Title: The Warden's Feast
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Sagramor reflects and finds love at the Midwinter Feast. An entry for ElderDragonEffect's Christmas and New Year's Contest.
Overall Rating: G
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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The air above the township of Gwndyr was still and silent, a far cry from the howling winter winds that had lashed at the small community not days earlier. The villagers, simple, hearty folk, were grateful for the calm, just as they were grateful for the slain darkspawn that burned in great pyres in the distant fields, and the Maker who had seen fit to deliver them from the scourge of the Blight. At daybreak, Gwndyr lay on the cusp of annihilation; now, at nightfall, with the threat forestalled and the village saved, the Feast of Midwinter could proceed.

While none of the villagers would be so bold as to question the Maker’s wisdom in sparing them, there were a few who examined His particular instruments of deliverance with suspicion. First off, there were the mages, and while the older woman seemed pleasant enough for someone cursed with the stain of magic, the younger one, cruel, dark and painfully beautiful, sent chills up the spine of any who sight her golden gaze. Then there was the Qunari, taciturn and disdainful of the solstice wreaths that hung over every doorway and of the cheerful farmers quaffing steins of mead. There was a being of stone who seemed to take great delight in helping the village women preparing chickens and geese for the celebration. One of them was even, horrifyingly enough, an Orlesian, of all things! The more suspicious of the village folk went out of their way to avoid her, trying to shove her beguiling blue eyes and vibrant red hair from their minds.

And then there were the elves. Elves, by the Maker! One was foreign and blonde-haired, gifted with a laconic charm and wit that he swiftly employed to woo the village girls. The other was taller, dark-haired and pale, the leader of their little band, if you could believe it. He was kind and polite and spoke fair for an elf, but they had seen him employ his greatsword against the darkspawn host, and knew full well how terrible he could be if crossed. Indeed, aside from the young knight who looked quite akin to Maric the Saviour and the faithful mabari warhound that trotted behind their elven leader, none of them could be considered close to conventional.

But they had saved Gwndyr, and on the Feast of Midwinter at that, so these eccentricities were to be tolerated. With astonishing speed, the people of Gwndyr, who had been prepared to flee the darkspawn force assaulting their fair town mere hours before, threw together the lavish feast with incredible speed. Piping hot fruit tarts, meat pies and loaves of bread were carted into the village’s assembly hall, fresh from the ovens, while their platters and trenchers became heavy with roast goose and mutton. Mead and ale and spiced wine helped to ward away the winter chill, while the village’s children munched on candied fruits and sweetmeats. The winter had been hard, and the new year looked to be even harder, but they took the time to celebrate and count their blessings regardless. Fereldans had always done so. On the winter solstice, when the day was longest and the night was darkest, they celebrated surviving the worst of what a Ferelden winter could throw at them. As the party continued, even the newcomers embraced the festive atmosphere, admittedly some to a great degree than others.

All but one.

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Sagramor Tabris, Grey Warden of Ferelden, stood watch within the village belltower, silently gazing to the south with grey eyes that shone beneath the darkness of his hood. The wind was non-existent, but it was still frightfully cold despite it, and not for the first time, he was grateful to be wearing his heavy blue hunting cloak to shield himself from the worst of the chill. Pacing in circuits around the frigid brass bell, the young elf glanced at the lights shining from the town hall, smiling at the bawdy songs that escaped into the night air. He and his companions had pushed themselves hard in their fight against the Blight, and even for the reserved Sten and anti-social Morrigan, he knew that the respite would be welcome. Void, for the villagers too. They had barely survived today, and who knew what tomorrow would bring? Best to enjoy themselves while they could.

He had not anticipated on being in this lonely village, but the two score darkspawn that had risen from the south to attack gave him reason to be here. It had been a raiding party, one of the numerous warbands the Archdemon was sending forth to probe Ferelden’s defenses and cripple its supply lines. The darkspawn had not expected the Warden and company to be nearby, however, and they were quickly outflanked and annihilated before they could do much damage to Gwndyr. It was a victory to be certain, but the main horde advanced further and further with each passing day. Even the Ferelden winter would not stall them forever.

Sighing in resignation, Sagramor allowed himself to gaze at the stars, their brilliance undiminished by the smoke and lights of the fires. Back in the Alienage, he would often spend late nights gazing up at them, wondering what lay beyond the walls of the elven ghetto. Under what strange and wondrous lands did those same stars shine? He had seen so much now, the incredible and the terrible, the inspiring and the horrifying, and through all that, the Alienage had remained in his thoughts despite it.

Leliana had told him about the many constellations and patterns one could find in the stars, but try as he might, Sagramor couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Then again, the Orlesian woman had always been open to the wonders that more practical folk might miss, something he admired her for. She saw the beauty and goodness in so much.

Even in him.

“Sagramor,” came her voice, and the young elf turned to see Leliana standing at the top of the steps, goblet in hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to come and join us?”

“Someone needs to stand on guard in case the darkspawn should return,” Sagramor answered, heart quickening at the sight of her. “And I’m the leader, Leliana, I can’t ask anyone to abandon a joyous feast to freeze up here if I’m not willing to.”

“I’m certain that Shale wouldn’t mind keeping watch for a time,” the young woman suggested.

“No, it’s alright. I just needed some time to think anyways. But thank you.”

“Take this then, at least,” Leliana asked, placing the goblet into his hands. “Mulled wine. You’re right, you are our leader, but you can hardly lead us if you’re sick from the cold, now can you?”

“Point,” Sagramor murmured, taking a sip of the wine. It was a heady, flavourful brew that immediately filled him with a pleasant warmth, and he permitted himself to relax. Slightly. “Thank you, Leliana.”

“You’re quite welcome,” replied Leliana, leaning against one of the pillars supporting the thatched roof of the tower. “Would you mind if I stay for a little while?”

“I’d like that,” Sagramor said, genuinely pleased that she would do so, particularly in
this wretched weather. They frequently took watches together at camp, and he relished the opportunity to hear more of her stories, or discuss all her travels before coming to the Chantry, or simply spending time in her presence. He was lovestruck, utterly infatuated with her, and not for the first time, he wondered if she felt the same way. For an elf man and a human woman to find comfort with each other was taboo for both cultures, but did the former Sister of the Chantry believe in such follies?

“You’ve been thinking about your family then, haven’t you?” Leliana questioned. “You have that faraway look in your eyes.”

Silently, Sagramor cursed her intuition. He was the leader of their company, and that meant he must always be resolute and determined in the face of adversity, and never show weakness or doubt in order to maintain morale. But Leliana had a way of seeing right through him, though she would never think of using that knowledge to undermine their efforts. In a way, it was liberating. He was able to express things to her he could tell no one else, not even his fellow Warden, Alistair. “Yes, I was just thinking how this is the first Midwinter Feast I’ve experienced without them. It’s strange, isn’t it? When I was young, I spent so much time dreaming up adventures, fantasizing about becoming a great hero and fighting terrible menaces to win the respect of others. Now I am in the middle of such an adventure, and some days, all I can think about is home.”

“It’s only natural, Sagramor. From what you’ve told me, they are good people who deserve such devotion,” Leliana reassured him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“We didn’t have much for the Midwinter Feast, either food to eat or gifts to give each other, at least not by this standard,” the elf said, gesturing towards the village hall. “But what we had was ours, fairly earned, and we had each other. It was enough.”

“And you have us, my friend,” the Orlesian woman said. “You need not be alone with this burden, we’re all ready to help. Even Morrigan.”

“Even Morrigan?” the elf repeated, smiling at the irony of it. “You’re actually saying something positive about her. Have you caught a fever? Suffered a blow to the head during the fight?”

“Laugh all you want, Sagramor,” Leliana giggled, “but she is devoted to this cause. She trusts you, and so do I. Upon my life and soul, I trust you.” She paused for a moment, words forming on her perfect lips before vanishing like mist in a gale. “I’ll leave you be, Sagramor, but a happy Midwinter Feast to you.”

The redhead turned to go, and a desperate urgency gripped Sagramor’s heart. He had no gift for her, nothing to demonstrate the depths of his affection, but he was weary of holding back his feelings for her. He was a Grey Warden, Void take him! He had survived the trials of the Joining, charged headlong into the ranks of the darkspawn with nothing but his sword and armour, faced down and fought horrors beyond imagining, never shirking his duty, no matter how hard. Confessing love to a beautiful woman should not be so difficult! “Leliana, wait!” he said, a trembling hand gently taking hers, the wine abandoned. “I do not know if I’m worthy of your loyalty and trust, but I-“ The words froze upon his tongue, and he did his utmost to compose himself, even as his free hand caressed her cheek tenderly. “I am-”

“I know,” she whispered, her face moving towards his. She was so utterly beautiful, their desire magnetic, lips closing to meet each other…

“Oh my, the Warden is perhaps not as unfeeling as I thought!” came the mocking voice. Sagramor and Leliana jerked away as Zevran poked his head from up the staircase, the assassin grinning widely as he interrupted their tender moment. “But do not mind me, my friends. By all means, please continue.”

“What are you doing here, Zevran?” Sagramor snarled, infuriated at the disruption and mortified that the ever-shifty Antivan had caught them like this.

Zevran gave a mocking gasp. “And here I thought you Fereldans were full of good cheer at this time of year! Indeed, I am merely here at the behest of Wynne, who insists that you both come into the hall for some food, as she will not have you both perishing on such a cold night out of stubbornness, or so she put it.” His grin widened even further, if such a thing were possible. “Of course, if you desire to take Leliana in a manly fashion-”

“That will do, Zevran!”

“Wynne is probably right, Sagramor, you do need to eat,” Leliana said, softly squeezing his hand, even as her eyes lit up with mischief. “We’ll continue this…conversation later.” With that, she slipped away, down the stairs, throwing Zevran a glare of such malice that would have made Morrigan proud.

Stomping his booted feet to get the blood flowing, Sagramor followed, but not before turning to Zevran. “Remind me why I spared your life again?”

“Because no band of stalwart adventurers would be complete without a roguish and good-looking murderer in their number?”

Despite himself, Sagramor laughed. “Fair enough. A happy Midwinter Feast to you, Zevran,” he said, more content then he had been for some time.

As the Warden ran to meet up with his beloved, Zevran snatched up the discarded goblet. Yes, it was a time for making merry, for embracing those closest to you and celebrating the good things in life. It was a time to find the goodness in things.

Even in him.

“A happy Midwinter Feast to you, Grey Warden,” Zevran proclaimed, raising the goblet in toast. “A happy Midwinter Feast to us all.”