King & Lionheart

Lothering

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade

For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

-Trials 1:14

Morrigan led them out of the Wilds, a long trek that had Tabris's feet and calves sore by the end of it. They had stopped for two nights, none of them speaking much.

Alistair always took the first shift, watching the perimeter, and making sure to keep the fire going, the others sleeping around it. Tabris, however, could do nothing but stare up at the sky.

When she heard a soft sniffling noise, she knew to sit up.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she piped up, voice small so not to wake the others. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she held them close to her chest. "I could tell you were close."

The sniffling stopped, Alistair's arm moving to drop down to his side after wiping at his face.

"You don't have to do that."

He didn't look at her, the quietest she'd ever witnessed.

"No, but I want to."

"Well, I don't," he said without venom, bowing his head forward, a smooth stone in his fingers, thumb rubbing into it out of impulse. "At least not right now."

Swallowing, Tabris nodded, rolling onto her side, using her jacket as a pillow.

"Goodnight then."

"Yeah."

Hiking trail signs that had seen better days began to appear sporadically, the closer they got to civilization.

And finally, a creaking sign reading 'Lothering Train Station' in faded letters, paint chipping at the edges.

The 'station' was nothing more than a few benches and an overhead cover from the sun, at the edge of a small town.

"Pretty as a painting," Alistair mumbled, eyes following the slew of people bustling around the slab of concrete the benches were bolted to, mothers holding toddlers in their laps, cramped to sit like sardines. Those left over sat on the ground, or leaned against the gazebo pillars. Backpacks and other luggage were placed haphazardly in different piles, multiple creative ways of identification sticking out.

"Refugees," August said what they were all thinking, Morrigan's blank face going vaguely sour. Tabris swallowed, adjusting the longer coat she'd borrowed from August to cover the daggers still strapped to her hips.

They look terrified enough as it is.

"We have a full load. Please, gather your things and go back to your homes, or the Chantry," a Templar called out to the crowd, wearing the usual white uniform with the red emblem of a sword stitched into his collar. A standard pistol was strapped to his hip, along with a baton, a watch similar to Alistair's on his wrist.

"Excuse me, ser-" Alistair called out to him, stepping forward. Tabris was going to follow, when a weight knocked her clean on her ass, attacking her from the side. She let out a surprised yell, but it died when she realized 'attacking' wasn't exactly the correct word.

A hot, wet tongue licked a stripe up her cheek, a dog's nose getting close to sniff her curiously.

"Dammit!" someone yelled, yanking the dog off her aggressively. "Very sorry, miss."

Sitting up, kind black eyes staring up at her with hope.

"Hold on-" August interjected, helping Tabris stand. "We know this good boy, don't we?"