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Oriana has been strangely quiet since they left Redcliffe.
What they have lived there has been disturbing, truth to be told, but not much more than watching all your comrades be brutally massacred by monsters and end up being the last two survivors, so Alistair is sure there is something else going on his fellow warden’s mind.
They are camped half-way to Lake Calenhad when he finally dares to ask.
—Hey. Something on your mind?
She’s sitting near the fire, gaze lost and knees to her chest, accompanied only by Barkspawn, sleeping soundly at her feet, so lost in her thoughts she jumps a bit in her place when he calls her.
Alistair pouts, ashamed.
—Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.
Oriana shakes her head and gives him her best attempt of a smile.
—It’s fine —she replies before returning to her contemplation of the flames.
She’s doing it again, he notices.
Sometimes, he catches her toying with the chain she wears around her neck, the one that keeps her Warden’s amulet and another tiny, golden object, gaze lost and deep in her thoughts. She’s been doing it a bit more lately, since she talked with that young widow in the town’s Chantry, especially when she thinks no one is looking.
And now, her fingers are tightly locked around that tiny, golden object that shines in the fire’s light, which allows Alistair to finally satisfy his curiosity: that little thing she sometimes plays with is a ring.
A wedding ring, in fact.
He’s puzzled. Puzzled, surprised and a bit uneasy, too, even though he refuses to admit why.
Alistair then realizes he knows very little about Oriana. He knows she was born and raised in the Denerim Alienage, that her mother was an old friend of Duncan’s, and that he had to conscript her for the Grey Wardens because something big had happened to her. They briefly chatted about that before her Joining, and he remembered her telling the King she had killed an Arl’s son for raping her cousin (which he, low-key, approved of), but she didn’t give him any details and he had not insisted. He had hoped to figure out more later, but then the Battle of Ostagar happened and every single plan Alistair had before went down the precipice.
He realizes, with a pang of guilt, he has not really thought about what all that has meant for his partner. She does not usually talk about herself, and he has not made any attempt at learning.
What had Oriana left behind when she had joined the Wardens? And who?
Could she had been married? Was she? Has she left a lover with a promise of returning?
—Alistair?
Oriana is now looking at him, eyes questioning and head titled to the side. She knows he has not heard a word she has said, so she repeats the question:
—You need me for something?
—No, I was just… —Alistair clears his throat, now strangely hoarse—. I was wondering if you were alright. You’ve been very quiet lately, like one of those charming rotting folks took your tongue.
—My tongue is great, though I appreciate your concern —she jokes, winking, but it’s too stiff, too forced, to be real. She’s trying too hard; it doesn’t sound natural. And she knows it. So, she sighs, her feigned smile retreating and returning to a pensive face—. I’m alright. Just a bit shaken. After, you know, the whole “fighting with the undead” and demon-child thing…
Alistair grimaces.
—Yeah. Very creepy, indeed.
He changes the weight off his feet, bouncing from one to another. He’s a bit worn down after the whole day walking, and Oriana notices. Without a word, she shifts to the edge of her folded sleeping bag, making space for him, in a silent invitation he takes with a sigh of content and gratitude.
They sit in silence for a while, simply enjoying the other’s company.
He wants to tell her she doesn’t need to put on a brave face for him. He wants to tell her if she needs to talk, he’s there to listen.
Instead, what leaves his mouth is a bit different:
—I’ve seen…the ring. Are you…were you married?
Oriana tenses and, for one second, Alistair is afraid he’s overstepped. She swallows, slowly and heavily, eyes not meeting his, and he’s sure he has crossed a line. She does not want to talk about it, probably because it’s something very, very painful. If she wanted to, she would have mentioned it, and he is a big loudmouth with zero sense of awareness because he just had to bring it up.
But just as he is about to apologize and run off to hide to the other side of the camp, she sighs and looks at him.
—No. But I was betrothed —Oriana replies, with a smile so sad he feels his heart breaking—. Duncan didn’t get to tell you the details about my Conscription, didn’t he?
He shakes his head, the wound of grief in his chest suddenly reopened and bleeding just by the mention of his mentor. But he holds it together because Oriana looks so sad, and she is so still that worry is all that fills his mind. It’s his time of easing burdens.
She sighs, eyes on his, and asks:
—You wanna hear it?
It sounds like the confession of something horrible. And that only serves to increase his wondering.
He wants to. He feels the thrill of curiosity and the need to know crawling inside him, of course he wants to. But not at all cost.
His reply comes in a soft, hushed whisper, for her ears only:
—Only if you want to talk about it.
Yes. She wants to.
—The day Duncan came to the Alienage was the day of my wedding.
Alistair knows he should have expected something like that. But still, it shakes him. He is dying to ask about her betrothed, more than he should admit, and he definitely has a lot of questions, but he restrains himself. He knows he needs to let her do this on her own terms.
And so, Oriana keeps going, fingers nailed to the golden band in her chain, stroking it with her tips:
—I was supposed to find my cousin, Soris, who was also getting married, and drag him home by the ears so we could dress up and get ready, but we didn't. We stayed outside a bit, just…wandering —she chuckles a bit, with a smirk of longing and mischief that tells Alistair their wandering had involved something related to pranking—. Our fiancés had just arrived, we wanted to say goodbye to our previous routines before introducing ourselves.
That catches his attention. He turns to her, surprise in every inch of his narrowed eyes and frowning brow.
—Introducing? You didn’t know them?
—It was an arranged marriage. We’d never seen or spoke to them before —she explains with a shrug—. Is not uncommon in Alienages. There, you know, everybody knows each other and a lot of us are related. Our communities are small. So sometimes our hahren speaks with the hahren of another Alienage to concert marriages, bring new faces and new blood to the place.
—I… didn’t know that.
He didn’t know and would have never imagined it. He thought arranged marriages were tied to nobles and exigences of blood and alliances, one of those few things in which commoners were luckier.
Oriana makes a soft “humpf”.
—Not a lot of people do. My father had secured me an alliance with a blacksmith of Highever. Nelaros, was his name —her voice cracks a bit, so slightly it wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone but he—. I didn’t really have a chance of refusing, though I did try. I believe he was trying to ease me —she adds after a minor pause, in such a resigned, almost caring way, that only adds heartbreak to the situation.
It takes Alistair a few seconds to understand she means her father, but that’s all he understands. He turns to his fellow Warden, arms crossing over his chest.
—Easing you? By getting you married?
Why would anyone think that? Why would anyone want that?
Oriana pouts and makes a vague gesture with her hands. At that time at night she no longer wears her leather gloves and Alistair finds himself noticing her fingers are long and gracile.
—I think he expected I’d calm down. I was a bit of a troublemaker back home, never shut up —Oriana chuckles, for real for the first time in the conversation—. I’m pretty sure he wanted me to settle in, have children, become a bit less…wild.
He frowns. Barkspawn grunts, changes positions and keeps snoring, her snout against Oriana’s calve; both Wardens ignore her.
—I don’t think that’s possible. Or desirable, by that matter —Alistair adds, softly and awkwardly nudging her shoulder with his—. Your wildness is part of you, as are your big loud mouth, your ability to attract problems and that thing you do with your nose when you send someone to bit the dust.
He can’t really imagine an Oriana who is not fumbling and constantly laughing, shining bright as the fire in front of them and solving problems either with her loquacity or her sword. She smiles first; then, makes a face that would be funnier in other circumstances.
—Yes, but in an Alienage…you know, it’s better to keep out of trouble. Which I’m not precisely good at —she huffs, because she remembers every single time her father has reprimanded her for not being able to. Then she inhales again, sharply and difficulty, and Alistair knows it’s time to return to the story—. That morning…proved my father’s fears true.
Her face becomes grim, any trace of joy and glee completely erased from her features. The fire caresses them, casting shadows over part of her face.
—Do you know something about the son of the Arl of Denerim?
Vaughan Kendells.
There’s always been rumors about the son of the Arl. Whispers under breaths, murmurs exchanged between merchants and traders in the Denerim Market. Some say he is a bloody lunatic. Others that he is, directly, a monster. Alistair has heard them, but has never wanted to think much about it. However, he has a feeling he’s about to know for sure.
—I’ve heard some rumours, yes.
—All true. His depravity, his brutality, his abuse, all of that is true. Was —she corrects herself with a husky voice—. We ran into him, he was drunk as a bloody barrel, molesting a few women with those bigoted friends of his. I stepped in, and my cousin, Shianni kind of…knocked him out with a bottle of wine.
—I’m sure he deserved it —he replies with disgust.
Oriana nods, rigid; she’s fidgeting with the ring again, and the knees against her chest tight up noticeably.
—He did. But the thing is…he obviously didn’t take it well. He returned when the ceremony had just started. He said…he and his friends wanted to have a good time, so he was taking all the women in the wedding —she shivers, despite being warm enough thanks to the fire. She still can hear his mucky voice, smell his nauseating breath, feel his slimy touch. She gets sick when she thinks about that moment, about him. But she holds back the nausea for the sake of Alistair, sitting at her side and still listening, pale as ash—. Have some fun, the bastard said. And he did.
He manages to answer, voice cracking at the verge of indignation:
—Just…like that?
—Just like that. I didn't even had time to move, or react. He slapped me so hard I was out before I touched the floor.
Alistair feels the sudden urge to punch something. He wants to curse the name of that scumbag, but he does not have time. Oriana keeps going, as if she can’t stop now she has started talking:
—When I woke up, I was on the Arl’s state. My cousin, Shianni was there, as were Nola and Brianna, my bridesmaids, and Valora, Soris’ fiancée —her fingers clench around the golden circle and Alistair knows that, whatever comes now, it’s not good. Her voice shakes, flood with hesitation, embroidered in pain—. The guards came in, started taking us to Vaughan’s quarters one by one. When Nola tried to resist, they sliced her throat.
She’s making an enormous effort not to remember Nola’s body shaking, her blood flowing from her throat and her eyes losing its sparkle, becoming lifeless in the process. But in the silence of the camp, all she hears are her prayers and the last gasping for air she took.
She had grown up with that woman, known her since they were born. And Oriana can’t stop thinking about Tormey, Nola’s father, who didn’t even get back the body of his daughter to properly cry her.
Her arms tense around her legs and her knees are brought closer to her chest, but she does not seem to notice.
Alistair, however, does. And he wants to reach and caress her arm, surround her with his so she knows she’s not alone, but he has a feeling she won’t appreciate being touched right now.
—They saved me for the last —she continues, despite the knot in her throat threatening to suffocate her—. But then Soris showed up, threw me a sword and I guess you know how that part ends.
Alistair nods. He has seen Oriana handle four darkspawn on her own just with her blade and her swift moves; those guards never stood a chance.
She smirks, though there’s nothing but bitterness in that smile.
—I was surprised, honestly. When those things happen, we usually just…hope for the best. I’m sure some people saw it that way. But Nelaros, my…fiancé, refused to let things roll. So he and Soris infiltrated the place trying to rescue us. Duncan gave them arms.
Alistair can see that as if he had been there. Duncan, providing gear and a plan to infiltrate the castle despite the fact that he was supposed not to mingle in those kind of affairs. He was no man to turn his back on people who needed help.
Holding onto Duncan’s memory almost allows him to overlook the raw, terrifying reality Oriana has just made mention to, of man rallying her home to take and destroy. And worse, of people not being able to do anything but hope those who are taken return, no matter in which shape they do it.
He does not want to think about it. So, he nods, encouraging Oriana to go ahead, and the look she gives him is so full of guilt he suddenly understands how she knows his own so well.
—We were supposed to reach Nelaros, rescue the others and get out of there as soon as possible but when we found him…well, it was too late. I was late —she takes a deep breath, trying to recompose herself, trying not to drown in the memory of her fiancé in a puddle of his own blood, of her cousin half-naked, brutally beaten and ravished on the top of a carpeted floor, of her childhood friend with her clothes teared apart by a group of men—. And I was late to help Shianni. And Brianna. When I got to Kendall’s room…it had already happened.
Her words fumble in the quiet air of the camp like the dust after a bombing. Alistair can feel the bile running up his throat at high speed, and swallows it with huge difficulty.
He knows what it’s coming next. He remembers Oriana telling Cailan why she had been forced to join the Wardens, and, after the story she’s telling him, he can’t say he does not understand her actions.
She stares at him and there’s disarray in her eyes, but also a rage like no one else he’s seen in her.
—I killed him. Without the slightest regret or hesitation. And I killed all his guards on my way out —she hesitates, eyes on his, a pang of unsettling at the memory, at the thought of herself as an enraged animal—. You've seen me kill before, Alistair. But what I did that day…that was carnage. I was so furious and so terrified, and so angry I did not even think about those men, their families or the fact that they may not know what was going on. To me, they were all accomplices. I did not think. I just slayed.
He can’t find in his heart to blame her. He’s certain he would have done the same.
Now, Alistair is starting to understand why she has been thinking about all this lately. The Battle of Redcliffe has also being a carnage; flesh of the dead, but a terrific rampage anyway. They have also had to fight their way inside a castle, and, by experience, Alistair knows how similar all nobles’ houses and states can be.
Oriana does not mention it, however, because she’s sure he’s seeing the similarities. She’s also scared to death he’ll start looking at her and see a murderer, a victim, a broken, lunatic thing. But all there’s in his eyes is understanding, and he is a bit shaken, yes, but the story is too disturbing not to be. So, she keeps going:
—When I returned to the Alienage, I knew the whole community would be punished for what I had done, start another purge or something worse. So I took the blame. All of it. Pinched my cousin so hard I’m sure I made him bleed so he didn’t talk —she smiles weakly despite the memory, because she’s been laughing at Soris’ “ow, shit, they’ve caught us” face since they were children and she just can’t help it—. They were about to take me to whipping, or something worse, when Duncan interfered.
—And he conscripted you.
—And he conscripted me —she reaffirms, nodding beside Alistair’s gaze—. The guards were not happy, but nobody wanted to oppose to a Grey Warden. He saved my life.
That’s another thing they have in common, Alistair thinks, and he can’t help but wonder if she also feels it, that connection between them, tying them in the shape of lived traumas and spilled blood.
No, he corrects himself. He would never dare to simplify Oriana’s pain like that. He had gone through bad things, but nothing as bad as all that.
He can’t help but wonder how much of all she has done since they met has been because she’s been trying to make up for her actions.
With surprisingly steady fingers, Oriana pulls her chain off her neck and hands him the golden ring. He takes it, pounders the weight on his fingers. Despite what it represents, despite the heavy memory it embodies, is light. Lighter than he expected.
—I picked this from Nelaros’ body in the hallway —she whispers, and Alistair’s heart clutches at the hurt in her voice—. It was supposed to be my wedding ring, though I guess you’ve already figured that out.
Yes, he has. It has her and her dead betrothed’s name engraved.
—You’ve been wearing it since that day I imagine.
It’s a silly question, because the answer is obvious, but he wants her to keep talking, taking it all out from her system. She nods. Then, she swallows, her eyes wandering over the flames.
—When I talked to that woman, in the Chantry, I thought of him. I’ve been trying not to —when she sighs, the air that comes out from her lips is wretched and teary—. He died because he tried to do the right thing. We didn’t know each other very much. We had exchanged maybe three phrases. But he was a good man. And he did not deserve to bleed to death in the floor like an animal.
She was hoping not to break down. But that story, her story, may be one that can’t be told without breaking. And when the first tear falls, despite she dries it off furiously with her hand, she finds out breaking down in front of Alistair is not such a dreary ending for the tale.
When he sees her cry, Alistair buries his fear of doing the wrong thing and makes a choice. Slowly, he places a careful hand on her shoulder, gives her both, time and space to reject it or move away, but Oriana leans onto it like it’s the only thing keeping her steady. He chooses his words carefully, searching for her eyes, those big, bright, beautiful eyes of hers.
—Even if you didn’t know him well, you have a right to mourn him. To mourn what you lost, what could have been.
Oriana shakes her head.
—I do not mourn what could have been. I just…I… —she buries her head in her hands for a few seconds, just enough to pull it together—. I did not want that wedding. I did not want to get married, kiss a husband I barely knew, have his kids and raise a family in the Alienage. I’m not cut out to stay still and live quietly, and anyone who knows me a bit knows that. Joining the Grey Wardens, for me, was an out of all that. But the price was the life of a man who was not to blame for any of that —the tears return, this time stronger and unstoppable—. And I feel…I feel horrible. Because despite everything that happened that day, despite his death, and Nola’s, and all those men I murdered…I felt free. When I ripped that wedding dress out of my body, when I placed my sword on my back, when I arrived at Ostagar, when I met you… I felt free.
She has been punishing herself for all that, Alistair realizes. And he wants to tell her she shouldn’t, because she’s done too much good, and she doesn’t deserve that burden, and she has paid a prize, too, for that freedom. He wants to tell her that if she’s being selfish, he’s been too, because meeting her was also freeing and bright, despite all the pain and tragedy that came after, and they can be self-loathing, guilt-ridden idiots together.
But he is a bit of a chicken, so, instead, he says something different, something that’s also true:
—Well… I think that whatever price you thought you had to pay, you have already paid it —she opens her mouth to argue, but Alistair has already a bit of practice on seeing her stubbornness coming, so he goes on before she can—. I mean, how terrible is that the closest thing you perceive as freedom is leaving behind everything you know, drinking darkspawn blood and ending up being a fugitive to the whole Ferelden all while trying to end an invasion of monsters with the sole assistance of a bunch of weird, odd outcasts? That sounds like punishment enough.
She laughs; it’s quiet, and small, and low, and she’s still teary-eyed, but it’s enough to make his heart jump in his chest.
—We are not odd. We are…picturesque.
His turn to chuckle.
—Your opinion, not mine —he jokes, and she shakes her head with undeniable affection and the ghost of a smile in her lips. He sighs, softly caressing her shoulder with his thumb. He knows is probable his words are taken by the wind never to be thought about again, but Maker, he needs to try—. Oriana… You went through a lot that day. You tried to defend yourself, and your people. Everything you did, you did it because of that. What happened that day is not your fault. You were attacked. You were assaulted. You did not deserve it. You don’t deserve it.
She is about to cry. She’s certain of it. Because of everything that happened, because of all the wounds that day left behind in her, that have not healed properly. They probably never will.
But she doesn’t. Because Alistair is there with her, his big hand on her shoulder, tying her to reality and to herself; his eyes are sweet, loving and understanding, and the small, quiet smile he gives her is so different to any other he has given her to date that, suddenly, she feels a bit better.
She’s tired. So tired. Cautiously, she leans towards him until the side of her body finds his, her head resting over his forearm. He’s warm, and safe, and comfortable, and he smells like leather, sweat and pine needles, and she finds herself thinking he feels a bit like a home, too.
Alistair thanks the fire and the darkness of the night for dissimulating and hiding his blush respectively. He knows he’s a bit tense, because he is not used to physical contact, but it is a heavily pleasant feeling. It doesn’t take long until he relaxes against her body, just like hers does, curled up towards his own. He hasn’t felt so at peace in a long time.
—Thank you… For listening —she mumbles against the leather of his shoulder plate, free from the armor at that time of night.
He just lets his head rest on the top of hers and replies in a whisper for her ears only:
—Thank you for telling me.
She does not deserve anything that happened, and she does not deserve to feel guilty about it.
He knows that.
Maybe, one day, she may believe it, too.