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[Sialater]

That's the working title, at the moment.  May come up with something better later. 

So, after much encouragement from Kerridan and Amethyst, I'm taking the plunge and posting the first few parts of my first foray into fanfic. 

This takes place after the Archdemon has been killed and is from the POV of my elf mage, Moira Surana.

~*~


Part 1

 

It had been two months without word. 

 

Moira Surana sat in her study, staring at the flames in her fireplace.   Perrin, her Mabari, sat with his great head on her small feet, snoring.  Maker’s breath she missed him.  It was still awfully cold at night and in the morning, but spring in Ferelden always had an uphill battle against the winter ice.  The cold nights made his absence worse.

They’d argued, of course, about him answering the call of the Wardens at Weisshaupt.   Moira knew it was a bad idea to send Ferelden’s king on this errand, but he’d insisted. 

“I know you’re the Warden Commander, love, but they addressed the summons to me as Warden Commander.  I need to go, at least to tell them they’re mistaken,” he held her much smaller hands in his as they sat facing each other on her bed.  They kept separate rooms and even slept apart occasionally, but mostly they shared her bed.   His hands cradled hers as if he were afraid she’d break.  

“They’re going to want to know why we’re alive, Alistair,” she pointed out, looking down at their joined hands.

He ran a gentle finger along her jaw and tucked a lock of raven hair behind her pointed ear, then drew down to lift her chin to look her in the eye, those brilliant blue eyes a man could drown in as if they were the sea they so resembled.  “I know.  And I’ll play dumb, just like I said.  Or blame it on Riordan.  Let him be the hero.”

“Maybe you should tell them,” she had suggested.  Shock widened his pale blue eyes.  

“Uh, no, that’s a bad idea. Bad, very bad. “

“Why?  If something goes wrong, they’ll at least be prepared to stop her,” the elf mage pointed out.

“You suddenly not trusting the swamp witch, love?”   His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughing at her.

She glared at him, “Of course I trust her.  I’m just too suspicious and practical, both of which she would approve.  All those books, they warp a girl’s brain, you know.”  She stood up, she had to move around, talking of Morrigan always made her antsy.  Her long robe covered her from neck to heel, but the soft wool still clung to her.  She hated winter; she could never seem to get warm.  Her long black hair was still damp from her bath, one he had yet to take, so she was colder than usual.  She began to pace and could feel his eyes on her.    

Maker, Alistair loved to watch her move, her training as an Arcane Warrior had given her a grace the formerly clumsy, newly-minted mage had lacked, back when she’d first shown up at Ostagar.  She’d tripped over her own feet more often than not while wandering the Korcari Wilds with him and Jory and Daveth.  His priorities had shifted so much since she’d come into his life.  First, all he’d cared about was the Grey Wardens.  Then, it was revenge on Loghain and the good of Ferelden.  Now that he was king, he wished he could tell them all to go hang just for more uninterrupted time with her.  She stopped pacing and looked out the window onto the courtyard below.  

“Take me with you, then,” her voice was quiet.

“No.  Both of us can’t be gone,” it tore his heart to say it, but it was true.  They’d taken Morrigan’s bargain, not just
because Moira trusted the apostate woman, but because they knew without them both, Ferelden would fall back into the hole they’d dragged it out of.  The mages and elves both clung to her as a living symbol of their struggles, and the humans looked to them both to protect them.  And there’d been no guarantee either of them, or Riordan, would make it to the Archdemon alive.  When Riordan had fallen to his death, they had just looked at each other, through the smoke and the blood and the gore and the bodies.  The ritual had been an act of desperation.  Being together afterward, that was just a byproduct.  “They addressed the summons to the Grey Warden Commander Alistair Thierin, not the Grey Warden Commander Moira Surana.”

She made an impatient noise, “That’s because they’re idiots.  They don’t understand.  Andraste’s Ass, maybe it’s because I’m an elf.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” he said, uncomfortable.

Moira changed the subject, her outcaste-ness made him uncomfortable.  Especially since she didn’t rail against it, as he thought she should.  But he was the one who’d decided to keep her as his mistress, after all, she was just playing by the rules that were still too entrenched to break.  She knew he regretted not forcing their marriage down the Landsmeet’s throat after the defeat of the Blight, but she doubted Ferelden could have handled a mage and an elf sitting beside a bastard king.  She enjoyed being with the love of her life as often as his duties and hers, as Chancellor and Grey Warden Commander, would allow.    He kept trying to figure out a way to marry her, now, but she knew it was an impossible dream, it was no longer her race, though, that was the obstacle.  Eamon had pointed out the crux of the matter: Moira Surana had become too powerful an individual to also wield the title of Queen.  Alistair was better off trying to find another of his father’s bastards or one of his brother’s if he needed an heir; her infertility was still a problem, after all.  He refused to marry, and she didn’t really want him to.  Maker’s breath, it might be worth it just to track down Morrigan for that child if he really needed one.  But Moira, again, called herself selfish.  Just to stay near him, she’d endanger his throne.  They’d find a way around the obstacles.  They always had.  

From that first time in Lothering when Morrigan had taunted him about deferring to the older but junior female elf mage, the ultimate outcaste in Ferelden society,  she’d never felt as if he were her subordinate.  She’d consulted him at every step of their journey on each decision.  She’d ignored his advice only twice, once when they’d rescued Shayle from her immobile prison and once when Zevran had tried to commit suicide by Grey Warden.  Alistair had apologized, later, to her and to the two of them.  Especially when one or both had saved his life many times over.

“On this, I’m right, and you know it, my love,” he told her back as she still stood at the window looking out.  He could see in the half-twilight that it was snowing again.  “You’re always saying we need to take advantage of those who underestimate you.”

“But they’re not supposed to be our enemies,” she pointed out.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, “As you’ve pointed out to me many times, my love, an ally is an enemy who hasn’t found a reason to betray you yet.  You can only count on friends.”

She laughed, in spite of herself.  “Stop quoting me at me.”  He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.  For some reason, she always smelled like roses and cinnamon.

“Why?  You are entirely too wise for your years.”

“I told you, it’s all that reading.  It’s warped my mind.”

They stood, watching the snow fall on the courtyard.  He would be gone in the morning.

Modifié par Sialater, 01 août 2011 - 06:47 .

[Tasmen]

Excellent start. I will just say this though, the formatting of your post is a little off so it made it a little difficult to read at times. Otherwise, I would say good story and I'm eager to see what happens next.

[Herr Uhl]

The nightmare is coming?

[Tasmen]

Ah, you already fixed the formatting. You are quick on the trigger there, missy

[ReubenLiew]

I like it A good start.

[Sialater]

This is an expanded version of the nightmare.



I tried to fix the formatting. Didn't realize it was so screwy when I hit submit.

[Sialater]

Part 2



Zevran leaned in the doorway, watching the Grey Warden. Her beautiful sapphire eyes were focused on the flames in the fireplace, but he could tell her mind was wandering in the past. She’d done that a lot in the last month or so, when the letters from Alistair had abruptly ended. Her Mabari raised his huge head and looked at Zevran, assessed him and flopped back down on her small feet. She looked up at the door and smiled a greeting at the assassin. As always, Zevran felt his heart clench. Though to be fair, the bastard prince had won her heart long before Zevran had ‘introduced himself.’ Moira had only allowed Zevran’s advances because Alistair had not yet made his move, and the mage, though confident in every other area of her life, had no clue about how to handle men. It had been dreadfully obvious to anyone who’d watched them those first months, though, what was happening. The elven assassin had wanted to throw his hat in the ring as a contender for her heart, all the same. He’d lost, but retained her friendship. His one regret was that he’d not been the one to make her face light up as it did when the former Templar entered the room. He was, however, very glad when she’d offered him a place at her side when she stayed in Denerim. She’d even paid him well, while sending him after a few of Loghain’s more vocal supporters.



“Copper for your thoughts, my friend?” He asked, walking into the room.



Moira didn’t know why or even how, but Zevran somehow managed to make walking into a room a sexual proposition. “It’s been too long. This isn’t like him.”



“This isn’t like whom?” He played dumb, it usually got her angry. It was one of his few guilty pleasures left in regards to Moira. She was one of those fortunate women who got even more beautiful when she was angry. He was rewarded with a glare.



“Alistair, Zevran, Alistair. It isn’t like him to stop communicating. The last note was merely a very terse, ‘I’ve arrived,’” she told him.



“Yes, I know. And every letter prior to that has been explicit and detailed in what he intended to do to you upon his return, I know.” He propped one hip on her desk, looking down at her.



She jumped up, startling her dog, “You read them! Zevran!” She was indignant!



He grinned, “But of course, m’Lady. It’s my job to protect you, after all. That is one thing Alistair and I agreed upon when he departed.”



She arched an eyebrow, “Protect me from what? Lustful thoughts? Lascivious letters? You realize I can shatter people with a word, right?”



“Nevertheless, I do what your king desires in this respect,” Zevran said ‘your king’ deliberately. He’d never sworn to serve Alistair, after all, but if it had not been for the woman in front him, Zevran would have been friends with the younger man. But Moira turned them into rivals.



Moira, for her part, valued Zevran’s friendship highly. She saw in him a kindred spirit. Someone who didn’t blink at her frequent ruthlessness. Alistair didn’t blink, either, just tried to temper it, which she valued even more. She wasn’t comfortable with that part of herself and wouldn’t allow it free reign. She’d been very uncomfortable putting that sociopath Bhelen on the throne, for instance.



“I don’t actually care what he ‘desires’ in this respect. I’m leaving tomorrow. Arl Eamon is hanging around, he can make himself useful and keep the country from falling apart while I’m gone.” Moira stood, her mind made up. Perrin scrambled to his feet, ready to follow her.



“And where is it we’re going then, my dear Warden Commander?” the assassin asked, blocking her path to the door.



She looked up him. Why did everyone have to be so much taller than she? Really, it was joke from the Maker. “I am going to Weisshaupt.” The emphasis on the pronoun was obvious. “They can’t hold the King of Ferelden indefinitely.”



“They are not holding the King of Ferelden. They are holding a Grey Warden,” the assassin pointed out, ignoring her pronoun usage.



“That’s not the only hat he wears and you know it, Zev.”



The tone in her voice made him step aside, “As you wish.” He bowed at the waist, slightly. She glared at him one last time, before sweeping out of the room, her vibrant red fur-lined wool cape sweeping after her, her soft soled boots making no sound on the stone. He felt a moment of pride in that small achievement. That was something he’d taught her. However, no one could teach that dog to walk quietly, his claws clicked on the stone in her wake.



Moira found herself walking toward the armory. It would be good to have her armor and weapons again. The guard recognized her and unlocked the heavy doors for her, pushing them open. She stood for a moment, looking at the armor. The dragonscale armor she’d given Alistair before Landsmeet was gone, he’d worn it when he left, leaving that gaudy gold armor of the King of Ferelden behind. Her own armor hung toward the back, nearly hidden behind the guards’ supplies. Shining silver, it was splashed across one shoulder with a stylized dragon as if painted in blood. The glowing green sword Starfang and and the shining silver sword Spellweaver hung crossed on a stand in front of it, she could really only use one at a time, but she carried both, just in case, with a long dagger for her off-hand. She supposed she could get a servant to bring it to her in her quarters. It would make packing that much easier. But she needed armor on. She felt too vulnerable.



It didn’t take long to put on. It was much easier with a second pair of hands, though. Moira felt her face heat as she remembered the first time she felt secure enough in her abilities as an Arcane Warrior to finally put on armor. It took entirely too long because Alistair would stop after every buckle and tickle her wherever she wasn’t yet covered in steel. She’d collapse in giggles and he’d kiss her thoroughly, only to start all over again with the next buckle. Oghren had eventually interrupted them by walking up behind them and belching loudly. While Alistair was kissing her. The rest of the armor went on quickly after that. As long as they didn’t look at each other and burst out laughing again.



She was down to that last hard to reach buckle when Zevran walked into the armory.



“Following me?” she asked, straining.



“I told you once, I would to the Black City, if I had to,” the elf replied. “Here, let me,” He crossed the room quickly to help her reach that problematic buckle. Of course, he had to help her in the most suggestive way possible. He stood in front of her and reached around behind her, his hands lingered on the small of her back, his face less than an inch from hers. The buckle met and he grinned down at her.



She reached up and kissed him on the cheek, “Thank you. I have to talk to Arl Eamon, now,“ she picked up the two swords.



Zevran laughed, “You’re awfully well armed to visit our friend the Arl.”



“I guess I am at that. I suppose I should see him in the morning, then.”



“I think that would be best, yes,” he chuckled. She stepped around him, picking up her cloak and the heavy dress she’d worn earlier. She could almost hear his eyebrows raise.



She left him in the armory. The Mabari clicked along behind her, unquestioning. She did have a reason beyond insecurity for wearing her armor and putting her swords on her back. Zevran couldn’t come with her, though he would try. Even now, she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t following her. But she’d have to sneak out somehow.



Fortunately, she’d already spoken with Arl Eamon that morning about being regent while she was gone; Zevran, of necessity, had been the last person she’d told of her plans. She did need to go back to her rooms, though. Her money was there, as well as her lyrium potion stash. The tiny vials were utterly necessary while she wore armor. Her magic was all that allowed her to wear it. Without it, she wouldn’t have been able to lift even a greave.



She made it to her room and grabbed her pack with the lyrium and her money, and some changes of clothes, in case armor wasn’t the fashion statement she needed to make as she traveled. The castle was silent this time of night. Only guards were awake, and none of them would stop her. Only Alistair could order them to stop her and well, he wasn’t here.



Silently, she slipped out of the sally port, Perrin at her heels, and started walking. She’d buy what she needed on the road, the faster she traveled the better.

[Kohaku]

Good on you Sia! I'm glad you put it up. ~Hugs~

[Sialater]

Thanks!



I have no business submitting professionally, if I can't handle critiques of a fanfic.

[ReubenLiew]

Don't see why not, your writing is pretty good...

[Herr Uhl]

Sialater wrote...
I have no business submitting professionally, if I can't handle critiques of a fanfic.

Just you wait, just you wait 

[Sialater]

Thank you, Reuben!



I'm just chicken.

[ReubenLiew]

No problem

If there is one critique I would have is that you might need to add a little more enviromental descriptions, but I tend to do that too much so it might just be me

[Sialater]

Well, I left those out for a reason. I don't own the world, I'd rather not screw it up.



Herr Uhl's making me nervous, now.

[Sialater]

Part 3



Moira apparently thought she was being clever. Zevran ghosted along behind her. She would be very angry with him. He grinned to himself at the prospect. He was not close enough to alert her, though he figured the Mabari knew he was there, but close enough to rush in to help if she got into trouble.



Which, of course, happened two days out of Denerim.



Moira cursed the fact that there were no horses. She’d jogged a great deal of the time, eating up the miles, and her magic. By the end of the day she was exhausted. The attack happened just after she set up her small tent and was collecting firewood for a small fire to keep herself warm. If she didn’t need lyrium dust so badly, she wouldn’t even be heading in this direction, she could have left Denerim directly from a ship and headed to the Anderfels. But though she’d kept a stash in her rooms, it wasn’t nearly enough for a prolonged trip. So, off to the Circle Tower she went.



The first bandit walked into the clearing where she was setting up her tent rather brazenly. “I see you’re all by your lonesome, there, miss. Care for some company by your fire?”



Moira straightened up, spell ready on her lips, the firewood fell to the ground and Perrin let out a growl. “This campfire would not be to your liking, I’m afraid. I think you should find friendlier ground.” Lightning began to arc around her fingers, but she kept her hand hidden.



“I’m sure this one’s friendly enough. Get her, boys!” Lightning arced out of her hand and fried the first bandit. More joined him in death as she gathered her strength and lanced out with a Cone of Cold and threw Stonefist after it, somehow getting two with one blow. Reserves depleted, but not so much she couldn’t heal herself or Perrin, she unsheathed one of her swords and drew her dagger and began to fight conventionally, her remaining magic lending her arms strength. Perrin was a canid blur as he ripped the throat out of one bandit and jumped immediately to tear the hamstrings of another.



And then, Zevran was there. His blades flashing in the twilight, he deflected another strike at her back. She felt the Mabari take a vicious sword strike across his haunches and gasped, throwing healing energy at the dog without thinking. Zevran’s presence also filled her senses in a way he had not since the last they’d fought together. The two elves and the Mabari fought the dozen or so bandits quickly and efficiently. Moira’s healing skills had only been necessary that once, thankfully. However, she was exhausted.



But not too exhausted to tell off the assassin. She stormed over to him and yelled, “What in Andraste’s Name are you doing here, Zevran?”



The elf grinned, he looked very pleased with himself for some reason. “Don’t you smirk at me!” She jabbed her armored finger into his chest, yelling up at him.



“Ai! Stop that!” He grabbed her hand. “My friend, I told you, my job is to keep you safe. Having you accosted by ruffians is not in that job description.”



“I didn’t want you to follow me.” She snapped, yanking her hand from his and putting her armored fists on her hips. Zevran reminded himself she wouldn’t appreciate his sudden urge to kiss her, armor and all.



“But yet, here I am, my Warden. Might I suggest we move your camp to less deadly ground?”



The incorrigible assassin was going to stick with her, Moira realized; arguing with him was an exercise in futility. She looked around at the corpses of the bandits, “Fine.” She went to disassemble her tent. Zevran set about looting the bodies of their valuables. “Do you really have to do that? Aren’t we quite wealthy enough?”



“You forget the first rule of adventuring. You never know what might come in handy,” Zevran walked over and took her hand and placed five vials of lyrium potions in her palm.



Moira’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline. “Where would common bandits get this much lyrium?”



“That is a mystery for another day, unless you want to keep your handsome king waiting,” he pointed out, sheathing stolen daggers at seemingly random spots around his lithe body. Moira looked away from watching him, her worried imagination conjuring Alistair in pain as a distraction from Zevran’s charms.



“Fine. I guess there’s enough daylight left to find somewhere else to sleep,” she looked at Zevran. You did bring your own tent, didn’t you?”



The elf merely grinned at her and started walking west. She looked at her Mabari, “Fat lot of good you are. You could have at least told me he was following us!” The dog’s tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth; he was clearly laughing at her. Zevran’s laughter floated back to her.



He found the new clearing, a bit smaller than the other one, but it would fit two tents. However, with the need to keep watch, only one tent was necessary. They’d have to split the night. Zevran took first watch, he knew she was always tired after a fight, even a minor one such as this.



Moira was rather disappointed in herself, she thought as she unbraided her hair. That small tussle and she was exhausted. What was going to happen when they found a real challenge? They had a lot of land to cover after the Circle Tower, after all, they still had to find a ship to take them from either West Hill or Highever. She needed to get her stamina back, fast. She didn’t complain to Zevran, though. Maker knows what activity he’d suggest to rebuild it!



True to his word, though, the assassin woke her in the middle of the night for her shift at watch. She didn’t put her armor on yet, though, preferring the freedom the plain leather she wore under the armor gave her. The early spring night was chilly, but the leather was warm enough. There was time to put the plate mail on later. She sat in the darkness, the Mabari’s snoring and Zevran’s quiet breathing mingling with the crickets.



She remembered keeping watch dozens of times. Especially after their camp had been attacked by Shrieks one night; it had broken any idea that their camp was safe. Even Morrigan had been shaken, her waspish tongue wondering out loud, “What’s next? Darkspawn tax collectors?” Moira had laughed at that, but turned to see Alistair’s troubled gaze. “Camp isn’t safe anymore,” he’d said. “I’m surprised they hadn’t found us before now.”



Moira knew Darkspawn were still roaming the countryside in isolated bands, but she hoped she wasn’t quite far enough along in her tainted state to light up like a beacon for them. She remembered Alistair saying they could sense him at only six months after his joining. It had been two and a half years, now, for her.



When dawn first stained the horizon with its red glow, Moira went to wake up Zevran. She stuck her head in the tent, he deserved to be woken up politely, after all, instead of kicking the tent like Oghren would have. “Zevran,” she called, in a normal voice. The assassin was awake and had a knife out and was kneeling with it pointing at her before she even finished his name. He was also stark naked. Moira felt her face heat.



She’d fallen for Zevran’s charms once, before Alistair had finally gotten it through his beautifully thick skull the girl mage might like the ex-Templar, and never regretted it. It had been difficult, though, to let the elf down. But she still remembered him. Frantically frozen, her eyes wide, her gaze locked on the assassin’s eyes, swallowing around the blade at her throat, she noticed a new scar on the top of his shoulder. “Uh, Zevran? Can you wake up now? Please?”



He blinked and swore in Antivan. The knife was retracted. Moira backed out of the tent so quickly she tripped and fell on her ass. Zevran emerged, the blanket wrapped around his waist. His hazel eyes concerned. “I did not hurt you, my Warden, did I?” He held out a hand to help her up. She looked at his calloused fingers a moment before accepting.



“No, you just. . . startled me.” She dusted off her rear end. She looked at him, “Isn’t it a little cold be sleeping naked?”



He shrugged, “Truth be told, I was but waiting for you to join me,” he looked at her and grinned.



She threw up her hands, “Get dressed, let’s go. I’ll need your help to put this armor back on.” If it were possible, his grin got wider. She laughed again. If he was serious, she was walking a fine line between hurting him and remaining his friend. A band around her chest tightened, then abruptly loosened when he laughed, too.



“Such a harsh task mistress! Fine, I will put my clothes back on if you will not warm me with your fair body.” He disappeared inside the tent. She shook her head. Zevran liked to push his boundaries.



In the tent, Zevran closed his eyes. He’d come very close to angering her irrevocably. If he forced her to choose again, he knew her choice and he’d be left out in the cold. But yet, he could not leave her, not his Warden. He dressed quickly. The simple truth of the matter was that it was simply more comfortable to sleep naked, he never actually expected her to join him.



He got the tent ready to fold up and crawled out to see her trying to reach that last stubborn strap again. She noticed him watching, her hair falling into her face, and she straightened up. She used to keep it much shorter and up in a pony tail. Now it was too long and hung in a mass of raven curls down her back. She’d had it braided yesterday and pinned around her head, she must have unbraided it to sleep. She blew a curl off her forehead and straightened up. “Help?”



Zevran grinned and walked over to help his Warden.

[ReubenLiew]

Heh, well there's always that one bad apple or so, but I doubt it'll happen on this forum though. People here are nicer that most other places.



Maybe, but it would still be good to include a little bit of it here and there to set the mood for the read

[amethyst_rose2009]

Kerridan Kaiba wrote...

Good on you Sia! I'm glad you put it up. ~Hugs~

Me too.  This is so good it needed to be shared with everyone.  

[Sialater]

ReubenLiew wrote...

Heh, well there's always that one bad apple or so, but I doubt it'll happen on this forum though. People here are nicer that most other places.

Maybe, but it would still be good to include a little bit of it here and there to set the mood for the read

All right, all right.  I'll see what I can do in future installments.

[Sialater]

Last part for a few days:



Part 4



The campsite had only been a day away from the Circle Tower, fortunately. Both were tired of walking. Moira’s feet were beginning to hurt constantly. Before they got to the ferry, Moira touched Zevran’s arm, stopping him.



“I know I was angry with you at first, Zev. But I’m glad you followed me. Thank you.”



He bowed at the waist, slightly, his long hair falling into his eyes. “It was my pleasure, my Warden.”



She cocked her head at him, looking at him thoughtfully, “Well, let’s go buy some lyrium,”



“After you,” he bowed her ahead. “We’ll have to be sure to visit Oghren on the way out, though. He’ll be very upset if we bypass him entirely.”



Moira nodded, “I planned on it. After all, he’s going to have news of the roads.”



The three of them crossed the lake quickly in the rickety rowboat. Or at least as quickly as a rowboat can row across a large lake. After years in service and charging higher and higher fares, you’d think the ferryman would invest in a better vessel. Moira wondered what he was doing with all the coin. They arrived at the island and Moira hesitated at the huge steel doors that were the final defense of the world outside against the evil depredations of the mages. Or at least, that’s what the apprentices as children had been told. As she got older, the huge metal doors were fancy prison bars, preventing the mages from seeing the world, experiencing life. Mages were weapons, to sheathed and locked up for the safety of the world. But she still could not bring herself to hate her old home, even if she knew now it was nothing more than a cage. They entered the Tower.



Moira looked around the Tower’s foyer. It was still the same hugely echoing chamber that had intimidated her when she’d first arrived as a five-year-old. She didn’t really remember her life before the Tower, she only knew she’d been born in Denerim’s Alienage because she’d been told. Even going back there didn’t bring up any memories for her. Abruptly, a young man with curly reddish hair and a short cropped beard limited to around his mouth cleared his throat. Cullen stood in front of her; his thick eyebrows drawn into a scowl, glaring at her, his arms in his armor were folded across his chest. Which was nothing new for Cullen, he seemed to have been glaring at her since puberty. “What are you doing here?”



Moira blinked her almond eyes. “Uh… shopping?”



His thick eyebrows drew down into a deeper scowl, “Not here to help your friend again?” he snarled.



Moira glanced at Zevran who shrugged. “What are you talking about, Cullen?” She asked, tiredly.



“My apologies, Grey Warden Commander,” Greagoir’s voice prevented Cullen from answering. The Templar Knight Commander walked around one of the pillars and nodded a greeting at her. His hair had gotten even more white than it had been before the Battle of Denerim. “We’ve been rather tense of late.”



Moira crossed her arms and looked up at the former terror of her childhood. “Not more abominations?” She really didn’t want to go through that again. At least not without Alistair and a dozen more Templars at her back.



Greagoir smiled without humor, “Not quite as bad as all that, I promise. Irving would like to meet with you, however.” The Templar glanced at Zevran, “His Majesty still in Denerim?”



“Long story.” Moira replied. “I’ll explain later.” Maybe, she added silently.



It was a quick walk up the two floors to the First Enchanter’s office. The smell of the book-lined office brought back memories. As a small child she’d been brought here frequently for getting into scrapes with Jowan. Or for defending herself against Cullen and his rather clueless attempts at what she now realized was flirting. (“Moira, you shouldn’t electrocute someone just because he pulled your hair. “ “Cullen, you shouldn’t be giving someone reasons to defend themselves.”) The large room felt smaller due to the number of books in piles around the room. It smelled like old paper, incense, leather, and dust. The First Enchanter needed to get the Tranquil to build some more bookshelves. The grandfatherly Irving stood from behind his desk and walked around to greet them.



“Moira, Chancellor Surana, how good to see you again,” Irving took her armored hand in his. He looked at her, puzzled. “How are you able to wear armor?”



Of all the things he would ask her, that surprised her. “It’s an old discipline we discovered a few years ago, during the Blight. Something that was long lost to the world with the Exalted March on the Dales.”



Irving’s eyebrows raised, “Most interesting,” is all he said. She could see Greagoir looking at her again, as if he hadn’t realized she was either wearing armor, or that mages shouldn’t be able to do so. “Is the use of swords part of that discipline?”



“Yes,” was all she said.



Irving grinned, “Maybe one day you could return to the Tower and pass that knowledge along. But, come, I didn’t ask want to see you just to chat about dusty paths of scholarship, child.” He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. “Will your friend? Be joining us?” The hesitation on the word friend made her want to scowl. But she’d been working on her poker face a lot lately with the castle guards in their weekly games.



Pointedly, she turned to look at her elven friend, “Zevran, would you like to stay, or have a look around since you’ve never been to the Tower before?” Zevran looked at her, an eyebrow raised.



Zevran considered what his Grey Warden asked. He looked consideringly at the two older human men and decided if they got tetchy, she could teach them a lesson or three without his help. “I do believe I haven’t seen Ferelden’s Circle Tower. I would like to look around, very much, yes.”



“Please take Perrin with you, Zevran. I’m sure he’d be bored sitting here with us.” Whenever she told him to take Perrin along somewhere, she expected more trouble for him than for her. He nodded at her, and she motioned to Perrin to follow the assassin. The dog and elf left the First Enchanter’s office as Moira sat down across from her old mentor. Her opinion of his competence had altered drastically after the events prior to the defeat of the Blight, but he was still the closest thing she had to a father.



Zevran immediately bumped into Cullen outside the First Enchanter’s office. The Templar loomed over the elf, attempting to intimidate him. Zevran was merely amused. “Come, my Templar friend, give me the grand tour. The Warden will be busy for a while, yes?”



“I am not your friend.” Cullen replied sullenly.



“Are you not an old friend of the Warden?” Zevran glanced down at the Mabari. The dog’s hackles were raised, but he hadn’t growled yet. What an astute judge of character you are, the assassin thought. “Any friend of hers, well…,” he let the sentence trail off with a shrug.



The Templar seemed to relax slightly, “You aren’t the one who was here with her before.”



Zevran started walking, he glanced back over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised, “Are you speaking of Ferelden’s new king, perhaps?”



Cullen had the grace to look embarrassed, “Nevermind.”



Zevran grinned to himself briefly, “Come, walk with me. You may tell me, privately, of your reservations about the Grey Warden’s taste in men.” Perrin walked at Zevran’s side, quite obviously watching the Templar out of the corner of his eye. Zevran didn’t trust the young man either; he approved the dog’s caution. The Templar reluctantly caught up to him.



Moira watched her friend and her Mabari leave, then sat down across from Irving. Greagoir took up an at-ease stance behind the First Enchanter.



“All right, let’s cut to the chase, gentlemen. What do you need?” She wished she’d insisted on time to change out of her armor before this meeting. Sitting in steel was just uncomfortable. She wondered if it would be rude to stand back up.



Irving cleared his throat, “I’m glad you traveled this way, though I guess it’s only to buy a large amount of lyrium.” He smiled. “But, we have two favors to ask of you.”



Moira resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Always a favor, she thought to herself. “What can I help you with, First Enchanter?”

[ReubenLiew]

Poor Irving, gets no respect he doesn't ;~)

[Sialater]

Part 5



Irving shifted uncomfortably, his gaudy blue and gold First Enchanter’s robes rustling on the wooden chair, “It seems your friend Jowan escaped from us again.”



Moira’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be joking.” Greagoir had the grace to look uncomfortable. Not for the first time, Moira wished Wynne hadn’t gone gallivanting off after Shale to help the golem regain her mortal form. The Tower could use her quiet competence and Irving needed to retire. She didn’t actually wish death on her friend, but he was a blood mage and that was the destiny that generally awaited blood mages. “How, by Andraste’s Ass, did you allow that piece of brilliance to occur?”



Irving stood up, angrily, “You will remember to whom you are speaking, child!”



Moira stood up, just as angrily, planting her armored fists on his desk and leaning forward, “And YOU will remember to whom YOU are speaking, First Enchanter!”



Greagoir put an armored hand on the First Enchanter’s shoulder, calming the older mage. “Anger will help no one, Moira, Irving.” To Moira, the Templar said, “He had been informing on blood mages in exchange for his life. He was watched closely, a Templar always with him.”



“Let me guess, he used blood magic to confuse his guards and took off.” Moira crossed her arms over her chest, her anger growing.



“Not exactly, no. We don’t think he did the confusing. We think he was either kidnapped, or broken out,” Greagoir told her.



“Either way, that means there’s a blood mage in the tower he didn’t know about. But then why not just kill him in revenge for ratting out the others?”



Irving seemed to master his temper. “I do not know, Moira,” he said, calling her by her name for the first time since she’d walked into the Tower. “At this point, it’s only speculation. If Jowan were in on whatever plot there was, perhaps they were only using him to get rid of the weaker members of their sick fraternity. If he wasn’t, perhaps they took him for revenge and plan to use him in some sort of blood mage rite.”



Moira smirked, “Knowing Jowan, it’s probably the second. I loved him like a brother, but I was the one coming up with the ways to get into trouble while were growing up.” She sighed, “Fine I’ll keep an eye out for him, but I’m on far more urgent business at the moment. What’s your second favor?”



Greagoir and Irving exchanged a glance, “It’s about Cullen.”



Moira braced herself. “You want me to take him with me?”



“Yes,” Irving said. “Since Jowan’s second escape and since his ordeal in the unfortunate occurrence,” as if the purge of the Tower and Uldred’s betrayal were a minor hiccup, “before the end of the Blight, Cullen has become increasingly harsh with the mages. Too harsh. He seems to think all mages are blood mages, except you.”



Before Moira could answer that odd statement, Greagoir chimed in. “The Revered Mother has already agreed to release him from his vows. I fear for his sanity if he stays.”



“What makes you think I can help him?” Moira asked. Cullen was a pain in the ass, but he had been one of the few to try to befriend her in her lonely childhood, at least until he realized she was a girl. He and Jowan were the only friends she’d had. Now, she had to save both. Not for the first time, she missed Lelianna. What the former Bard and Assassin would have to say about her current growing collection of misfits again would have been amusing. But the Orlesian woman was off hunting down her former lover and employer, Marjolaine.



“We’re grasping at straws, Moira,” Greagoir said. “We’re afraid of what he might do if he were to remain.”



“Do you want me to Conscript him?” she asked, quietly.



Both men looked troubled. “If you have to,” Greagoir said, his voice sad.



“If there’s no other way around it,” Irving said on Greagoir’s heels.



Moira resigned herself. “Fine, but I want three pounds of Lyrium dust in return. After all, I assume Cullen’s addicted. And I’ll need my own supply.”



Greagoir blanched. “Three?” he exclaimed. Moira noticed he didn’t ask how she knew Templars were addicts. Apparently, the Chantry assumed Alistair had been telling trade secrets.



Irving, however, nodded. “What you ask is reasonable. I assume you’re going on a long journey to need that much.”



“You could say that. I’d rather not say, though. It is, after all, King’s business.”



Irving nodded. Greagoir was still sputtering over the lyrium. “We’ll take our leave in the morning, then. Should I tell Cullen, or will you?” she looked at Greagoir.



“I’ll tell him,” Greagoir said.



“Good, I expect to leave at first light,” the two men nodded. “I assume my friend and I will have rooms?”



Irving nodded, “I’ll send an apprentice to you as soon as they’re available. You’ll be in the great hall, then?”



“There, or the library.” Moira said. Once again, Moira missed Wynne. She doubted she’d have had to ask for a room for the night for both of them, Wynne would have had them ready upon Moira darkening her door.



She turned to leave and found Zevran in the doorway, Cullen looming and glowering behind him. She met the assassin’s eyes and in that short hand of old friends, each knew the other had news and it was probably bad. Gregoir’s voice called out, “Cullen, we would like to speak with you.” The young Templar glared at Moira as they passed. Moira sighed.



Zevran and Perrin followed the Grey Warden as she walked quickly away from the First Enchanter’s office. They arrived at the Great Hall, one level above the First Enchanter’s office. “I would really love it if they gave us a room soon, Zev. I’m tired of wearing this armor.” She shook her head slightly to indicate that they shouldn’t discuss what they’d found out while separated. Zevran, puzzled, but trusting her instincts, instincts that were nearly as paranoid as his own, flopped down beside her. They sat in silence, the Mabari at their feet.



He was content to wait on her, though. He wondered, however, when she’d gotten so much more suspicious. Had he influenced her that much, or had it been their travels? He knew Orzammar had been hard on her, and had changed her outlook dramatically. But the biggest change had come after her venture into the Deep Roads. He’d railed at her choice of companions when she’d given him a chance. The only one he’d agreed on was Alistair, after all, if one needed to go to the deep roads, one brought as many Grey Wardens as possible, but to take the untried dwarf Oghren with her and the murderous golem? It hadn’t just been choosing Bhelen as king that had altered her outlook, though. All four had come out of the Deep Roads silent. The two Wardens had clung to each other after that, unable to tell anyone, even Wynne with her gentle prying, what had occurred. She refused to tell Lelianna or Morrigan, her dearest friends. And perhaps most infuriating of all, she wouldn’t tell him, either.



Oghren drank himself to sleep every night for a while after that and refused to talk about anything in his life before the Warden had asked him to join her. The night after the Deep Roads, Alistair and Moira had merely sat at the fire not talking, just sitting as close as two people could, his arm around her. One quite night, after the Landsmeet while they were all safely ensconced in Arl Eamon’s estates, did the two of them tell the others what had happened. Shale and Oghren hadn’t stuck around to hear the horrific tale, though. Zevran had found Oghren passed out in the estate’s dining room, after, and poured his dwarven friend into bed that night. He’d sat up unable to sleep, knowing that that monster, the Broodmother, had become his Warden’s greatest nightmare. When he thought about it, he marked Orzammar as the turning point in both Wardens’ outlooks on life. They’d stopped being idealistic and were, well, Wardens. The change in Alistair had been welcome. The change in Moira had been heartbreaking.



A young boy ran up to them as they sat silently on the bench. He bowed and stammered, “Chancellor Warden Commander, Ma’am, MiLady Surana? Your rooms are ready for you?” Zevran smiled at the number of titles he’d given Moira.



Grinning as well, she got to her feet and told the child, “Thank you, please lead us there?” The child paled, bowed and turned so quickly, he almost tripped over his own feet.



Zevran looked at his Warden, “Were you ever that clumsy?”



Moira laughed, “Worse, I’d have fallen on my face. When Duncan came for me, I tripped and fell into him. I’m surprised he still recruited me, after that, to this day. “ She grinned in memory, “Lelianna taught me to dance. It helped the clumsiness. A lot.”



“That would have been a wonderful sight to behold,” Zevran told her.

[ReubenLiew]

Very nice Finally recruitable Cullen!

[Herr Uhl]

Hmm, a Jowan/Cullen union, might be messy.



*eagerly awaits next part*

[Sialater]

Glad y'all like it. Are my descriptions still lacking, Reuben?

[ReubenLiew]

Well, could still use a bit more description like the part where she enters the great hall, you might describe the high, arching ceilings of the tower, it's gothic architecture and the majestic statues that litter the rooms every so often, and how the dim rays of the sun penetrates through the high windows to creat pillars of light in the room...

But it's really just me I like your writing because it gets to the point, though