Chapter 17: Strange Bedfellows - Days Gone Past

Duncan walked in silence down the Imperial Highway with the elf by his side. So far, Raviathan had remained quiet. That was to be expected after all that had happened, but it was a marked difference from the impassioned man Duncan had met earlier that day. Wrath had poured out of the elf when he realized what had happened while he had lain unconscious. He was still visibly shaking with it when he returned with five of the six women in tow.

To be honest, Duncan was surprised that the elf had been successful in taking out the entire estate’s guards by himself without a scratch. Soris was obviously no warrior, and this one had been showered in blood. Arl Kendells had probably taken most of his guard with him to Ostagar leaving only those too infirm for the journey, too old, or green recruits. Denerim had already grown rougher since the march south.

Did the boy truly realize what was in store for him when he sacrificed himself? While he was not going to be cowed by the idea of torture or death, and hate could keep a man sane during torture, Duncan wondered how well he would have fared under that sort of treatment. He had seen men’s bodies broken from torture, driven mad by pain. A rampaging elf would have garnered even greater punishment from his torturers. The anger of the citizens would demand that the elf was broken before a public execution, and as much as Duncan admired the elf’s ability thus far, he doubted Raviathan could hold out for what could turn into months of ruthless torture.

While conscripting Raviathan saved the boy’s life from mob justice, the problems didn’t end there. How long could he hide the boy from Kendells? He’d have to come up with some plan to keep Raviathan safe from retribution. Not even the King’s favor would be enough to safeguard the elf from Kendell’s vengeance once word got out. Though Kendells might not openly move against the Wardens, all manner of accidents happened on a battlefield. Justice and vengeance were ever fickle twins.

After the events of the day, Duncan was getting used to the elf watching him with measured hostility. They had been on the road for hours, and he was still getting that glare. At least his newest recruit was no longer antagonistic. There was so much of his mother in him, and Duncan’s thoughts turned to Adaia. Duncan had liked the fiery woman and wished he had the chance to say goodbye, but there were many others like her, warriors or rogues like himself, who had fallen for one reason or another. At least he had been able to provide her son some measure of help, for whatever that was worth.

The elf had taken less than an hour to say goodbye to everyone he knew and had walked back out with a small pillow sack tied with a length of rope and a hard leather case. Duncan wondered about the case but didn’t ask. Raviathan seemed closed and needing quiet. Duncan would wait until the elf was ready. The studded leather vestment and skirt the elf had found at the estate fit him poorly as it was designed for a human, but it was probably the only armor the elf had ever worn. They would have to do something about his woefully inadequate equipment at Dragon’s Peak.

The sun hung low in the sky, red bleeding into the hazy winter gloom. There was a small inn for travelers they should be able to make just after sunset. Duncan pulled his cloak tighter around him against the Ferelden winter. Although the season had been unusually dry and mild, at least according to Ferelden’s brutal standards, the cold wind was making his bones ache. Most likely this winter would be his last. There was some time yet--a few months--for him to prepare Allonese to take over as Warden-Commander. The man was calm and thoughtful. He might not have the authority to command contingents as large as Orlais or the Free Marches, but Ferelden’s score of Wardens would not be a problem.

They all respected Allonese, even Tarimel who was disposed to detest all humans and Greigor who preferred to follow strength. That was the past, Duncan reminded himself. Greigor had come a long way in the last ten years. He was much calmer now and had started taking on a slow but thoughtful wisdom. Ten years ago Alistair would have borne the brunt of hazing or have been bullied about, but Greigor had mellowed and treated the boy with the affection he would bestow a young brother. Duncan would talk with Allonese about the situation, but he thought Greigor would make a decent Warden-Commander when Allonese needed to take the Calling.

Now that the Calling was coming, Duncan had taken to reflection more. He had seen many fine men and women take the Calling before him along those who were not so fine. The events of his life had humbled his angry youth and made this just another step on his path to the Maker. Not that he was overly religious, but he had done a lot of good with the time he had. Perhaps being a Grey Warden and witnessing firsthand what the taint would eventually do, the choices the Wardens had to make, had instilled the inevitability of his fate and given his life more meaning. It wouldn’t be long, but he could be proud of his life and face what is to come. He hoped the Blight would be ended quickly so he could go to the Maker knowing that peace, but if nothing else, Ferelden was warned. The Grey Wardens had seen humanity through before, and they would again and again as long as there were Grey Wardens.

Lately he had wondered about Fiona. Was she still alive? Supposedly she would be the first Grey Warden who wouldn’t have to take the Calling when she reached the critical age for the taint. The feisty elf might have a few choice words for him if she didn’t blast him out right. Despite the years, Duncan didn’t think her temper would have dulled with age. He had promised the elf he would look after her son, but once the boy had been sent to the abbey, there was no way for Duncan to check up on him. The poor child had been looked after, better than most bastard children would have been, but it grieved Duncan to see him torn between loneliness and rage for his lot without a family’s comfort. Though Duncan had spent many a hard year living in the streets in Val Royeaux in his youth, he at least had known the love and comfort of a family as a child. The loss of his parents was more painful for the love he had known, but it had also given him a solid foundation that had served him well the rest of his life, short as it may be.

Those early years when the Wardens were reestablishing in Ferelden had been tricky indeed. The Warden-Commander Weisshaupt had sent had been a sturdy man, organized and an intelligent communicator. For all the Commander’s persuasive powers, Loghain had never done more than glower their way. It had been enough that they had maintained the Order’s presence when King Maric was lost at sea. Cailan wasn’t at an age when he could oppose Loghain like he did today, and the Commander’s diplomacy in their early years had made the difference.

That thought brought another that was far more troubling. Cailan was finally stepping into his role as king, but he was not near the man Maric had been. The Wardens needed his assistance to defeat the Blight, their duty above all else. If Wardens needed to burn down villages, use treachery or treason, conscript lords and ladies or criminals, perform regicide, or use a king’s well-intentioned but ill-forged idealism, that was what they did. That pragmatism had been a bitter lesson in his youth. As a killer, Duncan had been tasked to perform such if it kept the Warden’s secrets and helped them in their task. He didn’t owe Cailan any loyalty; however, the abuse of the king’s fanciful ideals bothered Duncan. With the Blight coming, Ferelden could ill afford a foolish regent. Anora may be the real ruler behind the throne, but Cailan was the figurehead that kept the nation focused. The rest of the Wardens who Duncan had chosen to deal with Cailan liked him well enough to hide their mild contempt. They knew what was at stake.

With the sun down, only shadows lingered in the darkening indigo light. As old wounds ached in the cold, Duncan was less and less willing to camp when he had an option for a soft bed. There would be enough cold tents in the coming weeks. The inn was care-worn but sturdy and clean enough that it avoided some of the nastier types that could hole up in a place so far from a proper city. As dusk settled, many field hands and general workers would congregate in a place like this for music and food, especially if they had yet to take a wife. It might be a little rough, but it would also be a good test of Raviathan in an unfamiliar setting.

The elf by his side was looking about wide-eyed as any country boy in a city. He stayed close, almost like a second shadow as he looked about. As Duncan had guessed, the inn was full of farm hands and a few young women who were trying to catch a future husband’s eye. A minstrel setting up with a lute on the small stage in the main room. The bartender was a balding, potbellied man of middle years. His nose was red with broken capillaries, and he needed a shave to keep from looking like a bandit. Duncan said, “We need a room.”

“We got a room left in the back. One bed,” the bartender croaked in a whiskey roughened voice. “Rest is full.”

“Is it clean?”

The bartender eyed him blearily. “Clean as you’ll get around here.”

“Alright, we’ll take a look.”

The bartender harrumphed and handed Duncan a key and lamp. “Up the stairs, down the hall, last one on the right.” He glowered at Raviathan. “Take care your servant doesn’t steal anything.”

Raviathan crossed his arms and looked down but held his tongue. Duncan glared at the man and put an arm around the elf’s shoulders. “Don’t let him get to you, Rav.”

The elf nodded but kept silent.

The interior hall was dark. Sounds of shuffling feet or low conversation from the other rooms indicated thin walls. Once inside their room Duncan set down the lamp and looked about. A small cabinet next to a wash basin sat by the door with a chest kitty corner, the key in the lock. A double bed dominated the middle of the room with a small frosted window on the opposite end. “Well, the bed is big enough to share.”

Duncan looked over to see the elf glare at him. “Share,” Raviathan said slowly with clear disgust.

The elf’s tone caught him by surprise. The room was modest but clean. Considering the alienage, this had to be a step up if not several.

“That is, unless you prefer to sleep on the floor,” Duncan said, confused by the elf’s reaction. Raviathan flicked his eyes up and down, pulling away slightly as if Duncan was dirty. It took Duncan a moment to understand the elf’s resurging hostility. Duncan winced as his own irritation surfaced. To even think it. “What do you take me for, lad?”

“Share a bed? I don’t even know you!” Raviathan shot back.

Duncan frowned at the unexpected retort. “Then sleep on the floor. It makes no difference to me.”

The elf muttered under his breath as he snatched a pillow and top cover for a makeshift bed under the window. “Shems. Are we all just whores to you?”

In that instant Duncan forgot the trials the elf had already faced that day. “Now see here! I have no intentions of having sex with you. Ever.” He didn’t mind men who preferred the company of other men, but he wasn’t one of them. What bothered him was the elf’s casual assumptions that he was a lecher, as if that were his reason for recruiting the boy.

“No,” the elf returned angrily, “just sleep with me.”

“Yes, sleep. And only sleep. What’s wrong with that?”

Raviathan looked at him scandalized. Duncan sighed, reigned in his own anger, and reminded himself of the day’s events. “Rav, I’ve conscripted you to be a Grey Warden. Not because I need a pet or bed warmer.”

“Then why ask me to share the bed?” he asked, not bothering to hide the accusation.

“Because there is only one room available, and I thought you’d prefer that to a cold, hard floor. But have it your own way.”

The elf glowered at him. “Why by Andraste’s ass would you think I’d prefer to share a bed?”

Duncan had had enough. He may be getting old but surely he wasn’t so repulsive that the sharing of a large bed for sleep was treated with such disgust. He set down his pack not bothering to put anything away. “I’m going downstairs for dinner. You are welcome to join me if that doesn’t offend your sensibilities.”

The elf harrumphed but followed him out the door. Duncan sighed. He had hoped Raviathan wouldn’t have Tarimel’s standoffishness, but that didn’t look like it was to be the case. They both had just reasons for their anger, but it made integration with the Grey Wardens difficult, and he did try to foster an inclusive attitude. Of course Raviathan could still be reacting from what happened earlier. He was young enough that maybe some time and new experiences would be able to change his opinions.

The main room was packed by the time they returned. The minstrel had started playing the lute and singing at the far end. Some of the tables and chairs had been pushed back to make a dance space indicating that the minstrel was probably passing through and playing for his nightly board rather than a routine player. The stink of body odor permeated the room combined with garlic and onions typical of peasants’ meals. With the freezing winters, the odoriferous foodstuffs were their first and main defense against illness.

Raviathan stayed close with his arms folded over his chest, slouched, and looking about with quick nervous glares. Duncan found a table at the far end, away from the minstrel. Not trusting the maids for service, Duncan left to the bar to pay for the room, order their meals and two pints of ale. Raviathan stayed hunched with his back to the wall and chair turned sideways making a barrier with the chair back. He looked suspiciously at the ale Duncan set before him and pointedly turned away. So he thinks I’m going to ply him with alcohol now? Duncan asked, “You don’t like ale?”

Raviathan placed his heel on the chair seat and hugged his leg to him. If nothing else, Duncan was impressed with the lad’s flexibility. “I prefer water.” There was a less than subtle hint that the elf believed exactly what Duncan suspected.

Duncan ignored the insult and flicked his head towards the bar. “Be my guest.”

Raviathan looked at him with those strange flashing eyes that gleamed in the low light as if lit from the inside. Most humans were unnerved by elven eyes, and though Duncan had become a little more accustomed to them, moments like this reminded him of just how unusual elves were. Elven eyes were strange colors, too bright, and the shine far too alien. Raviathan got up and left for the bar. Duncan watched as the lad had to repeatedly call for the bartender’s attention. The bald man was ignoring him more than what would be reasonable for the crowded room. He and the elf exchanged a few words, then Raviathan returned with nothing and sat as he had before. Duncan sipped at his ale. “No water?”