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Stupid, stupid, stupid. This is stupid. Even so, he keeps walking down the hall, steps hurried and uneven, wine sloshing over the rim of his glass to coat his hand and wrist.
First Day celebrations, in general, were never as important to the Howe’s as Ferelden tradition seems to dictate they should be. Nathaniel is certain they occurred but the only such thing he can recall to memory is a sort of vague discomfort in body and mind—the stiff clothes of formal occasions, the anxious silence of watching servants prepare the hall just so, the strange social dance of mingling with adults far more important than himself, the ever watchful, ever disdainful eyes of his mother and father following him about the room.
In short, not at all different from every other day.
He comes to a stop in front of Mahariel’s door, shifting his weight onto one foot, then another.
First Day celebrations in the Free Marches were much less strict than family affairs, certainly, though not much more fulfilling. His youth and the humor of Ser Varley were enough to keep his drunkenness in the light of amusement, if nothing else. And he suspects that, much as he hates the thought, even Varley was beginning to feel some small spark of pity for the nephew whose mother never wrote to ask about his well-being.
He purses his lips, squares his shoulders (though they stiffen right back up), and takes a deep breath through his nose.
This year’s First Day wasn’t spent much better, frankly. In fact, arguably worse as there was no alcohol provided, Velanna and Anders quite destroyed the courtyard, memories of the Architect and those horrible… creatures were still fresh in his mind (not to mention the stench equally as fresh on his things).
He knocks.
They say that how the new year begins—the company, the humor, the intent—will pave the way for the rest of the year. Be in good company and you are sure to remain so. Be generous with your prosperity and you are sure to receive in turn. Spend your stipend on a prostitute in Starkhaven and find that your already scant allowances will fall from your pockets, the Chantry mothers will haunt you like the Nevarran dead, you’re old enough now to always get a hangover, and no you’re not in love, you’re just lonely enough to wish you were. Happy new year, you daft bastard.
There’s no reasonable excuse for him sulking with such thoughts tonight—the hall is still half full of drunk Wardens, the liquor in his glass is the best in the Keep, the company (even the Orlesians) is something a bit better than acceptable. Despite his preconceptions (and his best efforts), it’s a good night. Or perhaps a good morning now; he’s not altogether sure what time it is.
He only knows that it isn’t the dawn of the new year, but that he does, finally, have something to hope for.
Mahariel opens the door, rubbing sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand, and she welcomes him inside.