Disgrace of Redcliffe - Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Connor did not want to meet with Ser Perth.

Hawke led the combined company of nine through Amaranthine to one of the finer districts, close to the Bann’s estate and away from the noise of the market. They entered a fine public house with clean floors and tables, and a room was immediately prepared to host the large group. Perth did not like this and told Hawke a private table for himself and ‘the one you know I want to speak with’ would suffice. Carver came very close to telling the knight to shut his trap.

Connor wished very hard that Carver would do something to let this become a brawl. When the room was ready he did not want to go inside. When they were shown to the long table and wine was ordered for all, one of the knights protested Jylan’s presence. Finally, something Connor was capable of responding to.

“You speak to a Formari Guildsman of Amaranthine and friend to the Grey Wardens of Vigil’s Keep.” He said outright from his seat between Jylan and Carver. Perth was sitting directly across from Carver because it had been decided that the two of them were in control of the situation. Evie’s rank as Captain didn’t factor in here: she wasn’t Fereldan, and when it came to Vigil’s Keep Hawke had four years seniority over her. “You will use your tongue respectfully, or keep it behind your teeth.”

“There is no need for such aggressive language.” Perth told him without address. But he looked at Connor directly, holding him with his dark eyes, and it made him bristle.

“Then your knights will speak respectfully, or you will keep them quiet.” Hawke reinforced Connor’s threat and he felt warmth and pride mix in his blood. Hah.

Four and five chalices were filled with wine for the sides of the table, Hawke refusing the suggestion of food and sending the servant quietly out of the room, a large flagon of wine left out for them.

“You have your meeting and your drink, Ser Perth of Redcliffe.” Hawke told the man across from him.

“I intended for this to be a private conversation.”

“This is private.”

“Warden Hawke, I do not expect my liege’s son to be able to speak plainly and earnestly with his superior officer sitting right beside him.”

“Warden Hawke,” Connor intruded. “Permission to speak freely and openly with the knights seated before us?” Hawke regarded him for a long moment, and then answered with:

“I can’t believe I’m the one to say this, but keep it civil.” That didn’t sound like Carver at all, but alright. He had appearances to keep up. Connor nodded and looked back at Ser Perth, then spoke clearly, slowly, and loudly, dragging it out like he would for someone hard of hearing.

“I’m not going to Denerim.” He said. “I know you were waiting for me in the Black Arrow all this week, and yes, I ignored you, because the Arlessa has ignored me. Ser Perth you have been sent on a fool’s errand. I am not in need of rescuing, I have nowhere to escape from: I am a Grey Warden and my home is Vigil’s Keep.” Ser Perth drew his lips into a thin, shrivelled line.

“You place me in a difficult position, my lord.” Connor set his teeth.

“I am not a lord, I am a Warden.” Ser Perth raised a hand for peace and then took a swallow from the wine in front of him. Connor, disgusted that he had to go through with this meeting, drank from his as well.

“Her grace believes you are being held against your will.” Connor shot Perth a nasty look from over the silver edge of his chalice, and drank a little more. “But watching the market this week for you I am put at odds with her choice of words. You part from and rejoin your companions frequently, they do not go after you when you wander or call you back to them as if you are under watch. You foray into the market on your own and make no indication of escape or the urge to flee.”

Connor finished the wine and resisted the urge to throw the empty cup across the table. They’d been watching him? So then they could have just snatched him off the street if they’d wanted to! It was one thing to know Zevran was in the city keeping an eye on things, but Connor felt his blood boil at the idea of Redcliffe doing the same thing.

The knights drank their wine, refilling the red vintage from a large flagon left on the table. Connor waited for the servant to return and both fill his cup and replace the flagon because it was better than let anything the knights touched or offered reach his lips. The conversation circled.

The Arlessa had ordered her knights to bring Connor back to Denerim, Connor refused to go, and Perth was too honourable to snatch him like a prize ram when it was clear Connor was exercising his own control over the matter. Hawke clarified that they needed to be back at Vigil’s Keep within the next week, leaving no time for the journey all the way from Denerim and back without missing their deadline. None of the Wardens at the table mentioned that Connor would have a fortnight free after that, and he wanted to be sure he thanked Evie and Carver for that bit of grace later.

Another tall drink of wine and Connor bared his teeth a bit more.

“What is Lady Rowan’s illness?”

“It is beyond my knowing, Warden.” Good, Perth finally addressed him properly. “I know she suffers to sleep and has lost a dramatic amount of weight these last few months. Her mother claims she is in great pain, and from her pale complexion and weak disposition, I would say the same.” There was genuine pain in Perth’s face and voice when he gave the account, and despite himself Connor felt his heart soften a little.

“If it is wasting sickness…” He uttered slowly, cup hovering under his lips before he took a smaller, more thoughtful drink this time. “The herbalists of the Hinterlands should know the proper medicines to settle her stomach and allow her to eat more comfortably. Embrium for sleep, snowdrops for the pain, and crystal grace to make feeding easier.”

“It would mean a great deal to the Arlessa if you would come to Redcliffe and oversee her condition.”

“And as I have said before, Ser Perth, I will not do so.” Honestly the man was deaf. “Whatever my parents would have you believe, I did not know a young girl named Rowan Guerrin existed in Ferelden until two months ago when the Commander of the Grey told me as much. I am not going to abandon my life and responsibilities for someone, young and innocent as she may be, whom I don’t know or have any connection to.”

“She is your sister.” Perth pleaded, and it hurt, but it wasn’t going to work.

“She is the child of two people I have not seen or had contact with in well over ten years.” Connor corrected. “You may kindly tell Arlessa Isolde,” and here he placed a hand near Hawke just in case the Senior Warden thought he was going to forget about being ‘civil’, “That her garden won’t die for lack of rain, but from the gardener’s lack of care. I have offered her my assistance in contacting the Formari of Amaranthine for their medicines.” He gestured to Jylan beside him, although the Tranquil had nothing to do with any of this. “And I’ve offered to approach the Hero of Ferelden himself: the Archmage whose healing abilities outstrip mine many times over. Her response was to ignore that and send you all this way instead. I am sorry, Ser Perth, but the Arlessa may not be as interested in helping her daughter as she would have you believe.”

Perth looked shocked by his comments and one of the knights further down shoved to his feet, hands on the table.

“You would doubt the Arlessa’s love for her child?” The man hissed.

“Never her love, Ser knight.” Connor admonished, shaking his head and reaching for his wine. The wine was thick but the taint was stronger: Wardens couldn’t get drunk off just four cups of anything. “Her judgement and her care, yes. But never her love.”

“Your own mother, you ungrateful-” Another knight rose but she put her hand to her dagger, meaning Hawke knocked his chair back, an inch of his own knife’s steel already drawn with one hand planted on the table. Connor put his wine down quickly without spilling it, fingers spread over the grain of the wood as the fire in his chest began to rumble at the early signs of aggression.

“That is enough!” Ser Perth reigned in his knights and Hawke was no fool, he knew how to pull himself back without losing face. Jylan had left his seat and quietly picked up Hawke’s chair, and now he retreated to one of the room’s corners: a very typical Tranquil response to conflict. “Warden Guerrin, does your offer to speak to the Formari or the Hero of Ferelden have any conditions I should know about?”

“A proper list of symptoms and how long they’ve been present for, if only so the Commander and the Formari can get a proper sense of what they’re dealing with.” Connor told him as Hawke remained standing, arms folded over his armoured chest. “Beyond that, no.”

Ser Perth looked grave, but nodded.

“What about you?” Carver pressed.

“What about me?” Evie rolled her eyes with a heavy scoff from his shoulder.

“He just said he only kissed one girl one time,” She said, gesturing with her silver cup in one hand. “What makes you think he was running around with all that? Getting into trouble hiking up girls’ skirts?” Oh Maker-!

“You never know,” Carver rolled the words around in his mouth, the wine staining his bowed lips. “Not every girl likes kissing.” Evie snorted and told him that just showed how much Carver knew about women, Carver responded by leaning in tantalizingly close to both of them to say something clever. The chatter continued and Connor just tried to breathe around how unfair it was not to be able to kiss two people at once. Not that either one would let him, but still…

They drank their wine and roused Jylan past midnight, returning to Bann Talbind’s estate tipsy and in good humour. Connor put his old friend to bed with profuse apologies, then crept across the suite to the room left for him. He didn’t see where Carver and Evie went but he heard them laughing at something together and then he went to bed. Alcohol was better than Embrium: the demons couldn’t get you if you fell into the fade and honestly believed you were a sunflower.

Bann Talbind bid them good-bye the next morning bearing a few important documents for the Arling. It turned out Jylan, hangover soothed by Connor’s magic and the kitchen’s own know-how, had never ridden a horse before. This posed a problem that could only be solved one of two ways: either he had to ride with someone, or he had to learn very, very quickly.

Connor offered up Issan. She was a large, proud Ferelden Forder but well on in her years, patient and stable and used to idiot riders like Connor himself. Jylan did not ride easy or comfortably, but at least Issan knew to hold her pace steady and trot at a delicate rhythm that didn’t actively try to swing the elf off her back. Connor rode beside him on a mount borrowed from the Silver Order, and the Tranquil fumbled with the reigns and tried to keep his new cloak closed against the cold autumn rains as Amaranthine’s hills rolled by.

When they arrived at Vigil’s Keep in the mid-afternoon, Connor took Jylan to the Seneschal to introduce his new assistant- not his apprentice, his assistant. Garevel was welcoming right up until the moment Jylan removed his hood, his dark skin showing the pale brand of Tranquility under the messy black mop of his hair. The Seneschal’s gasp was hard for Connor to recover from, but Jylan was unflappable and didn’t see the reaction as offensive: he was Tranquil. Tranquil were unsettling.

The Seneschal explained his pay, and his expected schedule of work- six days out of every seven, with one day for rest and reflection. Work was expected of him from morning bell until lunch, and then lunch until the dinner bell, the rest of the hours were his to use as he chose. He would collect his meals in the servant’s hall, a place Connor had seen but not visited properly. His key to his room was his own so he’d better not lose it, and he would be paid his full stipend in the middle of every month.

“When Warden Guerrin is present at Vigil’s Keep, you will report directly to him. When he is away on business, you will report to me if you have any issues or troubles. I hope I have not overwhelmed you.” Jylan did not look overwhelmed, he looked like he hadn’t heard a single thing: he was Tranquil.

“Thank you, Seneschal Garevel.” He said politely, and they left.

Jylan’s room was near the workshop. It was a bed, a bookshelf, a standing closet, and a wash-basin by the window. It was half the size of Connor’s room upstairs, more of a glorified closet with a window knocked in the wall for light, but when he stood in the middle of it Connor watched his friend take on that deep, moving silence of his. He touched the walls, running his fingers across the mortar. He touched the bed, which had been made already. He stood in front of the bookshelf and took a long, steady look at the window.

“Should I leave you to get settled in?” Connor asked, realizing that between the Gwaren Alienage, the Circle Tower, and the Guildsmen, Jylan had probably never had his own room before.

“No. Show me the workshop.” He did, and here Jylan didn’t fall into his silence, here he was active: this was familiar. He started at one end and went through everything in the room: what was in which jars, how the herbs had been prepared or left to dry, what was in stock, everything that was not, where Connor kept his tools, how many tools he had, the quality of them, and so on.

Jylan unpacked his tools in the workshop rather than go through things in his room. Connor pulled his nearly-full notebook out so they could go through the lists of things the Vigil needed, what she had, and what Connor wanted for her. Jylan agreed with some parts and corrected others, but for most of it he simply stared blankly and nodded only when prompted. They parted at the evening bell to each find something to eat from their respective halls, and then to their respective baths, and then hopefully to their respective evenings and beds… but Connor was an anxious mess throughout. What if he wasn’t okay? What if he got lost? What if someone made a scene about a Tranquil in the Vigil? What if the sun didn’t come up tomorrow and the sixth Archdemon popped right out from under Amaranthine city?

He made himself push the thoughts away and sleep.

The next two weeks were… an experience.

“A Tranquil?” Surana demanded an explanation for Connor’s choice, he came right to Connor’s door to get it. It was the scariest moment of Connor’s life barring anything to do with demons or darkspawn. But it was still terrifying and Connor babbled out the history and the reasons and who Jylan was and why Connor hadn’t gone to the College of Herbalists although Surana had told him to and he knew that but but but- “Enough! Enough, Connor. Alright. I told you to choose someone who you could work with comfortably and who can do the job. Very well, Compounder Ansera will stay.”

Tranquil were not dangerous. That was the entire reason they existed: they’d been cut off from the Fade and had no emotional responses to guide them without the ability to dream. Demons didn’t come for them, magic was beyond them, and typically they would, like Jylan, choose to walk a path of least resistance and most use to the people around them. Surana had allowed Tranquil to congregate in Amaranthine, but it was worth pointing out that he’d assigned them a guild hall in Amaranthine City and left them to their own devices and internal-management, not Vigil’s Keep where he would have had to see them on a regular basis.

But Jylan was allowed to stay, and that was what mattered most to Connor.

Jylan was a Tranquil and Tranquil didn’t have an off setting. He woke up before the morning bell from habit and would stand either in his room or just outside the workshop until he heard it toll. Then he would go inside and be hard at work before Connor wandered down to get to work himself. As soon as the bell tolled again in the evening, Jylan would freeze, almost upset by tasks left half-finished and interrupted by the bell that told him he had to stop. Connor broke him of that habit gently, and they decided it was better to include clean up as part of the working day than to have something half-done and have to clean it up after the bell had already sounded.

He had difficulty understanding that he wouldn’t be penalized for working after his mandated time had expired. If he didn’t have to stop at the bell then why did the bell have to be rung? It was too hard for him. He wanted- no, he preferred, to know exactly when to start and stop his day. It was a challenge, but they overcame it.

Jylan also suffered with multitasking. He could carry a conversation… or at least what counted for conversation with a Tranquil and work at the same time, but if he had something boiling then he needed to watch it boil and do nothing else. If he had something he was slicing then he couldn’t also have something that needed mixing sitting next to him. If something had to boil in a pot then he needed to have every single ingredient readied and laid out, ready to add them in according to timing and heat measurements. His workspace was meticulous and Connor picked up the good habit from him of double and triple-washing his knives, his new cleaver, his cutting boards and his jars.

Mistress Valora didn’t care who made what as long as she got the poultices and salves and draughts she needed for her work. She greeted Jylan politely and then clicked her tongue waiting for both of them to finish putting together her basket of required medicines for the week. Once it was done she left with the same brisk, business-like nod she always did.

The stablemaster was dismissive of another elf in the apothecary shop but then shrieked and clutched his Andrastian amulet when he saw Jylan turn with the Tranquil brand on his forehead. It wasn’t until he left with his ointments for hoof-rot and dental care that Jylan suggested Connor not bash his cleaver quite so hard on his cutting board, or he would cut through it.

“I hate watching people react like that around you.” He grunted.

“Perhaps consider that, as a Tranquil, the offense is easily ignored.”

“But it does offend you, and-”

“I am Tranquil, Connor.”

The work broke down easily, almost naturally between them. Because Jylan could not multitask, they agreed to have him work on large batch orders and meticulous tasks that would not frustrate or bore him due to his condition. Connor helped with those tasks, but left himself available to hop up whenever someone entered the workshop looking for something: a simple remedy, a question, a minor hurt or symptom they wanted looked at. The turnover of visitors increased, as did the volume of crafted materials that were slowly able to fill the workshop’s shelves and jars. Self-sufficiency in a year didn’t seem quite so daunting when in two weeks Jylan produced enough elfroot jelly and poultices to see the Wardens comfortably through the next two months.

Velanna introduced herself after finding Jylan curious with his raised hood and tendency to take his food from the servant’s hall to stand outside the workshop eating it. Connor considered her sympathetic to either Jylan’s elven heritage, his tranquil status, or both. He was relieved beyond words when he left with Sigrun and Nathaniel for two weeks to handle a Wyvern infestation near the Blackmarsh, came back with a saddlebag full of dawn lotus, Wyvern scales, and numerous other reagents, and also found Jylan and Velanna with a bond that echoed of friendship. As much friendship as a Tranquil could feel, anyways.

Velanna lent him books. Jylan read them in his empty hours and filled much of his time speaking to her when Connor was not around. She showed him a kind of Dalish crafting with dyed thread and a hoop of woven branches that An’eth gasped out-loud at the sight of. This kindled another friendship that led to Connor losing his assistant completely on his day of rest only to have him turn up in An’eth’s room, seated on the floor across from her and over a massive pile of dyed string, their needles and fingers spinning patterns and stitches.

Connor accepted a lovely web of blue and silver threads that knotted and tugged each other in a hundred directions, mimicking stars. It was as wide as his open hand and Jylan had put his, as he claimed it, ‘substandard’ enchanting abilities to work by stitching patterns for dream warding into the knots and twists. Connor hung it happily over his bed and slept deep and dreamlessly with it hanging there.

Connor didn’t pry into how Jylan and Mistress Delilah came to be acquainted, he just knew he was happy when he realized his friend had begun to cross-stitch patterns and pictures on his clothes from Amaranthine. It was obsessive, meticulous work, and it echoed faintly of a boy who’d once used an erratic burst of magic to explode half their brewing lesson just because he’d liked the colours of the smoke it produced. Delilah taught him how to make patterns with stitched threads the way Velanna had shown him to loop and link them. Soon enough he was doing more stitching than reading, and he had people he could speak to instead of standing silently waiting for a work bell to tell him what to do.

“Of course you can.” Was Connor’s obvious response after Jylan devoured a book on dye-making and requesting the materials and time to try it. His first batch of blood-lotus juice didn’t work, his second produced a lovely crimson, followed by deep burgundy, and then a fiery orange. Mistress Delilah provided the threads, Connor provided the drying rack, and the tedious hobby brought welcome colour and warmth to the darkest, wettest part of autumn.

Connor kept himself busy with a jar of vanilla and rose hip butter that made Evie catch him in a wonderful hug and kiss his cheeks for it. For Carver he produced a requested bottle of stain for a repaired corridor in the keep, but he’d added a mint essence to it that followed Hawke around for days and made Connor close his eyes every time the scent drifted by. Connor Guerrin was in love with his two best friends and it didn’t matter whether he was sharing a bottle of wine with Evie or listening to Carver read his favourite parts from Antiva’s best playwrights, he was happy.

Autumn thundered on and winter began to loom. The Vigil’s gut rumbled with activity: her kitchens, her baths, her forge, her library, her apothecary. Connor rode with Hassick, Oghren, and Hestel to bring aid to a small township in Amaranthine’s western hills nearly washed away by flooding. They couldn’t save the houses, but they saved the people who’d lived in them. The Wardens and Silver Order saw the refugees settled in other parts of the Arling, and Connor returned soaking wet but satisfied with the work.

The Orlesian Wardens of Solider’s Peak were in the middle of electing their national Commander of the Grey- but infighting in the fortress had caused a violent split: half wanted to throw in with their Ferelden hosts and forge a new arm of the Grey Warden Order under Surana. The others wanted an Orlesian commander to take them back to Orlais. Surana rode to and from the fortress several times in the heavy rain and darkening days, every time allowed in to his own fortress, but always forced to leave for Vigil’s Keep again before an agreement could be reached. The Orlesians were stubborn. Teyrn Cousland’s patience were running out.

“If they will not pay taxes to Highever, then they will pay taxes to Amaranthine and I will pay Cousland his due personally!” It was coming down to money. Highever maintained the road to Soldier’s Peak, they protected the mountain pass and their soldiers and engineers needed to be paid for their work. The merchants paid taxes upon reaching the Peak in order to ply their trade, but the Wardens were not turning over the taxes to the Terynir, nor were they paying their regular dues to the Teyrnir anyways. Their only remaining excuse would have been if taxation and dues were being sent to the First Warden in the Anderfels, but the Orlesians had broken with Weisshaupt.

Surana was outraged and rightly embarrassed: Soldier’s Keep was a Fereldan Grey Warden outpost, it was subjected to Fereldan taxes. If they would not pay the Teryn, and they would not pay the King, and they would not pay the First Warden, then they would pay Surana or face a consequence the Warden Commander had been holding back against for months.

“We will seal the road, we will block them in, and we will let them starve just like Sophia Dryden before them!” As a Grey Warden, Connor was present with the others when Surana met with a messenger from the Orlesian faction. Over twenty men, women, humans, elves, dwarves, mages, and Dalish, in full armour, watching silently as the Warden Commander berated and broke down the shame-faced messenger who’d come to deliver news that no, the latest vote had not produced an answer to the Orlesians’ leadership. “Soldier’s Peak is impenetrable but she is not eternal! I am sick of wasting time! Go back to them and tell the Warden Constables that they have worn out their Fereldan welcome! I do not expect back-taxes for the last year, but I expect a token, a sign, a clear and deliberate show of intention to respect the customs and laws of the land that welcomed their lot to this country in the first place!”

The messenger had begun this meeting looking strong and proud and self-assured, he ended it by dropping on one knee in front of the Warden Commander, fist to his heart.

“Please- Warden Commander, I must know how long Soldier’s Peak has to respond to this order of taxation.”

“If I have not received an affirmative answer by the time the Peak seals with winter snow, messenger, then she will find an army waiting at her doorstep when the thaw opens it back up. Go! Fly back to your masters with this warning. They will respect the authority of the Ferelden Landsmeet, or they will find the land itself pulled out from under them!”

The messenger fled that night through the cold rain without taking a meal or changing his horse. Warden Commander Surana had brought down the war-hammer and there wasn’t a soul alive in Vigil’s Keep stupid enough to call it a bluff. Maker Willing, Soldier’s Peak would be as wise.

Evie was distraught. These were her brothers, her countrymen, the people she’d left behind in Skyhold to catch up to Surana’s Company months ago. If she’d stayed with them then she would be one of the Wardens at Soldier’s Peak, caught up in the infighting and bickering with the sand slowly running from the glass.

“I should go to them, I know I should.” She was red-eyed and face puffy from crying, her door closed and Connor alone with her in the warm room, fire crackling in her hearth and the two of them sitting on her bed. Evie’s thick, coarse, tightly curled black hair had grown longer and longer over the last several months and Connor was using the wide mouth of a wooden brush to carefully part and smooth it in to even sections for braiding. He didn’t know much about hair but he’d learned to be dexterous, and this wasn’t the first time he’d offered to help her- it was just the first time he’d done it with her upset like this.

“Has Surana said anything to you?” Connor asked in a hushed voice, setting the brush down and gathering her hair. It clung to itself when parted and spread, making it easier for his unpracticed hands to smooth, fold, and twist the arms of the Orlesian-style braid down the side and back across her head, the way she’d been trying to do before he’d found her. She’d bathed to try and calm down, and her skin smelled like vanilla and rose-hips, but she was crying and Connor wanted to do whatever would help make that stop.

“Only that he expects my loyalty, but I don’t know what that means in this situation.” She was tired and upset and exhausted from crying, wiping at her face over and over again as she spoke to him. “He wouldn’t order me to fight my own countrymen, would he?”

“No, I don’t think so, Evie.” In truth Connor didn’t know, that would be quite the assumption to make about the Warden Commander. He was angry. This issue had outraged him for so many months- who knew what he’d do? “Here, tilt your head a little?” She did, and he continued braiding. Gather, fold, twist, gather, fold, twist. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but for your sake I wish I did.”

“We are Wardens, not Counts.” Evie said, her deep voice thick with emotion. “We do not play The Game, we are supposed to be beyond petty politics. When I joined the Order under Clarel there was none of this, no division of purpose- did you know Surana has been relying on the Inquisition to control the Western Approach’s boarder since we came back this summer? The Warden Commander of Ferelden has been using Divine Victoria’s Inquisition to solve Orlais’ problems with Darkspawn: it is shameful.”

“They’re lost, Evie.” He hushed, “Or they feel lost. Ferelden is a very different place from Orlais and they’ve been trying to sort out what to do without a Leader.” Connor spoke as softly as he could and tied off the end of the braid, it was short, but it didn’t look as bad as he’d feared it would. Reaching down next to him, he picked up a small box Carver had given Evie in Amaranthine: it contained a set of wooden hair pins mounted with dawnstone crystals cut into roses. Connor suspected they were the reason she’d grown her hair out long enough for braiding. Her hair was thick enough to hold the pins when short of course, but as Connor slipped them into the braid they looked better nestled between the thick locks. “There, I think it’s done.”

“Thank you, Connor.” She reached up and ran her hand over his work, feeling the pins and touching the crystals thoughtfully before turning around on the bed. Evie folded herself up into his lap, something she’d done before to get him to fuss and feel awkward but this time she was upset and Connor let the warm feeling have him because she wanted something he could easily give her: comfort.

“If I could make it better then I would, Evie.” She pressed her face to his throat, eyes closed with a heavy sigh, one arm around his back and both of his folding gently around her to hold her warmly.

“I know you would, mon cher,” She answered softly. “You’re too kind for your own good sometimes.” Connor let his hand stroke her face, looking for those dried tear tracks to brush them aside. She tangled her hand with his and held it for a long, slow moment, then pulled at his embrace and moved away from him, laying down properly on her bed and tugging on Connor’s hand until he followed and set his head down on the pillow next to hers. He didn’t touch her face again, just let their fingers rest in a warm tangle between them. “I have a question for you, Connor.” Conneur, Conneur, always with that lovely Orlesian tug on his name.

“Of course,” He murmured, watching her squirm a little closer to him, their hands clasped.

“When are you going to kiss me?” Uuuh- the warm feeling became uncomfortably hot, and Connor felt a sense of alarm creep up on him. Haha- kiss her, oh boy, what?

“I…” His eyes caught a glimpse of one of those dawnstone crystals in her dark hair, against her rich skin. “I don’t think Hawke would like it if I did that.”

“Carver?” She said, dark eyes wide with a soft look of shock. “He would be in no position to stop you- ah, unless you mean you prefer him… That would make sense.” And then her expression dimmed with disappointment. Alarmed even further now, Connor’s hand clasped hers very tightly.

“I- that’s not what I meant.” He stumbled. “I don’t- I don’t prefer you- or him, I- I just…” oh no, oh no, oh no, he didn’t know how to explain this. “But the two of you are close, you’re… very close.” Very close in that, ‘I’m not sure but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen how you look at each other’ kind of way.

“So are you to him.” She countered gently, her voice quiet to respect the agonizing topic. But she also came closer to him, the warm, round end of her nose rubbing so softly against his and making his lungs seize up, hands walking to her forearms and holding on around the thick muscles of her arms. “But he is a very silly man, and you are a very kind one, and there is not enough of either of those things in the world right now, Conneur.” Hahaha he was going to explode.

He kissed her. He didn’t know what he was doing and he felt himself shaking, the air rushing out of his lungs as nerves squeezed his chest, his heart thumping hard and making his whole body pulse. Evie hummed low and soft against his lips, her hand stroking the back of his head, combing through his hair, and she levered her weight against his until Connor was leaning over her and down into the kiss. It broke with his arms shaking and his body terrified of resting on hers, and-

“I don’t know what I’m doing-” the air he’d hardly breathed rushed out. “I’ll do something wrong or I’ll upset you or I’ll hurt you or you just won’t like it and- and… and…” She didn’t drag him down into another kiss, she pulled her hands through his hair and down to cup his face. She stroked his neck, let him babble his nonsense, and when he was quiet she didn’t say anything, just looked up at him with her bloodshot, tired, sympathetic eyes.

“Kisses do not hurt, Conneur.” She whispered.

“I don’t know how to-”

“Practice…” And her lips left Trade for the softly uttered tucks and rolls of Orlesian, the words he could almost speak comfortably again. “Just like the song of my homeland, my dear, the song your clumsy tongue could not carry when we met at the edge of spring, but now you sing it so sweetly. I know your lips can learn the kindness your heart knows so well, my darling...”

Evie signed ‘please’ between them, and Connor kissed her. He put no weight behind it, trying to find her by touch alone and not hurt her, or make her uncomfortable, or do something sloppy or wrong. When he did it again he looked down and saw her smile. And when he did it again he saw her start to cry and knew it wasn’t his fault: it was the peak and the Wardens and her heart that was ready for any fight she could face but not this one where there was no enemy, just her family on one side and her home on the other.

He kissed the woman he loved until her sadness and her pain dragged her to sleep in his arms, and they passed the night with Connor’s face pressed to her hair, his arms looped around her and bringing Evie’s back close against his chest. They were disturbed only once by the fire burning too low and the constant rain outside making the room feel cold, but Connor hugged her tighter when she scratched at the bed’s covers, closing his eyes tight and prodding the warmth clinging to his bones, saturating his skin: he kicked one foot and the hearth-fire reignited, his will to keep her warm and comfortable and safe enough to keep it burning until morning.

Two days later Connor was summoned from the workshop to meet Commander Surana and receive his next assignment. He trotted through the open doors, side-stepping Kieran who was on his way out with a book under one arm and his Mabari at his heels, and knocked quickly at the Commander’s door. When he was called inside he found Surana standing at his office window, hands clasped behind his back looking down at the Vigil’s walls and cascading rooves, rain running down the glass panes. He didn’t look at Connor, not even when he spoke.

“Join me here, Corporal.”

Connor closed the door, and went to stand by his Commander.

For once in his life, he should have been worried.

Disgrace of Redcliffe - Chapter 17 - Sunruner (2024)

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