"You are finally here!" The voice is deep and booming, the accent pure West Anderfel. Erise turns to be swept into a tight hug against a massive chest.

"It is so good to see you!" A tall, broad man steps back and lets out a low chuckle. "Come now, surely you recognize me?"

He is half-bald and all beard, but blue eyes and a crooked smile tickle the back of her memory. "Tahvel? Is that you?"

He grins. "Still remember me after all these years, eh?"

She nods and smiles. "Many, many years. How have you been?"

Tahvel gives her a good natured slap on the back that stings. "Excellent! I am on the First's council, and there is time yet before the Deep Roads call. What of you? How was Ferelden?"

"It was…" Erise stops. Heartbeats pass before she can reply. "I will miss it."

He shakes his head and laughs. "Ha! Next you'll be telling me you have grown fond of dogs! Come, there is much to speak of before you meet the First."

The Vigil is full of strangers.

There are too many new faces: servants and cooks, guards and lieutenants, laborers and Wardens. The last aren't really his concern, but they would have been hers, and he chafes against Ferrin's aloofness.

The new commander jealously guards the Wardens and ignores the rest of the keep, only stepping in when he wants more of one thing or another. Ferrin has no temper that Varel can discern, but there's a cold sort of distance he can't quite overcome. For all that Varel reminds the new commander the Arling belongs to the Wardens, Ferrin remains content to leave it all on Varel's head.

Three of Erise's Wardens – for that is how Varel thinks of them – have left. Others mutter when the Wardens from the Free Marches are absent. Ferrin's Wardens – for that is what they are – lead the expeditions.

Varel says nothing and quietly writes of his concerns to Weisshaupt.

Tahvel frowns at the parchment. "I will see what I can do. The First wishes Amaranthine to succeed."

Angry words bubble in her throat, but Erise saves them for the First. "Thank you, Tahvel. The Ferelden Wardens deserve better than that."

He nods and strokes his beard. "Give me a list of replacements you think would do well. It will go better that way."

Relief settles into her bones. "You shall have them in an hour."

I hope the new commander suits you more than the last. The nobles may protest, but I think this may be best.

You are ever in my thoughts,

Erise.

Varel can't help the smile that tugs at his lips. The nobles have already protested, not three weeks past Ferrin's departure, but it is for the best. The shy little boy that sulked in the shadow of his elder brother has grown into a fair-minded man. A Howe is lord in Vigil's Keep once more, but this time Varel is proud to serve.

Erise scrubs a hand through her hair and sighs.

A low chuckle echoes in the room and she turns. Tahvel leans against the door frame. "You did that whenever I frustrated you."

"Then it is a wonder I have any hair left."

He laughs and takes the chair at her side "Any luck?"

"No. I have gone through half the books in Weisshaupt and spoken with Fiona a dozen times." Erise shoved the book away. "This is useless. The answers are not here, they are running around the Deep Roads."

"You are angry."

She pauses a brief moment before nodding. "I feel my time here has been useless."

"I could make it less so, if you wish." Tahvel brushes the back of his fingers against her cheek.

His touch is as warm as she remembers as she takes his hand. "I have a lover. You know this."

"A lover who does not follow you." Tahvel sighs. "And now you give me that look. Forget I asked. We are still friends, yes?" At her nod he stands and stretches. "The First will not be happy when you remind him Wardens should be in the Deep Roads. He may punish you by making you lead an expedition."

Erise echoes the wry smile on Tahvel's lips.

Four months have passed since a letter has borne her name. A too-familiar lump rises in his throat and Varel swallows and hopes for the best.

The Vigil hardly needs him now; Nathaniel's insistence Varel pick and train a replacement has served its purpose. The idea that Nathaniel thinks Varel is too old or too overwhelmed to take care of the keep's many tasks is made worse by the fact it is increasingly true.

He aches for purpose.

On a night he can't sleep, and Nathaniel is gone, purpose comes.

The form, swathed in fabric despite the warm summer night, says nothing. The scrawled letter is presented, bearing the seal of the Wardens. Varel guides the stranger to a room and assures all can be taken care of in the morning

"It can't wait."

The voice makes his heart skip. He turns to the figure and lifts shaking hands to the hood that keeps the face in shadow.

She shies away, but does not protest, and when the fabric falls back her face goes tight.

"Maker."

The woman before him is familiar and foreign. The features are right, but her skin is fishbelly white and the circles beneath her eyes are so dark they are nearly black. "Erise."

She throws her arms around him and buries her face against his neck. He can feel tears on his skin and he holds her tight.

"What happened? What's wrong?"

"This is my Calling."

The words twist in his gut. "It's early."

"I thought I would have time to get back to you. I was leading an expedition. The First said he would let me come back after it was finished and," her breath hitches and she shakes against him, "I should have written, but I was in too much of a hurry."

He wants to ask what had her so rushed, but she pulls away and pushes her cloak from her shoulders. She is painfully thin and her eyes are hazed and feverish. He can't help the gasp that escapes his lips.

She swallows hard and drops her gaze to her feet. "I cannot stay long." Her fingers toy with a loose thread, twisting and tugging and shaking as though she's freezing.

Varel takes a hand in his and runs a thumb along bony knuckles. "How long can you stay?"

She shifts her weight and shudders. "A few hours. I... I barely made it here." Her teeth begin to chatter. "I want to die, I need to, but I had to see you. Had to tell you I should have stayed." Tears run down her cheeks as she lifts a hand to cup stroke his hair. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Varel kisses her palm closes his eyes.

Lips brush against his brow. "It will be all right."

He should be soothing her, but the words dull the ache in his heart just a little. "How can you say that?"

"Nothing can be worse than this." The words are fervent and desperate.

"Come to my room."

She tenses and pulls away. "Varel, I can't-"

"I know. Tell me everything before you go."

When her words are spent, Erise goes boneless against the bed. It is the first time she has been warm since the darkspawn began to crawl inside her head. Sleep nearly seems possible, though she has forgotten that too. For a moment her mind is quiet and she almost weeps with relief.

The nightmares come creeping back, but someone holds her down when she tries to flee. A voice pierces through the hisses and growls that echo in her skull.

"Shh, it's me. It's Varel. It's just a dream."

She does weep then: because he doesn't understand; because she left him; because the voices are real and the Calling is beautiful and her blood burns to answer.

When he kisses her temple it is wonderful and terrible. He feels so human and kind and she is certain she has not been either thing for a very long time.

His breathing settles sometime later, and though she no longer dares to sleep, she can remember a little of who she is, so she clings to it and him.

Varel clenches his hands as Erise stumbles down the road. Every inch of him aches to go, but he cannot die in her place. The Vigil may need him yet, and she was gone long before she arrived.

He stays on the wall long after she has disappeared.

Her nose is filled with the scent of dirt and blood, and the corruption around her seems to throb with each beat of her heart. Her hands are slick with sweat and the sword only seems to get heavier as she goes deeper into the earth. The wound in her side is still trickling blood, wet and warm. The pain and panic surface when the Call grows quiet, but it never lasts for long. It is all around her; it is inside her.

She doesn't notice the arrow that pierces her chest until the breath she draws stops short. Blood bubbles between her lips, metal and salt and beautiful, bitter corruption. Another thud and pain cuts through the Call. She lifts her sword half-heartedly, but the air is suddenly filled with cries and grunts and the air is thick with arrows.

A sword through her middle makes her legs give way and she crumples to the ground, wondering why the pain is gone and her lungs barely work. The Call finally leaves her, spilling to the ground with her blood. She thinks of him and smiles.

AN: It's two days late (there is no spring break in grad school!) and definitely on the long side, but... it's done! Thank you, thank you to decantate, as well as Nearia(dot)awakened, and Crisium for betas. Thank you to the followers and reviewers for being so responsive - you've been absolutely lovely to have along for the ride.