Chapter 17: Nathaniel

He watched her sleep for hours, in the end, reluctant to wake her after everything she’d been through during the day. She slept with her mouth slightly open, her face looking younger when slack, and he’d contented himself to hold her, shifting his grip periodically to avoid cramping up – and to make sure he warmed all of her as much as he could.

He hadn’t been joking when he said she’d saved his life; he’d seen what happened to people who’d been bitten by Blight wolves, and it wasn’t pretty. She’d fought off an entire pack of them, alone, all while protecting him – and then she’d found shelter, carried him there, and spent the rest of the evening collecting firewood and elfroot in the rain.

He was never going to be able to repay her.

Which just made him even more uneasy. He’d been fascinated by the beautiful bard from the start – not only her sweet voice and pretty face, but also her certainty and faith, her self-assurance and optimism even in the face of her apparent intimate familiarity with torture. It wasn’t surprising that he would be attracted to her – but he should also know better.

He was a Howe. The son of the worst monster Ferelden had seen since King Meghren. His family name and honour were destroyed, and any personal regard the few nobles on speaking terms with him gave him was due mostly to pity. The entire country hated him – the Amaranthine folks would despise him for not being his father, and the rest would scorn him for his blood-relation to the maniac. He was expected to take over an Arling full of nobles who’d only ever followed Rendon because he bribed or threatened them to, and commoners who’d been abused by his father and the other nobles for years. He was already aware of threats on his life – and he didn’t think the conspirators would hesitate to involve anyone he cared for in their games.

He didn’t have a problem with them coming after him; he was prepared for it, knew the likely players and how they worked, and had the support of the King in dealing with it – but he’d walk willingly into the Void before he allowed someone else to paint themselves a target by associating with him.

And yet ... She could take care of herself – that much was obvious. Honestly, he pitied any stupid noble who thought she’d be an easy way to get at him; Leliana would eat an old hag like Esmerelle for breakfast. In her sleep. That wouldn’t save her from the terrible things that would happen to her reputation, though, and yet ... the idea of walking away from her, when he’d only just managed to even approach her ... He couldn’t. He wouldn’t, not unless things got too dangerous. He’d keep things discreet, keep an eye on her, keep his ear to the ground for signs that danger was coming – he thought Aedan might help with that – and he’d defend her with his last breath.

Especially if it meant spending more time with her.

And when she realised that being with him was harmful to her future and she left him, well ... he’d let her go, hiding his sorrow and wishing her well. And then he’d have to hope the memories were enough to carry him through the inevitable marriage to ‘good breeding stock’ – not that he was sure he’d even find such a noblewoman willing to marry a reviled Howe. Not in Ferelden, at any rate.

Leliana murmured in her sleep, her brow furrowing; she’d seemed to have some bad dreams, at first, but they’d calmed after an hour or so, and now she just couldn’t quite seem to settle down entirely, leaving her asleep but somewhat restless. He whispered to her, humming old half-remembered lullabies and smoothing back her hair, and she subsided again.

Maker’s breath!

He was in so. Much. Trouble.