for the dread coiling in her stomach to grow. Two days in which to imagine every worst case scenario that sprang to mind for meeting Greagoir and Irving again. Fantastic.

"You do realize that if you do not slow your gait, it shall be naught but the two of us against any foes we encounter." Morrigan's almost bored tone cut through the images already blossoming in Trinne's mind, and she--grudgingly--slowed her pace ever so slightly.

"Why do you care, anyway?" she asked the witch, glancing over her shoulder to see how far back the others had fallen. "I didn't think you particularly liked any of them."

"'Tis simply pragmatism," Morrigan shrugged. "Bandits prey upon the travelers of roads such as this even when monsters do not roam freely. Do you imagine 'twill be any better with things so desperate? We make a far more dangerous--and thus less favorable--target if we keep together."

"Ah, so it's not that you're warming to us or anything," Trinne teased, half-smile pulling at her lips.

"Perhaps I would warm faster were there less idle chatter involved." The witch raised an eyebrow pointedly at the Circle mage. "'Tis one thing in the noble's favor that he knows how to keep his mouth shut."

"What, Cousland?" Trinne rolled her eyes. "Yeah, he's so good at it, sometimes I forget he does actually speak."

A short, hard exhalation that might have been almost a laugh sounded from Morrigan. "Better that than the opposite, as your other fellow Warden so aptly demonstrates."

"You mean you don't like Alistair?" Trinne giggled in mock  surprise. "And here I was think the two of you would be such good friends."

The witch snorted. "I would rather befriend a rabid wolf."

"I can hear you, you know," Alistair commented dryly as the other four caught up with the mages. "And did you never hear that gossiping is impolite?"

"So is eavesdropping," Trinne shot back, smirking.

He tilted his head in a silent concession of that point. "But is it really eavesdropping when you talk loud enough we can't help overhearing?"

She pursed her lips in thought, raking one hand through her hair. "Mmm, yes. 'Cause if you two would try to make friends y'wouldn't've been bored enough to 'overhear' us."

"That doesn't even make sense," Alistair protested.

The mage shrugged. "So? Who says it has to make sense? Shoo, lemme talk to Morrigan in peace."

"Ah, so the interrogation continues," Morrigan commented archly as the warrior dropped back a few paces, still muttering under his breath.

"Yep. Though it's not really an interrogation," Trinne said. "I'm not after your darkest secrets. I just wanna talk."

"'Tis much the same thing, but as you wish," Morrigan shrugged.

The Circle mage fell silent for a moment, trying to decide what to ask the other woman.  "So... did you grow up in the Wilds?"

The Witch snorted. "What is the point of such a question? I do not probe you for pointless trivia, do I?"

It was Trinne's turn to shrug. "Y'could if you wanted to. I'm just curious, what's wrong with that?"

"Any number of cats could inform you of the answer to that question," Morrigan returned tartly. "But have it your way. If I 'grew up' in the Wilds 'tis indeed an odd question. Did you picture me elsewhere?"

"There are stories of the Witch of the Wilds dragging off children in the night," Trinne commented.

"Chasind legends," Morrigan scoffed. "I am truly Flemeth's daughter. For many years, in fact, 'twas just the two of us. The Wilds and its creatures were more real to me than the tales she told about the world of men. Eventually I did grow curious. I left the Wilds to explore beyond its borders. Never for long, of course. Brief forays into the 'civilized' world." Her voice dripped sarcasm off the words.

"And no one noticed you?" Trinne raised a skeptical eyebrow, glancing at the Witch's revealing attire. It was the sort of thing that would stand out.

"For the most part. Flemeth taught me well." Morrigan tilted her chin up in subtle pride.

"Still, that was daring. Sounds like you."

The witch laughed. "Equal parts daring and foolhardy, perhaps. Only once was I accused of being a Witch of the Wilds. A Chasind man traveling with a caravan of merchants. He pointed and gasped, and began shouting in his strange language. Most assumed he was casting a curse of some kind on me." She smirked. "I played the terrified girl, and naturally he was arrested."

"Quick thinking," Trinne muttered, not sure whether to be impressed or perturbed.

"Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman. First, that she is weak, and second, that she finds him attractive. I played the damsel and batted my lashes at the captain of the guard. Child's play," Morrigan snorted. "Still, there was much about human lands that puzzles me. Such as all the touching. So much touching for a simple greeting."

"What, you mean like a handshake?" Trinne looked askance at her companion.

"To begin with, yes," the witch scowled. "What is the point of touching my hand? I find it an offensive intrusion. This and countless other things vex me still. When last I returned to the Wilds, I swore to Flemeth I would never leave again."

Trinne laughed a little at that. "And yet here you are."

"Yes. Here I am," Morrigan repeated quietly, with a small sigh. "Well, let us continue on, before the earth opens and swallows us, shall we?"

"Suit yourself," the Circle mage shrugged, catching the hint Morrigan was done talking, for now, at least.

>>X<<

They did manage to make a fair bit more progress before reaching a spot Alistair--with Morrigan's reluctant agreement--deemed fitting to set up camp. Still, when Trinne asked him once more how long to Lake Calenhad, desperately hoping the estimate had changed, the warrior gave an apologetic smile as he confirmed it hadn't.

"Why're you in such a hurry to get there, anyway?" he asked idly, leaning his sword and shield against a rock to help with setting up camp.

Trinne mentally chewed herself out for being too eager as she shrugged and offered a teasing grin. "Just miss home sweet home."

Alistair eyes her skeptically. "You sure? Because earlier you were making it sound like this was going to be a quick visit. Like you wanted it to be over with." He raised an eyebrow. "Are you hiding something from us?"

The mage rolled her eyes.  "What, are you some sort of expert on hiding things from people?"

He opened his mouth to retort, shut it again, shook his head slightly. "You're just being really touchy. Makes a man curious," he drawled.

"Oh, go away," Trinne huffed in exasperation, cracking a smile as she swatted his shoulder. "Go bother Leliana or Sten or somebody."

"Hey, you're the one who asked a question," he reminded her playfully. "Not my fault you're acting suspicious." He waggled his eyebrows.

She actually laughed at that. "Oh, so I'm suspicious now, am I?"

"Yes. Horribly," Alistair deadpanned. "I feel an overwhelming need to keep an eye on you..."

Trinne shook her head, chuckling as she pushed a bundle of canvas and pegs into his hands. "Go set up a tent, pretty boy. Or you're the one who gets to sleep with the mabari outside tonight."

The warrior offered a mock salute, nearly dropping the rolled up tent in the process. "Yes ser, fearless leader, ser."

She couldn't resist grinning and rolling her eyes as she watched him walk away. You re definitely nothing like the other templars I've met...

>>X<<

Despite his resolve to keep his head above water and keep busy with tangible goals, Harvey found nights most trying. You could easily divide the day up into a string of organized activities--finding your way through the wilderness, staying off popular routes, avoiding trouble, setting up camp or roasting a wild chewy goat hunted down in the aforementioned wilds--all throughout the day he could manage, right until the night slowed down the world again. Even as he was keeping watch, sitting with the templar by the bonfire, intrusive thoughts kept buzzing like a swarm of angry bees, leaving him in the foulest of moods.

Alistair must have been trying to get his attention for a while, because by the time Harvey looked away from the flames, the templar's face carried a hint of resignation, as if he was sorry for trying to ask anything.

The rogue titled his head, more distracted than apologetic, but for his companion it must have looked like a sign of encouragement.

"I was asking," the warrior carefully articulated every word. "Do you know why our leader is so skittish about going back to Kinloch Hold?"

You like her, don't you? Harvey felt a wave of irritation. It wasn't any of his business, but the fact the man managed to find something shielding him from his grief, while he himself was left to his own devices during their journey north, was finally taking its toll. He almost said it out loud. 

"I wasn't in the Circle while she was being recruited, so I wouldn't know.” There, a nice short answer, and an honest one. Seeing as they both were stepping on each other's toes since day one, the mage didn't go to the trouble of sharing her story, and as a result Harvey barely knew anything about her. Plus, he was preoccupied with other things...as was she. The rogue thought if he should mention Alistair was at least the second man to whom she'd offered special attention in the last few weeks. He wasn't blind. But no, that was probably out of line... and he wanted the warrior to shut up, not question him further.

"You've said it yourself,” Harvey poked burning logs with a stick, "the Wardens aren't above conscripting people of...questionable circumstances.” He wished that would be enough for the warrior to drop the subject. He had other things on his mind than dwelling on origins of one Trinne Amell. 

"That's...true." Alistair's impression of a kicked puppy made him regret letting out even that bit of spite. For all the, well, developing crush, as Harvey saw it, templar's thoughts apparently didn't avoid that particular path either. Irritation moved over to give shame some space. The rogue bit his tongue.

And I don't even think that way, I'm just sharing my misery. 

"Look," he followed up with a sigh, "or she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I know I was. Even if she was keeping secrets, how bad could it be? Did she magic someone by accident? She definitely had a light hand when it came to throwing deadly blasts around–-Harvey unconsciously nursed his shoulder--but the mage didn't seem the hardened criminal type, as annoying as she sometimes was.

"Doesn't really matter now,” he finally added, trying to defuse his own words. A noble, a templar, two mages, a wanted criminal and a surely insane chantry sister, they were a traveling carnival troupe either way. All things considered, he didn't do half bad while drawing the lots for the watch roster. Amell got Sten as her 'company' during the next shift, good luck with that.

"But aren't you curious about her at all? She's clearly avoiding the subject. I really wonder what made Duncan recruit her."

It was like watching someone shoot themselves in the foot.

The mind is tricky like that, the rogue sympathized, you can try and protect yourself, direct your attention elsewhere, but it always somehow made you stab yourself again. And again. And you can't even blame anyone, because it's your head. At the mention of his mentor, Alistair sunk into himself immediately, question about the mage dropped. Mischievous smiles and pretty eyes could only protect you so far, it seemed.

Silence made the air heavy--but not awkward, to the warrior's credit, seeing as he was finally over his crying fits-–and they just sat there for a while, listening to the various nighttime noises, searching for a false note in their surroundings. Even though Harvey doubted they would hear anything suspicious--Frida slept somewhere near undisturbed, and he trusted her senses more than he trusted his own. 

Alistair looked just...sad, and Harvey wondered if it's how people saw him as well. Some small part of him felt like he owed the templar more compassion, a few friendly words for companionship's sake. Still, most of him felt numb about the warrior's loss, his acquaintance with Duncan short-–and as much as he was grateful the man saved his life in Highever, the Warden's deed was far from an altruistic gesture.

Finally, the blond sniffed once, defeated smile crooking his lips. "Nights are the worst," he echoed Harvey's earlier thoughts.

"...yeah." the noble nodded casually.

And this could have been it, two men reaching consensus, and dropping an uncomfortable subject. But to Harvey's horror, the templar pressed on. "I'm sorry, I just wish I had more time with him," the warrior admitted, reminiscing about Duncan "...or that at least I had something to remember him by. But...you lost your family, right? I'm sorry. I remember he said...I remember hearing about it.”

Harvey was horrified. Please don't do this, I'm not even trying to be nice to you, I don't deserve your concern. I don't want to...

talk about it.

But Alistair was clueless, or maybe he just didn't understand--after all he didn't bother hiding his grief from others, even if it earned him more than a few snarky comments from Morrigan. And at this point he shared more than enough to expect some sort of token of appreciation, a childlike notion of "you give me something, I give you something in return"... and it made Harvey feel bad about keeping quiet. It was only good manners to loose up his tongue in return.

The decision was impulsive. Maybe his common sense went to sleep--he was pretty exhausted--but keeping everything to himself wasn't helping at all so far. Trust or no trust, they fought monsters together. That had to count for at least a speck of friendship. Still, pointing at the object resting at Alistair's feet was one of the most difficult things he'd done of late, slaying darkspawn included. “I do have something to remember my parents by,” he stated in a low voice.

It took a few moments for the warrior to figure out the implications. “The sword?” He inquired, eyebrows risen. “The sword you gave me at Ostagar?” He picked up the blade and inspected it carefully in the dim light.

Harvey could easily picture what he was seeing. An old blade, far more clunky than those used nowadays, but still indisputably well balanced, the laurel pattern adorning the hilt faded almost into non-existence. He knew this sword by heart. A long, long time ago he even thought he'd get to wield it one day. 

Still, the sudden outburst took him by surprise.

“Are you completely out of your mind?! I can't take this!” The look on Alistair's horrified face showed understanding. “What if I lose it on the battlefield...What if it breaks? Don't you care about your heirloom?” He got up, handing the hilt back to its proper owner.

Or tried to.

Harvey's hand twitched and moved to take it, but then wavered and only pushed it farther away. “And what do you want me to do with it?!”, he asked, voice rising more than he intended. “Swords are meant to be used!” He met Alistair's blank gaze and grit his teeth. Do I really need to explain this to you?! “It's too heavy for me! Unwieldy!” He spat out the word, face burning. It was a mistake; he shouldn't have said anything, and definitely shouldn't have tried to explain himself to someone he barely knew.

Alistair stood, annoyingly relentless, waiting for the rogue to change his mind. 

Well, at least he didn't throw it under my feet, Harvey sighed. “Look, it's a good blade. A warrior's sword... and I am no warrior. Keep it till we find you a better one, if that makes you feel better,” he compromised dryly.

“It is a good blade,” Alistair admitted slowly, uncertain, but it seemed that at last he conceded the point. He sat back down, thoughtful, glancing between Harvey and the weapon. “I won't lose it, I promise,” he said, the solemn tone earning him a strange look from the rogue. Carefully putting the blade back in its sheath, he sent Harvey a crooked smile. “And if something happens to it...I'll tell you what-" he pondered for a second- “I will let you shave my head, completely. Hairless as a knee. What do you say?”

The idea was so ridiculous, so outlandish, that Harvey couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. And then a second one. It took him a few moments to realize that the third sound that left his throat wasn't a laugh, no, and suddenly he was biting his balled fist, finally failing to keep in what was long overdue. It came crashing down on him, Highever, his parents, the fact he was never going to see them again. That the only thing he had left was a stupid, useless symbol. His eyes burned, so he covered them with his arm. He wasn't a child anymore, and crying won't fix anything, as his father would say. He allowed himself a few choked up sobs anyway.

It took Harvey a few minutes to calm down enough to speak, his companion being the only--thankfully silent --witness to his grief. “Stupid piece of metal,” he managed, his voice coarse. “This is just a stupid piece of metal.”

>>X<<

She couldn't sleep. Huffing angrily, Trinne punched her pillow and rolled over again, trying to fight through the nerves and get deeper asleep than a light doze. The low murmur of Alistair and Cousland making small talk wasn't helping, even if she didn't care what they were talking about.

Tomorrow they would reach Kinloch Hold. And she would begin praying with every fiber in her being that Greagoir didn't mention the series of events that led to her joining the Wardens. She was traveling with an ex-templar for Andraste's sake. The last thing she needed was to explain the Jowan mess to Alistair. The worst part, she knew, would be that she wasn't sorry. No matter how badly his lying to her hurt, she wasn't sorry she helped him, and she never would be--blood mage or no.

Trinne groaned and dug her fingers into her hair. This was exactly the train of thought she was trying to avoid so she could maybe get some sleep. She focused on the nighttime noises instead; crickets, frogs, Dane and Frida snoring, the murmured rise and fall of her fellow Wardens' conversation. And it worked.

Though by morning, a good part of her would be wishing it hadn't.