Wow, terrific chapter! Keep it coming! That line "he would not lose the Wardens again" was absolutely amazing - you've got a good sense for drama.
Fanfiction - Ever After, Updated 5/26
Débuté par
bloodtallow
, févr. 22 2010 04:40
Retour en haut
#27
Posté 24 février 2010 - 11:19
bloodtallow
-
- Members
- 166 messages
Yay! I am so glad you liked it, everyone! I wasn't sure, honestly. It's been ages since I've written a battle scene.
More coming as soon as I can!
More coming as soon as I can!
#28
Posté 25 février 2010 - 01:38
Treason1
-
- Members
- 226 messages
My immediate thought is that someone in the Wardens has managed to re-create the Anvil of the Void.
We'll wait and see, though.
We'll wait and see, though.
#29
Posté 25 février 2010 - 02:14
MsSouthpaw
-
- Members
- 50 messages
Great chapter! Nonstop action beginning to end. I could follow the action perfectly in my head. Nice job! 
#30
Posté 26 février 2010 - 11:10
bloodtallow
-
- Members
- 166 messages
Chapter Four, Part One
Warden Lieutenant Simon, formerly of the esteemed Lesante family of Orlais, paced about the room. The Lieutenant was not a tall man, but the severity of his chiseled features, and the menacing flash of his steel-grey eyes were said to not only strike fear into the hearts of the new Warden recruits, but into the heart of every darkspawn that dared poke its head above the surface of Ferelden. Alistair had known Simon long enough, however, to learn that behind his scowl and businesslike demeanor, there lurked a fiery noble son of Orlais, who relished the finer things life had to offer, and who knew how to find enjoyment enough to combat the usual grimness that came with being a Warden.
Not that there was much enjoyment to be had in Amaranthine right now.
From the top of Vigil's Tower, Alistair watched the crown's foot soldiers begin the arduous task of reclaiming the keep. Most of the fires had been doused, but the smells of smoke and cinders and burning flesh still pervaded the air. Search parties had been sent throughout the keep, only to return, their arms laden with the bodies of the dead, reporting that none had survived the fires and the magical onslaught of the darkspawn attack. All told, only six Wardens, and the Warden Lieutenant, were still alive.
Six survivors out of thirty new recruits. All lost, the Lieutenant was telling him, because of the small wrapped bundle Simon held in his hands.
Whatever it is, it's not worth their lives. It's not worth the destruction done to this place. He clenched his hands, feeling the anger from the battle wash over him, before willing the emotion to subside.
Simon placed the bundle on a rickety table - the only piece of furniture in the room that hadn't been blasted to pieces by the darkspawn's spells. Slowly, he peeled off the layers of protective cloth, and as he did so, the room grew lighter, as though a lamp had just been lit in the tower. A brilliant stone sat upon the table, casting a light so bright that it seemed as though all shadows of the evening vanished before its glow. Runes had been carved on its surface in a spiral, circling a single depression, like the mark made by a sculptor's thumb, in the stone's center.
“What is it?” Alistair asked, peering at the glowing stone until its brightness sent silver flashes burning across his vision. He closed his eyes against the brilliance. Maker, he didn't even have to look at the stone to feel its power. Magic emanated from it like heat from a bonfire, prickling the hairs on his neck and arms, and setting his templar senses on edge.
“We have no idea,” The Warden Lieutenant replied. “But we know they want it. Badly. One of my scouts uncovered it in an old Tevinter ruin near the Brecilian Forest. And,” he looked knowingly into Alistair’s face, “I had intended to determine what it was, before I sent word to Denerim to trouble you about it.”
"I commend your bravery, Simon, but whatever this is, the darkspawn clearly know more about it than we do. I don't think this was just another raid."
"Nor do I," Oghren rumbled from the corner. Alistair turned to his friend. The dwarf had been sitting for the better part of the last hour clutching the hurlock's shield in his hands, as though trying to convince himself it really existed. Beneath the blood and soot, Alistair could see the faded icon of Branka's house, and it was at this symbol that Oghren stared, eyes dark and grim.
A glowing stone and a dwarven shield. Indeed, not just any shield, but one belonging to a Paragon, and to Oghren's ex-wife. A darkspawn attack led by the strongest emissary he had ever faced, an attack so powerful it had almost wiped out Amaranthine in a single blow. Alistair shook his head, trying to clear away some of the buzzing questions that raced across his mind. He turned back to Simon and the glowing stone on the table.
"Whatever this is, it can't stay at Vigil's Keep," he said after a moment. "We need answers, and until we get them, we have to keep this hidden from the horde's sight."
Simon nodded gravely before wrapping the stone back into the heavy cloth bundle. Gradually the light that had filled the room dimmed, though Alistair could still feel the pulse of magical energy coming from the stone, even blanketed as it was.
Trying to quell the reluctance brought on by his years of templar training, he approached the table and picked up the stone. Then he gasped reflexively, feeling the power that pushed at his skin, making his heart quicken its beat. He felt like he was
holding a lightning rod of pure lyrium.
A pair of hands took the stone roughly from his grasp. Oghren was shaking his head, looking up at Alistair.
"I know where you're going," Oghren said simply. "And I'm coming along, if only to keep your head from exploding from holding this rock too long." He turned on his heel, stooped to pick up Branka's shield, and began walking down the tower steps, muttering to himself. Alistair couldn't help but smile grimly, hearing the dwarf grumble about "sodding ex-templars who should know enough to leave the heavy lifting to the dwarves."
He turned to Simon, feeling his senses calm now that Oghren was holding the stone.
"Very well. Lieutenant, I leave the army in your care, to aid in the restoration of the Keep. It seems we're off to the Circle."
Warden Lieutenant Simon, formerly of the esteemed Lesante family of Orlais, paced about the room. The Lieutenant was not a tall man, but the severity of his chiseled features, and the menacing flash of his steel-grey eyes were said to not only strike fear into the hearts of the new Warden recruits, but into the heart of every darkspawn that dared poke its head above the surface of Ferelden. Alistair had known Simon long enough, however, to learn that behind his scowl and businesslike demeanor, there lurked a fiery noble son of Orlais, who relished the finer things life had to offer, and who knew how to find enjoyment enough to combat the usual grimness that came with being a Warden.
Not that there was much enjoyment to be had in Amaranthine right now.
From the top of Vigil's Tower, Alistair watched the crown's foot soldiers begin the arduous task of reclaiming the keep. Most of the fires had been doused, but the smells of smoke and cinders and burning flesh still pervaded the air. Search parties had been sent throughout the keep, only to return, their arms laden with the bodies of the dead, reporting that none had survived the fires and the magical onslaught of the darkspawn attack. All told, only six Wardens, and the Warden Lieutenant, were still alive.
Six survivors out of thirty new recruits. All lost, the Lieutenant was telling him, because of the small wrapped bundle Simon held in his hands.
Whatever it is, it's not worth their lives. It's not worth the destruction done to this place. He clenched his hands, feeling the anger from the battle wash over him, before willing the emotion to subside.
Simon placed the bundle on a rickety table - the only piece of furniture in the room that hadn't been blasted to pieces by the darkspawn's spells. Slowly, he peeled off the layers of protective cloth, and as he did so, the room grew lighter, as though a lamp had just been lit in the tower. A brilliant stone sat upon the table, casting a light so bright that it seemed as though all shadows of the evening vanished before its glow. Runes had been carved on its surface in a spiral, circling a single depression, like the mark made by a sculptor's thumb, in the stone's center.
“What is it?” Alistair asked, peering at the glowing stone until its brightness sent silver flashes burning across his vision. He closed his eyes against the brilliance. Maker, he didn't even have to look at the stone to feel its power. Magic emanated from it like heat from a bonfire, prickling the hairs on his neck and arms, and setting his templar senses on edge.
“We have no idea,” The Warden Lieutenant replied. “But we know they want it. Badly. One of my scouts uncovered it in an old Tevinter ruin near the Brecilian Forest. And,” he looked knowingly into Alistair’s face, “I had intended to determine what it was, before I sent word to Denerim to trouble you about it.”
"I commend your bravery, Simon, but whatever this is, the darkspawn clearly know more about it than we do. I don't think this was just another raid."
"Nor do I," Oghren rumbled from the corner. Alistair turned to his friend. The dwarf had been sitting for the better part of the last hour clutching the hurlock's shield in his hands, as though trying to convince himself it really existed. Beneath the blood and soot, Alistair could see the faded icon of Branka's house, and it was at this symbol that Oghren stared, eyes dark and grim.
A glowing stone and a dwarven shield. Indeed, not just any shield, but one belonging to a Paragon, and to Oghren's ex-wife. A darkspawn attack led by the strongest emissary he had ever faced, an attack so powerful it had almost wiped out Amaranthine in a single blow. Alistair shook his head, trying to clear away some of the buzzing questions that raced across his mind. He turned back to Simon and the glowing stone on the table.
"Whatever this is, it can't stay at Vigil's Keep," he said after a moment. "We need answers, and until we get them, we have to keep this hidden from the horde's sight."
Simon nodded gravely before wrapping the stone back into the heavy cloth bundle. Gradually the light that had filled the room dimmed, though Alistair could still feel the pulse of magical energy coming from the stone, even blanketed as it was.
Trying to quell the reluctance brought on by his years of templar training, he approached the table and picked up the stone. Then he gasped reflexively, feeling the power that pushed at his skin, making his heart quicken its beat. He felt like he was
holding a lightning rod of pure lyrium.
A pair of hands took the stone roughly from his grasp. Oghren was shaking his head, looking up at Alistair.
"I know where you're going," Oghren said simply. "And I'm coming along, if only to keep your head from exploding from holding this rock too long." He turned on his heel, stooped to pick up Branka's shield, and began walking down the tower steps, muttering to himself. Alistair couldn't help but smile grimly, hearing the dwarf grumble about "sodding ex-templars who should know enough to leave the heavy lifting to the dwarves."
He turned to Simon, feeling his senses calm now that Oghren was holding the stone.
"Very well. Lieutenant, I leave the army in your care, to aid in the restoration of the Keep. It seems we're off to the Circle."
Modifié par bloodtallow, 26 février 2010 - 11:29 .
#31
Posté 26 février 2010 - 11:24
Freckles04
-
- Members
- 809 messages
Nice chapter...but it only raises more questions!
#33
Posté 27 février 2010 - 12:18
Sandtigress
-
- Members
- 3 967 messages
Questions questions questions....we need answers! :-P
#34
Posté 27 février 2010 - 12:31
7th_Phoenix
-
- Members
- 788 messages
I've only read the first two chapters... it's good. Personally, don't like Anora but it was sad the way she had to go if I must say. Keep it going, I'm interested in this Nelys character.
#35
Posté 27 février 2010 - 01:07
bloodtallow
-
- Members
- 166 messages
Answers will be coming... eventually! I promise.
#36
Posté 27 février 2010 - 11:55
bloodtallow
-
- Members
- 166 messages
Chapter Four - Part Two
They left Vigil's Keep as the funeral was beginning. The courtyard was filled with wreckage anyway, and the army had turned the twisted wood of the buildings and shattered gates into funeral pyres, their flames illuminating the broken stone walls in a harsh light.
The soldiers of the crown stood to attention, their faces grim, as Lieutenant Simon and the Wardens performed the rites of the dead. There were no priests among the Ferelden Wardens, but Simon had been raised by a pious aunt in Val Royeaux, and led the soldiers in the chant. Alistair stood, his gaze lost upon the flames, answering the opening invocations to the Maker numbly.
They're dead and it's my fault. There was nothing else to say. He turned, and began walking toward to the keep's broken gateway. The rest of the army would remain in Amaranthine, bolstering the shattered forces of the Wardens and guarding against further darkspawn incursions. His own ten-man squadron, the royal detachment, would be accompanying Alistair and Oghren to the Circle.
They cut through the Coastlands on foot, taking on horses in Highever, stopping for only a brief night's rest and dinner.
The ride to the Tower of Magi was uneventful, with no sign of darkspawn. As though the attack at Vigil's Keep had been the last surging rush, a suicidal tide of desperation, the darkspawn seemed to have retreated back below ground, and no one was sad to see them go.
I just wish we could have turned them back sooner. He focused grimly on the road in front of him, the miles between Vigil's Keep and Lake Calenhad numbing his body and mind.
As it always did when he drew near it, the Tower's magic made his templar senses tingle, like breathing pepper simmering on the stove in a busy kitchen. He had commissioned workers to repair this end of the Imperial Highway a year ago, and now Alistair and his company rode across the dark waters of Lake Calenhad, stabling their horses in the long shed outside the Tower's great double doors.
Inside the Tower the air smelled like burnt lyrium, the intensity of the fragrance making a few of his soldiers sneeze.
"Just like shoving a stick of ore up your butt, eh?" Oghren chuckled as they entered, eliciting an answering guffaw from one of the younger lieutenants. Alistair allowed himself a smile, as the dwarf's blunt humor chipped away at the mask he had forced himself to wear since leaving Amaranthine.
There were only a few templars still in service at the Tower. After the Blight the Circle had claimed its independence from the Chantry, expelling most of the templars and priests serving within the Tower. The two waiting here in the entrance hall were grey-haired men, probably too old to have families to return to after the dissolution of their order.
Or too addicted to lyrium to want to leave, Alistair thought grimly, thanking the Maker for the thousandth time that he had never taken that final step to become a templar.
The older, and therefore probably senior of the two templars briefly approached then, bowing as deeply as his heavy armor allowed, before leaving to announce the Tower's visitors. The inner doors had barely closed again behind him when a tall woman emerged from the chambers beyond, the red of her hair a vivid contrast to the jade green silk of her mage robes. She glided easily across the stone hall, and bowed low before Alistair.
"Greetings, Your Majesty. I am First Enchanter Petra. How may the Circle be of aid to the crown?"
"I remember you," Alistair blurted, before he remembered that it was hardly kingly to say so, "you were in the attack on the Tower, standing guard over the children."
She smiled brightly.
"Indeed I was, Your Majesty, and the Circle is eternally grateful to you and to the Wardens for your aid."
"Is Irving no longer in service at the Tower?" He kept the question light, intending no disrespect to Petra's sudden and unexpected appearance.
"Irving retired and took leave to go to Minrathous, just two weeks ago in fact. My official notice of replacement is still sitting on my desk, waiting to be sent to Denerim, I'm afraid." Petra shrugged apologetically. "But, if you would be so good as to follow me, I'd be more than happy to help with whatever you need."
Alistair gave his soldiers leave to explore the Tower as they wished, before following Petra through the apprentice quarters and up the stairs to the mage dormitory, and the traditional office of the First Enchanter.
Oghren had transferred the stone from its bundle of blankets into a wooden box, and it was this which the dwarf placed on Petra's desk.
"Maker!" Petra whispered as Alistair opened the box. She gazed at the stone, her mouth open in surprise.
"May I?" She asked, stretching her hands out to touch the glowing stone.
At Alistair's nod, Petra wrapped her hands about the stone, gently lifting it from the box. She gasped softly, and Alistair knew that she must be feeling the same surge of energy his own magic-attuned senses had encountered. But after a moment, the First Enchanter's expression turned from awe to intrigue. Slowly, she ran her fingers along the lines of runes, before placing the stone almost reverently back in its box.
"Rarely have I felt such power. Where did you discover this, Your Majesty?"
"One of the Grey Wardens found it in a Tevinter ruin."
"Really?" Petra said, sounding surprised. "But this artifact isn't Tevinter. It's elvish."
"Elvish? Are you sure?"
"Indeed. And if the signs upon it are any indication, it's very old. Unfortunately, that's about all I can tell you about it. I'm afraid that the Tower libraries do not have many records from the age of
Arlathan."
"So you have no idea why the darkspawn would be so eager to get their hands on it?"
"Darkspawn? No, I can't think of any reason, though I must admit, I have very little experience in such matters." She smiled at him apologetically.
"Well," Oghren grumbled, "if it's got the Circle flummoxed, it might be time to look higher up the tree, eh, no offense, ma'am," he nodded respectfully at Petra. "Perhaps if the War--"
"Thank you, but that's impossible," Alistair said, cutting off his friend more abruptly than he meant to. He took another look at the strange, glimmering stone, then closed his eyes.
It's not impossible. It's just the last thing I ever thought I'd have to do.
"First Enchanter," he said after a moment, trying to keep his voice level, "would the Circle be willing to house this artifact here in the Tower?"
Amidst the pulsing throb of magic which pervaded the Tower, there might be enough camouflage to disguise the stone. At least, until he could find an answer.
They left Vigil's Keep as the funeral was beginning. The courtyard was filled with wreckage anyway, and the army had turned the twisted wood of the buildings and shattered gates into funeral pyres, their flames illuminating the broken stone walls in a harsh light.
The soldiers of the crown stood to attention, their faces grim, as Lieutenant Simon and the Wardens performed the rites of the dead. There were no priests among the Ferelden Wardens, but Simon had been raised by a pious aunt in Val Royeaux, and led the soldiers in the chant. Alistair stood, his gaze lost upon the flames, answering the opening invocations to the Maker numbly.
They're dead and it's my fault. There was nothing else to say. He turned, and began walking toward to the keep's broken gateway. The rest of the army would remain in Amaranthine, bolstering the shattered forces of the Wardens and guarding against further darkspawn incursions. His own ten-man squadron, the royal detachment, would be accompanying Alistair and Oghren to the Circle.
They cut through the Coastlands on foot, taking on horses in Highever, stopping for only a brief night's rest and dinner.
The ride to the Tower of Magi was uneventful, with no sign of darkspawn. As though the attack at Vigil's Keep had been the last surging rush, a suicidal tide of desperation, the darkspawn seemed to have retreated back below ground, and no one was sad to see them go.
I just wish we could have turned them back sooner. He focused grimly on the road in front of him, the miles between Vigil's Keep and Lake Calenhad numbing his body and mind.
As it always did when he drew near it, the Tower's magic made his templar senses tingle, like breathing pepper simmering on the stove in a busy kitchen. He had commissioned workers to repair this end of the Imperial Highway a year ago, and now Alistair and his company rode across the dark waters of Lake Calenhad, stabling their horses in the long shed outside the Tower's great double doors.
Inside the Tower the air smelled like burnt lyrium, the intensity of the fragrance making a few of his soldiers sneeze.
"Just like shoving a stick of ore up your butt, eh?" Oghren chuckled as they entered, eliciting an answering guffaw from one of the younger lieutenants. Alistair allowed himself a smile, as the dwarf's blunt humor chipped away at the mask he had forced himself to wear since leaving Amaranthine.
There were only a few templars still in service at the Tower. After the Blight the Circle had claimed its independence from the Chantry, expelling most of the templars and priests serving within the Tower. The two waiting here in the entrance hall were grey-haired men, probably too old to have families to return to after the dissolution of their order.
Or too addicted to lyrium to want to leave, Alistair thought grimly, thanking the Maker for the thousandth time that he had never taken that final step to become a templar.
The older, and therefore probably senior of the two templars briefly approached then, bowing as deeply as his heavy armor allowed, before leaving to announce the Tower's visitors. The inner doors had barely closed again behind him when a tall woman emerged from the chambers beyond, the red of her hair a vivid contrast to the jade green silk of her mage robes. She glided easily across the stone hall, and bowed low before Alistair.
"Greetings, Your Majesty. I am First Enchanter Petra. How may the Circle be of aid to the crown?"
"I remember you," Alistair blurted, before he remembered that it was hardly kingly to say so, "you were in the attack on the Tower, standing guard over the children."
She smiled brightly.
"Indeed I was, Your Majesty, and the Circle is eternally grateful to you and to the Wardens for your aid."
"Is Irving no longer in service at the Tower?" He kept the question light, intending no disrespect to Petra's sudden and unexpected appearance.
"Irving retired and took leave to go to Minrathous, just two weeks ago in fact. My official notice of replacement is still sitting on my desk, waiting to be sent to Denerim, I'm afraid." Petra shrugged apologetically. "But, if you would be so good as to follow me, I'd be more than happy to help with whatever you need."
Alistair gave his soldiers leave to explore the Tower as they wished, before following Petra through the apprentice quarters and up the stairs to the mage dormitory, and the traditional office of the First Enchanter.
Oghren had transferred the stone from its bundle of blankets into a wooden box, and it was this which the dwarf placed on Petra's desk.
"Maker!" Petra whispered as Alistair opened the box. She gazed at the stone, her mouth open in surprise.
"May I?" She asked, stretching her hands out to touch the glowing stone.
At Alistair's nod, Petra wrapped her hands about the stone, gently lifting it from the box. She gasped softly, and Alistair knew that she must be feeling the same surge of energy his own magic-attuned senses had encountered. But after a moment, the First Enchanter's expression turned from awe to intrigue. Slowly, she ran her fingers along the lines of runes, before placing the stone almost reverently back in its box.
"Rarely have I felt such power. Where did you discover this, Your Majesty?"
"One of the Grey Wardens found it in a Tevinter ruin."
"Really?" Petra said, sounding surprised. "But this artifact isn't Tevinter. It's elvish."
"Elvish? Are you sure?"
"Indeed. And if the signs upon it are any indication, it's very old. Unfortunately, that's about all I can tell you about it. I'm afraid that the Tower libraries do not have many records from the age of
Arlathan."
"So you have no idea why the darkspawn would be so eager to get their hands on it?"
"Darkspawn? No, I can't think of any reason, though I must admit, I have very little experience in such matters." She smiled at him apologetically.
"Well," Oghren grumbled, "if it's got the Circle flummoxed, it might be time to look higher up the tree, eh, no offense, ma'am," he nodded respectfully at Petra. "Perhaps if the War--"
"Thank you, but that's impossible," Alistair said, cutting off his friend more abruptly than he meant to. He took another look at the strange, glimmering stone, then closed his eyes.
It's not impossible. It's just the last thing I ever thought I'd have to do.
"First Enchanter," he said after a moment, trying to keep his voice level, "would the Circle be willing to house this artifact here in the Tower?"
Amidst the pulsing throb of magic which pervaded the Tower, there might be enough camouflage to disguise the stone. At least, until he could find an answer.
Modifié par bloodtallow, 28 février 2010 - 12:17 .
#37
Posté 28 février 2010 - 12:07
Sandtigress
-
- Members
- 3 967 messages
Hmmmm....is the Warden Commander Dalish, or even more likely, a mage? I'm assuming that's what Oghren was going to say, of course. Perhaps a former love interest of Alistair's...intrigued!
#38
Posté 28 février 2010 - 12:11
Freckles04
-
- Members
- 809 messages
Hmm. What, exactly, is impossible, I wonder? Is that a cut-off reference to THE Warden? More, please!
#39
Posté 28 février 2010 - 12:19
TanithAeyrs
-
- Members
- 1 292 messages
Oh no. Another story that I will keep up with. You have captured Alistair and Ohgren perfectly.
#40
Posté 28 février 2010 - 12:32
bloodtallow
-
- Members
- 166 messages
Sandtigress wrote...
Hmmmm....is the Warden Commander Dalish, or even more likely, a mage? I'm assuming that's what Oghren was going to say, of course. Perhaps a former love interest of Alistair's...intrigued!
Oooh, good questions, Sandtigress!
And thank you, TanithAeyrs - that is a wonderful compliment!
Modifié par bloodtallow, 28 février 2010 - 12:34 .
#41
Posté 28 février 2010 - 05:23
Sisimka
-
- Members
- 935 messages
Your plot is so interesting, I can't wait for the next chapter!
#42
Posté 28 février 2010 - 06:30
Sialater
-
- Members
- 12 600 messages
Nah, she's a Surana. 
Not nearly enough of those stories running around in my humble opinion.
Not nearly enough of those stories running around in my humble opinion.
#43
Posté 01 mars 2010 - 06:14
bloodtallow
-
- Members
- 166 messages
And today's gold star goes to Sialater! Good guessing, everyone! It was so much fun to read your ideas. And thank you as always for your enthusiasm!
---------------------------
Chapter Four, Part Three
Alistair sat at the simple desk in the Tower's guest room. It was late... how late, he didn't know, but the moon had risen high while he'd been sitting, and Oghren's snores were resonating from the chamber next door. Even through the walls, he could hear the dwarf mumbling in his sleep - something about ale and brontos.
He sighed and looked again at the parchment before him. There were no words yet, but he had managed to create some interesting ink blots along the edges. He crumpled the parchment and searched for a fresh sheet, before abandoning the desk to go stand before the fire. All night he had tried to get his thoughts into order, to force his writing to assume the diplomatic tone it did when he wrote to the dwarves, or the Chantry, or the Empress of Orlais. But to do that now was impossible, not when despite all the distance which time and duty and being king had placed between them, he couldn't remember the woman who slew the archdemon any other way than when they last spoke.
#
Her room was in disarray. Books and parchment, old maps and ink-stained quills littered the table or lay in unorganized piles on the floor. The wardrobe, which had once held her clothes, was almost empty, as Neria Surana, Hero of Ferelden, folded the last of her mage robes into her backpack.
“Are you packing?” The words came out more abruptly than he meant them to, and Alistair bit his tongue as a flicker of anger crossed her face.
“I should think that would be obvious, Your Majesty,” she said after drawing a breath, clearly trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
She scanned the unkempt piles of books and papers and selected one or two to place in the top of her pack, keeping her back to him, avoiding his gaze.
“No, I mean why are you packing?” he tried again, his voice softer this time.
“Because I am leaving.”
Maker, it’s like talking to Sten. Alistair bit back his retort.
“But...I thought you agreed to command the Wardens, to rebuild the order. I thought you would stay in Amaranthine.”
“Well, plans change, don’t they?” She checked the wardrobe for a missing cloak, found it, and wrapped it hastily around her shoulders, raising the hood to cover her pointed ears. She still wouldn’t look at him.
“Ye-es,” he said, considering, “but I never thought that that particular plan would.”
“There are many things I thought would never change,” she whispered, “but they have.”
He moved forward, close enough to touch her, his brow furrowing at the chaos between them. I never meant it to be this way.
“Then where will you go?”
“Alistair—“ she turned her face upward to look at him, tears sparkling in her eyes. She shook her head. “What am I supposed to say?”
“Say you'll stay..." he tried to keep his tone light and friendly. "I don’t want you to leave.”
“Don’t you shemlen have a saying about that? About having your cake and eating it too?” Shemlen. He’d heard her use the word before, but she’d never called him so by name. She spat the words like a curse, rage painted clearly on her face, like blood from a battle.
“I will not stay here in the shadows, watching you live a life I cannot share.”
“Neria—“
She bent to collect her things. The strap of her pack caught on her staff, sending the magical weapon clattering to the floor. As he had many times before, Alistair knelt to pick it up for her.
“Don’t!” Neria snapped, her entire face overcome with fury. Her fingers sparkled with bright blue mage fire, as they always did when she was extremely upset or angry. “Don’t touch it." She wrenched the staff from his grasp and walked to the door.
“I need nothing from you, Your Majesty, least of all your help.” And she left, slamming the door behind her.
He stood in the sudden silence of the room, looking about him, as though part of him hoped to find some excuse - something she had forgotten to pack, some important item left behind that she couldn't leave without. A sudden flash of red on the drab chamber bedclothes caught his eye.
A crushed rose lay on the pillow, its petals bleeding onto the floor.
#
"Nug got your tongue?" Oghren stood in the doorway, a metal flask in his hand.
"Yes, actually," Alistair looked at the dwarf, smiling ruefully, "I don't suppose you have any advice on how to write a letter you've been meaning to write for five years?"
"Hah! No, but I've got some boot grease here, if it'll help." He took a sip from his flask.
"Oghren... does it ever get any easier?"
The dwarf smiled grimly.
"You're asking me? My wife left me high and dry to go plumb the Deep Roads with a watery tart. She tried to kill me when I followed her, and when we tried to knock some sense into her soft skull, she took a long jump down a short shaft. And now," Oghren took a long drink from his flask, "I have to go back to Orzammar and pick up the pieces she left behind."
"I'm sorry," Alistair said, turning to his friend. "I didn't mean..."
"Ahh, it's all right. It's not your fault. And I wouldn't go back now. At least Felsi knows which side the rock crumbles on."
He passed the flask, and Alistair gratefully took a sip, which turned quickly into a gulp.
"I just... never thought..."
"Never thought we'd need her to return, or never thought you'd have to be the one to ask her back?"
He snorted, and took another, stronger-smelling flask from his belt.
"Let me ask you this: in five years, why haven't you named another Warden Commander? You've got that Orlesian peacock running Amaranthine, and those ice weasels from the Anderfels breathing down your neck, but you're still waiting for the other boot to drop."
"If you're implying what I think you're implying..."
"Of course not, you sodding stonehead. You think I don't know what love is? Anora wasn't perfect, but she was good for you... almost too good, in fact, but that's the way it's supposed to be." He took another pull from his flask. "But you owe her a lot more than just killing the archdemon, y'know."
Alistair stared into the fire.
"I know," he said softly. He turned back to Oghren.
"Go on, and take your drink with you. I've got a letter to write."
#
He sent the letter with an eager apprentice heading to Tevinter through the Free Marches, with instructions to pass it on to the nearest Circle representative upon crossing the Waking Sea. From there, he would just have to trust that it reached the right hands. They had hardly exchanged addresses when Neria had left.
To his relief, First Enchanter Petra was unconcerned at the thought of leaving the stone at the Tower.
"We've got more mages studying here than ever before. If we can't create a veritable wilderness of magical energy to hide the stone from the darkspawn, then there is nowhere in Thedas safe enough to hold it."
But after their talk the night before, Oghren would hear nothing more of Alistair accompanying him to Orzammar.
"Go run your country," the dwarf grumbled, "and spend time with your princess. I can handle those sodding stone-blind dusters."
So in the end, they split the royal detachment, with Oghren taking the western road toward the Frostback Mountains, and Alistair heading east, back to Denerim.
---------------------------
Chapter Four, Part Three
Alistair sat at the simple desk in the Tower's guest room. It was late... how late, he didn't know, but the moon had risen high while he'd been sitting, and Oghren's snores were resonating from the chamber next door. Even through the walls, he could hear the dwarf mumbling in his sleep - something about ale and brontos.
He sighed and looked again at the parchment before him. There were no words yet, but he had managed to create some interesting ink blots along the edges. He crumpled the parchment and searched for a fresh sheet, before abandoning the desk to go stand before the fire. All night he had tried to get his thoughts into order, to force his writing to assume the diplomatic tone it did when he wrote to the dwarves, or the Chantry, or the Empress of Orlais. But to do that now was impossible, not when despite all the distance which time and duty and being king had placed between them, he couldn't remember the woman who slew the archdemon any other way than when they last spoke.
#
Her room was in disarray. Books and parchment, old maps and ink-stained quills littered the table or lay in unorganized piles on the floor. The wardrobe, which had once held her clothes, was almost empty, as Neria Surana, Hero of Ferelden, folded the last of her mage robes into her backpack.
“Are you packing?” The words came out more abruptly than he meant them to, and Alistair bit his tongue as a flicker of anger crossed her face.
“I should think that would be obvious, Your Majesty,” she said after drawing a breath, clearly trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
She scanned the unkempt piles of books and papers and selected one or two to place in the top of her pack, keeping her back to him, avoiding his gaze.
“No, I mean why are you packing?” he tried again, his voice softer this time.
“Because I am leaving.”
Maker, it’s like talking to Sten. Alistair bit back his retort.
“But...I thought you agreed to command the Wardens, to rebuild the order. I thought you would stay in Amaranthine.”
“Well, plans change, don’t they?” She checked the wardrobe for a missing cloak, found it, and wrapped it hastily around her shoulders, raising the hood to cover her pointed ears. She still wouldn’t look at him.
“Ye-es,” he said, considering, “but I never thought that that particular plan would.”
“There are many things I thought would never change,” she whispered, “but they have.”
He moved forward, close enough to touch her, his brow furrowing at the chaos between them. I never meant it to be this way.
“Then where will you go?”
“Alistair—“ she turned her face upward to look at him, tears sparkling in her eyes. She shook her head. “What am I supposed to say?”
“Say you'll stay..." he tried to keep his tone light and friendly. "I don’t want you to leave.”
“Don’t you shemlen have a saying about that? About having your cake and eating it too?” Shemlen. He’d heard her use the word before, but she’d never called him so by name. She spat the words like a curse, rage painted clearly on her face, like blood from a battle.
“I will not stay here in the shadows, watching you live a life I cannot share.”
“Neria—“
She bent to collect her things. The strap of her pack caught on her staff, sending the magical weapon clattering to the floor. As he had many times before, Alistair knelt to pick it up for her.
“Don’t!” Neria snapped, her entire face overcome with fury. Her fingers sparkled with bright blue mage fire, as they always did when she was extremely upset or angry. “Don’t touch it." She wrenched the staff from his grasp and walked to the door.
“I need nothing from you, Your Majesty, least of all your help.” And she left, slamming the door behind her.
He stood in the sudden silence of the room, looking about him, as though part of him hoped to find some excuse - something she had forgotten to pack, some important item left behind that she couldn't leave without. A sudden flash of red on the drab chamber bedclothes caught his eye.
A crushed rose lay on the pillow, its petals bleeding onto the floor.
#
"Nug got your tongue?" Oghren stood in the doorway, a metal flask in his hand.
"Yes, actually," Alistair looked at the dwarf, smiling ruefully, "I don't suppose you have any advice on how to write a letter you've been meaning to write for five years?"
"Hah! No, but I've got some boot grease here, if it'll help." He took a sip from his flask.
"Oghren... does it ever get any easier?"
The dwarf smiled grimly.
"You're asking me? My wife left me high and dry to go plumb the Deep Roads with a watery tart. She tried to kill me when I followed her, and when we tried to knock some sense into her soft skull, she took a long jump down a short shaft. And now," Oghren took a long drink from his flask, "I have to go back to Orzammar and pick up the pieces she left behind."
"I'm sorry," Alistair said, turning to his friend. "I didn't mean..."
"Ahh, it's all right. It's not your fault. And I wouldn't go back now. At least Felsi knows which side the rock crumbles on."
He passed the flask, and Alistair gratefully took a sip, which turned quickly into a gulp.
"I just... never thought..."
"Never thought we'd need her to return, or never thought you'd have to be the one to ask her back?"
He snorted, and took another, stronger-smelling flask from his belt.
"Let me ask you this: in five years, why haven't you named another Warden Commander? You've got that Orlesian peacock running Amaranthine, and those ice weasels from the Anderfels breathing down your neck, but you're still waiting for the other boot to drop."
"If you're implying what I think you're implying..."
"Of course not, you sodding stonehead. You think I don't know what love is? Anora wasn't perfect, but she was good for you... almost too good, in fact, but that's the way it's supposed to be." He took another pull from his flask. "But you owe her a lot more than just killing the archdemon, y'know."
Alistair stared into the fire.
"I know," he said softly. He turned back to Oghren.
"Go on, and take your drink with you. I've got a letter to write."
#
He sent the letter with an eager apprentice heading to Tevinter through the Free Marches, with instructions to pass it on to the nearest Circle representative upon crossing the Waking Sea. From there, he would just have to trust that it reached the right hands. They had hardly exchanged addresses when Neria had left.
To his relief, First Enchanter Petra was unconcerned at the thought of leaving the stone at the Tower.
"We've got more mages studying here than ever before. If we can't create a veritable wilderness of magical energy to hide the stone from the darkspawn, then there is nowhere in Thedas safe enough to hold it."
But after their talk the night before, Oghren would hear nothing more of Alistair accompanying him to Orzammar.
"Go run your country," the dwarf grumbled, "and spend time with your princess. I can handle those sodding stone-blind dusters."
So in the end, they split the royal detachment, with Oghren taking the western road toward the Frostback Mountains, and Alistair heading east, back to Denerim.
Modifié par bloodtallow, 01 mars 2010 - 08:45 .
#44
Posté 01 mars 2010 - 06:20
Sandtigress
-
- Members
- 3 967 messages
Terrific chapter. I loved the image of the crushed rose - it was the perfect ending to their ending. Looking forward to more!
Oh, and Oghren was spot on perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Oh, and Oghren was spot on perfect. Absolutely perfect.
#45
Posté 01 mars 2010 - 06:32
Sisimka
-
- Members
- 935 messages
SO GOOD, Bloodtallow! I loved the image of the rose too, poetic.
#46
Posté 01 mars 2010 - 06:36
Freckles04
-
- Members
- 809 messages
Lovely chapter. The emotions were captured very well. I can't help thinking that there might be a future for Neria and Alistair now, since the heir thing is taken care of... I'm a sucker for happy endings.
#47
Posté 01 mars 2010 - 07:18
bloodtallow
-
- Members
- 166 messages
Thank you all! I agree, Freckles, happy endings are great, especially in a sad, war-torn world like Ferelden...
We'll see what happens, though. Neria has a mind of her own. >
We'll see what happens, though. Neria has a mind of her own. >
#48
Posté 02 mars 2010 - 08:43
bloodtallow
-
- Members
- 166 messages
Interlude - Seasons
Wynne met him at home, her dimples as sweet and her smile as bright as they had been upon his departure.
Gratefully, he considered the stark difference between his comfortable home quarters, with Wynne in his lap and a roaring fire nearby, and the lukewarm reception Oghren was likely receiving in an Orzammar still bound by a fear of the surface. Alistair immersed himself in caring for his daughter, hoping fervently that no news would come from Amaranthine, save Simon's regular briefings on troop detachments and the rebuilding of the keep.
He held a quiet vigil for Anora, now that time allowed it, standing watchful by the tomb that seemed already cold and frozen in time. And he could think of nothing else to say to her, save to tell her that her daughter was beautiful.
The new rhythms of the palace and of Denerim fell into place with greater ease than he had expected. Alistair had breakfast with Eamon and Isolde, with Wynne in basket or bassinet beside them, and Nelys hovering nearby in case the princess required anything at all. Then it was off to a morning of meetings, audiences, errands or politics. Usually Nelys tended to Wynne while Alistair was busy seeing to affairs of state with Eamon, though in the sudden lull which had fallen gently upon them in the aftermath of Vigil's Keep, the arl seemed increasingly content to have their meetings broken by the princess' frequent interruptions. In fact, as the days progressed Alistair found himself amazed by the simple power his daughter possessed to elicit a smile from the most beleaguered of faces, and even to halt Nelys' nervous stammering.
"She is just like Anora was at that age," Eamon said whenever he saw her.
"I don't doubt it," Alistair always answered, smiling grimly against the familiar, dull pain at the words. He knew, from every feature of her face, and every hair of her head, that watching Wynne grow up would in some ways be like seeing Anora painted there beside him, and the thought was both bitter and sweet. But Wynne's brown eyes and easy smile were her own, as were the quiet moments father and daughter spent together in the palace gardens, watching the bees pollinate the roses, or the geese fly overhead.
Several weeks later, Oghren returned to Denerim, cursing about dusters, nugs, and dirty ale. No one knew why Branka's personal effects would have been scattered to the darkspawn, and apparently, no one cared. Since Branka's house had been capsized in the Paragon's mad search for the Anvil of the Void, few dwarves bothered to pay their respects to her memory.
"And apparently, they're all too busy fawning over Bhelen's new nug-muncher of an heir to think much about darkspawn."
With Oghren's return, Alistair divided his time between the capital and Amaranthine, and time swept by quickly in meetings in Denerim, in speeches to the soldiers rebuilding Vigil's Keep, in planning troop rotations with Simon and Oghren, in diplomatic hearings with Orlesians, Anders, and Tevinters, and, best of all, in telling stories before the fire as Wynne laughed and gurgled in his lap.
No word arrived from the Free Marches, save an official stamp from the Circle, stating that his missive had been received and would be passed on to the mage in question. He read the letter more times than he would have admitted to anyone save Oghren, looking behind the staid phrases penned in a foreign hand for any hint of the whereabouts of the Hero of Ferelden. He had not decided what sort of letter he was truly expecting to receive in return, once his own reached wherever it was bound at the end of its long journey. He had kept his tone light, and as diplomatic as he could. He had told only the vaguest of details about the stone and the attack on Vigil's Keep, in case the letter did not make its destination intact. And he allowed himself only the briefest of moments to imagine the fate of his parchment, penned carefully, without ink-blots, when Neria opened it, assuming she ever did.
She wouldn't ignore it. Not when it comes after so long, and with such importance. And the importance wasn't for him, it was for Ferelden.
The Ferelden she left behind.
No new missive came. Instead there were reports to be read and dinners to be held, passing seasons and Wynne's first giggling steps into his waiting arms. And after a time, Alistair stopped expecting a letter of any kind. That trail, too, had gone cold.
Wynne met him at home, her dimples as sweet and her smile as bright as they had been upon his departure.
Gratefully, he considered the stark difference between his comfortable home quarters, with Wynne in his lap and a roaring fire nearby, and the lukewarm reception Oghren was likely receiving in an Orzammar still bound by a fear of the surface. Alistair immersed himself in caring for his daughter, hoping fervently that no news would come from Amaranthine, save Simon's regular briefings on troop detachments and the rebuilding of the keep.
He held a quiet vigil for Anora, now that time allowed it, standing watchful by the tomb that seemed already cold and frozen in time. And he could think of nothing else to say to her, save to tell her that her daughter was beautiful.
The new rhythms of the palace and of Denerim fell into place with greater ease than he had expected. Alistair had breakfast with Eamon and Isolde, with Wynne in basket or bassinet beside them, and Nelys hovering nearby in case the princess required anything at all. Then it was off to a morning of meetings, audiences, errands or politics. Usually Nelys tended to Wynne while Alistair was busy seeing to affairs of state with Eamon, though in the sudden lull which had fallen gently upon them in the aftermath of Vigil's Keep, the arl seemed increasingly content to have their meetings broken by the princess' frequent interruptions. In fact, as the days progressed Alistair found himself amazed by the simple power his daughter possessed to elicit a smile from the most beleaguered of faces, and even to halt Nelys' nervous stammering.
"She is just like Anora was at that age," Eamon said whenever he saw her.
"I don't doubt it," Alistair always answered, smiling grimly against the familiar, dull pain at the words. He knew, from every feature of her face, and every hair of her head, that watching Wynne grow up would in some ways be like seeing Anora painted there beside him, and the thought was both bitter and sweet. But Wynne's brown eyes and easy smile were her own, as were the quiet moments father and daughter spent together in the palace gardens, watching the bees pollinate the roses, or the geese fly overhead.
Several weeks later, Oghren returned to Denerim, cursing about dusters, nugs, and dirty ale. No one knew why Branka's personal effects would have been scattered to the darkspawn, and apparently, no one cared. Since Branka's house had been capsized in the Paragon's mad search for the Anvil of the Void, few dwarves bothered to pay their respects to her memory.
"And apparently, they're all too busy fawning over Bhelen's new nug-muncher of an heir to think much about darkspawn."
With Oghren's return, Alistair divided his time between the capital and Amaranthine, and time swept by quickly in meetings in Denerim, in speeches to the soldiers rebuilding Vigil's Keep, in planning troop rotations with Simon and Oghren, in diplomatic hearings with Orlesians, Anders, and Tevinters, and, best of all, in telling stories before the fire as Wynne laughed and gurgled in his lap.
No word arrived from the Free Marches, save an official stamp from the Circle, stating that his missive had been received and would be passed on to the mage in question. He read the letter more times than he would have admitted to anyone save Oghren, looking behind the staid phrases penned in a foreign hand for any hint of the whereabouts of the Hero of Ferelden. He had not decided what sort of letter he was truly expecting to receive in return, once his own reached wherever it was bound at the end of its long journey. He had kept his tone light, and as diplomatic as he could. He had told only the vaguest of details about the stone and the attack on Vigil's Keep, in case the letter did not make its destination intact. And he allowed himself only the briefest of moments to imagine the fate of his parchment, penned carefully, without ink-blots, when Neria opened it, assuming she ever did.
She wouldn't ignore it. Not when it comes after so long, and with such importance. And the importance wasn't for him, it was for Ferelden.
The Ferelden she left behind.
No new missive came. Instead there were reports to be read and dinners to be held, passing seasons and Wynne's first giggling steps into his waiting arms. And after a time, Alistair stopped expecting a letter of any kind. That trail, too, had gone cold.
Modifié par bloodtallow, 02 mars 2010 - 08:50 .
#49
Posté 02 mars 2010 - 09:24
Freckles04
-
- Members
- 809 messages
So bittersweet! Lovely. Please continue!
#50
Posté 02 mars 2010 - 09:24
Sisimka
-
- Members
- 935 messages
Poor Alistair! (At the beginning I have to admit I forgot you'd named his daughter Wynne and when you said dimples and his lap I was o.O and then I remembered. Hehe)
Nice Interlude!
