Strings Attached - a There and Back Again side story

Part 11

Eleven: Nathaniel

Knight-Commander Greagoir was a fine templar, Nate had to keep reminding himself as he listened to the man drone on and on about the mages that were supposedly at risk, assigned willy-nilly to various battalions, some – the Dalish, Nate amended in his mind – without templar guards. Greagoir was probably a talented individual with many fine qualities, the nobleman assured himself – but brevity was not one of them.

And the ridiculous conversation he was having – for at least the fifth time since he'd arrived in the Chantry's camp – was not getting any less infuriating the longer it drew out.

"Have you been with any of the battalions when they've encountered darkspawn?" Nate demanded, interrupting the persistent bastard before he could wind up for another long-winded complaint. "We simply cannot afford to alienate the Dalish by trying to arrest their mages; we need them, as messengers and archers if nothing else, if we want to win this fight. Have you forgotten Ostagar already? Not to mention, if you did try to detain them all, the dwarves and elves would join forces to stop you. I'll take my chances with mages becoming possessed over the Archdemon, Knight-Commander."

The odious old hag – er, Revered Mother – that stood beside him opened her mouth; even Greagoir frowned, his face wrinkling subtly in distaste, but Nathaniel, seeing the movement he'd been waiting for, cut her off before she could start. "That's the final word, on behalf of King Cailan, your Reverence. And I must go – His Majesty will be waiting for my report."

He turned and deliberately did not run away, instead walking quickly but calmly toward the Commie's tent. He'd stationed himself there after taking lunch with the Knight-Commander, and had been waiting ever since, knowing that if he wasn't quick, he'd miss her.

She was conversing quietly with the Commie – he couldn't hear the words, but the redhead leaned in and chuckled, a rich sound that carried across the tent, though her face was shrouded in shadow from the deep hood she'd kept pulled forward to shield her from the interminable rain. In the dim light, she looked much more dark and mysterious than normal, but to his eyes, instead of being intimidating or worrisome, she looked even more beautiful. He couldn't stop staring, so it was no surprise that she caught him, and he knew – even though he couldn't see – that her cheeks would have flushed like a shy maiden's, and her lips pulled back in an embarrassed smile. It made the corners of his own lips twitch, which he knew she'd notice, and he coughed and finally looked away.

He stepped back outside before the Commie could spot him – there was another who could talk the ear off a druffalo; it seemed to be something of a pattern for this particular camp – and stood by her horse, tightening the saddle's straps on his own while he waited. She wasn't long, and he looked up as she stepped outside the tent and froze for the briefest moment when she saw him ready to go.

"I don't know what to say, that I have the pleasure of your company twice in a day." She raised one artful eyebrow in the perfect expression of confusion – entirely fake, he was certain – and it was all he could do not to laugh. "I suppose I should feel quite special, or...something."

"Or something," he agreed, and she chuckled again. "Safety in numbers, and all that – not that I wasn't abandoned alone on the way here despite arranging myself companionship." He smirked, and her chuckle turned into a bright peal of laughter.

She approached, closer than she might have chosen since he stood next to her horse, and he held his hands out low, fingers woven together. "I'm sure you're tired, after all that riding; care for a hand up?"

She didn't quite roll her eyes, but her cheeks flushed again and he bit his lip aggressively to avoid laughing. She placed one booted foot in his makeshift stirrup, and he boosted her into her saddle. She waited for him to mount his own steed before turning and clucking to her mare softly. Nate spurred his own horse into a walk, and they left the camp together, not talking as they wove through tents and templars, sisters and camp followers.

The first half of their journey was quiet; both seemed uncertain where to start, and so neither did. The silence stretched out until it should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn't. Nate wasn't the type to talk endlessly about nothing, but he was still surprised by how content he was just walking alongside the beautiful bard.

It would have been perfect, in fact, if it hadn't been raining; it had drizzled on and off all day, though he'd managed to avoid the worst of it hiding in the command tent of the Chantry's encampment, but he'd rather hoped it would stop for the duration of their shared journey. He didn't have that much luck, though, he mused as he pulled the hood of his own cloak up higher and shivered as a rivulet of water snuck inside the damp cloth and trickled down his neck. It was hard to consider having a conversation with both of them hunched against the rain, both of their faces obscured by cloaks, but Nate was determined not to waste the little time alone he'd ever managed to eke out with the woman he hadn't stopped thinking about in months.

He opened his mouth to say something – anything – when he was unexpectedly flying through the air, head over heels as he was thrown from his horse. He saw a flash of grey as he flew, and heard growling, then heard the bard call out; he hit the trunk of a large sturdy tree on the side of the path, and the world went black.