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"Mahariel. Theron Mahariel."
"What did you say?"
Was that aloud? Theron hadn’t meant to actually say that. It was more of a mental mantra, one that had started he didn’t know when. It was there when they walked, when they ate, when they fought, in the back of his mind, over, and over. “I am Mahariel. Theron Mahariel. Of Clan Sabrae. Marethari is our keeper, and Merrill her first. Illen makes our crafts, Paivel tells our tales, and Maren tends our halla. I am Dalish: keeper of lost lore, walker of the lonely path. we are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.”
Over.
And.
Over.
It helped him not forget who he was in the Shemlen’s world. They called him “Warden”, “Friend”, “Lover”, “Kadan”, “Knife-ear”, “Traitor”, and so, so much more. Yet no one ever said his name. He would give it, it was polite, yet he could see on their faces, and in their minds, that they tried his name on their tongues, and found it twisted them too much to utter his name. Alistair wasn’t suppose to hear him. No one was suppose to hear him. He was the Warden. He led their Army, gathered them, and soon he would go before the Landsmeet, try and put Alistair on the throne. He doubted the shem would listen to a rabbit, a knife-ear.
"What did you say?"
"It was nothing."
"No, I heard you say something."
"It was nothing, Alistair. Leliana, may I have more stew?"
Was it so hard, really? He learned to say all of their names. Alistair Theirin, Morrigan, Leliana, Sten, Shale, Oghren formerly of House Kondrant and Branka, Wynne of the Circle of Fereldan, Zevran Araiani. Was it so hard to say his? In Orzammar the Provings Master had said to his face his name was too hard to say. Was it really? "No, I heard you say something."
Everyone was staring at him, and he felt his lips press into a thinner line. Was he scowling? It was hard to tell, he already seemed to have a permanent one. He never had that when he was with his clan. Oh his clan! Were they still safe? He knew they had mourned him, but..still it hurt. The homesickness was always there, threatening to overwhelm him. "What did you say, War-"
"Theron."
"What?"
"Theh-ree-on. Say it."
"Ward-"
"That is not my name! It is not Warden, not Elf, not Knife-ear! I am Mahariel. Theron Mahariel. Of Clan Sabrae. Marethari is our keeper, and Merrill her first. Illen makes our crafts, Paivel tells our tales, and Maren tends our halla. I am Dalish: keeper of lost lore, walker of the lonely path. we are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit!" His face was red, bright against his dark hair. His fists were clenched tightly against his sides, and his plate of stew was upended onto the ground when he had stood, practically shouting. Closing his eyes, he did not drop his head, merely turned and walked away. If they had a problem with his outburst, then they had a problem. He would not apologize.
The dark woods around camp lent themselves well to need to climb, to be among nature, and curling up on the highest branch he could climb, he could hear them spreading out below him to look for him. Pity he didn’t want to be found just yet. And yet foot steps ended under his tree, and he could sense someone looking up at him. His eyes flashed briefly, they did that in the dark sometimes as they had all found out in the deep roads when it had gotten particularly dark. But still he could see it was not Alistair or Zevran like he expected. Perhaps his lover had decided to remain at camp instead of search for him. Perhaps Alistair finally realized he could trust him. Perhaps they had drawn lots.
"It would be easier if you came down, to speak."
"No."
"Imekari."
"I’m not a child!"
"I see you’ve picked up some of my language."
"And none of mine."
Sten did not seemed to react to that, though he rarely reacted to anything. Still Theron climbed down, nible as a cat, resting on the lowest branch and stared at him. “Well? Is there some grand lecture about how Qunari never have such outbursts? That one always knows one place under the Qun? That Qunari never feel homesick? Miss their loved ones? that they dont’ have loved ones?” He asked, voice a touch bitter and he looked away, ashamed of himself. Sten didn’t deserve that.
"I too miss my home, Ka-..Theron. I miss Seheron."
"And you have shamed me, by being so kind when my words do you harm."
"No, you shamed the others. I never observed, before now, any humans referring to others by their titles and not include names."
"My name is foreign to them. It sits ill on their tongue."
"As do theirs on yours." That brought a smile onto his face.
“Thank you, Sten.”
"Shall we return, Kadan?"
"Yes, I think we should."