Epilogue

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Nowhere in all of Ferelden smelled of here. Nor other parts of thedas he'd been sent on missions to, come to think of it. Sweet as fresh hay, the earthy life he ran from wafted on the winds as any good farm in the Hinterlands would. But weaved into every cow hide sunning in the warmth was a static bolt of magic. It hissed through the very bones of the place, following on the trails of an almost sterile medicinal smell. It smelled as if one were to shove your head into a giant basket of recently plucked corn and then menthol in one go. He never realized how much of his life was spent with magic around him until he stepped away from it.

Nowhere was like the little abbey out in the woods of Redcliffe, and nowhere was quite like home.

As Gavin stepped through the gates, he anticipated his father to be wandering around outside doing his best to keep busy and not watch for him. It'd been awhile since he'd last visited, duty always keeping him tugged in a thousand different directions. His parents would somehow find time to sneak on back to Denerim and see their boy when they could, but it wasn't the same.

He'd been hoarding his leave, planning to head out to the farm in order to help during harvest. But then a letter arrived from his father asking rather cryptically if he'd consider a visit. Gavin put little thought to it for its vagueness, until the King popped his head in and all but dragged him out to the road. The entire week long trek he couldn't shake away the growing concern in his guts even as they bounced on the back of a horse.

By the bend around Lothering, he convinced himself that it was either darkspawn or a fire. Seeing as how the abbey walls were standing without a hint of ash anywhere, and there were none of those dark creatures chittering about, he was left uncertain. Perhaps his mother used her influence to get a wish from the King?

Wouldn't that be his luck? He wasn't of high rank but enough in the order knew he bore some strange halo about him. The Princess wouldn't make a great fuss about Gavin, but the King was a different matter entirely.

Heaving the traveling pack off his shoulders, Gavin stood in the courtyard that was whisper quiet. Afternoon, most people in hospice would be napping, while the fields were entering into a senescence themselves. The late summer heat tried to dig into his shoulders, most of the sweat already streaking down his back as he wrung against the neck of the traveling coat.

"Well, well," a voice called from the stables. Gavin turned but instead of his father, old Albert stood by the wayside.

The man was a scarecrow come to life, to the point he would on occasion have straw stuffed up his cuffs and no explanation to give. Lean face, gaunt in the cheeks, but with a haunting sparkle in his eyes, he'd been a staple around the abbey's farm for years.

"Young Master Gavin," Albert snickered before slapping a hand to his thigh. Dust erupted from the move, burning in the air. "Sorry, lookin' at ya, you ain't so young no more."

The man's finger jabbed towards the weeks worth of stubble that was leaning to a beard upon Gavin's jaw. He rubbed a palm over it and snickered. "There wasn't much of a chance to freshen up on the road."

"Get over here," Albert waved wide, his hands extended far. When Gavin fell into them for a congenial hug, the old man snickered, "Or should I be bowin' instead."

"No," Gavin stepped back, unable to stop the blush burning on his cheeks. "No, don't be silly."

"Ser Gavin," he drew his fingers in a circle over his chin while staring up at the man who couldn't cease fiddling with the scabbard at his side. "Expected you to be done up in all that fancy metal like a true Knight."

"We only wear that when facing down a foe, this..." Gavin tugged up the riding leathers with a bit of padding and splintmail, "this is the more typical Knight outfit."