UPDATE: Third Chapter posted, am going to post out the whole thing here.
A note too; the tense I'm writing it in is not quite my usual fare, but I thought I'd try it out. I'd love feedback on it, as it's a bit... odd, I suppose.
Thanks.
From the surface I shall
wakeLady
Aeducan has been banished, but swears she will see her love Gorim again. After all, she is a warrior, and will not let go of her rightful life without a fight... The love of StoneShe had always refused him her weakness.
Years together, from the moment she was released from the confines of the palace, her own warrior, bequeathed to her as protector and guide. Most noblewomen were given a handmaid, but her father, her dearest father King Endrin knew her strength from a young age. She was Aeducan, of strong blood. She would be a warrior, trained by the pride of the Warrior Caste.
The day they had been introduced, he had expected a frightened child, hiding behind her fathers robes, but instead was greeted by two coal eyes glaring into his, and a rich voice with the hint of laughter proclaiming “I hope you are right in your judgement father. I think his eyes are a little too warm to be a champion.” Her ****sure attitude had made him smile, and she noted the way his eyes creased away in to tiny sparkles. She had never seen a smile quite like it. It touched something deep in her, and from that moment she knew that he would be the one to shape her life indefinitely.
Years passed. Years of learning from both sides, of growing together, the proud soldier and the willing princess. Over time, watching a lesson became watching the other, as he noticed her grow, fill out, her lips become plump and red, her pale skin become flushed with a gentle rose hue, her thick hair grow longer and longer, braided in
to ceremonial plaits as they had done to her mother. One day she cut them off, leaving her hair shorter than his. When he confronted her, she said she did not wish to be an ornament, but to be practical, a tool of battle, like himself. He smiled, that smile which had captured her, and she kissed him. Slowly, measuredly. Then she left
him to her brothers, who had seen the whole thing. He did not care one bit as they beat him in to his place, because he knew then that she was his.
Truly, the years had bound them together. Years of illicit moments, of excitement, of grand fights and grander celebration. It seemed like only that morning he had dressed her in her ceremonial armour, and he had taken her to the Provings. She fought for herself, and for him, secretly, as his champion. The champion of the man she had loved, did love, and would love, despite whatever stood in their way. It seemed like only that morning, yet also seemed like a lifetime ago. In such a short time, and yet an eternity ago, her beloved brother Bhelen, her little, sweet confidant, had betrayed her. It was not as if she had not deserved it. In some ways, she admired how he took advantage of her contempt for their elder brother Trian. They had talked at length of his pride, of his rashness, and yet it was her own pride and rash decisions that had led to Trian's death and her imprisonment. She could have almost congratulated Bhelen on his cunningness, given up just then, were it not for Gorim at her side. He reminded her of her pride, of her place, and of her fathers love. She would not go quietly. She did not show weakness as they dragged her away, calling to her father for the truth.
But now, exhausted, hungry and naked in her cell, stripped of all rank, all identity, all memory of being, she can feel the armour slip away. He looks at her, his usually sparkling eyes dull with tears.
“I have been given liberty to go to the surface. I will go to Denerim...”
“I take it from your tears that it is death for me.”
“No...no. The assembly was merciful, brought down by the tears of your father. They... they will banish you to the Deep Roads.”
She feels her stomach tighten. Sent to the deep roads to join the Legion... it was death, surely, if only torn out over years... she tries to hold it back.
“My Lady Aeducan, please listen to me-”
“And my father? I hear he ails-”
“My Lady, do not lose hope. There is a way, I believe. Do you recall Duncan?”
“Duncan?”
“The Grey Warden.”
Slowly, memories slip back into being. Somewhere amongst the festivities, the celebrations, there had been a tall man, almost a ghost. She had heard of Grey Wardens, of wizened servants of justice, facing their final fight to die in glory.
“I am too young to die in the roads.”
“You need not die. Duncan was recruiting for the Grey Wardens. If you can find him, you could get out of here-”
“I have heard tales of the Wardens.”
“They're good, hardy warriors. Strong people. They will treasure a woman of your prowess. They are always looking for Dwarves because of our knowledge of Darkspawn-”
“But what good-”
“They were impressed by you. I know it. Who wouldn't be? You're strong, resilient, faithful, beautiful... you just need to catch up with them before they return to the surface. They will take you in. They will help you live.”
“Gorim-”
“I believe in you.”
And there it was. Somehow more than they had ever shared in the past, more than the nights spent in each others arms, more even than the spark in his eyes when he smiled. That simple sentence tears away the last of her pride, and before she can control herself she feels her body press against the bars holding them apart. “I am so scared,Gorim-”
“My Lady-”
“Hold me, please. One more time. We don't have anything to fear any more. We're casteless,” she chokes, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “Nothing more to lose. Please.”
Seeing her like this almost breaks his resolve. But he knows, as he had known for almost ten years, that she needs him to be steady as the stone. He was her second, the one she could hold on to. And now, as he gently takes her trembling hand and wraps it around his neck he finally truly became her love.
She had almost forgotten how his beard smelled like iron, how soft it is on her skin. She had almost forgotten that his mouth was hot, and tasted like the air of the Deep Roads. She finds herself so enraptured by the sound of his voice that she is no longer listening, and does not hear as he tells her of his plans to leave for some human city. She treasures every sensation, willing herself to store it safely, for who could tell what was to come...
Gradually, her breathing settles, and she peels herself away, standing tall and wiping away any trace of her shameful tears. “I suppose this is it.”
“I suppose. Goodbye, My Lady Aeducan.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
There is a silence, at that point. Gorim knows that he has to leave then, or he would never be able to. He calls upon all the might of his ancestors and turns, his feet carrying him away as if by their own accord. He cannot bring himself to look back as he hears her begging to tell the King that she loves him. Their paths are now forked.
She cannot not tell how long she had been wandering these roads. She is starving and delirious from the cold, dragging the sword she had salvaged along the rock, hoping it will attract something, anything,
be it Grey Warden or Darkspawn. She had counted herself lucky so far. She had salvaged a longsword, breastplate and gloves from various fallen warriors, though no boots to fit her feet which were aching from the jagged rocks. The first darkspawn she had encountered she had ripped apart with her own hands. The blood lay stale on her skin.
Still she walks. Through the anti-roads, off the beaten track, dragging her blade along the stone. She can barely think straight. Every so often, she knew she was looking over her shoulder for Gorim. In every part of her life he was her guide, her right hand, wielding a sword as well as wielding her will. And now, without him, walking through the never ending roads she could not help but wonder... what if all the strength, all the supposed warrior prowess was just
him? Perhaps it was always him. Certainly now, as her feet cut against the hard ground, she does not feel the conquering hero. Perhaps the Grey Wardens had indeed left. Perhaps it was all just wishful thinking. Perhaps his last gift to her was the hope of something more than death.
She trudges on, onto one of the vast roads that ran through the once glorious Dwarva Empire. Yet another road, all the same carvings, all melting in to one... but this one has one difference. On the farthest point of her vision, a glimmer of steel and sword. It is Duncan. She can see it is. In an instant she flooded with the feeling that all
that Gorim told her was right. With all the remaining strength in her body she runs to the kindly ghost-figure of Duncan, and on to her new life.
She would get out of here. She would live. She would find him.
[align=centre]Sky Sickness[/align]
“My Lady, we are at the surface. Please be careful; do not look up, keep your feet steady. This is going to be quite a shock.”
She feels comfort in the soft, warm voice of her saviour, as they climb the rock trail to the surface. She looks up to see Duncan smiling at her, only slightly, with a warmth that reminds her of her father, her father who lies all those miles back. No, she tells herself, she cannot think of that now. Now, they are about to go through, they are on the verge of the new world. She can feel her heart pound. It already feels hot underfoot, and they have not yet
broken the surface. The stone shimmers here she notes, as watches glimmers of light dance over her feet. She has never seen anything quite like it.
Duncan goes ahead with his companions, turning back to lift her up. She can barely see his hand, but he grasps hers firmly, and she hoists herself in to the light.
She can barely open her eyes. When she does, she is knocked back the sight of the sky touching the land. She has never seen anything like that blend of colours, of that intensity. As she falls back, her eyes drift up, and meet the sun. The beams burn in to her, causing her to gasp for breath. The air is colder here, crisper, and sticks in her
throat. She chokes on it, retching and writhing on the ground. The ground spins beneath her, and steadies only when his strong rough hands pull her up and force the sack of mead to her lips. She drinks, without questioning, until she splutters and coughs so deeply he is forced to move it away. Slowly the image of his face comes in to
focus. His kindly brow is furrowed in concern, and she begins to feel his calloused fingers wipe her face. “Do not be alarmed. This is to be expected. We have travelled many days, without rest. Your body is
weakened.”
The word hit her stomach. A growl escapes her lips as she tears herself away from his grip. She will not be weak. No, not in this new life. She had lost her old one due to her weaknesses...
As soon as she stands, she feels the sky sucking at her. She falls to her knees, her stomach dispelling all the mead she had just drank. How could these beings stand with no stone to hold them? The sky seemed endless, unforgiving, unnatural and soulless. She could feel no ancestors' guiding voices here. Here, the world was bare.
“It will pass, my Lady,” spoke the spectre, his hand scooping under her arm to guide her to her feet. “I have given you extra rations of liquids, whatever we have spare. Keep drinking, and stay to the shadows. The sunlight will take a toll on your health.”
She thought back to a certain suitor that had come for her hand. He had written pages of poetry praising her fair complexion. Paleness seemed so important in her old world, a sign of status, of being truly stoneblessed. Now she knew she should simply remain grateful for her life. A life she would not have had to praise without the
help of a few good men.
“My thanks, Duncan,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “I will not forget all you have done to me. I have rarely seen such kindness.”
She thinks she hears him laugh, but when she looks to him his face is ashen. “Do not thank me. There is no need. We must make haste, I wish to make better time than we have.”
Despite the cool nature of his words, he picks up her pack and carries it alongside his own. Feet still trembling, she walks after him, smiling slightly at the unfamiliar tickle of the green.
[align=center]Drink[/align]
She can smell nothing but blood. The blood seeping slowly out of Daveth's mouth, the blood pouring out from underneath Ser Jory, but more than anything, the strange, alien scent of the blood of the Darkspawn. She looks to Duncan. He is changed somewhat, though she cannot tell quite how. His eyes, though still kind, have a certain
sadness to them. She looks across to the only other living creature, the boy she had met earlier... Alistair was his name. He looks troubled. She swallows dryly, pushing the shock of Jory's blood to the back of her mind. There is no time for grief. There is never time for grief in war. Still, as Duncan takes the cup again and their eyes
meet, she can't help but wonder how it had come to this.
The day had been eventful, to say the least. They had arrived at Ostagar as the day dawned, after many weeks of walking. There had been no time for pleasantries, not even a bath or food, before she was ushered in front of the King of Ferelden. She recalled his likeness, though she coul dnot tell from where, and could not help but feel proud as she introduced herself as Lady Aeducan of Orzammar. She could see Duncan's disapproval at her choice of title, but King Cailan looked enthralled. He was tall, handsome, valiant and foolish, just as she imagined a human king would be. Yet she had found herself endeared by his eagerness, if not perturbed by his lack of concern at the Darkspawn threat. To hear the young man and his cohorts dismiss the Blight so carelessly seemed blasphemous to her, but she held her tongue for once. He was a necessity, a token to take in to battle to
raise moral. She understood the post; she had not been made commander in Orzammar for nothing, after all.
She was itching for the ritual to begin, and was relieved when Duncan sent her to meet one of his fellows who would lead them on the first test. She had expected much from the Grey Wardens after the kindness and valour she had found in Duncan and his men... but she had not expected someone like
him. As she approached, he seemed to be a fair bet; well-built, clean shaved and youthful, a new recruit perhaps, but a warrior no doubt. However, as he opened his mouth and a rich, joyful barrage of wit cascaded out... she had to admit, he
surprised her. And, more shamefully, he made her smile. She hid it quickly, before he could see, and did not show it as they continued out into the wilds with the two men she would be trialled with.
They had found a delicate balance out there, the three men and the dwarf. Daveth had been her favourite, a quick, snarky thief with a practical mind. Ser Jory, a knight (which she had assumed meant he was from the Warrior Caste) seemed a decent man, but there was a fear in him that she did not like, a cowardice that seemed at odds with his refined skill in the battlefield. He seemed to care so much for the title of Grey Warden, something she could not understand given the fact he seemed so proud of being a Knight of Redcliffe. She had asked Daveth as they walked together if he found the same pride, and he had answered “For me, it was the Wardens or death. I'm beginning to wonder if they might be one and the same thing.”
She looks down at his body in the dirt. If only he had known. His eyes are glazed white, yet she still sees the richness that was once behind them. She remembered the sparkle that caught them when they were set upon, the joy he found in fight... and she remembered that one moment they sparked with fear, too, when the witch-woman had set upon them. His pracicality seemed to dissolve in that moment, as Jory tried to talk him out of his old wives tales. They all became equal in her eyes at that moment, all nothing in comparison with this
dangerous creature and her mother, whose presence chilled the dwarf right to her core. Yet for all her fear, she had been intrigued also. That was what drove her, and would continue to drive her; the thrill of the fear that dogged her in this new world. The knowledge that every breath could be her last.
Duncan now approaches with the chalice. The smell is almost unbearable. The sound of her heart thumping in her head drowns out the words that spill from his mouth, and yet she does not hesitate when he hands it to her. She does not stop to even think as she swallows the hard, metallic liquid. It
must be done. There is no turning back. There is nowhere to turn back to.
The pain grips her out of nowhere. Her heart feels like it is swelling in her chest, bursting through her lungs, as a searing pain burns through her temples and out of her eyes. She cannot feel anything now as a vision comes before her; a vision of a demon.
She reaches for her sword, but her arms wont move. The demon looks to her. Their eyes meet. She knows somehow that it is trying the speak to her, and something deep in her gut is aching to hear its words. Its eyes are all at once the eyes of a friend and a foe, of a treasured lover and a fatal enemy.
She calls to it, or tries to, as she realises that no sound is coming from her throat. Why? Her first thought is it is some kind of magic, something put in front of her to trial. Still she calls, screaming to it, begging it for answers, though she does not quite know of what she asks. It stares at her, it's eyes giving her all the answers it
can.
As she longs for it, the demon calls again, the cry splitting through her eardrums, her throat, her heart, her stomach. She weeps.
She falls. Darkness comes.
Modifié par Raoune, 12 janvier 2010 - 07:58 .
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