“And?” He spread his hands helplessly. “That means nothing to me.”
“You dream of those you love because there is a bond between you. The spirits recognize this. That bond has power in the Fade.”
“I once dreamed Loghain brought me a barrel of cheese. I opened it up, and there were mice inside. Made of cheese. Which we ate while singing sea chanteys. Are you saying this held some deeper meaning?” He grinned, suddenly amused by the indignant flare of the elf’s nostrils. “Perhaps my bond with Loghain told me that he actually harbors a deep love of cheese? I should have realized it sooner.”
“And every dream you have is such frivolous nonsense?”
“I have no idea. I forget most of them. Isn’t that what happens?”
She tightened the furs around her as if she could somehow squeeze out her anger. The dwarven woman put a calming hand on the mage’s leg, but her silent pleas were ignored. “The dreams that are not dreams are visions,” Fiona snapped. “Because the Fade is a reflection of our reality as the spirits see it, it may be used to interpret that reality. We mages seek out visions. We look for patterns, and attempt to see the truth beyond our awareness. But a potent-enough vision can come to anyone. When it does, you should pay attention to it.”
“Visions,” Maric repeated incredulously. “And your commander has had these visions? This is why you’re here? No other reason?”
The mage held up a slender hand, and a small orb of fire winked into being above it. It spun slowly, radiating a brilliant energy that lit up the entire camp. He felt a wave of heat across his face. “Visions are surely not so remarkable, King Maric, compared to some of the wonders this world holds.” With a twist of her hand, the orb disappeared. The campfire seemed not quite as bright and warm as it had before.
She had a point. The witch had been a mage, as well, but was he to trust everything to magic, then? And visions? He wasn’t so sure.
Fiona sat down on her pack, continuing to stare at him with open disapproval. So he busied himself by rubbing his hands and keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. There was a moment of quiet awkwardness among the others that none of them seemed willing to break. Utha looked at the mage with a clear expression of sympathy, though Maric wasn’t certain why. The two warriors, meanwhile, struck up another whispered private discussion. Julien’s eyes darted between Maric and Fiona, clearly the topic of their conversation, but what ever Nicolas was saying to the man couldn’t be made out.
“We believe her,” Fiona suddenly announced. It was enough to startle both of the warriors, who stared at her in surprise. Maric didn’t look up, though he could feel those big brown elven eyes boring a hole into him. “That is why we are here. What I would be interested in knowing is why you are here.”
The question hung in the air.
“Don’t you want me here?” Maric responded, getting annoyed. “Didn’t you come to my court specifically to ask for help? It might have been nice if you’d added that this was all based on a vision one of you had. I’ll have to remember to ask more questions next time.”
“She asked for your help.” The elf pointed to Genevieve. “I know why she asked you. I know what she thinks you can do for us. Perhaps you even believed what she said. What I don’t know is why you chose to come.”
“Isn’t defending the kingdom enough reason?”
“To come yourself? To voyage into danger so readily?”
“It was either me or Loghain, wasn’t it?”
She thinned her lips, her expression incredulous. “You could have ordered him to accompany us.”
“I’m not sure he would have complied.”
“I would be willing to wager that he offered to come in your stead, no matter his feelings.”
“Clever you.”
Fiona paused, her eyes narrowing at him. Maric could feel the tension around the fire, the pair of warriors stiff and uncomfortable as they witnessed the exchange, while the dwarven woman calmly gazed into the campfire. For a moment he thought the elf might abandon her line of questioning, but he was wrong.
“Don’t you have a young son?” she asked.
“Cailan. He is five years old, yes.”
“Isn’t he without a mother? Perhaps we hear it wrong in Orlais, but my understanding is that the Queen of Ferelden is dead.”
He was silent for a long minute, and noticed none of the others offered to change the subject or intervene. Perhaps they wondered the same thing. The thought of Cailan touched a painful place inside him. Like a coward, he’d left Loghain to tell the boy that his father was gone. Cailan would never have understood. His mother had disappeared, and now his father, too? If Maric had gone to tell him, however, he would never have come at all.
“She is,” he admitted quietly. “Three years, now.”
Fiona’s lips pressed together in outrage. “And you feel no shame at depriving him of a father now, as well?”
Maric felt the wash of grief tug at him, but he clamped down hard on the feeling. He would rather stick a fork in his eye than give this elven woman with her dark, angry eyes the satisfaction of seeing the pain she was dredging up inside him. “He hasn’t had a father for some time now,” he answered. His voice sounded flat and hollow, even to himself. “My staying in Denerim wouldn’t have changed that.”
“So you give up? This is Maric the Savior, the great King of Ferelden?”
Anger flooded through him. He’d thought to halt the witch’s prophecy, to act rather than to sit back and wait for it to come true. He thought that perhaps her warning had meant he was supposed to be here, but he hadn’t expected this. To be harassed and judged by this brash mage was simply too much. He shot up from the log, wheeling on her. She glared at him defiantly, as if she had every right to ask what she did, and that only served to intensify his rage.
“Maric the Savior,” he repeated, spitting the words with contempt. “You know what people call me, so you think you know everything about me? You know how I should feel? You want to tell me what kind of king I should be, and what a terrible father I am?”
Her demeanor softened, but only for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me what kind of father you are, then, King Maric?” she asked.
He turned from the fire and stormed several steps away. A blast of icy wind stopped him in his tracks. He let it wash over his skin, closing his eyes. The pounding of his heart slowly subsided, replaced by a familiar silence. It reminded him of those nights when the bustle of the court receded and he retreated to his quarters in the palace, only to be surrounded by a melancholy emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. So many days spent surrounded by finery and servants and all the things befitting a king, but none of it touched him anymore.
How was he supposed to explain that to anyone?
“The truth,” he mumbled into the wind, not even caring if those behind him could hear, “is that I haven’t been a father to my son since his mother died. Every time I look at him, I’m reminded of her, of all the might-haves and the should-have-beens. He deserves better than that. He deserves a father who can look him in the eyes.”
Another gust of wind lashed across Maric’s face, making him numb. Numbness was good. He felt a tentative hand touch his elbow, a gesture that startled him a little. He opened his eyes and turned, and saw the dwarven woman standing there gazing up at him. Her eyes were full of sympathy, and she silently patted his arm.
“Maric the Savior is just a name, something they call me because they say I saved the kingdom,” he told the mage. She remained seated by the fire behind him, not looking his way. “But the truth is, I’ve never been able to save anyone.”