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Winter in Ferelden was often brutal. The further south one traveled the colder and steeper the snowbanks grew. Nathaniel had spent much of the last 10 years in the Free Marches, where it was remarkably more temperate compared to his home land. Growing up on the northern coast, as well, kept him from experiencing the worst that the country had to offer.
Just his luck that he happened to be traveling south with the Warden Commander as First Day approached. The Commander had requested himself, Oghren, Sigrun and Velanna to travel south with her to investigate lingering bands of darkspawn in the ruins of Lothering, but they had to pass through Denerim first. It being nearly First Day it was only natural that they follow tradition and check in with the Commander’s people. They had offered the wardens beds for the evening, which he was grateful for as the winds coming down from the mountain chilled him to the bone. Yet he couldn’t help but feel unwanted as he entered the very alienage his father and Teryn Loghain had nearly sold to Tevinter.
Nathaniel had seen an alienage before, but he’d never lingered there long, and certainly had never been considered a guest. It wasn’t exactly a place men like himself were expected or wanted. He’d once passed through the Kirkwall alienage, taking a short cut following a few other squires back in his days serving Ser Randolphe. He’d been astounded by the Vhenadahl in the center of the small run down courtyard, a massive piece of the foreign forest crowded and caged by the stone walls of the former slave city.
Staring up at the massive tree decorated with colorful woven fabrics around it’s tunk and limbs. From it’s branches hung all kinds of shining trinkets and among the roots were unlit colored candles their wax melted into the wood holding them against the dark bark. He didn’t understand it at the time but he had been captivated by the tree. He’d recognized even then that it was beautiful, if not tragic. The poor tree was choked by the stagnant air of the lower city, and though its people tended to its needs there were signs of rot near its roots. He crouched down to examine it curious if it could be reversed, but just as he did a man called out to him.
“Shem! What are you doing? Get away from there!”
Nathaniel stood back up quickly frightened out of his daze.
“You heard me! Get away from the Vhenadahl. What are you trying to do?”
It was his first time hearing what this tree was called, but it stuck with him. Just as the man’s terribly frightening stare did, despite Nathaniel being over a head taller. Just as the man approached with his threat, the other squires had doubled back to look for him.
“Howe, what in the blighted fuck are you doing still hanging around this shit heap?”
“We’re gonna get our asses beat if we’re late come on!”
He’d looked from the angry elven man to his friends and ran off, glancing back at the tree as he ran through the twisted streets of Kirkwall until it was swallowed up by the stone walls once more.
Denerim’s alienage was larger than Kirkwall’s and significantly less oppressive. There were still signs of the Battle of Denerim, a few buildings in the middle of repairs as rebuilding had been halted by the cold and snow. Despite that the people seemed happy enough. A great crowd had gathered to welcome them in, many offering their hospitality and welcome to their companions and of course Warden Tabris. More than a few however gave him a wary eye and a wide berth. He feared they didn't trust the only human man in her company, that or his name had preceded their arrival.
The cold air seemed to cut straight through him. As the others were being welcomed and greeted he made his way to stand beneath the Vhenadahl, staring up at its large branches, barren with the winter’s cold. He admired the decorations that dangled from the lowest limbs. It seemed the elves of Denerim wrapped the base of their Vhenadahl with colorful silken scarves, sewn together into a large patchwork covering for the large tree’s bark. He nudged his boots against the large thick roots. They seemed sturdy and healthy, adorned with candles much in the same way Kirkwall’s had been. He was curious what the reasoning behind these items were, why the elves would cover a tree with candles, or fabric when that would likely make it more susceptible to fires?
“Are you an admirer or an arborist?” a man’s voice said from behind him.
He felt like the young man who’d been admonished in Kirkwall, his heart leaping into his throat. Turning, instead of an angry man worried about vandalism, it was the kind smile of a man whose light eyes held a familiarity he couldn’t quite place.
“I’m sorry,” he said, starting to move away from under it’s shadow, “I wasn’t meaning to cause any alarm.”
“No, dear boy! There’s no harm in admiring something beautiful,” he said, standing beside him and placing his hands behind his back.
“It’s a Vhenadahl, yes? he said, pointing up at the limbs,
“It is,” he replied, clearly impressed Nathaniel had known what to call the centerpiece of his home. “Not every alienage has one quite as lovely as ours.”
“I’ve seen one before,” he explained, “in Kirkwall. But theirs is smaller and sickly.”
“I can’t imagine anything growing well in the city of slaves,” the man chuckled.
The man wasn't wrong. Even he hadn’t prospered in Kirkwall.
“They represent our first home,” the man went on to explain, “Arlathan Forest far to the north. Our Vhenadahl’s roots reach deep into the earth and its limbs stretch high into the sky, so too do we hope our people’s connection extends beyond these walls.”
Nathaniel nodded. It seemed meaningful and poignant, especially for a people who had been far from their original home land for a long time. He could recognize that longing, empathize with it, though he knew it not.
“The way they’re decorated is very striking,” he said.
“I’m not sure the elders when I was a child even remembered why we’ve always adorned them this way,” he laughed, “So many of our traditions have been lost to time, yet we continue on with them.”
“It’s a bit like First Day,” Nathaniel said thoughtfully, “I’ve no clue why we celebrate it this way. Visiting family first of the year and all? They’re just as well before or after.”
“Are you not intending to visit your family?” the man asked.
He could feel his face fall. The man seemed to immediately realize his mistake and offered him an apologetic smile.
“Apologies, young Ser,” he said, “I forget sometimes how much the Blight took away from everyone. No family has been completely untouched it seems.”
“Please, no need,” Nathaniel couldn’t help but want to keep the man from feeling too embarrassed. He’d been unnecessarily kind, without even realizing how little he deserved it. “I have a sister left at least, but she has a family of her own now. I try to give her little to worry about.”
“Awfully noble of you,” he said. Nathaniel tried not to wince at the remark. “Not sure that’s wise though. Family is important. They keep you grounded.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than you may realize,” Nathaniel said trying to put the conversation to rest.
He looked behind them at the crowd, still surrounding his fellow Wardens. In the center of the group was the Warden Commander, she was smiling and laughing like they hadn’t just burned and scattered the remains of friends a few weeks ago, like there weren’t people missing from her home that had been sold to Tevinter by machinations of his father.
“How long have you been with the Wardens?” the man asked, curiously turning to follow his gaze.
“It should be a year soon,” Nathaniel replied, nodding towards the hero. “She conscripted me. I didn’t intend for this to be my life, following around the Hero of Ferelden. But I don’t think I mind it.”
“You don’t think?” the man laughed. “Did you know she was conscripted too?”
“I had heard,” he said trying not to remember the long evening they had spent drinking away their sorrows mourning the loss of their companions. He’d learned a lot about her that night, probably more than he bargained for, but there had been an odd silence between them since.
It was hard not to watch her be adored by the people around her. He’d never been good at handling crowds of people clamoring for attention. She made it look easy, the way she had a smile for each person that grabbed her attention. He watched as she scanned the crowd looking for someone, a familiar face perhaps, her father, a man he’d heard much of but highly doubted was truly as incredible as she described.
Her gaze passed over him, meeting his eyes cautiously making his stomach flip, but she moved past him and to the man at his side. Watching her face light up she parted the crowd and made her way toward them. His chest grew tight as he realized now the familiarity he’d recognized in the man.
“What are you doing all the way over here Father?” she asked, as she approached wrapping her arms around him in a hug.
Her father grasped her tightly, squeezing her as if she were still a child and lifting her off her feet as he did so. She laughed and Nathaniel wasn’t sure he’d ever felt more uncomfortable. This felt strange, obscene even. Family didn’t do this, did they? He couldn’t tear his eyes away as her father stroked his hand across her braided hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. No part of his mind could imagine his own father acting this way even with favored Thomas or gentle Delilah. This must have been a strange elven custom, surely.
The Commander glanced his way noticing the way he stared.
“Father, I see you’ve met Nathaniel?” she asked.
“We hadn’t gotten around to exchanging names,” he laughed, holding out his hand. Nathaniel took it, somewhat grateful she’d been sure not to give the poor man his last name. “Cyrion Tabris,” her father introduced himself, pulling Nathaniel in for a hug as well. Nathaniel was blindsided as the man wrapped his arms around him. He was smaller in stature, but his firm squeeze more than made up for it. When he pulled away Nathaniel was certain his face was as red as some of the silks on the Vhenadahl behind him. The Warden Commander had an amused grin on her face that made him feel all the more embarrassed as her father returned to her side and rubbed a hand across her back.
“I should go ensure the beds we’ve put aside for your wardens are prepared,” he said glancing between them, his daughter’s amusement mirrored on his face. “It was nice to meet you Nathaniel. Thank you for appreciating our home.” The Commander gave him a puzzled look as her father walked away leaving them standing beneath the tree together.
“You have a fondness for elven trees?” she asked, watching him curiously. It was the most normal interaction they had had since Anders’ and Justice’s funeral. He found himself suddenly grateful for her father’s intervention, though still unsure about the hugging, not realizing how much their silence had weighed on him.
“I’ve seen one once before. And it’s called a Vhenadahl, even I know that,” he said pointing up at it’s branches high above their heads.
“Oh you’re an expert on alienage culture now?” she laughed. It was nice to hear her laugh again.
“You never asked before,” he said. He couldn’t quite keep up the tease however, still feeling a heavy melancholy in his chest from being here. It was certain to him she should not have brought him. He did not deserve their hospitality nor their kindness.
“Father didn’t say anything too embarrassing about me I hope?” she asked, her critical eye trained on him.
“Uh, no,” he said, unsure what else to say, “Maybe another time.”
A silence stretched between them, plaguing him, but he had no words to fill it as he looked at the small totems and baubles that jingled in the cold wind that cut through his cloak. It seemed easier to be silent beside her than try to put to words his discomfort. Not with her, nor with her people, with himself for invading their home.
“I know we haven’t spoken much since-” She didn’t put it to words. The bottles of liquor that had been drained in honor of fallen friends, their shared evening in her study, the way she had fallen asleep resting against his shoulder, or the way he had awoke the next day cold and alone on the floor of her study. It was embarrassing, so he hadn’t held her in contempt for it. He was embarrassed most mornings waking up with himself also.
“It’s no bother,” he said, trying to put it to rest. Better not to speak about it, to brush it beneath the rug and leave it to die.
“But it is. I’ve been avoiding a lot of things lately, including you and that isn’t fair.”
So she had been avoiding him. He tried not to feel smug about catching onto it, but old habits died hard apparently.
“If you’re mad I understand, but I did want to at least try to apologize,” she said, crossing her arms tight over her chest as another cruel wind passed through the streets and rattled the branches above her.
How to explain it to her? The confusion and panic he felt wasn’t her fault. This was due to the conflict he felt being welcomed among her people, when he’d been blind to his father’s perscution. Even if he had known would he have done anything? Hadn’t the fall of his house been the only thing strong enough to bring him back to Ferelden from across the sea? Was it guilt he felt for his unknowing complacency?
“I shouldn’t be here,” he finally said, his voice coming out harsher than he intended. “Not after what my father did, tried to do, somewhat succeeded in doing.”
“Do you really think that?” she asked, voice raised in disbelief.
Why did her words suddenly make him feel foolish? Of course, he thought that. But when he tried to build up blame or anger at her for making him feel that way nothing would grow. He looked at her and the place where he had once harbored such abhorrence was now empty. When he’d learned of his father’s crimes he had purged that place, and now all of those twisted mixed up feelings had either fallen onto his own shoulders or the blighted memory of Rendon Howe.
“I don’t know how to hate you anymore,” he said, surprising himself as he spoke aloud the words that had been plaguing him for weeks. Her eyes widened in surprise and she didn’t respond for a long while turning to peer at the Vhenadahl’s branches in contemplation much like her father had moments ago.
“Maybe you never really did?” she suggested, quietly. “But you certainly didn’t deserve to place any of that blame on yourself instead. I’m sorry if I made you feel that you had to.”
“No of course not!” he said quickly, but she was turning away from him and kneeling at the foot of the tree. His eyes followed her movement.
“Do you see this candle here?” she said, pointing at a red wax candle perched on a root that curved upward away from the ground. “Father and I placed this here when Mother’s body was found.”
“I wasn’t aware,” he started but she waved off his sympathy.
“She was a rabble rouser, a thorn in the nobility's side, a squeaky wheel.” She stared at the candle longingly.
“Sounds familiar,” he replied, catching the look she tossed over her shoulder at him.
“I was so mad when she died,” she explained, “At first, I thought I was mad at her for being more focused on her acts of petty rebellion than her family. But over time I realized I was mad at myself.”
“What?" Why?”
“All I could think was, what was it about me that couldnt’t keep her here where she was safe? Why was I never enough?”
“Surely that was beyond your control!”
She gave him a pointed look and he caught her point his shoulders slumping forward.
“Is that what the candles are for? A memorial?” he asked, kneeling next to her, taking her point without openly admitting defeat.
“Not always,” she replied, “I don’t think anyone really remembers what they were originally meant for. Some people place them as offerings to the Creators, others to the Maker, and some in remembrance. It felt right at the time, like some proof that she had an impact here even though she was gone.”
That felt appropriate. He wondered if there was a way to place a candle to forget someone’s impact, something to erase the shame of being a tyrant’s son.
“When I was in the Kirkwall alienage, their Vhenadahl was similar. Only it was clearly ill. I tried to inspect its roots, but I was stopped. I think I had frightened the people there, but I was only concerned and curious”
“What were you doing in the Kirkwall alienage?” she asked in surprise.
“Just passing through, running late for something and taking a short cut.” He gazed up the trunk of the massive tree and tentatively placed a hand against it. A worry built up in his chest that he would be reprimanded, but nothing came. If anything he saw Commander’s smile grow wider from the corner of his eye as she watched him connect with the tree. “Is it strange to think this is beautiful? Even though I have no connection to this place?”
“But you do, have a connection here,” she said thoughtfully.
He could feel the grimace on his face and she quickly corrected herself.
“I don’t mean your shit father. Just because you’re a Shem doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate my home, or find meaning in our symbols. It’s like saying I can’t appreciate a beautifully sung verse of the Chant because I’m an elf. Or saying that folks like you and I can’t learn to be friends, despite how we were raised.”
Friends. Was he really considering the woman who killed his father in cold blood, conscripted him to the wardens, condemned him to a life of blight and darkness, his friend?
Looking back at her he noticed her cheeks were red, her ears too. His surely were as well and chapped from the cold despite their armors and cloaks. Maker’s tears it really was freezing out here wasn’t it?
“Do elves have indoors? Or fires to warm up by? I think that’s the only thing I’m interested in learning from your people for the time being.” he said, noticing her nodding in agreement.
They stood turning to see that their companions had indeed fled indoors out of the frigid winter air. She led him away from the Vhenadahl, their feet crunching in the snow and ice along the dirt road.
“Oh! Before I forget,” she said suddenly, reaching into her armor and pulling out a small silver emblem, a Griffon, the symbol of the Grey Wardens, matching that which adorned each of their armors. There was a leather loop attached to it and she stood on her toes to try and reach the lowest hanging branch she could find.
“May I?” he asked, reaching up and pulling a branch down lower where she could reach. The other trinkets along the branch jingled as it jostled while she quickly tied the leather loop to the branch nodding to him once it was done. Releasing the branch it joined the chorus of items chiming along in the frozen wind.
“Does that have a meaning as well?” he asked her, as she turned to continue to walk towards one of the homes along the street, a shelter finally from the cold. He followed closely behind, wrapping his cloak around him tighter as a fierce wind blew across the road.
“Not sure,” she shrugged, “But it felt like the right thing to do. I just wanted to have some kind of proof for future generations that even alienage elves can be wardens, or heroes.”
He wondered if more than just the elves needed to be shown what those not like themselves were capable of. The world might be full of less Rendon Howes that way, and more Cyrion Tabrises.
“Are we going to talk about the fact you look nothing like your father?” he asked, smiling tauntingly.
“You really had no idea you were talking to a Tabris?” she laughed, “I think the resemblance is uncanny.”
“That is a bold faced lie Warden Commander,” he accused, but she laughed all the louder for it. The wind carried their mirth away into the limbs of the Vhenadahl as they stepped inside into the warmth of her alienage home, the branches shaking with a laughter all their own.