----
Timing.
“Hahren? We’re ready for you now.”
Lyna smiled, feeling the warm earth flowing between her fingers. From across the camp, the sounds of children playing slowly died away, to be replaced by the melodious strains of Keeper Merrill’s voice, announcing that the Fall of the Dales would be the story of the evening, and that if they were lucky, the hahren would be the one telling it. She turned, and picked up the second acorn she had brought with her.
“Just one more, Ilenne. Tell the Keeper she may start without me if she wishes.”
“As you wish, hahren.” The young Keeper’s apprentice bowed in reverence, and then returned to the tale-telling bonfire. For a moment, Lyna watched her and the other da’len circle about the fire. The clan had grown in recent years, thriving under the improved relations between the Dalish and the nearby shemlen towns. It still made her laugh that with all the fresh, young faces, she and Merrill were the only two elves left in the clan with grey hair.
Reveling in the softness of the soil, Lyna planted the acorn, then stood and looked about her. There were many trees planted now in the memorial grove. To a shem, the grove would have looked like any other - a quiet ring of oaks and firs, with one great crimson-crowned maple tree standing in the center. But Lyna knew every branch and leaf among them. The maple was Tamlen’s, planted almost three decades ago to honor the clan-brother of her childhood, who had been lost to the Blight.
“I hope you like them, lethallan,” she said softly, turning to watch the leaves on the great maple as they rustled in the wind. “The clan will be leaving for the north soon, and I didn’t want you to be lonely. And I—“
Her voice fell as her vision blurred, the trees whirling around her, until sky became ground and earth stretched out at strange angles. Unknown whispers filled her mind, distorting her thoughts, while a sudden pain shot through her belly, sending bile and blood rising in her throat.
Coughing, she leant against Tamlen’s maple tree, willing the whispers to subside, forcing the pain back down within her. She tasted blood on her lips, and her breath was ragged. The dull throbbing pain in her chest, a near-constant companion for the past two years, had grown sharper. Gritting her teeth, she ignored it, turning back to Tamlen’s maple.
“I think my time has come.”
Merrill was leading her eager listeners in repeating the oath of the Dales when Lyna finally emerged from the forest. The Keeper’s face fell as she saw her friend.
After praising her young charges, Merrill hurried over to Lyna, pulling her quickly into her nearby aravel and away from any curious onlookers.
“When did it happen?” Merrill asked, reaching immediately for her box of potions and herbs.
“Just a moment ago, as I was leaving the grove.”
The Keeper extracted a small, stained bottle from her medicine box, and looked at its contents grimly.
“This is the last dose. I can make more when we reach—“
“No, Merrill.” Lyna said, trying to keep her voice resolute against the pain. She drained the contents of the bottle and placed it gently in the Keeper’s hands.
“It is time for me to go.”
Merrill’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t want to believe that the Creators would take you from us. I--" She buried her face in her hands. Gently, Lyna clasped her friend’s shoulder.
“Ma serannas, Merrill. For everything.”
Moving slowly against the pain, she rose.
There was only one more thing to be done.
#
The Deep Roads had changed little over the years from the crumbled glory she remembered. Bones littered the main road through Caridin’s Cross, and every signpost and statue was smashed. No matter, she didn’t need directions for where she was going. She had met no darkspawn yet, and the caverns smelled dark and cool.
For a moment, Lyna closed her eyes and imagined what it must have been like before the Blights. Tamlen would have loved to see it then – the Dwarven thaigs scattered like stars beneath the stone, each rich in stories and commerce. And perhaps, some even knew of her people, and had lived alongside them. Had she more time, she would have asked the Shaper if there were any Memories left of that forgotten age, if the dwarves had known anything about Arlathan. Tamlen would have wanted to know, of course, and part of her regretted not ever finding out, if only for his sake. But there wasn’t enough time now, as the whispers in her mind and the ache in her bones reminded her.
At a well-worn crossroads she turned left, taking the high road to Bownammar. In the wake of the retreating horde, the Legion of the Dead had at least reclaimed the great fortress, and as the miles fell beneath her feet the Road became wider, with obvious additions made by the miners over the years to bolster its defenses.
A familiar figure met her at the fortress gates. He was grizzled by the many years, and like her, his skin had begun to show the effects of the taint. But Kardol remained the formidable figure he had been when they first met, his face covered in the traditional tattoos of the Legion.
“Greetings, old friend,” Lyna said as they clasped hands, “it is good to see that you’re still enjoying life, so many years after your funeral.”
“Bah! I think they’ll have a proper funeral for me soon enough, lass. But the Legion is strong. We’ll hold them back as long as we can.”
“I know you will, Kardol. And I shall help you as long as I have life left.”
“You wardens. That’s just what the other one said, Stone keep him.”
“The other?” Her heart skipped a beat. “You mean he’s here?”
“Yeah, he’s here, or was until yesterday. Helped us down a Broodmother a few days ago. He went into one of the western tunnels. Wouldn’t let any of us follow. Kind of like the last time you surfacers were here. I see being king hasn’t changed his mind about fighting darkspawn though, and that’s a good thing.”
Quickly, she pressed the pack containing most of what she had brought with her into his hands.
“There’s surface food and drink in there, friend. Share it with your men, and raise a glass for me. But I have to go find him.”
#
The tunnels twisted and turned before her, but she knew where to go. Now that she was closer, she could see signs of his passing everywhere: dark blood on the stone, or the body of an emissary clearly blasted to death by the singular powers of a seasoned templar. From the caverns ahead of her she heard the sounds of steel on steel, and the grunting cries of genlocks. For a moment her heart sank, fearing what she might find at the end of the tunnel. Then a familiar voice rang out against the stone.
“And stay down!”
Heart racing, she ran down the tunnel.
He stood amidst a pile of darkspawn, their bloody limbs cleaved by the glinting sword he held in hand, their bodies broken from the impact of the gore-spattered shield on his other arm. She walked toward him, her lips immediately parting into the old smile she had worn for him so many years ago.
“Andaran atish’an, Your Majesty. Need some help?”
He whirled around in surprise at the unexpected greeting, tearing off his glittering helmet as he recognized her. The reddish hair was tempered by silver, and his face was older, tinted with the cares of many years, and drawn with the pain of the taint. But Alistair’s voice was still that of the man she remembered.
“Maker's breath. Hahren Lyna, what a pleasant surprise. And to meet you here of all places. You’d almost think there was some reason for it all.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she jested back, “it might have something to do with that strange blood we drank awhile back. I knew they should have given us cookies afterwards.”
Their laughter subsided, echoing off the stone like some ghost-song of the lyrium.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said softly.
“How could I forget, with the nightmares and the headaches and the horde’s constant whispering in my ears? Anyway, I rather missed the whole darkspawn-killing-thing.”
For a moment, his face lit into the smile she remembered. Then his eyes darkened.
“I actually didn’t think I’d find you here. I thought... with Tamlen... that you’d want to be buried beside him. After all, he was your--” he broke off, unable to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“You mean...” She paused, stricken by his misunderstanding as by a blow from a hurlock’s shield.
“You mean that all those years ago, you thought I wanted to leave... because of him?”
The shock and irony of it were so great she wanted to laugh despite the tears she felt pricking her eyes.
“Well... didn’t you?”
She shook her head violently, willing the tears away. Now was not the time for him to see her like this.
“No. I shed my tears for Tamlen many years ago. But I never... never wanted to leave you.”
Against her will, the tears sprang forth, and she sank to the ground, wiping her face with her gauntlet. A single sob escaped her, and she choked on it, furious with herself.
“Creators know what you must think of me now,” she chuckled after a moment. She kept her gaze locked on the stone in front of her. “Some hahren I am, weeping for things I cannot change.”
He knelt beside her then, gently tilting her face until she looked into his eyes. Sadness, anger and regret danced in full relief across his features.
“I never wanted to be king. I know I said so at the Landsmeet, but it was all... anger then. After you left, I realized... that maybe there are more important things in life than ruling Ferelden.”
Then she did laugh, coughing with her tears.
“You are a great king, Alistair. You have the kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. You are the greatest gift Ferelden could have received.”
They fell silent for a moment, each reading the other’s face.
“So... do you have any children? Grand children?”
He settled next to her on the stone floor, and after only a moment’s awkward pause put his arm about her shoulders. Without thinking, she nestled closer, taking his hand in hers.
“And what makes you think I’d have any children at all? I may not be a mage, but you know how hard it is for Grey Wardens to...”
“I have a son.” He said abruptly, as though blurting it out might make her hurt less. “And a grand-child on the way.”
“I know, lethallan. Did you think the Dalish had no eyes or ears to learn the goings-on in Denerim? Young Maric seems a good man, like his father. Though he seems to have inherited a bit of Anora’s cunning, too,” she added, with a wry smile. “If you taught him half of what you taught me, then he will be a strong king.”
“Me?” Alistair coughed in surprise as he turned to face her. “What did I teach you?”
“Well, thanks to you, there are a number of hunters in the Brecilian Forest who know how to use templar abilities now...”
“And if that thought doesn’t make me quake in fear, nothing ever will.”
He smiled at her teasingly, as she punched at him gently in mock rage.
“Hey, don’t hit me! I bruise easily!”
He caught her other hand in his own, holding her gently but firmly. Again the tears threatened to spill unbidden down her cheeks, forcing her to speak faster.
“You taught me compassion, honor, and dignity. You showed me that greatness lies in action, not birthright. And...” She paused as she came to the truth that she had tried for years to hide, from herself, her clan, and from him. “You taught me that love never fades.”
He lowered his face to hers as she raised her lips to meet his. And for an instant, she was no longer in the Deep Roads, but transported, surrounded by his scent and taste and touch. She felt the sunlight on his skin, smelled the scent of roses that the wind had left in his hair, smiled at the tang of smoked cheese from the small pack at his side. She was young again, kissing him for the first time on the road outside Redcliffe, laughing as he told her wild stories of his mischief in the Chantry, lying with him under the open Bannorn sky, with all the light of the stars reflected in his eyes.
Gradually, she became aware of the smell and sounds of the cavern around her. More darkspawn were coming up the tunnel – genlocks, from the sound of it, and she could hear the familiar bellow of an ogre behind them.
“We’ve got to have the worst timing in the world. But at least...” He held her tightly, smiling.
“I know, my love. It was worth everything, just to see you again.”
Modifié par bloodtallow, 11 février 2010 - 06:33 .
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