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She wishes she was better at this. At all of it.
Natalie stares at the thin rays of sun that peak in through the window. After returning from the crossroads to the dark of Skyhold before dawn, she had figured maybe some sleep might help prepare her for what came next.
The timer started when we got all the keys. The door’s unlocked now.
“Sleep” had been a lie she told herself that sounded better than “hiding”.
Then… we can really go home?
She assaults herself with perspective. In the grand scheme of things, she was alive, they were all alive! And untranquil! And basically forgiven! Or at least as much as they could be. That alone should be enough! She’s lucky! She should be thankful. And now she’ll get to go home! Wasn’t that amazing? It’s amazing!
Yet as much as she tries to chastise, convince, and cajole, she still finds herself spiraling into what her mother would have probably deemed a pity party.
But goddamnit, what part of this is fair? This had been exactly what she was afraid of, a not insignificant part of what had made her hesitate to involve herself with anyone at all. And, like somehow someone was delighting in a sick sense of irony, her own hesitation only made it so that the rug would be ripped away from her right at the moment she had finally dropped her guard – it had been dependent on it, in fact. She can’t believe how she could have been so careless.
She looks over at the coin on her nightstand, reaches out to slide it into her grip, and pulls it close as she flips it over and over with her fingers.
The rumble of the oncoming soldiers down the dungeon stairs, words whispered hastily in her ear, the cold metal of the coin as he pressed it into her palm. “Foolish, but for luck. Be safe, and know… know that I do believe you.”
Suddenly the room feels far too small, and she hastily throws on a robe and heads outside, the battlements mercifully quiet this early in the morning. She sinks into a sit against the stone, closing her eyes to inhale the air. It’s getting colder again.
She wouldn’t flatter herself and believe that she heard his approach, knew instead that he had let her hear it when he perches himself upon the low wall, an act that shouldn’t but always made her slightly nervous.
“Good morning, Cole. You’re up early.”
“It was time to be up.”
“Why is that?” A cryptic reasoning about the nature of fleeting time, surely.
“The birds outside my window became very loud.”
She opens her eyes for the first time and gives a surprised laugh. “That is…. very human of you.”
He seems to consider this for a long moment, and they slip back into an amiable silence.
Now would be a good time to tell him. You’ll have to soon. But telling someone made it real, started the countdown that would tick in her head. And if she told him, she knew exactly who she would need to tell next.
You get to go home! It’s amazing! Isn’t it? Even in her head, the words sound forced.
“I don’t hear as well now,” he states simply, as if answering an unspoken question.
“What do you mean?” She looks back up at him, but his hands fiddle idly with the brim of his hat.
“Before, people came through clearer - memories, thoughts, I could hear them like Maryden’s songs. But now I’m louder, I hear less. I only get pieces, singular notes and simple chords, blurry reflections of feelings as they filter.”
“I did notice you hadn’t recited many thoughts lately. Does it bother you, it being different?”
“Sometimes. It makes it harder. How do I know what to say if I don’t understand the melody?”
Heck if I know. I’m constantly saying the wrong thing. But he was asking sincerely, and so she owes him an at least attempt at a real answer. “You try your best,” she ventures. “You can try to imagine what they might be feeling, even if you don’t know for sure. And as a baseline you can try to exercise patience, forgiveness, generosity if you can swing it. It’s always much more difficult than it should be, but you’ll do a much better job at it than the rest of us, I’m sure.”
She shifts uncomfortably, suddenly woefully aware of how ridiculous it is that she of all people would attempt to explain empathy and kindness to someone who was, in all likelihood, a previous spirit of compassion. Maybe something more practical would help. “And then there’s always asking.”
“Asking?”
“Just asking them how they are doing. Doesn’t always get you the right answer, but often people appreciate the fact you asked at all. Like here, Cole, how are you feeling?”
He looks down in thought for a moment. “Confused.”
“That’s understandable,” she says with a slight grimace. “Sorry, I’m not the most eloquent explainer. Varric would be better.”
“No, that’s not-“ He shakes his head in dismissal. “Hours ago when four returned, I could hear hope and fear and uncertainty, and then this morning joy and contentment and relief. The notes form a melody that sounds like a homecoming, and yet you sound… discordant. I would try to imagine, but maybe the question is the answer? How… are you feeling?”
Of course he already knows. The countdown had started the moment she knew it existed.
She tilts her head, a bittersweet smile on her face as she looks at him. “Like I do not deserve your friendship, but am immensely grateful to have had it. And like I am going to truly miss you.”
He stops fiddling for a moment to meet her eye, to return the expression, and it’s answer enough.
She leans back against the wall. “So Maryden, huh?”
“She sounds like springtime.”