Nathaniel Howe
Warden Commander of Ferelden
Canon Character
Noble
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 183
((OOC: Justinian 7, 9:35, Evening, @Cauthrien ))
The vase went first. Thrown against the wall in a sudden explosion of energy that needed an outlet. Pottery fragments littered the stone floor and soon found company in bowl upended and emptied of fruit. A mirror was shattered with the hurl of an apple. Curtains framing the windows of the room were ripped from their rods and left to be trodded upon on the room's floor. Once he began, Nathaniel could not stop. Everything kept bottled in over the course of the day remained suppressed no longer.
Old wounds he thought long healed reopened in the wake of Josc’s news. What if he had stayed in Kirkwall? He hadn’t stayed because what he had was not enough. No, he wanted more. He wanted what he was owed. He wanted his revenge. He was no fool to think the arling within his grasp. But Aedan, he most certainly was. The need for revenge blinded Nathaniel and he failed to see what lay within the landscape beyond his desire to give his father what he deserved.
If he had known the true cost…
Those days after his conscription he tallied the cost as he thought it. His life as he knew it was over. Nathaniel was not dead but would be. Aedan made that abundantly clear. Nathaniel was a Grey Warden. Grey Wardens died sooner rather than later. He never for a moment thought his decision to leave might impact anyone in Kirkwall. That his decision to return to Ferelden would mean the death of his child.
He wasn't directly responsible for the child's death. That hardly made the guilt less. If he was there, Josc might not have been on the docks that day. If he was there, he would have done whatever he could to provide for her and the child. If he was there-- But he wasn't.
His arm drug violently along the top of a table, everything sitting upon the tabletop hurled to the ground. A small dish crashed and broke into pieces. A lit candle and holder tumbled to the ground. The candle immediately snuffed out from the fall and wax poured from its tip onto the carpet below. He paced along the rug, boots crushing glass and porcelain fragments further pushing them into the fibers of the area rug.
For so long all he wanted in life was his father’s approval and the arling. He would have happily settled for hearing Rendon say just once, I am proud of you, Nathaniel. One of those goals was achieved thanks to the wardens. He had what he wanted but at what cost? He was Arl of Amaranthine, a title that should have filled him with pride but left him feeling empty at present. He had everything and nothing at the same time.
A derisive snort creased his lips, accompanied by the shake of his head and the search of his eyes for the bottle of whiskey Fergus had his room supplied with upon their arrival to Highever. He located the bottle upon the mantle above the fireplace. Drink would solve nothing. His downward slide into the bottle after Fiona’s death proved that to him. Still, he thirsted and craved the temporary relief he knew slipping into drink would provide.
He was tired of thinking about Fergus, about Cauthrien and now, about his failings to Josc and their child. No matter what he did, no matter the good decisions he made, everything turned to ash. He pushed Fergus away because it was the right thing to do for him, for Fergus and for Breanna.
Cauthrien should have approved of this decision. Nathaniel could see she did not like Fergus’ arrangement with Breanna. Why she would then tell Nathaniel he needed to be with Fergus, he did not know. His happiness, she claimed. What of Breanna's? What he did was best for all involved. He could not be convinced otherwise. Why could she not see that? Instead, she pushed him away and seemed incapable of believing she was the person he truly wanted and Maker help him, she was. Things would be far easier if he felt otherwise, if he could return to those days when he kept everyone at arm's length, using his duty as a shield.
The small box drew his attention next, resting carefully atop a round table near the doorway. Nathaniel pushed the lid aside and dug inside for the lock of hair preserved within. He clutched the keepsake and crossed the room next to retrieve the whiskey from the mantle. Knuckles whitened as he stared down at the bottle. This had been Thomas' fate. So hopeless and lost, Thomas drank to forget and cope. More and more the contempt he felt for his brother was replaced with understanding. What it must have been like for Thomas in those last days, gulping for air, reaching for a lifeline or sliver of hope that never came.
Nathaniel felt much the same now. Unlike Thomas, though, he could not succumb and took a step away from the hearth before chucking the bottle into the fireplace. He sank to the floor, back pressed against the curve of the couch in front of the hearth. His eyes traveled the length of the strands of hair held within his palm. He closed his eyes while running a finger along the end of the strands of hair and tried to imagine what Nathan looked like. Did he look like some combination of all the Hawkes or did he take after Nathaniel as Eunice did? Try as he might, he could not imagine the child's face and was not sure if that was a boon or not. To have known and lost or not to know at all...
No, he wanted to know. To not know was far worse.
The vase went first. Thrown against the wall in a sudden explosion of energy that needed an outlet. Pottery fragments littered the stone floor and soon found company in bowl upended and emptied of fruit. A mirror was shattered with the hurl of an apple. Curtains framing the windows of the room were ripped from their rods and left to be trodded upon on the room's floor. Once he began, Nathaniel could not stop. Everything kept bottled in over the course of the day remained suppressed no longer.
Old wounds he thought long healed reopened in the wake of Josc’s news. What if he had stayed in Kirkwall? He hadn’t stayed because what he had was not enough. No, he wanted more. He wanted what he was owed. He wanted his revenge. He was no fool to think the arling within his grasp. But Aedan, he most certainly was. The need for revenge blinded Nathaniel and he failed to see what lay within the landscape beyond his desire to give his father what he deserved.
If he had known the true cost…
Those days after his conscription he tallied the cost as he thought it. His life as he knew it was over. Nathaniel was not dead but would be. Aedan made that abundantly clear. Nathaniel was a Grey Warden. Grey Wardens died sooner rather than later. He never for a moment thought his decision to leave might impact anyone in Kirkwall. That his decision to return to Ferelden would mean the death of his child.
He wasn't directly responsible for the child's death. That hardly made the guilt less. If he was there, Josc might not have been on the docks that day. If he was there, he would have done whatever he could to provide for her and the child. If he was there-- But he wasn't.
His arm drug violently along the top of a table, everything sitting upon the tabletop hurled to the ground. A small dish crashed and broke into pieces. A lit candle and holder tumbled to the ground. The candle immediately snuffed out from the fall and wax poured from its tip onto the carpet below. He paced along the rug, boots crushing glass and porcelain fragments further pushing them into the fibers of the area rug.
For so long all he wanted in life was his father’s approval and the arling. He would have happily settled for hearing Rendon say just once, I am proud of you, Nathaniel. One of those goals was achieved thanks to the wardens. He had what he wanted but at what cost? He was Arl of Amaranthine, a title that should have filled him with pride but left him feeling empty at present. He had everything and nothing at the same time.
A derisive snort creased his lips, accompanied by the shake of his head and the search of his eyes for the bottle of whiskey Fergus had his room supplied with upon their arrival to Highever. He located the bottle upon the mantle above the fireplace. Drink would solve nothing. His downward slide into the bottle after Fiona’s death proved that to him. Still, he thirsted and craved the temporary relief he knew slipping into drink would provide.
He was tired of thinking about Fergus, about Cauthrien and now, about his failings to Josc and their child. No matter what he did, no matter the good decisions he made, everything turned to ash. He pushed Fergus away because it was the right thing to do for him, for Fergus and for Breanna.
Cauthrien should have approved of this decision. Nathaniel could see she did not like Fergus’ arrangement with Breanna. Why she would then tell Nathaniel he needed to be with Fergus, he did not know. His happiness, she claimed. What of Breanna's? What he did was best for all involved. He could not be convinced otherwise. Why could she not see that? Instead, she pushed him away and seemed incapable of believing she was the person he truly wanted and Maker help him, she was. Things would be far easier if he felt otherwise, if he could return to those days when he kept everyone at arm's length, using his duty as a shield.
The small box drew his attention next, resting carefully atop a round table near the doorway. Nathaniel pushed the lid aside and dug inside for the lock of hair preserved within. He clutched the keepsake and crossed the room next to retrieve the whiskey from the mantle. Knuckles whitened as he stared down at the bottle. This had been Thomas' fate. So hopeless and lost, Thomas drank to forget and cope. More and more the contempt he felt for his brother was replaced with understanding. What it must have been like for Thomas in those last days, gulping for air, reaching for a lifeline or sliver of hope that never came.
Nathaniel felt much the same now. Unlike Thomas, though, he could not succumb and took a step away from the hearth before chucking the bottle into the fireplace. He sank to the floor, back pressed against the curve of the couch in front of the hearth. His eyes traveled the length of the strands of hair held within his palm. He closed his eyes while running a finger along the end of the strands of hair and tried to imagine what Nathan looked like. Did he look like some combination of all the Hawkes or did he take after Nathaniel as Eunice did? Try as he might, he could not imagine the child's face and was not sure if that was a boon or not. To have known and lost or not to know at all...
No, he wanted to know. To not know was far worse.