The Calling

4

Maric shivered as the wind blew a flurry of snow across the rocky hills. They had been traveling most of the day, making their way on foot into the hills northeast of the tower. There did not ride horses this time, not for where they were heading. As the evening had approached, it truly seemed as if the heavens opened up above them. A blizzard had been unleashed, the wind howling amid the crags as they slowly plodded through icy paths.

He remembered these hills. If they pressed far enough north to reach the coast, they would find themselves near the fortress of West Hill. There he had suffered the worst defeat of the war, one that had very nearly cost him the rebellion entirely. Hundreds of men who had followed him lost their lives there, all because he had been a trusting fool. It had been a sobering lesson to learn.

None of them had spoken a word for hours, now. Genevieve wanted to make up for lost time, and so each of them buried their faces into their cloaks and endured the weather as silently as they could. The roads and peaceful farming hamlets now covered by a blanket of snow slowly gave way to rocky crags, a skyline dotted with tall trees and sharp cliffs that were all but uninhabited.

Poor Duncan walked beside him, more miserable than ever. Maric wasn’t certain what the lad’s exact heritage was, but perhaps a lack of resistance to the cold was simply in his blood. Clearly he would have gladly stayed behind at Kinloch Hold if that were an option, which was saying a lot considering how most people felt about mages.

Genevieve had been quite eager to get him out of there, however. Something had passed between her and Duncan, and Maric wasn’t certain what. The Grey Warden’s commander had finally grown impatient after enduring the First Enchanter’s ceremony for much of the afternoon, cutting the man off in midsentence as she spun about to go in search of her missing young thief.

To tell the truth, Maric hadn’t been aware up to that point that Duncan was even absent. Eventually, Genevieve had returned with him in tow. Rather than being furious, however, the woman’s expression had been more awkward mortification. She refused to comment on what the lad had been up to when Maric asked her, clamping her jaw shut and actually blushing. Duncan stood behind her, ashen faced and looking like he wanted to do nothing more than crawl under a rock somewhere and die.

So the lad’s misery was due to far more than the weather. Since they’d left the tower, the white-haired Commander had barely spoken to him. Whenever she did, she stared at him incredulously with those hard eyes of hers, and Duncan withered under the disapproval. Maric would have stood up for him, but for all he knew the lad had done something completely reprehensible.

For his own part, Maric didn’t feel truly cold even in the blizzard, not until they spotted the doorway, a great slab of dark granite easily twice a man’s height set into the side of a ridge and almost covered in a drift of snow. It would have been simple to miss, had he not known exactly where it was. It came into sight slowly amid the wind and the snow, and they approached cautiously. The closer they got, the larger it loomed and the more the chill seeped into Maric’s heart.

This was the entrance into the Deep Roads that he had used eight years earlier, a desperate gamble to reach Gwaren without encountering the Orlesian usurper’s army on the surface. It had only been through sheer luck that he had survived. In fact, he survived by luck on a number of occasions back then. The people of Ferelden who worshipped him now wouldn’t believe the truth even if he told them, that their heroic king had managed to free them more through fortune than through skill or good decisions.

They would simply tell him that the Maker had watched over him, that through the Maker’s grace Ferelden had been freed. And perhaps that was so. Still, his mind inevitably was drawn to the two women who had accompanied him into those dark depths. One had become his wife and the mother of his son, while the other …

He grimaced. He didn’t want to think of Katriel.

It was she who had led them to this remote location the first time, calling on her mastery of history and lore. Once upon a time this doorway had been a way for the dwarves to ascend to the surface, no doubt to collect the resources that they needed, but since the darkspawn had overtaken the dwarven kingdoms it had become little more than an open sore long forgotten. Forgotten by anyone but people like Katriel, he amended silently.

Back then, they had found the entrance lying open, its great doors ravaged by time. When he visited Orzammar years later, he had asked the dwarves to repair the entrance and seal it. Loghain had worried that the darkspawn might use it to raid the surface, even though they clearly had not done so in centuries. Still, one could never be too careful.

It had never occurred to Maric that he would one day be returning here.

Another powerful gust picked up a pile of snow from the rocks and blew it in their faces. Genevieve shrugged it off and marched ahead to the entrance. Her thick white cape fluttered madly as she reached out with a hand to touch the dark stone, running her fingers along its surface. It seemed like she was feeling around for something.

“What is she doing?” Maric asked Duncan quietly.

The lad shrugged, not even willing to raise his face from the furs.

Finally Genevieve turned back and walked directly toward Maric. “You are able to open it, yes?”

“The dwarves gave me a key.”

She nodded. “Then we camp here until morning.”

“What?” Duncan spluttered with indignation. “Can’t we go in now? Where it’s warmer?”

The Commander turned a level gaze toward him, and he immediately shrank back from her. “We have no way of knowing whether there are darkspawn behind that door,” she said tersely. “Just because the King did not find any there eight years ago does not mean the situation will have remained the same.”

“Can’t you detect them?” Maric asked. “Isn’t that what Grey Wardens do?”

“I tried. I felt … a strange presence, very faint. I cannot tell if it is because the darkspawn are far below or because the doorway is simply too thick.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and snapped to one of the large warriors standing nearby, “Julien, tell the others to spread out and find someplace close with shelter. I want to keep an eye on this doorway to night.”

It wasn’t long before the Grey Wardens had efficiently set up a camp just over the next rise. Snow was piled high on top of it, but at least it offered relief from the sharp winds, and that was better than they’d had all day. Maric felt a bit useless as the others bustled around, setting up tents.

Kell gathered a small pile of frozen wood, and before Maric could ask how he planned on turning that into a fire the hunter produced a small flask from his pack. He poured out a bit of the contents, a bright yellow liquid that began to sizzle as soon as it touched the wood, and within moments a healthy blaze materialized.

“Impressive,” Maric commented.

Kell grinned. “It works on darkspawn, as well. Sadly, we only have a little.”

Before long, dusk gave way to night. Darkness pressed in around them, driven back only by the flames of the campfire. Above the hills, a black sky filled with clouds seemed to go on forever, lit by a moon that never quite seemed to show itself. The blizzard thankfully ended, though the wind continued to lash across the landscape, scouring the fields of snow smooth.

Within the camp, tension filled the air. Maric could see from the grim faces of the Grey Wardens that they didn’t look forward to the morning any more than he did. At least they knew what they were likely to encounter in the Deep Roads. When he first came here, he hadn’t had a clue.

Once the tents were set up, Kell headed off with Duncan and his warhound to hunt. Genevieve strode to the top of the bluff, as from there she could keep an eye on the doorway. The warrior stood up there, one leg propped on the rocks and her cloak billowing behind her in the wind as she kept her watch. It was an intimidating pose, Maric thought. She seemed even more intense than before, if that were possible, as if she expected the doors to burst open at any moment.

He turned to the dwarven woman with the coppery braid, Utha, who shared the frozen log they had dragged next to the campfire. Her face was pretty, he thought. Most of the dwarves he had ever seen looked as if they were hewn from stone, all hardness and rough edges. This one, however, seemed almost soft. She stared into the blaze with an unsettling serenity, and was so very … still.

He couldn’t imagine ever being like that. Even now his head was filled with worry—what was Loghain doing, for instance? He had left a note explaining his plan, but the man might assume it was fake. He might believe that Maric had been kidnapped, and probably had the army searching for him even now. Loghain rarely desisted when he was determined to have his way.

And then there was Cailan, his young son, now no doubt wondering where his father had gone. His mind immediately shied away from such thoughts. No, he wasn’t still at all.

Maric nudged the dwarf and pointed toward where Genevieve kept her vigil. “Is she always like that?” he asked. “Do you know?”

She regarded him with an impenetrable look, her brown eyes glittering in the firelight. She made several strange signals with her hands, and belatedly he remembered that she didn’t speak.

The two warriors sat on the other side of the fire from them, and stopped their quiet whispering to each other as they noticed Maric’s confusion. Nicolas, the blond and more talkative of the two by far, leaned toward him. “Utha tells you that it is love that drives our commander.” The man’s Orlesian accent was cultured and warm.

“Love? You mean love for her brother?”

He nodded. “They were very close.”

“Can you tell me about him? I barely know anything about him. How was he captured? How can you even be certain he’s still alive?”

The brown-haired man, Julien, picked up a long stick he had been using to tend the fire and began shifting several of the logs. Sparks flew, and when Nicolas glanced at his companion they shared a guarded and wary look. Maric had heard perhaps three words in total from Julien since they had left Denerim, and all of them had been directed at Nicolas. Still, the man’s dark eyes said plenty. They said right now that Nicolas shouldn’t be telling Maric any more than was necessary. More Grey Warden secrecy.

Utha frowned, raising a hand and agitatedly gesturing at the men. The fluttering of her fingers seemed to punctuate her words firmly. Nicolas scowled in response and reluctantly nodded. Julien said nothing, his eyes only darkening with concern.

“What did she say?”

“She says we have no right not to tell you more,” Nicolas muttered.

The dwarven woman continued to sign at Maric, and then waited patiently as Nicolas translated. “His name is Bregan, and until one year ago he was Commander of the Grey in Orlais, leader of the order within the Empire. He held that position for a very long time.”

“Did he quit?”

“He did not. He left the order for his Calling. It is a rite where a Grey Warden enters the Deep Roads alone.”

“Alone!” Maric exclaimed. “Why would someone do that?”

“To die,” Utha signed. “A far better fate than to allow the darkspawn taint to overtake our aging bodies. Every Grey Warden knows when their time for the Calling comes, and every one of them who has entered the Deep Roads for their Calling has died, until now.”

Maric pondered this for a moment. Duncan had already explained to him how the Grey Wardens drank darkspawn blood in a ritual they called the Joining, taking the taint into their own bodies in order to effectively combat the creatures. They were more than simply skilled at fighting darkspawn; they knew them intimately. They sensed their presence, sometimes even gleaned their intent. This information was not something many people knew, and Genevieve had only grudgingly allowed the lad to impart it to him.

He wondered if it was the same taint that he had encountered in the Deep Roads years ago. He remembered it well, covering everything in the underground passages like a vile, black fungus. Maric had been fortunate not to contract the darkspawn’s plague during his time there, and had always wondered if Rowan had. No one had ever been able to determine the nature of her illness, and though Maric had tried everything to help her, he had been forced to watch her wither away before his eyes.

It had been painful. Rowan had been a vital woman, and the slow sapping of her strength had galled her. Toward the end she had become a shadow, wanting nothing more than for the pain to simply stop. Maric had held her skeletal hand and felt his heart break as she had begged him in a cracked and hollow voice for release.

No, perhaps it wasn’t so difficult to imagine why the Grey Wardens might prefer to go on this Calling of theirs.

The idea that anyone would make such a sacrifice, however … that they would subject themselves to a corruption that would slowly eat away at their bodies solely to combat a menace that hadn’t threatened Thedas since the last Blight centuries ago?

But that was why they were here, wasn’t it? If the darkspawn were able to use the captured Grey Warden to find their Old God, then a new Blight would begin. Their threat would suddenly become very real. Provided Genevieve and the others were telling him the truth.

The warning of the witch came to mind again, but along with it came Loghain’s words as well. It would be easy to believe that the witch meant this event, that she was warning him this would lead to the Blight. But what if she hadn’t meant that? What if she had been lying? He had nothing but doubts now, and that made him feel uneasy.

“How do you know her brother is even alive?” he asked. “If he went out into the Deep Roads, there’s no way you can tell what’s happened to him. Or can Grey Wardens sense that, too?”

Julien remained fixed on the flames, clenching his jaw in disapproval. Nicolas, meanwhile, wrung his hands and glanced nervously to where Genevieve stood on the ridge. She ignored them utterly, watching the cave entrance with her arms crossed and a fiery will shining out of her eyes. Yes, Maric could see why the others might be hesitant to anger their white-haired commander. There was no way to know whether she could actually hear them from where she stood, but he wouldn’t put it past her. Obviously neither would they.

“The Commander and her brother were very close,” Nicolas whispered. Utha nodded solemnly as if to confirm his words. “During all the time that I have known them, they were seldom far apart. They joined the order together, trained together, practically spent every waking moment together. I think she would have followed him into the Deep Roads, had it also been her time. In fact, I think she might have followed him anyhow, had her duties not held her here.”

“So is she chasing false hope, then?”

“She is certain. She has had dreams.”

Maric paused, not quite certain he’d heard the man say what he did. “Dreams,” he repeated, keeping his voice deliberately neutral. Nicolas nodded, as did the dwarf. Julien shook his head in dismay, frowning. “You’re aware of how mad that sounds, surely?”

“We’re not mad.” Fiona materialized out of the blowing snow, the elf’s blue skirts whipping wildly about as she approached the fire carry ing a large pack. She put it down next to the log, frowning at Maric coolly. “And neither is Genevieve. Dreams are not always merely dreams.”

“And what are they when they’re not dreams, then?”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, perhaps pondering just how she might explain it to him. Or perhaps considering whether she should. That smoldering anger still burned within her dark eyes, just as it had when Maric had spoken to her last. “You’ve heard of the Fade, I hope?”

He nodded, though not with any confidence. The Fade was the realm of dreams, that place where men were said to go when they slept. It was where spirits and demons roamed, separated from the waking world by something the mages called the Veil. Maric couldn’t say that he believed much in the entire concept. He dreamed, like any man, and if those dreams were really his memories of time spent in that realm, as the mages claimed, then he would have to take their word for it.

“There is no geography in the Fade,” Fiona continued. “Place and time are far less important than are concepts and symbols. The spirits shape their realm to resemble the things they see in the minds of dreamers because that is what they believe our world is like, and they want desperately to be part of it. So they emulate a landscape that is based more on our perceptions and our feelings than on reality, drawing us in.”

“And?” He spread his hands helplessly. “That means nothing to me.”

“You dream of those you love because there is a bond between you. The spirits recognize this. That bond has power in the Fade.”

“I once dreamed Loghain brought me a barrel of cheese. I opened it up, and there were mice inside. Made of cheese. Which we ate while singing sea chanteys. Are you saying this held some deeper meaning?” He grinned, suddenly amused by the indignant flare of the elf’s nostrils. “Perhaps my bond with Loghain told me that he actually harbors a deep love of cheese? I should have realized it sooner.”

“And every dream you have is such frivolous nonsense?”

“I have no idea. I forget most of them. Isn’t that what happens?”

She tightened the furs around her as if she could somehow squeeze out her anger. The dwarven woman put a calming hand on the mage’s leg, but her silent pleas were ignored. “The dreams that are not dreams are visions,” Fiona snapped. “Because the Fade is a reflection of our reality as the spirits see it, it may be used to interpret that reality. We mages seek out visions. We look for patterns, and attempt to see the truth beyond our awareness. But a potent-enough vision can come to anyone. When it does, you should pay attention to it.”

“Visions,” Maric repeated incredulously. “And your commander has had these visions? This is why you’re here? No other reason?”

The mage held up a slender hand, and a small orb of fire winked into being above it. It spun slowly, radiating a brilliant energy that lit up the entire camp. He felt a wave of heat across his face. “Visions are surely not so remarkable, King Maric, compared to some of the wonders this world holds.” With a twist of her hand, the orb disappeared. The campfire seemed not quite as bright and warm as it had before.

She had a point. The witch had been a mage, as well, but was he to trust everything to magic, then? And visions? He wasn’t so sure.

Fiona sat down on her pack, continuing to stare at him with open disapproval. So he busied himself by rubbing his hands and keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. There was a moment of quiet awkwardness among the others that none of them seemed willing to break. Utha looked at the mage with a clear expression of sympathy, though Maric wasn’t certain why. The two warriors, meanwhile, struck up another whispered private discussion. Julien’s eyes darted between Maric and Fiona, clearly the topic of their conversation, but what ever Nicolas was saying to the man couldn’t be made out.

“We believe her,” Fiona suddenly announced. It was enough to startle both of the warriors, who stared at her in surprise. Maric didn’t look up, though he could feel those big brown elven eyes boring a hole into him. “That is why we are here. What I would be interested in knowing is why you are here.”

The question hung in the air.

“Don’t you want me here?” Maric responded, getting annoyed. “Didn’t you come to my court specifically to ask for help? It might have been nice if you’d added that this was all based on a vision one of you had. I’ll have to remember to ask more questions next time.”

“She asked for your help.” The elf pointed to Genevieve. “I know why she asked you. I know what she thinks you can do for us. Perhaps you even believed what she said. What I don’t know is why you chose to come.”

“Isn’t defending the kingdom enough reason?”

“To come yourself? To voyage into danger so readily?”

“It was either me or Loghain, wasn’t it?”

She thinned her lips, her expression incredulous. “You could have ordered him to accompany us.”

“I’m not sure he would have complied.”

“I would be willing to wager that he offered to come in your stead, no matter his feelings.”

“Clever you.”

Fiona paused, her eyes narrowing at him. Maric could feel the tension around the fire, the pair of warriors stiff and uncomfortable as they witnessed the exchange, while the dwarven woman calmly gazed into the campfire. For a moment he thought the elf might abandon her line of questioning, but he was wrong.

“Don’t you have a young son?” she asked.

“Cailan. He is five years old, yes.”

“Isn’t he without a mother? Perhaps we hear it wrong in Orlais, but my understanding is that the Queen of Ferelden is dead.”

He was silent for a long minute, and noticed none of the others offered to change the subject or intervene. Perhaps they wondered the same thing. The thought of Cailan touched a painful place inside him. Like a coward, he’d left Loghain to tell the boy that his father was gone. Cailan would never have understood. His mother had disappeared, and now his father, too? If Maric had gone to tell him, however, he would never have come at all.

“She is,” he admitted quietly. “Three years, now.”

Fiona’s lips pressed together in outrage. “And you feel no shame at depriving him of a father now, as well?”

Maric felt the wash of grief tug at him, but he clamped down hard on the feeling. He would rather stick a fork in his eye than give this elven woman with her dark, angry eyes the satisfaction of seeing the pain she was dredging up inside him. “He hasn’t had a father for some time now,” he answered. His voice sounded flat and hollow, even to himself. “My staying in Denerim wouldn’t have changed that.”

“So you give up? This is Maric the Savior, the great King of Ferelden?”

Anger flooded through him. He’d thought to halt the witch’s prophecy, to act rather than to sit back and wait for it to come true. He thought that perhaps her warning had meant he was supposed to be here, but he hadn’t expected this. To be harassed and judged by this brash mage was simply too much. He shot up from the log, wheeling on her. She glared at him defiantly, as if she had every right to ask what she did, and that only served to intensify his rage.

“Maric the Savior,” he repeated, spitting the words with contempt. “You know what people call me, so you think you know everything about me? You know how I should feel? You want to tell me what kind of king I should be, and what a terrible father I am?”

Her demeanor softened, but only for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me what kind of father you are, then, King Maric?” she asked.

He turned from the fire and stormed several steps away. A blast of icy wind stopped him in his tracks. He let it wash over his skin, closing his eyes. The pounding of his heart slowly subsided, replaced by a familiar silence. It reminded him of those nights when the bustle of the court receded and he retreated to his quarters in the palace, only to be surrounded by a melancholy emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. So many days spent surrounded by finery and servants and all the things befitting a king, but none of it touched him anymore.

How was he supposed to explain that to anyone?

“The truth,” he mumbled into the wind, not even caring if those behind him could hear, “is that I haven’t been a father to my son since his mother died. Every time I look at him, I’m reminded of her, of all the might-haves and the should-have-beens. He deserves better than that. He deserves a father who can look him in the eyes.”

Another gust of wind lashed across Maric’s face, making him numb. Numbness was good. He felt a tentative hand touch his elbow, a gesture that startled him a little. He opened his eyes and turned, and saw the dwarven woman standing there gazing up at him. Her eyes were full of sympathy, and she silently patted his arm.

“Maric the Savior is just a name, something they call me because they say I saved the kingdom,” he told the mage. She remained seated by the fire behind him, not looking his way. “But the truth is, I’ve never been able to save anyone.”

With that he turned and walked off into the snow, leaving them behind. The dwarven woman let him go, and if the others stared after him they said nothing. He no longer cared if the elven mage was satisfied by his answers. Let her despise him. It wasn’t as if what she accused him of was untrue.

It was dark away from the camp, and Maric found himself trudging through shadowed drifts. The moon finally came out from behind the clouds, its silvery radiance against the starkness of the snow more than enough to light his way. When he crested a rocky hill, he found his breath taken away by the sight—the entire valley seemed to stretch in front of him, a field of soft white crowned by a sky full of glittering stars.

It was magnificent. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, his breath coming out in plumes as he watched the expanse. It seemed to go on forever, broken only by the occasional group of pine trees. Why was it he couldn’t remember the last time he had looked out over something so beautiful?

This is my kingdom, he thought sadly. And I don’t even know her any longer.

The sound of quietly crunching snow signaled someone approaching Maric from behind, and he stiffened. “Leave me alone,” he muttered without turning around. “Haven’t you people questioned me enough already?”

“I apologize if my Wardens have been rude, Maric.” It was Genevieve. He shivered in the chill and realized that she must have left her perch to follow him. Perhaps she intended to finish what the others started? “That is no way to address a king. I will remind them of their manners.”

“Don’t bother,” he sighed. He wrapped his fur cloak around him as he turned away from the view. The Commander stood not far away, her white hair fluttering in the wind. He found the hard edge of her appraising gaze unnerving. “I told you all to treat me like a regular person, so I shouldn’t be surprised when that’s what you do.”

Genevieve said nothing, though from her look he knew that she had more on her mind than his discomfort. She gave a curt nod, as if she had come to a decision. “Perhaps it would be better if you returned to your palace, Maric. We would not be able to escort you, I’m afraid, but I suspect you would be safer than if you accompanied us into the Deep Roads.”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

She arched a pale eyebrow. “Have you not changed yours?”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, and for a moment the silence stretched into awkwardness. “I do not blame you if you do not believe in my visions,” she finally said, gently enough that Maric was tempted to believe her. “Not even all of the Grey Wardens do. I was told by some that my brother is dead, and that there was nothing that could be done even if that was not the case.”

She shrugged and slowly walked toward Maric, standing beside him and looking out over the same valley he had been admiring moments before. Her eyes softened as she scanned the horizon. “It was difficult to let my brother go, when the time came for his Calling. I think, for so many years, we assumed that when it came it would come for us both at the same time. I journeyed with him to Orzammar, toasted to his honor with the dwarves, and in the end I stood at the seal and watched him walk out into the shadows.” Her voice took on an edge of bitterness. “My brother has always been as much a part of me as my arms. To have him wrenched away from me … it was unbearable.” She glanced at Maric then, her eyes bright and cold. “But I was the one who counseled him to accept his fate. I stayed. When the first vision came, it felt as if he had reached back across those shadows and touched my heart. I felt him as surely as I feel my arms. I know that it was real.”

Maric frowned. A new gust of wind rushed between them. Far off in the distance wolves howled, a lonely sound that only seemed to punctuate the emptiness of the land. “So why didn’t you say anything about this?”

Genevieve laughed mirthlessly. “And what would you have said?” She stared at him, her tone completely serious. “I am intent on reaching my brother to prevent the darkspawn from learning what they must not. If it must be, I will kill him myself to prevent that from happening. This is not a rescue mission, Maric. I am not running to my brother’s side; I am attempting to prevent a calamity.”

She shrugged and looked back over the valley with a sigh. “And if there are those who do not believe as I do, then I will be forced to act without their aid. I do need your help, desperately so. But if you cannot lead us in the Deep Roads, then go … return to your son, Maric. No one will blame you for doing so, least of all I.”

With that, the Grey Warden commander spun about and marched off. There was no appeal, no farewell. She was gone into the haze of snow within moments, and Maric knew that there would be no further question if he simply picked up his gear and returned to Kinloch Hold. He could be back in Denerim within a couple of days, calling off what ever alarm Loghain was undoubtedly already sounding and seeing his son again as Genevieve had advised.

The thought of Cailan made him pause. Everyone said that the lad looked just like his father, and he supposed that was probably true. The same blond hair, the same nose, and the same smile. But he had his mother’s eyes. What would he say, looking into those eyes that would be full of so many questions, asking why he’d left in the first place?

He could imagine what Loghain would say. He would be relieved, and cover it up with irritation at all the trouble Maric had put everyone through.

It was far more difficult to imagine what Rowan would have said. He remembered her best as a warrior, a woman who had helped lead the rebellion to take back the kingdom from the Orlesians. She’d had an indomitable spirit until the sickness had taken her, and in many ways he had always considered her far stronger than him. They’d restored the kingdom together, but it had always been she who knew immediately when something was worth doing or needed abandoning.

He tried to imagine that Rowan would have urged him to return to their son. As a mother, surely she would have considered Cailan more important than any other consideration. Trouble was, he just couldn’t believe it. He could picture her sitting in her favorite chair by the window in their chambers, brown curls cascading around her pale skin. She would have put down her book and looked at him, puzzled.

“You’re back?” she’d have asked him, more accepting than surprised.

“Yes, I’m back.”

“Didn’t you think going was important?”

“Our son is more important than saving the kingdom, Rowan.”

And then she’d have smiled at him with amusement, tilting her head in that way that told him she expected him to know better. “I wasn’t talking about saving the kingdom, you silly little man.” Her tone was full of affection, something that had grown over the years of their marriage and yet which he had never felt particularly worthy of. She held out her hand from her chair and he walked to take it …

… and then the image fled, and Maric was left with nothing but moonlight and blowing snow once again. His heart ached. It seemed to him like it had been forever since he had been able to remember what Rowan looked like. His memories had become maddeningly fleeting over the last few years, replaced by impressions and smells and snippets of conversation. Just then, however, she had seemed so real.

Much like a vision.

He smirked at the irony of the thought, especially considering the fact that he wasn’t even asleep. Unless, of course, he was asleep, having fallen into some deep snowbank after wandering away from the camp, and was currently freezing to death while blissfully dreaming away. The Grey Wardens would maybe search for him come morning, and then look at each other and shrug, assuming that he’d decided to return to Denerim without a good-bye. They’d enter the Deep Roads, and come spring some travelers would perhaps find his remains half hidden in the mud. Probably steal his boots, too.

It was an intriguing thought. But what were the odds?

With a deep sigh, he began to walk back to the Grey Warden camp.