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The Wardens and their companions left Lothering shortly after they had wrapped up all the business they had there, and when Cousland believed Sten had recovered enough of his health to travel and fight. Perhaps it was the hand of the Maker that urged her to get the party moving, because word got around about a day later that what was left of Lothering had been completely demolished by the darkspawn, along with many who were unable or unwilling to leave. They had just narrowly dodged another fatal “Ostagar” moment.
Within the first two weeks of living on the road and fighting together, most of the group members had become well acquainted with each other. Sten, on the other hand, proved to be a very difficult person to know. Most of his answers to their bottomless pool of questions were short and vague at best, and whenever he troubled himself to give more than a five-word response to anyone it would be to express his disapproval or frustration– usually about a choice or idea that the Qun disagreed with. After a while, it had discouraged most of them to the point of giving up trying, coming to the realization that Sten was going to remain a closed book.
Cousland had given up prying long before they had even left Lothering. The only verbal exchange between them were orders from her and confirming answers from him.
“We should get started,” is what Aithne would say to Sten–or something along that line—when the hour of the routine treatment of his wounds approached.
“Yes, we should,” was all Sten would reply with, if he bothered to say anything at all. If not, he would only nod and follow her over to a comfortable place to sit, usually close to her tent because that is where she had kept all of her medical supplies.
The process was always long and tedious. Aithne did not want Sten’s skin to be pulled off with the old bandages, and just as much caution and attention to detail had to be given to cleaning the wounds and preparing them for a fresh dressing. It would take roughly an hour to complete. Even in all that time, there were no more words spoken than what was necessary– her mutterings of what she was going to do, making notes about their surroundings or the weather, and reflecting aloud on the events of the day. Sten would acknowledge some of it with grunts or low hums.
At first, it was for the reasons the others had assumed. Aithne did not want to start a conversation that would lead to further enragement by more regressive pieces of Qun "wisdom", and Sten simply had not a shred of interest in knowing about or befriending anyone– except for the dog, since he always had a soft spot for animals.
But, as another two weeks went by, different reasons arose and replaced those initial ones.
Sten’s senses, once they were no longer overloaded by intense pain and discomfort, had become more sensitive to the stimulating feel of Aithne’s nimble fingers on his skin, scents of her hair and body, and the sound of her creamy-smooth voice. It had heightened a physical attraction that stirred since the very first day he could see her every visible feature.
However, attraction of this nature was not enough to persuade him to take any action, or even speak of it. While the Qun does not forbid casual bedding–even with a bas– this Sten was so determined to be a master of all self-disciplines that he took it a step farther by denying himself anything that he perceived to be irrelevant to his duty. Even when he had earned his worth of siring offspring, he always chose the no-contact method with the potential mother. Daily temptation and criticism were persistent threats to this commitment, but there was never enough of it to make him buckle.
So why now, and why her? he had wondered, when he had caught himself considering her sturdy frame to determine if it could survive the experience. The tamassran would help him to see what set Aithne apart from all the women he had denied himself in the past. What mysterious force can be so strong that it would cause him to tumble so easily into the thought of her being the first exception to his personal rule? Should he act on these wants, or continue fighting them?
But the guidance of the tamassran was unobtainable. Even if some rare occasion brought one out to Ferelden, he would keep miles of distance between them out of shame. Zevran or Leliana might have been able to give him some insight, but going to them for it could've also led to the spread of humiliating gossip. No, he was on his own to figure it all out. So–since he was always cautious about leaping into what stood in a mire of confusion and doubt– he chose to hide this festering desire behind the mask of cold, silent indifference until crystal-clear understanding came to him.
Aithne was wrestling with the same mystery that baffled Sten, which is why she had been content with the silence between them. Less talk meant more thinking about answers to the questions she was asking herself. You would think the answer to why she was still drawn to him obvious– indeed, he had quite the inviting physical appearance, and the texture and tone of his voice smoothed out all the rigid noise in her head and spirit. But she had never before allowed herself to even consider becoming romantically involved with someone that she would not marry, and a man worthy of her hand had to be more than just good looks and a pleasant voice.
Just about every man she had met in the past had failed to meet her expectations by being stuck-up, racist, sexist, clasist, arrogant, egotistical, ignorant rejects in stuffed shirts. Ser Gilmore was the only one that Cousland thought had any potential. He was everything she considered a perfect man to be–handsome, mature beyond his years, warm, well-spoken, humble, and book-smart. But, as her luck would have it, he was killed during the attack on the castle, before she seized the chance to express her interest in him.
Alistair seemed like a decent fellow, so why not him? Simply put, there just wasn’t a romantic itch on her end, and knowing the reason for that was elusive too.
All that considered, how could she still be interested in giving all of herself to a man that spews offensive and ignorant beliefs that had turned her away from men in the past? By someone who would barely even talk to her! It made no sense!
There is something different about him, she thought. I'll know what it is when I get him to talk more about himself, but I do not know what to say or do to get him to open up again. Perhaps being more forgiving and patient with him is a good start. The Qun, and the accounts of fellow qunari, were his only way to know the world and everything in it. So of course he would be dismissive of anything that did not align with those teachings without proof to back it up. But if he’s man enough to accept the truth when he sees it, and admits that he was wrong, that will separate him from the repulsive swine that I want nothing to do with… that will make me more positive about this want.
It was Aithne that brought down the social barrier between them, the day before their first arrival at the Circle Tower. Sten had returned from the river after thoroughly washing up, sat himself next to the fire Alistair was cooking breakfast over, and began working rigorously to restore the matted, tangled, unruly white mane to brilliance once again– a soldier of the Antaam must adhere to good hygiene practices and keep his appearance sharp. Always striving for excellence, Sten had become well accomplished in that area too, except for one thing…
…braiding his own hair.
Every morning he would give it a try, then curse bitterly over unsatisfactory work– the unevenness of the braids, the strands that he had missed, and the fingers that did not have the certain petite structure that made the desired intricate work possible. This did not go unnoticed by Aithne, and she had thought on more than one occasion to offer assistance, as she had been exceptionally good at braiding hair since she was twelve.
Today is the day! I’m just going to do it , Cousland thought to herself, standing up from where she had seated herself on a log, opposite of where Sten had knelt on the ground. The worse thing he could do is tell me ‘no’. He wouldn’t bash my skull in for it. I need to stop being a coward! She walked over to him, took a deep breath as nervous fingers clutched and fidgeted with the braids in her hair, and said “I think I can help you with that.”
From a small mirror propped against a tree trunk, Sten’s glare snapped to Cousland. He noted her own braidwork, which she had pulled together and draped over the front end.
“I think you are correct, Warden,” Sten replied with a nod. “Seeing what you have done to your own hair, I feel I can trust you with mine.” He gave his brush to her and crossed his arms as he turned his back to the stump. “I expect nothing less than fine work, Warden,” he said, doing well to keep the rigid and stoic surface from cracking under the pressure of the bubbling, steaming feeling that all of his insides could leap out of his body and start dancing at the thought of Aithne touching him again…
…until he felt her fingers gently raking across his scalp, and through his damp, snowy-white locks. It was so stimulating that it had caused multiple places of his body to involuntarily twitch, like the way a good belly-scratch makes a dog’s leg scratch at the air. He put himself in a meditative state, closing his eyes to focus only on her touch, but maintaining control of most outward reactions.
“Well,” she said to him, after twenty or so minutes. “I think it looks good.”
This surprised Sten, as it felt to him that she was only half-way finished. But, before he rushed to criticism, he decided to take a good look at it in the mirror. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Much of his hair was left to drape down along his back and chest, but there was breathtaking work around the top of his head– the cornrows he was expecting were there, but they were not scalp-tight– several rows of braids that looked like qunari horns sweeping over untouched layers, directed to the back of his head and well away from his face, exposing only the sides of his head.
Seeing the look on Sten’s face, not sure if it was a positive or negative reaction, Aithne hastened to explain “I thought this style would add a lot of body to the head area– the more body the greater commanding presence, right? And everyone can see that you were genuinely born without horns, instead thinking you might have just sawn them off.”
Sten was stunned by her saying this. How would she know about the way qunari revere the hornless? he was inclined to ask, but he didn't need to. Aithne saw the question in his eyes before he even made a sound and answered “That’s one of the few things I already know about you chaps. I read about it in a book–a memoir written by an adventurous woman that wound up stranded with a qunari on a deserted island when the ship they were on was attacked and sunk by pirates. They had worked together for about seven weeks to survive and signal to passing ships for help. She recalled what the qunari had said about the hornless. So, there you go… you can show off your not-horns some more and they will see that you are someone genuinely special.”
That was when Sten couldn’t contain himself any longer. He smiled–it was a very small one, but it was there and he did not try to hide it from her. There was also a low humming chuckle of joy, overwhelmed by not just another large extension of her kindness, but the unexpected knowledge she had of his people and their beliefs. Giving regard to them was a mere sliver of home, but he took it gladly after being in a strange land for over a month. It was enough to dissolve a great portion of his stubborn pride, and see clearly that this woman was worthy of occupying a place in his heart that he had never unlocked for anyone before. “It is fine work, Warden,” he said to her. “Thank you… very much .”
“It was my pleasure, Sten…” Aithne replied. “... Really .”
From that day forward, Sten was a lot more comfortable about revealing to Aithne many things about himself and his people. They would still get into a debate over delicate topics– philosophy, culture, and religion– and few of them would end with an agreement. But none would end without at least a better understanding of their reasons for being stubborn in their mindsets and ways, and oftentimes mutual respect would follow. The longest and deepest of them would fill the nightly bandage routine, when the heat of battle began to cool in the shower of moon light, and Leliana’s voice and lute aided the campfire in bringing warmth and comfort to their surrounding air.
Sten found himself stumped multiple times by Aithne’s responses when he challenged her beliefs. One fine example is something she had said during their intense discussion about mages and magic, the night that followed their victorious heroism at the Circle Tower. “Can you have just a little bit of drowning?” he had asked her.
Aithne saw nothing good about blood magic, but was not ready to embrace the notion that all magic is evil. She countered his argument with “Can you live without water?”
This rendered Sten speechless.
“A moderate level of control is necessary, but if you seek to gain too much of it you will end up defeated by same evil you fight,” Aithne added. She was referring to the Tevinter mages that had corrupted the Golden City and doomed the entire world to an infestation of darkspawn, all for the glory of power and control. Cousland comparing Sten and the rest of his people to the Tevinter Imperium was a hard punch to the gut, but he could not deny that it rung true.
“Surprising abundance of wisdom that you have, Warden,” he said, because his stubborn pride had been crushed to dust under the immense weight of his ever-growing affections for her, which had fueled his eagerness for the next chance they could sit and talk, even if it meant they might argue again. He found her intelligent retorts invigorating, to say the very least.
She did well in winning the argument they had about women fighting as well, from the very first day they fought together onward– through every encounter with darkspawn, corrupted beasts, demons, abominations, blood mages, slavers, assassins, bandits, tormented spirits, and possessed undead. Aithne moved at an almost superhuman speed, and displayed the great strength Sten had doubted was there in the way she tore up each foe that made the mistake of targeting her for death, with little to no effort.
Once a battle was over, Cousland would look over at Sten, with her face glowing with confidence and satisfaction, and catch his wide-eyed stare of astonishment and disbelief.
“So you know how to use your swords,” was Sten’s first positive remark on her superb fighting skills, still too proud at that time to douse her with the long-winded apology, adoration, and praise she deserved.
But Aithne–being a good reader of people, remember– didn’t need him to do that to know he was more impressed with her than he was willing to let on. It was evident that she was schooling him so well that it was only a matter of time–and maybe a little more work– before he swallowed his ego whole and pushed out what her ears itched to hear. She didn’t require too much from him– just a sincere apology, and something with “women can be warriors” somewhere in the middle should suffice.
As the number of darkspawn on the surface increased rapidly, and branched out towards other territories in the country, the party’s run-ins with them became more frequent and intense. About a day before they had reached the edge of the Brecilian Forest, hoping to find and recruit the Dalish elves into their growing army, they were ambushed by a small but very powerful group of darkspawn. Alistair, employing his templar abilities, made the emissaries utterly useless and easy to kill by nullifying their magic.
But there was an ogre among them–the last to fall– and it did not rely on magic for power and resilience. The behemoth announced itself with a wet, blood-curdling roar that shattered the air, and slammed its fists into the earth with enough force to knock everyone off their feet. It wasted no time exploiting the moment all defenses were down, rushing towards them with roughly 7 tons of bone-crushing power behind a mess of thick, razor-sharp horns upon its crown. Most were able roll out of its path in time, but not Wynne–she was solid and swift for someone her age, but just not fast enough. By the time she was able to pull herself back onto her feet, the ogre was only two steps away from trampling her to death.
But Sten saved Wynne from this fate when he attacked the ogre from the rear, leaping onto its back, grabbing a hold of a leather strap that kept one of its pauldrons secured to its body with one hand, and aiming to skewer the monster’s liver with one of the shorter blades he kept on his belt. The surprise attack did give Wynne more time to scurry out of the zone of certain death, but the ogre was able to throw Sten off of his aim when it thrashed and clawed at him, so it had only suffered a surface scratch. But the qunari’s powerful grip would not be loosened so easily, and nothing was going to tire or discourage his relentless assault…
… until the ogre backed itself into a jagged cliff wall.
Sten’s armor had prevented him from being fatally wounded, but he did suffer multiple incapacitating fractures in his arms, legs, and lower ribs. As the severe pain of it ripped through his body, he let out a heart-wrenching howl as he dropped from the ogre’s back and onto the rocky ground, helpless against another attack.
But the ogre would not take him while Cousland was still alive and mobile! Sten heard her scream his name–with a primal fury that had even shaken him to the core–and appeared to fly through the air as she leapt onto the ogre's chest. She plunged her blades deep into its chest, and gave them a good twist for the sake of efficiency and out of pure spite.
As the ogre collapsed onto its back, and the ground smacked out its last dying breath, Cousland rolled off and ran at high speed over to Sten. Wynne had used her magic to heal his fresh wounds during Aithne's assault on the ogre, but he had been stunned to motionless by what he had just watched.
"Sten!" Aithne cried, dropping down to where he had propped himself, against a slanted slab of rock at the foot of the cliff wall. "What did the ogre do to you?? Where are you hurt??"
Still trying to catch his breath, Sten couldn't say much at that moment. But he put a hand on her shoulder, gave it a firm and meaningful squeeze, and pushed out the words he believed were the most important for her to hear: “Woman…warrior… both are true .”
All at the same time, there was immense relief in knowing that Sten was alright, and an indescribable thrill that came from hearing him say those words. I’ll take that , she thought, as she smiled down at him.
“Thank you, Sten,” Aithne said to Sten. “What it means to hear you say that… it’s more than I think you can imagine.”
The slightest of grins crept towards one side of Sten’s face, and he replied with “I would imagine it means as much as someone doing something special for no other reason than to make a foreigner feel like he has at home right where he is, and to become his first true friend among strangers." Then, after a short and emotional pause, he added “You are welcome.”
Aithne was visibly moved by that response, and it wasn’t even half of everything he wanted to say. By this time, he had surrendered the fight against his growing romantic inclination, but he remained reluctant to confess it to Cousland due to his ever persistent voice of doubt, saying things like...
Surely she would prefer someone with softer and more similar aesthetics, like Alistair or Zevran!
I am also a murderer–nevermind that I was so blinded by rage and fear that I didn’t even realize what I had done until it was all over. What was done was done, cause or reason makes no difference. How could she wish to surrender any part of herself to these hands, and let me touch her the way I’ve longed to?
And I’m sure she would want to get married and raise children with that life partner– that is something a qunari cannot give her. I’ll not stand in the way of that.
Besides, why would she have anything to do with a man foolish enough to be skeptical of her worth! I should have seen from the start that it is beyond measure! It is my worth that I should have been questioning all this time instead! Next to her I am nothing. I am undeserving.
“We should move on," is all he could will himself to say to Aithne, and everything else he kept inside became needles in his blood.
"Yes… there's daylight yet, and I think the Dalish are close. That's where we will set up camp, if they will allow it."
Aithne put an arm around the back of Sten’s neck and shoulders, and a hand under one of his arms, to help him onto his feet– unnecessary, since Wynne’s magic restored his strength too, but he wouldn’t decline the chance to feel her embrace.
If it is your will… if this is something you want… Sten thought, as he followed closely behind Aithne when they pressed on towards the Brecilian Forest. I will give it to you. Because Par Vollen is as distant as Asala… lost forever. There is no going home. I have nothing to hope for after the Archdemon is slain… except you.
But this has to be your choice. Tell me that this is what you want as well… and it will be given.