Chapter Text
Halia Surana read, and re-read the letter, fighting angry tears. She would never have a moment; that much was clear now. She dug her toes into the sand and pulled the cord that had been keeping her dark hair out of her face. If she was going to give into sobbing, no one needed to see it. Ugly sounds forced themselves from her chest.
“Kadan?” Rumbled a deep voice as a huge hand rested on her shoulder.
“Shanedon, Arishok,” she replied gasping sharply to collect herself.
The great bronze, armored wall sank beside her. “There is a storm in your soul.”
He was Sten when they had met. Since Halia had known him he had been nearly Tal-Vashoth, Sten, and he had ultimately been named the head of the Qunari military. Nearly nothing to the center of everything seemed to be the standard for those close to her.
“You're kinder than you used to be, Arishok. When we met you would have called me maraas imekari,” Halia said, trying to laugh.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I better understand now that your bleating is frequently meaningful.”
She sighed and tilted her head to the side, leaning against him now. “Why did I come here?”
Seheron was a warm comfort to her. It was as he had told her long ago, tea, incense, and the sea. She found peace in the order that daily life there demanded, though it had taken actually seeing the place to understand how true it was that he had always seen war. The irony had heartily amused Alistair, though she doubted he still found it funny.
Halia departed for her first visit to Seheron three days after the celebration of the Archdemon’s defeat. She returned with hundreds of new stories which she was elated to share with a now-married king who would never have time to hear all of them. She would be named Warden-Commander within the year and never again have time to tell them. Their time together couldn't be wasted on the past when they had just enough time for the present.
“You came here to heal,” he reminded her. “And then to return to your duty.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “It seems duty calls. I’ve been summoned by order of the King,” the words came in a hiss.
“Vashedan,” said the Arishok, as he stirred to rise. "He is a fool.”
Halia curled forward, hugging her legs. “Be calm, my friend. I suppose it isn’t really his fault this time.”
He moved to sit in front of her, and tucked the hair that had fallen in her face behind her ears. Red scars in jagged shapes shone where the points of her ears had once been. The flesh had begun to round itself, but the sight no matter how well healed, was always going to be a grotesque mutilation to her.
“He is a coward, and a fool,” the Arishok reiterated.
She wanted, momentarily, to disagree with him. “He is exactly what I allowed him to be.”
“Asit tal-eb.” He said the words as if they were a reminder, but Halia shook her head.
"There were choices.”
“There are always choices."
"I could have told him to stay with the Wardens and just let Anora have the throne. What did he care for it? But instead I told him that people are always out for themselves. I spoiled the part of him that still knew goodness. I could have let him break off our relationship when he decided to take the throne, but I was blinded by,” the word soured in her mouth and she practically choked on it, “love.”
“So it is your fault that his Queen had you attacked? Parshaara, he named you his, but did not protect you. He did not avenge you. He has no honor.”
She couldn’t answer this. “I am bound by the King’s rule and the Southern Wardens agreement to aid the Inquisition.”
"You are bound by other fools to make amends for their mistakes and failings. You have offered too much to this Inquisition already, and they have squandered it,” the Arishok pointed out with a sneer.
It was true enough. Her suggestion that the Qunari assist the Inquisition had resulted in spectacular failures for the Qunari. The Ariqun had seized the operations. The Hissrad had turned Tal-Vashoth and allowed a dreadnought to be destroyed. The Arishok had considered seizing the Inquisition, and Halia had implored him to reconsider. She reminded him that he once challenged her own methods, but now considered her basalit-an. He reminded her that his decision not to intervene was at the will of the Qun, and that just because he stayed his weapons did not mean that Ariqun would.
She was told that the spy had survived his dissent from the Qun.
“This is my duty. Surely you of all people can understand that, even if you disapprove of those I have to serve,” she spoke wearily.
“You can still find your place here, Kadan,” he said gently, a massive finger skimming over her left ear.
She shook her head sadly, “You know that isn’t so. Besides, my business there is short; a Joining for one of the Inquisitor’s warriors.”
The Arishok did not know the details of the Joining, but he knew that she did not like to perform it. He changed the course, but surprised her by asking, “Will you see their Commander?”
Halia cringed. “I shouldn’t tell you things, Kadan. Your memory is too long.”
He laughed, and said, “You face an archdemon and army of darkspawn with a smirk, and you cry over the feelings of men.”
She shoved him, entirely without effect, and laughed at herself. “Do you think many people know how funny you are?”
“Is it not obvious?” He deadpanned in reply. “You should see their Commander. It will bring you peace. And if it does not, you will have the spy and the witch for comfort.”
She took his big hand into her tiny one. “You have my thanks, as always. Panahedan, Kadan. I will miss you.”
“You will bring cookies when you return?” he asked her.
“And I will send them when I arrive.”
“Panahedan, Kadan,” said the Arishok. “I will miss you, too.”