[open] you are gone, you are gone, you are gone

[doneisdone]

WHO: Teren and anyone who wants to bug her
WHAT: she sad
WHEN: after Loghain's departure, before the tourney
WHERE: Kirkwall, mostly the Gallows
NOTES:

She saw him off, at least.
Teren remembers being wrenched from someone, her nails digging so deeply she left faint scars on their arms long after the iron door was shut behind her. She was in her thirties then, young but not a child, aware of the world's little cruelties but not so deeply yet that she stopped believing Zerique would come for her.

Of course, Zerique never did. And there was no one else until Loghain, whose departure isn't violent or forcible; he has things to do elsewhere, they'll keep in contact, there's a short but affectionate kiss before he turns and makes his way down the hill and away.
Teren stands still as a stone as he takes his leave, remaining there long after he's disappeared from view, her dark eyes veiled and her expression absent.


When she returns to her quarters, she doesn't lock herself in or avoid anyone. That would suggest a depth of feeling and vigor of emotion that, should she betray it, she's not sure she could ever recover. Instead, she goes about her work, cares for Boots, makes her purchase orders, darns the Wardens' socks, with the sort of mindlessness that certain rifters might attribute to automatons.

Nothing is wrong, she insists, if asked. The mildness of her response, her total disinterest in rising to her usual curtness, speaks otherwise.
She'll be fine.

Comments

[byblow]

Alistair isn't sorry to see Loghain go, but he is sorry for other things. The loss of his expertise. The extra work here, even if whatever he's doing off elsewhere is important as well. The feelings of whoever is, for whatever irrational reason, sad to lose his presence. But he leaves Teren alone, because that seems to be what she wants, and she's one of the few people whose wishes he cares about enough to avoid bothering them when they seem like they don't want to be bothered.

So when he is bothering her, several days later, it's while she's already out doing something else, and it's for Warden business.

"I think we need to start selling things," he says. The paper in his hands is full of numbers. It's not his strong suit, but he can grasp the bottom line, which is that they're running out of liquid assets. But they have other things. Unused weapons and supplies. Land. "Or we may be able to arrange something with the Inquisition just to loan them land—Griffon Wing Keep is ours, really, even if they've done us a favor clearing the Ventaori out. We have other fortresses."

[doneisdone]

Being out doing things is par for the course at the moment, and Teren cares about as much about the current task as she does any other. She hardly glances at Alistair or his paper, only giving a mechanical nod.
"All right," she blandly agrees, and despite likely being among the people actually handling the sale, seems content to leave it at that. She never did speak to Alistair about what was going on with Loghain, perhaps would've left it for weeks or months or years to come, keeping it out of his sight and close to her chest so as not to muddle the relationship she's built with the lad. Perhaps. But now that the opportunity's come and gone, there's just emptiness left behind, a feeling like she's yet again lied to him, and that coming clean would be pointless. The damage is done, whether he knows it or not.