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[Freckles04]

This is also on FF.net. I'm up to Chapter 5 over there, so I'll be posting here in quick succession for those of you who want to get caught up.

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Escape

I, Kiann Surana--mage, Grey Warden, solver of problems various and sundry--was afraid to close my eyes.

Yes, I know.  Stupid.  I'd faced down horrible monsters that spewed from the bowels of the earth.  I'd vanquished bandits, ghosts, the walking dead, and an entire pack of werewolves--the latter by convincing the old Dalish Keeper to revoke his curse, but still.  Vanquished.  Most recently I'd stormed through the halls of my old home, obliterating a score of abominations and dozens of blood mages.  I'd even outsmarted a sloth demon in the Fade.  Truly, I was a force unparalleled in all of Ferelden.  Not bad for a slip of an elf barely out of her apprenticehood.

And I'd been staring at the roof of my tent for the last Maker-knows-how-many hours, terrified of what awaited me in my dreams.

The darkspawn nightmares didn't scare me--no, that was a lie.  They did.  But once Alistair had warned me of them, I'd been able to block them out easily.  No, what worried me more was the visions that filled my mind every time I closed my eyes; visions of the monstrous pride demon that was once Uldred, grabbing for me, imprisoning my hands, and beginning the chant that would twist my mind and soul into an abomination.  No matter how I tried--and, Maker, I tried--I couldn't force those apparitions away.

Some Grey Warden I was.  Some mage.  How was I going to face down the archdemon if the memories of a dead demon shook me this badly?

Well, it wasn't like it was my choice to be a Warden.  Damn Jowan and his stupid scheme.  If he'd only been honest with me, maybe we could have avoided Irving and Greagoir.  Maybe he and Lily would have escaped and I wouldn't have been conscripted.  It still hurt that my best friend hadn't trusted me enough to tell me the truth…but I did hope that, wherever he'd ended up, he'd found a bit of happiness.  Not like me.  Sure, I'd seen more of Ferelden now than I'd ever dreamed, but I'd trade it all for my new mage quarters back at the Tower.  Instead I was stuck sleeping on the ground, with Alistair's crappy lamb and pea stew congealing in my stomach, trying to figure out how by Andraste's sanctified girdle I was going to save Ferelden from itself.  And right now, I couldn't drum up the will to care what happened to the blighted country. 

I needed a break.

I almost discarded the thought out of hand, but it didn't want to let me go.  A break was exactly what I yearned for.  A reprieve from the sameness of camp, the doom hanging overhead, the pressure of the next quest.  We weren't too far from The Spoiled Princess, the little tavern on the shores of Lake Calenhad.  A thrill raced through me at the idea of a mini-rebellion.  I wasn't due on watch until just before dawn.  I could sneak there and back without anyone knowing.  The only thing missing from my plan was someone to share it with.  My smile fell a little, but then I shook my head.  It didn't matter--it would still be fun.

I rose and pulled on a linen shirt and breeches instead of my customary robes.  There wasn't any point in announcing to the other patrons that I was a mage; that would just be asking for trouble.  I poked my head beyond my tent flap and cast my gaze about, looking for Sten.  I couldn't see him, but I could hear his steps on the opposite side of camp as he patrolled.

Excellent.  Excitement quivered through me as I bolted from my tent.  Sam, my mabari, fell into step behind me without a sound, and we scampered into the night surrounding the camp.  It took longer than I'd thought to return to the shores of the lake.  Despite the late hour, The Spoiled Princess was awash in light and sound.  Music poured from the cracked windows, and laughter, and song, everything I ached to be part of.  A smile tugged on my lips as I marched up to the door and wrenched it open. 

A band of minstrels in the corner were shouting a ditty about a maid who went to Denerim to find a husband.  Heat rose in my cheeks at the raunchy lyrics, but the crowd laughed and cheered and sang along to the chorus, so I supposed it was a popular song.  I let the noise buoy me along to the bar, where I slapped down a pair of coins and was rewarded with a tankard frothing with ale.  Marvellous.  I hoisted myself up onto a stool, Sam stationed at my feet, and took a long draught.

This was…perfect.

I'd started on my second tankard when the band switched to a song made for dancing.  My smile grew and I tapped my feet against the post of the stool.

"And what's a pretty lass like you doing sitting at the bar?"  The owner of the voice at my ear was a handsome human, dark hair, light eyes, who slurred his words just a little bit.  Not enough to matter.

"Well, I suppose it's because I haven't been asked to dance yet," I said, a coy smile curving my lips.

"Oh, I can change that!" he declared, and swept me off to the dance floor.

My dance partner swung me into steps I didn't know, but I caught on quickly.  I whirled around the floor, laughing, feeling lighter than I had in months.  Oh, if I could only stay here forever.  Forget Ferelden, forget the darkspawn, forget the sodding archdemon.  Let someone else take care of it.  I was having far too much fun to care about any of it.

By my fourth tankard of ale, I was feeling pleasantly fuzzy.  A tad blurry, even.  A hiccup snuck past my lips and I and my dance partner giggled.  I still didn't know his name, but he had a nice giggle.  And a nice smile.  And nice eyes, too.  I wondered if he had a nice kiss. 

I could find out, I realized.  There was nothing stopping me.  I was out from under the Chantry's supervision, away from Wynne's watchful eyes, and maybe…maybe I could imagine I was kissing Alistair instead.  Oh, that would be nice.  Not that I would ever do it for real--he was a templar.  It would just be…wrong.  But I could pretend.  My fellow Warden did have nice lips, after all, and his chest was delightfully sculpted--or, at least it seemed to be, the few times I'd seen him come back from bathing, half-dressed and dripping…

A frightened gasp and a shout pulled me from my reverie.  I blinked a few times before I realized what I was seeing.  Flames danced on each of the tables surrounding me; not big fires, but they tingled with magic. 

Oops.

"Maker's breath," my dance partner slurred from his seat beside me.

"Um."  My eyes narrowed as I concentrated, but the magic squirmed away from me, dancing as expertly as the flames on the tables.  I giggled as I tried to grasp it with mental hands and failed.  The fires surged and I dimly realized that people were shouting and racing for the exit.  "Sorry, sorry," I muttered to no one in particular. 

All right.  Fire wasn't listening to me right now, so let's try…ice.  I pulled together enough wits to summon a blizzard.  Cold air and snow blasted through the tavern and I found myself flat on the floor, laughing between shivers.  My dance partner scowled down at me and I snorted, then coughed as the scent of charred wood infiltrated my lungs.

"That was you?" he demanded.  "You're a mage?"

The fury in his eyes penetrated the bubble of fuzziness surrounding me.  I swallowed, my throat gone suddenly dry and my giggles dissipating into nothingness. 

"Sorry?" I whispered.

My head spun as I was jerked to my feet.  A gasp burst from my lips as my arms were wrenched behind me and tears pricked my eyes at the pain.  "Bind her hands!" someone shouted. 

Sam growled and lunged at one of the men, only to be kicked away.  Another man grabbed a chair and struck the mabari with it, once, twice...I lost count of how many times.  My throat burned, raw from screaming at them to stop.

"You think it's fun, scaring folk, do you?"  My dance partner leaned in close, his face ugly and twisted with anger.  He spat, and the wet landed on my cheek and dripped down onto my shirt. 

Fear burned off the last of the ale's effects and I stared at the man who'd smiled so widely at me only a few moments before.  His eyes were blue, I realized, and as cold as the blizzard whimpering to its conclusion.  "It--it was an accident," I stammered.  "I didn't mean--"

"Come on, lads, let's show the mages at the Tower that we ain't scared of their ilk."  My dance partner waved at the man holding me to follow him.

I planted my heels, trying to halt the progress to the door.  I didn't know what they planned, but I'd heard tales from other apprentices about villagers attacking them when their magic manifested, or blaming them for a failed crop or other malady that befell the settlement.  Some had been pelted with stones; others had been tied to posts and left without water for days; others had been thrown into deep, dark holes until the templars had come to retrieve them.

Panic choked me.  "No--wait! I'm a Grey Warden," I shouted.

My dance partner stopped, then spun to face me.  I thought for a moment he was going to let me go, but, instead, he wound up and punched me in the stomach.  The air jolted out of my lungs and I gasped, feeling like I was suffocating.

"That," he growled, "was for good King Cailan.  I was just going to tie you to the docks for the templars to retrieve you, but now I think we'll do something a little more special."

"Please," I whimpered as they pulled me along again.  Terror made my knees weak and I stumbled.  I cried out as the man holding my arms yanked them even higher.  "I didn't mean it," I sobbed.  "I'm sorry."

"Some Grey Warden," the man behind me scoffed.  "Aren't they supposed to be fearsome warriors or some such?"

Not me.  The words caught in my throat as they dragged me into the forest surrounding The Spoiled Princess.  I'm just a girl, an elf, no one special.  I tried to help a friend and ended up losing my home and became something I know nothing about.  I'm no warrior!

I screamed as the first punch connected with my nose and something crunched.  Warmth gushed forth and I blinked in shock and pain.  They'd broken my nose.  I looked up in time to see another fist arcing for my face; that one cracked into my cheekbone.  I fell backwards and the fellow gripping my arms released them.  I tumbled to the dirt, stray rocks and twigs digging into my back and legs but I hardly felt them over the agony pulsing through my face.  I reached for the magic haphazardly, but it didn't respond.  It couldn't--I had no focus, my brain reeling from terror and disbelief and lack of sleep, and even the adrenaline coursing in my blood couldn't help fix that.

A boot thrust into my midsection and I retched, one hand braced on the ground.  Get up, get away, run, my terrified mind commanded.  But my body wouldn't--couldn't--obey.  Another kick sent me flying onto my side, and then I was pummelled by feet and fists, as the villagers took out their frustrations and their fear on me.

I didn't fight back.  I couldn't.  A boot heel cracked into my temple and consciousness mercifully began drifting away.  Distantly, I heard the rustles of clothing, like someone was stripping themselves, then a disgusted admonition.  The meaning of the sounds was lost on me, though, as I faded into nothing.

Modifié par Freckles04, 20 mars 2010 - 06:00 .

[Sisimka]

As I've said a few times now, Freckles, I am in AWE of you. Great story...

[Freckles04]

Broken

"Oh, holy Maker."

Alistair's voice, but it sounded odd.  Had I slept past my watch?  I'd never hear the end of it if I had.  He always seemed to harp on the little things like that, joking and poking fun.  I didn't mind, not really; it reminded me a lot of Jowan, actually, the friendship I'd had and lost.

"Sten--please, cut her down."

I felt something give and I fell, only to be caught and cushioned against a breastplate warmed from the sun.  Funny how my eyes wouldn't open.  I tried again, then gave up.  I was so tired.  Maybe I could convince Alistair to take my watch too?  I could buy him some cheese to make up for it.  He liked cheese.

"Kiann, can you hear me?"

What kind of cheese would he like?  I really had no idea.  What kind of cheeses were there?  Mild cheddar, sharp cheddar, goat cheese, soft cheese, brie from Orlais...I'd only ever had that once, but I remembered how it tasted so lovely, all melty and gooey with walnuts and cranberries.  What a treat it had been.

"Wynne?  Why isn't she answering me?"

That was an strange tone to hear in the templar's voice.  Seriousness, maybe a twinge of fear.  He never sounded like that.  He was always laughing.  He had a face made for laughing, truly.  Those little lines that crinkled at the edges of his eyes when he smiled...there was something about them that made me want to smooth them over and make them reappear, all at once.  How peculiar.

"Put her down, Alistair.  Let me have a look."  Wynne now, her voice calm and calming, just like I remembered it from the Circle.  I sort of wished I'd had her for a mentor--though I imagine I would have driven her batty with my antics.  "Son, you need to put her down.  Please."

The breastplate left me.  Gentle hands prodded my face and torso instead.  Pain throbbed through me, so constant I barely felt any of the touches.  Why was I hurting?  Was I wounded?  Had there been a darkspawn attack?

"I think we'll do something a little more special."

"No! Please!"  I wrenched my eyes open.  Images blurred together in front of me.  I swung my hands about, crying at the agony, but I had to get away.  Had to.  "Please, don't.  I didn't mean it.  I'm sorry.  It was an accident.  It won't happen again."  I was blubbering, I knew I was blubbering, but I didn't know what else to do to make them understand and not hurt me anymore.

"Kiann, please."

I knew that voice--I'd just heard it, hadn't I?--but panic had me firmly in its grip.  My palm connected with something and I latched onto it.  A hand, an arm--it didn't matter.  "I didn't mean it, I didn't, I swear by Andraste's pyre.  Please don't hurt me.  Please..."

"Wynne--by the Maker."  The voice cracked.  "Do something."

A cool hand rested in my forehead.  "Sleep, child."

And I did.

###

I woke to someone lifting my head and tipping a bit of water past my lips, just enough to chase away the dust accumulating on my tongue.  The hand at the back of my neck was gentle, remarkably so.  I sighed and blinked my eyes open.  They didn't want to work, refusing to focus.  I saw the canvas of the tent first, the dim lantern, then the person beside me took form.

"Alistair?"

He looked at me for a moment, his face unreadable.  "Yes, it's me."

No jokes.  No smiles.  Why was he here instead of Wynne?  That made no sense.

"Do you remember what happened?" he asked quietly.

I did.  All of it.  I closed my eyes and nodded. 

"Good.  That's good."  He blew out a breath.  "Then would you mind explaining why in the Maker's name you snuck out of camp, without telling anyone?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?"  I cracked my eyes open to see him glaring at me.

"No, you don't get to make light of this," he growled.  "You nearly got yourself killed.  Killed, Kiann.  Not merely wounded or badly hurt.  Wynne wasn't sure--"  He broke off and shook his head, staring at the floor.  After a moment, he met my gaze.  "You are a Grey Warden.  You have responsibilities.  People are depending on you."

"Well, who asked them to?" I snapped, closing my eyes again to shut out the disappointment cascading over the templar's face.  "I certainly didn't.  I never wanted to leave the Circle.  That was Irving's plan for me, Irving's and Duncan's.  I never wanted this!"

"We don't always get to make our own choices."

I waved a hand at him.  "Says Mr. Make-Me-a-Grey-Warden-as-Fast-as-You-Can."

"You expect me to apologize for wanting to be a Warden?  I won't.  Being a Warden is an honor.  You should be proud that Duncan recruited you, not acting like a foolish child."

My eyes slitted open at the growled accusation.  Alistair glowered at me, his brows low over his hazel eyes.

"Maybe I was wrong about you," he admitted.  "I thought you were better than this.  Better than endangering our mission for a couple of hours of irresponsibility."

"How do you--"

His eyes narrowed.  "I'm not stupid.  I asked around after we found you.  It didn't take long to learn how you'd ended up tied to the branches of a tree."  He rose, shaking his head.  "Part of me is glad that--that Duncan isn't here to see this."

That stung.  I sucked in a breath.  "Alistair--"
 
"No.  I think--I think I'm done talking with you for now."  He turned and slipped out of the tent.

I stared at the tent flap for a long moment, something in my chest twisting.  Then I rolled over to face the opposite wall.  It didn't matter what Alistair thought of me.  He was a templar, for the Maker's sake.  When had I ever cared about what the templars thought?

I hadn't.  And I'd be foolish to start caring now.

###

The days blurred together.  I wasn't sure how long I'd been stuck in the tent, unable to do much more than rise to use the chamberpot.  Wynne visited me two or three times a day, changing my bandages and letting healing magic trickle through me, but there was only so much magic could do.  In time, my physical wounds faded into half-remembered aches, marked only by the scars I now sported on my torso, arms, neck, and face, but there was a hollow place under my breastbone that burned as hotly as Andraste's holy pyre. 

Alistair had not come to see me again.  I heard his voice ring throughout the camp occasionally, so I knew he hadn't abandoned our cause.  He hadn't abandoned me.

I rubbed the heel of my palm over the empty spot in my chest, as though the pressure would make it go away.  Wynne's eyes drifted to the movement, then met mine.

"Tell me," she said, her pleasant alto voice soothing to my ears, "what does being a Grey Warden mean to you?"

"I--"  Frowning, I shrugged.  "Does it have to mean anything?  Killing darkspawn, I guess."

"There's more to it than that, surely."

"Maybe you should be asking Alistair.  He knows more about it than I do."

The old mage's mouth curved in a gentle smile.  "I'm not interested in what he knows.  I'm interested in what you feel."

I crossed my arms over my chest.  "It doesn't matter.  That's what I am now, right?  Regardless of what it means to me."

Wynne was silent for a moment as she removed the last of my bandages and sat back.  "You did not want to be a Grey Warden."

"No.  I can honestly say that until the moment Duncan slapped me with the Right of Conscription, it had never even dawned on me as a possibility."

"I see."  Wynne tidied up her medical supplies in silence for a few moments.  "Do you hate him for that?"

"Do I--"  I blinked.  Did I hate Duncan for ripping me away from the only home I'd ever known, the only home I'd ever wanted?  I resented it, surely, but hatred?  "No, I don't--I don't hate him."

"Change is difficult, especially when it's thrust upon us with no warning," the white-haired mage said, nodding.  "Destinies are fluid things, flowing into place and back again, often with us having little or no say about it.  We may not be able to choose what happens to us, but we can always choose how to react.  We can scream and cry and wish that things were different, or we can embrace what the Maker has intended for us."

I snorted.  "That's nonsense."

Wynne's lips twisted as she pushed up from her position at the side of my cot.  "Maybe so.  Let that poultice soak in, and then I want to see you up and about for the rest of the day.  You don't need to be abed any longer."  With a last gentle smile, she pushed out of the tent.

The ache in my chest pulsed a little harder with her absence, and I found myself mulling over what the elder mage had said.  Wondering.

[Freckles04]

Mending

After a few hours of being on my feet, strolling around the camp, and feeling the sun on my face, the empty spot in my chest started to diminish.  It didn't fade entirely, but it did shrink enough that it no longer prodded me when I breathed.  Unless I looked at Alistair, and his darkened eyes.  Or Sten, and his disapproving glare.  Even Zevran's easy smile had an edge to it I hadn't seen before.

The only one of my companions who didn't look at me differently was Morrigan, and she'd always despised me anyway.  I had no idea why she stuck with us when she obviously hated every moment in our company.

Leliana had made a pot of soup for supper, with lovely tender-crisp beans and carrots and peas.  I savored every mouthful and tried not to notice the tension spiraling around the campfire, poorly masked by the silence of my friends and the crackling of the flames.

"In the morning, we head for Haven," I announced.  My companions hardly acknowledged that I spoke, except for a couple of shared, questioning glances.  "Leliana, do you still have Brother Genitivi's notes?"

"Yes," the bard responded in her lilting voice.  "But, are you--"

I waved away the concern in her voice.  "I'm fine.  We've--"  I stopped, my eyes on Alistair.  He stared at his bowl, not meeting my gaze.  "I've made us waste too much time already.  We'll track down the Urn of Sacred Ashes, then go to Redcliffe.  It doesn't hurt to be prepared, right?"

My weak attempt at humor fell flat.  A few weeks ago, the comment would have elicited smiles at minimum, maybe a rueful shake of the head from Morrigan.  But no longer.  My ill-advised adventure had cost me more than my once-flawless skin.

"I--"  What should I say?  What could I say?  The words stuck in my throat.  Sam whined beside me and nudged my hand.  I rubbed his head absently, my eyes on my friends, then lurched to my feet.  I leaned heavily on my staff as I made my way to my tent. 

Not a single one of my companions wished me a good night.

###

My strength returned quickly as we journeyed to the strange little town of Haven.  By the time we finally reached the resting place of Andraste's ashes, I'd added crazy cultists and drakes to my list of creatures vanquished.

Funny how it seemed less impressive now.

I didn't imagine the pity in the eyes of the spirit that guarded the ashes, but nor did I welcome it.  I answered his questions as honestly as I could, understanding that now was not the time to avoid the truth.  I tried to keep myself detached from the feeling of awe and peace that permeated this place.  But it seeped into me.  I felt it tugging at my soul, trying to heal it, but I stubbornly refused to let it.  It was just the magic embedded in the walls of the temple.  I could feel it pulsing like a heartbeat, like breaths, like the walls themselves were alive.  The Tower felt similar--not the same, not on the same magnitude, but similar enough that I recognized the oddness for what it was.  Not the touch of the Maker.  He and His bride were gone from this world, and they cared nothing for the people left in it.

Something in me broke a little as I spoke with the vision of Jowan that was not Jowan, but I didn't have time to indulge in self-pity.  I took a pinch of the ashes and deposited it into a leather pouch I'd brought just for that purpose, and we left.

The cultists had abandoned the ruins, perhaps fleeing back to Haven for reinforcements.  If so, we needed to hurry.  I was thankful I'd managed to convince Brother Genitivi, who we'd found captive in the town's Chantry, to make his way back to Denerim rather than accompany us.  He was an earnest man, and he didn't deserve to die in a half-collapsed ancient cathedral, no matter how long he'd searched for it. 

The thrill of victory, of a task completed, thrummed in my veins.  An inordinate amount of hope surged within me as well.  Whatever ailed the Arl of Redcliffe, we could defeat it.  We would.

The open door loomed before us, and I quickened my pace.

"Warden, wait!"

Leliana's warning came too late.  My foot brushed something and an explosion shoved me forward like a massive fist thrust into the centre of my back.  I landed hard on the ground, skidding over the snow onto the ancient stone floor.  I tried to use my staff to halt myself, but only succeeded in cracking it in two.  I sucked in a sharp breath as hurts I'd thought healed protested the abuse.  I cast a look over my shoulder.  Wynne was down, not moving, Leliana motionless beside her.  Alistair had fallen to one knee and was shaking his head in an attempt to clear it.

A reaver charged out of hiding at the templar, his enormous two-handed sword raised above his head.  Alistair didn't see him, or maybe he hadn't regained enough wits to understand what he was seeing.  I cried out and cast the first spell that came to mind, freezing the attacker in mid-stride.  Another spell rushed past my lips as I rose to my feet, and a bolt of electricity shot from my hands, shattering the enemy. 

A second reaver burst forth and thrust the pommel of his sword against Alistair's temple.  The templar crumpled to the ground and didn't move.  My throat seized, trapping an anguished cry within my chest.  The reaver stepped around Alistair's still form, his eyes on me.

A third enemy moved forward, then a fourth.  Maker...I couldn't do this on my own!  My mana was halfway spent, and I didn't have any lyrium potions to bolster it.  I'd given them all to Wynne to make sure she would always have enough power to heal the party.  Words tripped through my lips and multiple forks of lightning spewed from my fingers.  The reavers slowed but didn't stop.  I stumbled over to Alistair's side, my eyes never leaving the opponents slowly encircling me.  I cast the Shock spell again, depleting the last of my mana. 

Oh, by Andraste.  What now?  No staff, no power, no templar warrior to help me.  Part of me wanted to lay down on the floor and just give up.  I was no one special, after all, just an elf who could do a bit of magic. 

Boots.  Fists.  Striking me, breaking me, diminishing me.

No.  I would not give up again.

I wrapped my fingers around the hilt of Alistair's sword, prying it from his lax fingers.  It was heavy, heavier than I'd thought it would be.  It took all of my strength to hold it upright in front of me and Maker knew if I'd actually be able to swing it. 

The reavers stopped their advance.  One of the them chuckled.  "Never thought I'd see it, lads."  He snorted.  "A little elfling mage with a sword.  Watch she doesn't fall on it and impale herself, now."  His eyes narrowed, glittering.  "I'd hate to miss out on the kill."

I searched my mind for the knowledge I sought, plumbing into the depths reserved for magic.  I'd never thought to use that particular skill--Maker, the idea of me wielding a sword in battle was worse than ludicrous, and I hadn't been certain how much I could trust the disembodied thoughts and feelings and memories I'd absorbed from the ancient phylactery in the Brecilian Forest.  But I was out of ideas.  And desperate.

I closed my eyes.  I want to know, I whispered soundlessly.  I need to know.

Knowledge rushed through me like blood from a shattered phylactery and my eyes jolted wide.  I didn't see the armored men surrounding me, but visions of elves in chainmail and plate armor, wielding magic and weapons with equal mastery.  Strength flowed through me as my body adapted to using my innate magic as its power source rather than my meager stamina.  The sword in my hands suddenly was easier to lift, and I knew how to swing it without amputating my own arm.  Confidence, such an odd thing, spurted in my chest.  I could do this.  I really could.

With a cry, I swung the sword over my head like the vision had shown me and thrust it toward the nearest reaver.  It sank through a ****** in his armor, the sensation of muscle and bone scraping against the blade a feeling I knew and yet didn't know.  Revulsion burned my throat, but I didn't have time for reaction.  I withdrew the sword and spun to face the next reaver.  He'd recovered from the shock of seeing a mage wielding a weapon--and wielding it relatively well--and raised his shield to block my strike.  I danced to the side, following the steps laid out in my mind's eye, then turned and cast Cone of Cold with the little bit of mana I'd regained.  The remaining two reavers froze and I slashed at them with my borrowed weapon.  One I managed to hit hard enough that he shattered; the second thawed in time to welcome my sword through his gut. 

I yanked my blade free, and stood over the body, breathing heavily.  I'd--I'd done it.  And it had been...well, not easy, but I'd settled into the motions and movements like I'd been born to it.  And the confidence brought by the rush of knowing...it hadn't faded.  How very, very odd.

The templar stirred.  His sword clattered from my hand as I rushed to his side.  A goose-egg of a bump graced his temple, purple and red, and he blinked up at me with eyes that wouldn't focus.

"Kiann?  Where are the reavers?"  He gave his head a shake, then pressed a gauntleted hand against his temple, mouthing ow.

"Dead.  I killed them."  I touched fingers to his forehead and called forth the one healing spell I knew.

"Thanks."  His eyes cleared and he looked around as he pushed himself to his feet.  "You--you killed them?  All of them?  Alone?"

"Well, I--I borrowed your sword," I admitted, feeling suddenly sheepish.  I wasn't sure why, but the urge to apologize for that swept through me.  I bit my lip.

"You borrowed my--"  He frowned.  "What?"

I shook my head, then darted to Wynne's side as she moaned.  "It's not important," I called to Alistair.  "Let's get the three of you back to camp, shall we?  The sooner you rest up, the sooner we can be on the road to Redcliffe."

"Right."  Alistair's eyes dimmed.  "Redcliffe.  About that--"

A groan interrupted the templar and I rushed to Leliana's side.  By the time I'd helped her sit up, Alistair had moved beyond the open door to scout the passageway beyond, and no longer wanted to meet my eyes, or talk.

We limped back to camp in silence.

[Freckles04]

So...I'm not sure if anyone is reading these posts, or if they're old news because it's already over on FF.net. But...I'll post the next few chapters anyway. Enjoy.

---

Learning

I waited until the rest of the party retired before approaching Alistair at his seat by the fire.  I'd offered to sit watch with him, since he was still complaining of a headache from the final attack at the ruined temple.  Guilt twinged in my chest, but I pushed it aside.  A bit of exercise would do him good, probably. 

His eyes jolted up to mine as I planted my feet in front of him, and his brow furrowed.  I held Spellweaver in my hands, its point touching the dirt in front of my leather boot.  Faint lightning crackled along its steel length, thanks to a minor enchantment Sandal had bestowed upon the strange blade I'd found in the ruined temple.  Despite it only being in my possession for a short time, the sword seemed to mold itself to me, fitting into my grip as though it had been forged with me in mind.

"Teach me," I said.

"What?  Teach you?"  Surprise curved his lips as his eyes travelled from mine to the blade in my hands.  "Kiann, I think it's great that you managed to defeat the reavers with my sword, but swords aren't really a good tool for mages--"

I arched a brow, then launched into the steps of a dance that flitted through my mind.  Step, parry, block, thrust, every motion as poetic as the last.  I felt for a moment like I was at a royal ball instead of in a clearing lit by golden flames.  I lunged forward in the final movement, Spellweaver extended in front of me, and straightened.  My lips stretched in a wide smile, and my skin was hot, flushed with triumph.

"By the Maker," Alistair breathed, scrambling to his feet.  "How did you...where did you learn that?"

I laughed, feeling lighter and freer and more me than I had in...well, a very long time.  "The ruins in Brecilian Forest.  Remember the ancient phylactery?"

He frowned.  "The one with the revenant?"

"No, the other one.  The one I stared at for a long time, then destroyed."  I raised a brow.  "Didn't you wonder what I was doing that whole time?"

"Debating what you should do with it, I thought."

"No, silly."  Before I could think better of it, I smacked a hand against his upper arm.  Not a gesture I would normally make, because...well, templar; but tonight, with the thrill of discovery pumping through me, I didn't care.  "I was learning.  Ancient elven combat magic.  Isn't it wonderful?"  I poked Spellweaver's point into the dirt, gently, and spun around it.  "I can fight.  I know...not everything, not even close, but so much more than I'd ever dreamed, Alistair.  I know how to wield a sword.  How to block a thrust, how to strike, how to parry...combat forms...oh!  How to hold a shield!  Can I practice with yours?"

"Wait.  Just...wait."  He rubbed a hand over his brow.  "You're telling me that you learned swordplay from a vial of blood?"  He blinked.  "That's...rather disturbing, actually."

"Not the blood itself, the spirit of the mage trapped within it."

"Oh, well, that makes it so much better."

I frowned and shook my head.  "What's the problem?  It's a dead art, Alistair.  I'm the last--"

"Did you ever stop to think that there might be a reason that magic died out?"  He crossed his arms over his chest, the plates of his armor rasping together.

I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut.  "No," I admitted.  "But that doesn't mean it's not useful." My eyes narrowed.  "You're just jealous."

"Jealous?"  Alistair sputtered.  "Why in the Maker's name would I be jealous?"

"Because I just learned how to pick up a sword today and I have better form than you do."

"You have--"  The templar snorted with laughter.  "Oh, you so don't."

"It's true.  I'm an elf.  Elves are just naturally more graceful than humans.  It's a known fact, don't try to deny it."  I mimicked his stance, my arms crossed over my chest, and looked down my nose at him.  Or, rather, up.  He did have about a foot in height on me.  "Ergo, my form will innately be more perfect than yours."

"Maker's breath, Kiann."  He ran a hand through his short hair, making it stand up even more raggedly at the front.  "Form is important, yes, but when you're up against darkspawn or bandits or whatever else ends up trying to kill us, it matters little.  You need strength.  You need stamina.  And even with this fancy new magical knowledge you have, mages aren't equipped for that."

I pressed my lips into a thin line.  "Try me."

He stared at me for a moment, and I thought he was going to protest, or refuse, or something.  But instead, he threw his hands into the air.  "Fine.  Fine!  But you're going to do the explaining to Wynne when you need patching up."

"All right." A smile danced over my lips.  I bounced on the balls of my feet, excitement preventing me from standing still.

"Kiann, I'll try not to hurt you, but--"

"Don't hold back," I told him.  "Don't you dare."

"I'm going to end up in the Black City after this," Alistair muttered as he led me a short distance from the fire.  We were close enough to benefit from its light, but not so close one of us might accidentally stumble into it.  "I hope you're happy."

"I will be," I said with a smile, "when I beat you."

"I don't think so."  His eyes glimmered in the firelight as he unlatched his sword and shield from his back.  The shield he placed at the edge of our impromptu ring.  "Just swords," he said. 

"Sounds good to me," I said.  My smile grew, and I attacked. 

Our swords rang against each other, a counter melody to the rumble of the fire.  Laughter bubbled up from my gut, robust and real.  A grin darted across Alistair's face as he heard it, quickly replaced by a stern look of concentration as he engaged me with all of his skills.  He didn't hold back, as I'd asked.  After a few moments, I noticed a gleam in his eyes I hadn't seen before, and he gave me a nod of acknowledgment as I continued to meet and parry and block his blows with ease.

I felt alive.  That was the only way to describe it, and even that didn't quite encompass all of the emotions roaring through me.  With every step, every clash of blades, I felt strong.  In control.  Powerful.  Not in a "quake before the might of Kiann" kind of way, but in a quietly confident, "I can do this" way.  It was like...like a part of me had been missing until now, until this, a part that I hadn't even known existed.  And with it snapped back into place in my psyche, everything was different.  I was different.

I wasn't scared anymore.  Whatever Duncan had seen in me...maybe I was starting to see it too.

My sword flattened against Alistair's and I darted in close, our blades crossed between us.  Sweat glistened along his brow and his eyes blazed with some emotion I didn't recognize.  The tang of sweat and metal and man surrounded me, not unpleasant.  Definitely not unpleasant.  Unbidden, my eyes drifted to his lips, so close to mine.  He really did have very nice lips: strong, full but not too full, quick to smile.  That last bit was the best part.

I caught my lower lip between my teeth as I wondered what he'd taste like.

No.  Uh, no.  Templar, remember?

I staggered back from him and Spellweaver dropped from my nerveless fingers.  "Well, I..."  I cleared my throat.  "That was educational."

"Right.  Educational."  I couldn't quite tell in the dim light, but were his cheeks flushed?  He latched his sword to its place on his back, then strode forward to retrieve Spellweaver for me, his movements jerky, uncertain.  So different from the confidence he'd displayed during our sparring.  He held it out to me.

"Yes, certainly.  I, uh...thanks."  I gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands and tapped its point into the dirt repeatedly.  "How are you feeling?" I asked suddenly.  "Better?"

The look he gave me was somewhat pained.  "Oh, the headache's gone."

"Good.  That's good."  Maker's breath.  Could this be any more awkward? "I guess I'll, uh, head to bed."  The tips of my pointed ears burned as I realized what I'd said.  Totally inappropriate images flashed through my mind: sparring with Alistair of a very different sort.

Dear Andraste.

"Right." He coughed and busied himself with retrieving his shield.  "Good night, Kiann."

I whimpered.  And fled to my tent.

###

The sun was high overhead, terrifically warm, but a foreboding chill seemed to dwell along the path as we approached the tiny village of Redcliffe.  I glanced at Alistair.  He'd been uncharacteristically quiet and reserved as we trudged down the road to his former home.  I chalked it up to bad memories.  I knew he was an orphan and that Arl Eamon had taken him in after his mother died, but it sounded like his childhood had been a lonely one.  As separate as I'd been from the rest of Ferelden, growing up in the Circle, at least I'd been accepted.  From what Alistair had told me, he never had been.

A militiaman stood in the middle of the stone bridge before us and I strode forward, determined to demand an audience with the Arl.  A hand tugging on mine pulled me up short and I glanced down, surprised.  Alistair's armored fingers lingered, tracing the lines of my palm, before he pulled away. 

"Can we talk for a moment?"  He glanced at the militiaman, at the ground, at the rushing waterfall--anywhere but at me.  "I, uh, have to tell you something that I...probably should have told you earlier."

"Alistair..."  Maker, but the man had the worst timing.  "Can it wait?  We need to get to the Arl with the ashes.  We're so close now."

"Right.  Yes, of course."  He nodded.

"Once we're back at camp, I promise you'll have my full attention."

"Your full attention, is it."  A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

Heat flowed over my skin.  Was he--was he flirting with me?  In front of Leliana and Wynne?  "Well, you have more things to teach me, right?"

Leliana smothered a giggle behind her hand.  Wynne suddenly found the patterns of the clouds fascinating.  Belatedly I realized that what I'd said could be taken in so many ways that I had absolutely not meant.

"Like fighting!  Swordplay."  Oh, Andraste's mercy, that could be a euphemism.  "I mean, stroking with my sword--striking!  Striking!"  I groaned and covered my face with my hands.  "I give up."

"My dear Warden," Leliana said between snorting giggles, "I had not thought that anyone could be more adorably awkward than Alistair.  I'm happy to report that you have proven me wrong."

"Wonderful.  I'm so happy.  No, really."  I sighed.  "Let's just go save the Arl."

[Sandtigress]

We're reading. And enjoying! :-P You're just behind here and ahead on FF.net!

[Freckles04]

Hehe, okay, Sandi. Getting caught up.

---

Hurt

Of course, nothing is ever that easy.  Why did I suddenly think that we'd have a clear path to the Arl?  Recruit the Dalish to join the Grey Warden army…oh, but you'll need to cure them of the werewolf curse first.  Recruit the mages to help…oh, but you'll need to cleanse the Tower before you do.  Maker's breath.  It never ended.

At Redcliffe, we faced an undead army of unknown origin that had attacked the village again and again, killing indiscriminately.  No one had spoken to the Arlessa or Arl Eamon for at least a week; no one knew if anyone still lived in the castle.  Bann Teagan, the Arl's brother, had pleaded with us to help, and I couldn't say no.  Something had passed between him and Alistair, some minute detail of affection as Teagan recognized the boy who'd grown up at Redcliffe, and I wondered if this man had been the only one who had ever offered Alistair any emotional warmth.

My heart twisted at the thought.

Although Redcliffe offered nothing new to add to my list of vanquished creatures--I'd been up against the undead in the Brecilian Forest--swinging a sword through them instead of using a mage's staff…that was interesting.  And beyond thrilling.  Maybe the thought of me wielding a sword in battle wasn't so ludicrous after all.  I laughed as I cut down skeleton after skeleton, feeling as alive as I had during my sparring with Alistair, perhaps more so.  The militiamen gave me odd looks, but they continued fighting beside me.  Perhaps they attributed my joy to my general mage strangeness, or maybe because I was a Grey Warden.  I knew not.

Alistair was less than pleased to see me wade into the fray, protected by nothing but my robes.  Once we'd defended the village from the horde of walking corpses and the rising sun lit the eastern sky, he'd yanked me off to stand apart from the panting militia and demanded to know what I'd been thinking.  His fingers had tightened around my bicep, enough to dig painfully into the muscle, and I'd glared at him.   Deliberately, I'd jerked my arm out of his grasp, my magic-powered strength making the movement easier than it should have been.

"I did what I had to," I'd said, my voice low and dangerous.  "It worked, didn't it?  I'm standing here and so is everyone else."

He'd stared at me for a long time, silent, and I'd stared right back.  "Just--"  He'd shaken his head.  "Get some armor, then, for Andraste's sake."  He'd hooked his sword and shield to his back and strode away, every muscle in his back rigid.

With anger?  Because I was stepping out of my place as a mage, maybe?  Perhaps his templar sensibilities didn't know what to make of it.  Whatever his problem, I wasn't going to change.  I was more than just a mage now, and I felt the rightness of that resonate through the core of my being. 

After a short-lived celebration and a quick rest, Teagan had admitted there was a secret passage into the castle.  We'd been about to enter it when the Arlessa had appeared, spewing half-truths and ancient resentment.  All right--maybe I was a little biased against the woman, but she was the reason Alistair had been sent to the Chantry.  That didn't make me predisposed to like the woman.  And, Maker, her voice...

I watched Teagan leave, shepherding Isolde back to the castle with an arm draped over her shoulders.  Trepidation wound my stomach into knots.  I didn't like this, letting the Bann go in alone.  Everything in me screamed that it was a Bad Idea, but to stop him I would have had to tie him to the windmill and I wasn't prepared to do that.

The passage through the depths of the cliffs to the castle's dungeon was dark, dank, everything a secret, hardly used tunnel should be.  We spilled into a torch-lit corridor and I paused, letting my senses take in our surroundings.  My Grey Warden taint cast out, searching for others with the corruption, but found nothing except Alistair's familiar presence.

"Ready?" he breathed.  Even his low voice sounded loud in the oppressive silence of the hallway.

I inhaled deeply.  "Sure, why not."

We crept forward, opening the first door when Leliana assured us it wasn't trapped.  As we passed through, I caught Alistair's eye and jerked my head at the opposite end of the row of cells.  A trio of undead had their hands thrust through a barred door, trying to get at whatever was inside the cell.  He'd already spotted them and gave me a tight nod of acknowledgement.

"Get away from me!"

I froze.  Maker, no.  Isolde had mentioned they'd caught a mage poisoning the Arl...

No.  It couldn't be him.

I unlatched my sword and rushed forward.

"Maker--Kiann!" Alistair shouted.  He spat out another curse, then I felt his presence at my back, as comforting as a hot drink on a cold day.

I threw out a Winter's Grasp and Shock as I approached the walking dead.  Alistair bashed his shield against the frozen skeleton and it crumbled to the floor.  He danced onto the next, his movements precise and graceful.  I took care of the third with a half-dozen strikes, and it fell to the floor, its jaw clattering in true death.

I didn't turn to look at the cell right away.  Breathe, Kiann.  It might not be him, but even if it is...

"Maker's breath!" Jowan gasped.  "It's you!"

"Oh, Jowan."  Tears stung my eyes as I stared at my best friend.  "You're supposed to be farming somewhere.  Remember?"

He gripped the bars of the doors and let his head droop between his braced arms.  "Of all the people I thought I might see, you were not one of them.  Not that I'm not happy to see you, I just never thought you'd ever leave the Tower."

"Believe me, it wasn't by choice."

"No?"  He glanced up at me.  "Oh, Maker.  Did I ruin your life too?"

I glanced at Alistair, who returned my quick look with a quirked brow.  "Not ruined," I admitted.  "Just not something I'd ever dreamed of.  I'm a Grey Warden."

"A Grey--"  Jowan chuckled, then howled with laughter.  "Kiann, you're scared of mice.  And you're going to kill darkspawn?"

My eyes narrowed.  "And maybe captive blood mages if you don't shut up."

Alistair straightened.  "A blood mage? Well, that's not good."  He crossed his arms over his chest.  "Oh, and for the record?  That sword isn't for show.  I'd suggest you do what she says."

A little tingle of pride wound through me at the almost-compliment from the templar.

"Where in the Maker's name did you learn how to use a sword?  No, never mind," he amended.  "That's a conversation for another time, another place."  He hesitated, then pushed back from the bars.  "Kiann, please.  I must know.  What happened to Lily?"

Lily, the Chantry initiate whom Jowan had fallen in love with and betrayed, just as he had me.  The betrayal still stung, but I couldn't hate my friend for what he'd done.  We all make mistakes, some of us worse mistakes than others. 

"I wish I knew," I said softly.  "I would tell you if I did.  But I was taken from the Tower immediately after you escaped, and when I returned a short time ago--"  I broke off, my throat clogging unexpectedly.  "Jowan, why are you here?  Whatever possessed you to poison Arl Eamon?"

"Loghain told me--"

Alistair's brows snapped down.  "Loghain is behind this?  Why am I not surprised."

I wanted to rest a hand on the templar's arm, to soothe away some of the tension rumbling through him, but I didn't know if I should or if it was right, or anything.  So I looked back at my wayward friend.  "Tell me.  Everything, but quickly."

###

After all Loghain had done in the supposed best interests of Ferelden, neither Alistair nor myself were surprised he'd resorted to hiring an apostate to secretly poison the Arl.  Eamon would have been the most vocal opponent against Loghain's regency, the one person mostly likely to rally the country against him.  If we'd come here sooner, would we have been able to make a difference?  If I'd listened to Alistair's advice instead of just letting geography and my own ties decide for me?

I shoved those thoughts out of my mind.  They were a distraction I couldn't afford.  Not when facing an abomination. 

I stared into the eyes of Connor, Isolde's son, and saw nothing but madness.  He yet looked human, which was an improvement over the abominations I'd faced in the Tower, but it meant nothing.  The wrongness reeked from him like the stench of a corpse.  Everyone in the room, everyone not under the demon's influence, felt it to some extent; Wynne, Alistair and myself sensed it a bit more keenly, thanks to our knowledge of the arcane.

The demon baited us, then ran, leaving Bann Teagan as its puppet of destruction.  Luckily, when Teagan had said he wasn't the most skilled warrior, it wasn't modesty.  He could wield a sword well enough, but he was no challenge for the boy he'd once helped raise.

Isolde rushed forward and offered Teagan a hand up before Alistair could stow his sword and do the same.  The Arlessa started moaning about how she'd never forgive herself if Teagan had died and my fists clenched at my sides.  I wanted to shake her, scream at her that her foolishness was to blame for the entire situation.  If she hadn't tried to hide Connor's developing abilities...if she hadn't resorted to using an apostate to train him...if she hadn't tried to keep all of this a secret...

But shouting at the arling's nobility probably wouldn't be very productive.

"What are our options?" I asked, my heart heavy.  I knew what one was...but Maker, please let it not come to that.

"He's an abomination," Alistair said.  His voice sounded as weighted as my soul.  "I wouldn't normally suggest killing a child, but--"

"No!"  Isolde grabbed Teagan's arm.  "Please.  He's just a boy.  This isn't his fault!"

"Isolde, please."  The Bann covered her hand with his.  "We may not have much choice.  Death would be..."  He closed his eyes briefly, then continued.  "Death would be merciful."

"No!  There has to be another way!"

The Arlessa's voice raked across my spirit, leaving gouges that ached, physically.  My companions alternated between staring at the floor and chancing quick looks at me, and I knew the decision would be mine to make.  Dear Maker.  I didn't want to...I didn't want to do this.  Kill a little boy?

I took a deep breath, pushing the grief and horror aside, and opened my mouth to speak.

"There might be another option."  Jowan stepped into the main hall from where he'd been stationed at the entrance.

"You!" the Arlessa shrieked.  "This is your fault.  I trusted you."

"Lady Isolde, I'm so sorry."  My friend bowed his head.

"How did you get out of the dungeons?" she demanded.

"I let him out," I said, straightening to my full height.  "And I stand by my decision.  Jowan was a pawn for Loghain, Isolde; he simply thought he was doing what was right."

"How can infiltrating my home to kill my husband be right?"  The Arlessa vibrated with anger and I thought for a moment she was going to strike out, but she restrained herself.  "How can summoning this demon to torment my family be right?"

"I didn't summon any demons," Jowan insisted.  "But I want to help.  Please.  Let me try to fix this."

Isolde pressed her lips into a thin line and refused to meet the blood mage's gaze, while Teagan gave a sharp nod.

"We can confront the demon in the Fade," Jowan suggested.

I began shaking my head even before he'd finished.  "That takes a half-dozen mages and a huge amount of lyrium.  The Circle--"  I coughed, masking how my throat tightened at the thought of my former home.  "The Circle was annulled, Jowan.  There are only a handful of mages left in Ferelden."

"Maker's breath," he whispered.  His eyes closed and his shoulders sagged.  After a moment, he raised his head, and I saw determination in his eyes.  "It doesn't matter.  Yes, usually you would need those resources to enter the Fade, but I have blood magic."

"How is more blood magic going to help?" Alistair growled from behind me. 

I raised a hand and the templar subsided.  Disquiet raced through me at Jowan's suggestion, but we didn't have many options open to us.  "Go on."

"The spell I know uses life energy to send a mage into the Fade," Jowan explained.  "I can't go because I'm doing the ritual."

"But...I thought the demon was in Connor," Teagan said with a frown.

"Not physically, no."

"So you can confront the demon in the Fade?  Destroy it there, and leave Connor unharmed?"  Hope lifted the Arlessa's voice.  "Truly?"

"Yes, but..."  Jowan's shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath.  "The spell I know uses a lot of a person's life energy.  All of it, in fact."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to stomp my feet and throw a tantrum at the unfairness of this whole situation. I wanted to sink to the floor and let someone else handle this.

I stood still and listened.

The Bann rubbed two fingers against his temple.  "So you're saying that someone must die for this spell to work."

Jowan nodded.  "That--that's exactly it.  I'm sorry.  It's not much of an option."

"I'll do it."  For the first time since I'd met her, Isolde seemed calm and collected.  Sure of herself.

"Isolde--" Teagan began.

She laid a hand on his arm and met my eyes.  "I will not stand here and let my son die when there is something I could do about it.  If this will save Connor, I will gladly give my life."

I glanced behind me at a strangled noise to see Alistair stalk away to the entrance to the corridor and back.  He hated blood magic, due in large part to his templar training, and I agreed with him.  The idea of this ritual made me feel more tainted than the darkspawn essence flowing through my veins.  But when the only other option was killing a little boy...what choice did I have?

"Do it."  I gritted my teeth.  "I'll enter the Fade.  Jowan--"  I shook my head and turned to Wynne.  "Watch him, please."

The elder mage nodded once, knowing what I meant.  While I was in the Fade, I would be vulnerable here.  Jowan was my friend, and I loved him like a brother, but he had betrayed me once.  He had worked for the man who had declared Alistair and myself enemies of the crown.  I wanted to trust him, but I couldn't.

When I turned back to Jowan, I saw the acknowledgement of that in his eyes.  And the sorrow.  What I wouldn't give to be a teenager in the Tower again, playing games and setting pranks, and just loving life.

Instead of enduring this constant, aching hurt.

Modifié par Freckles04, 12 mars 2010 - 11:28 .

[Freckles04]

Wrenching

I hated the Fade.

It was bad enough that I visited it involuntarily every night as I slept.  All humans and elves did; it was the dream realm.  But to have to go into it, on purpose, for whatever reason....I prayed this would be the last time.

The demon was your typical demon.  It tried to kill me more than once, and when it realized that wouldn't work, it tried to bargain with me.  It offered me fame, fortune, love, whatever I desired--as long as I let it keep Connor.

I stabbed it through the heart with my sword.

The first thing I saw when I awoke was Alistair leaning over me, his eyes dark and disturbed.  "Never again," he said.

"Never again," I agreed.  I closed my eyes and sighed, only to jolt them open again as Alistair shook me.  "What?  I'm fine."

"Just--just checking."

"Can we go back to camp yet?"

"No," Alistair said.  "Do you have the ashes?"

Right.  The ashes, to cure the Arl.  I pushed myself to a sitting position and noticed, for the first time, that Jowan was in the room with us.  He sat with his back against the opposite wall, Wynne hovering over him like a watchful mother hen.  All evidence of the ritual, including…including Isolde's body, had been removed.  In the well-lit sitting room, he looked older.  More haggard.

He frowned.  "Your face...I didn't notice it before.  Maker's mercy, Kiann, where did you get those scars?"

Automatically my hand flew to the right side of my face and traced the pattern of bumps and lines etched into my skin, a reminder of The Spoiled Princess.  My stupidity.  It was easy to forget about them.  I rarely had the opportunity to admire myself in a reflective surface, and my companions had grown accustomed to their presence.  But they were far from invisible.  I supposed comments like Jowan's would just be something I'd have to get used to, particularly once we were done traipsing around the countryside and ended up amongst actual people again.  "It's not important," I said, forcing my hand back to my lap.

"You've changed," he said softly.  "I guess we both have, haven't we?  We're not children anymore.  You're a Grey Warden"--he shook his head, still in disbelief at that fact--"and I'm an apostate.  Not the future I'd envisioned."  He stared at his feet, unwilling to meet my eyes.  "I know--I know my words mean little, but I truly am sorry."

That was the worst of it.  Jowan wasn't evil.  I'd seen evil, tasted it, taken it within me.  Jowan was a fool who'd made terrible choices, but he was not evil.  "I know," I breathed.

"I wish..."  He looked up, his eyes full of wishes and what-ifs and regrets.

Slowly, I nodded.  "Me too."

###

I didn't want to look as Teagan told his brother that I'd killed Isolde.  Not that the Bann said it like that--the news was couched in context and he emphasized the fact that Isolde had given her life for her son's.  But everyone in the room knew who had made that decision.  On whose shoulders lay the blame.

It was a good thing my strength was magically enhanced.

We moved from the Arl's sickbed to the main hall of the castle, the warmth of the roaring fire in direct counterpoint to the chill that had settled in my bones.  Eamon listened to his brother tell the tale of everything that had transpired over the months since Ostagar.  When Teagan finished, Eamon met my eyes with a weary gaze.  "Thank you, Warden," the Arl said, his deep voice somber.  "Thank you for saving what you could."

It wasn't enough.  It had been the only true option, but it wasn't even close to being enough.

I turned as Jowan was led into the room on Eamon's orders.  His entire countenance sobbed defeat, and my heart broke.  Before I realized what I was doing, I strode over to him and wrapped him in my arms.

"You will always be the brother I never had," I whispered.

His breath hitched.  His hands were bound behind his back, so he couldn't return my embrace, but he leaned his head on my shoulder.

I stepped back, surreptitiously wiped my eyes, and rejoined Alistair in front of Eamon.  The Arl looked at me quizzically.  "Do you have something to say on Jowan's behalf, Warden?"

"Yes, I do.  He is a good man who made incredibly stupid choices, my lord," I said, meeting Eamon's narrowed gaze unflinchingly.  "He is a maleficar, this is true, but he was merely a tool of Teyrn Loghain and his actions against Ferelden.  I--"  I glanced at Alistair.  Oh, this was not going to be a popular request.  "I would like him released."

"A blood mage?" the templar sputtered.  "Who killed Lady Isolde?"

"A friend," I corrected him, "who was the reason we were able to save the Arl's son."

"Enough."  Eamon inhaled deeply, then shook his head.  "I can't release him, Warden.  Even if I agreed with you that he was manipulated by the regent, he is still a blood mage.  An apostate."

"Then give him to the Circle."  I couldn't help the pleading note that entered my voice.  I hated the thought of Jowan going to Aeonar, the mages' prison, but the alternative was death.  If Eamon called for his execution--

I didn't know what I would do.

"Yes," the Arl said after a moment.  "That is a fair solution.  Jowan, I hereby order that you be returned to Ferelden's Circle of Magi, who will determine your punishment.  May the Maker have mercy on you."

"Thank you, my lord," Jowan said, dipping his chin.  When he turned his gaze to me, his eyes glistened.  "Goodbye, Kiann.  Maker watch over you."

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and watched as Jowan was led away.

"Now we must speak of Loghain."  Eamon's brows drew low over his eyes.  "I can scarcely believe what he's done.  Long I have known him, and Loghain Mac Tir never desired power."

"He has changed, brother," Teagan said.

"Indeed.  But we cannot afford to meet him on the battlefield."

"Wait."  I shook my head.  "Are you saying we should give up?"

Eamon chuckled, a sound that held no mirth.  "Hardly.  Loghain will pay for what he's done.  But we must save the armies you're gathering to fight against the darkspawn, not each other.  If we wage a campaign against Loghain, Ferelden will not have the forces to defeat the Blight.  That must be our priority."  The Arl turned to face the fire behind him.  "I will call for a Landsmeet, for all the nobles to gather in Denerim, to challenge Loghain's place as regent.  But we must pair it with a challenge Loghain can't ignore.  We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than his daughter, Queen Anora."

Teagan stilled.  "Brother, are you suggesting...Alistair?"

"I wish there was another option, but the worst has come to pass."

A smile tugged at my lips as my eyes swung from Eamon to Teagan.  "What are you talking about?"

Teagan's gaze whipped to the templar's.  "She doesn't know?"

This was a masterpiece of work.  Truly.  I don't know when he'd arranged it, but it was a prank of epic proportions.  Something I would have loved to set up with Jowan.  My smile grew as I turned to my friend--and fell, slowly, as I saw no humor in his face.

"I, uh," he said, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.  "I tried to tell you when we approached Redcliffe, but, um..."

"You're joking."  Why was my heart twisting so?

"Believe me, I wish it was a joke.  All it's ever done has brought me trouble."

I fell back a step from him, my arms wrapping around my midsection.  "You're a sodding prince? And you didn't tell me?" 

"Alistair is King Maric's illegitimate son," Eamon confirmed.  "He has a blood right claim to the throne, something no one else in the country has."

A prince.  Maker's breath.  A templar and a prince.  Oh, this was quite the joke.  Here, Kiann: here is a man you find attractive, who makes you laugh, who makes your insides melt totally inappropriately...but he's been trained as a guard that you've learned to fear and hate; oh, and just in case you thought you might get past that, he's a prince, so far above your station that to think you might have a future with him--

I shook my head.  Not now.  Maker, not now.  Get through this meeting.  Get back to camp.  That's all I had to do right now.

"So you want to put him forth as the heir."  My voice sounded dead to my ears.  I wondered if Alistair heard the difference; I dared not look at him, for fear I would start shouting at him or crying.  Or, Andraste help me, both.

"Exactly."

"What about me?" Alistair demanded.  "Doesn't anyone care what I want?"

"Without you, Loghain wins," Eamon said.  "I would have to support him for the good of Ferelden.  Is that what you want?"

"I...but, I..."  The templar frowned.  "No, my lord."

"Then I will call the Landsmeet.  Continue gathering your allies, Warden," Eamon said.  "We will need all of the strength you can muster."

###

Alistair managed to hold his tongue until we returned to camp, but once we'd reached the sanctuary of the ring of tents, there was no denying him. He tossed down his sword and shield, showing an uncharacteristic disregard for their care.  His gauntlets clattered atop the weaponry and he thrust one hand through his hair.

"How could you do that?" he fumed. "You killed Lady Isolde!"

I hugged my arms to my chest and met his gaze squarely.  Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see the rest of our companions move away, out of the line of verbal fire.  "Would you have preferred I murder a little boy?"

"No, but there had to have been something we could have done that didn't involve blood magic.  By the Maker, Kiann.  Blood magic."

"What, Alistair?  What could we have done?"  I gestured with one hand.  "Please.  I want to know."

"I…I…"  He paced a couple of steps away.  "I don't know.  Something.  Anything but that."

"I'm sorry my decision doesn't sit well with your Highness," I spat.  My fingers gripped my upper arms tight enough to leave bruises.

Alistair turned to regard me, his expression icy.  "Don't.  Kiann, just…don’t."

"Oh, no.  You don't get to shout at me, question one of the hardest decisions I have ever made, and expect that I'm not going to shout right back."  Hot tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.  "How could you not tell me?  I thought we were friends!"

"We were…we are."  He blew out a frustrated breath.  "I wanted to tell you.  But then, after Ostagar…I don't know.  How do you just tell someone that?"

"'Oh, by the way, now that Cailan's dead, I'm heir to the throne'?"

"Funny.  Like you would have believed me.  Maker."  He sank to one of the logs arranged around the fire and stared at the golden flames.  They caressed the planes of his face like a lover's hands.  Like I'd wanted to do, with my hands.

What a fool I was.

"I should have told you," he said, tossing a stray twig into the fire.  "I'm sorry.  It's just that…everyone who's ever found out has treated me differently.  Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it.  I just--I wanted you to like me for me."  He looked up, his eyes shadowed.

"I did like you," I whispered.  "Now…now I don't even know who you are.  I'm quite the idiot, aren't I?"  My heart was twisting again, like it had when Eamon had first announced his plan.  The King.  Maker, I was looking at the future King.  "Cailan was protecting you, sending you to the Tower with me.  I see the resemblance now; did they keep the two of you apart so no one else saw it?  It's quite striking, really."

"Kiann--"

"If someone had told me I'd be babysitting the sodding heir, I would have gotten nicer robes."  Nonsense was pouring out of my mouth, but I couldn't stop it.  It was better than crying, better than crumbling in front of him.  "I certainly wouldn't have gotten myself all scarred up.  It doesn't look good for the prince to have an ugly elf on his arm, does it?"

Alistair pushed up from the log and took a step toward me.  I fell back, away from his reaching arm.  "Don't you dare touch me."

"Please, Kiann--"

I shook my head.  "Was this a game to you?"

"What?  No.  No.  How can you think that?"

"Oh, come on, Alistair.  You can't be that naïve.  Dallying with an elven mage might be barely acceptable as a Grey Warden.  It isn't even close to being all right for a King."

"I'm not the King!"  The templar's fists clenched at his sides.  "I don't want to be the King.  I've never wanted that."

"But you knew."  My voice was low, intense with the effort not to break down.  "When Cailan died, you knew the possibility was there.  And you--you didn't warn me.  And I--"

My heart, no longer content with twisting, cracked.

"Maker, Kiann, I--"

"Stay away from me!"  I thrust my hands out at him, and my magic responded to my emotions and the turmoil swirling within me.  An arcane bolt flew from my hands and struck him in the chest.  Unprepared for the attack, he toppled backwards.  Into the fire.

Leliana screamed.  Sten and Zevran rushed forward and yanked the templar away from the flames.  Wynne fell to her knees at his side, but Alistair was already sitting up, patting his smoldering hair.

Hand covering my mouth in horror at what I'd done, I broke away from the fire's radiance and ran into the surrounding darkness.

[Freckles04]

And this brings us up to date with what's on FF.net. This chapter has mature themes, but nothing too graphic.

---

Chrysalis

I'd barely passed beyond the reach of the fire's light before I heard him crashing through the brush after me.  Part of me was relieved that he was well enough to chase me; the rest of me just wanted to get away.

"Maker's breath, Kiann," he growled.  "Will you stop?"

My hand was jerked backwards and I lurched to a halt.  I tried to pull away, but he shifted his grip, intertwining his fingers with mine.  His bare skin felt odd; any of the handful of times we'd touched, metal had separated us.  Warmth radiated from his hand, up my arm, into my head.

He stepped closer.  My heart pounded as I angled my head to watch him, to keep my eyes on his.  "I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely audible.  His other hand came up to touch my face, my scars, and I jerked my head to the side.  He laid his palm there anyway and tugged my eyes back to his.

He leaned down, and those wonderful, quick-to-smile lips covered my own.  His touch was firm, sure--so odd from the usually hesitant man I knew.  The heat from his body surrounded me, comforting, enticing.  I sighed against him, my mouth opening...and suddenly the kiss wasn't sweet anymore, it was hot and burning and needy.  He pulled me tightly against him, one arm banded across my band like an iron bar.  He held me, trapped, like he was afraid I would run--

I can't move, injured as I am, but he pins me with his weight anyway.  Rocks and branches dig into my back, but I can do nothing but lay there, tears pouring from my eyes.  One hand on either bicep, one knee crushing my left leg as the other wedges my thighs apart--

I wrenched myself out of Alistair's arms and staggered backwards.  Images--memories, dear Maker, they were memories--rushed through my mind.  Oh, Andraste.  Have mercy.

The templar frowned.  "What is it?  Was that too much?  Too soon?  Maker, I'm sorry, I'm all hands--"  He reached out to me.

One hand is over my mouth, the other one is...there...rough and painful.  And he's laughing.  My eyes are swollen shut so I can't see his face, but he's laughing as he replaces his fingers with--

"Don't touch me!"  The shriek ripped out of me like an abomination's wail.  I doubled over, gagging and sobbing and whimpering all at once.

"Kiann, please."  The templar looked so concerned, almost sick with it.  "What is it?  Are you ill?  Let me help--"  His hand alighted on my arm.

I screamed.  And kept screaming.  It rang in my ears, in my head, in my memories, in my heart. 

Hands on my arms.  Alistair's voice begging me to explain.  Then his hands, gone; his presence, shoved away.  Firm, feminine fingers on my chin, yanking my gaze to meet azure eyes.

"Warden--Kiann," Leliana said, her voice ringing with authority.  "Focus on me.  Can you see me?"

My lungs pumped like a bellows.  Too fast, but they wouldn't slow down.  I nodded.

"Concentrate on your breathing," Leliana instructed.  "In through your nose, out through your mouth.  Like this."  She demonstrated.  I copied.

"She knows how to breathe!" Alistair flared.  "We need to find out what's wrong."

I winced at the anger and frustration in his voice.  I knew he wouldn't hurt me--not like that, not like--

Screams bubbled again, trembling in my chest, and I scrambled backwards, my hands and feet kicking up dead leaves and dirt.  I had to get away, had to escape--

Leliana followed me, but she didn't touch me, just matched my movements like one would shadow a dangerous animal.  "Kiann," she said softly, "no one here will hurt you.  You know this."

My eyes raced around the clearing and my stunned brain realized that all of my companions stood around me in a loose circle.  But Leliana was still talking, her voice low and soothing, and I had to listen.

"You're safe here, with us," she said.  She crept forward a step, then another, and I forced myself not to move.  "But you need to calm down.  It would be a shame to set fire to this lovely forest, yes?"

She reached me and cupped one shoulder in her palm.  Something in me crumbled, and I fell forward as a torrent of sobs rushed out of me.  But she caught me and held me, stroking my hair and humming a soft tune I didn't know.

A rustle of leaves.  A footstep.  "Alistair," Leliana murmured, "just go."

"But I--"

"This has nothing to do with you," she said.  "Please.  Go."

More whispers of dead foliage, slow and reluctant.  I felt the rest of my companions leave, but still I clung to Leliana like an anchor.  My tears subsided, but I did not feel cleansed.  I felt...shattered.  Destroyed.  All of the confidence I'd unearthed within myself, the sense of purpose...gone.

How could I not have remembered?  How could I not have known?  Those bastards had stolen my innocence, and I hadn't even realized.

Stupid, idiot of a girl.  I should have fought back, with everything in me, with every last ounce of ability.  I should have kicked, bit, spit, whatever it took.  Not lay there like I was already dead.

"Do you want to talk?"  Leliana pulled back to look me in the eyes again.

I wrenched my gaze away.  "No."  I wanted to kill something.  Lots of somethings, preferably.  Extra points if they were men who frequented The Spoiled Princess.  I froze at the realization I wanted to commit murder.  Then anger spurted through me.  Why wouldn't I?   I wasn't the weak girl who'd left the tower, not any longer.  I wasn't even the same girl who'd let herself be--  I pressed my lips into a thin line, refusing to think it.

This is what a Grey Warden was supposed to be, was it not?  Wardens did what they must.  They were not heroes.  And I certainly fit those two characteristics now, didn't I?  Heroes didn't long for murder; heroes didn't kill innocent women, even if they volunteered.

"I'm fine, Leliana."  My voice was strong, horribly strong.  I pushed the bard away, and stood.  "Go back to camp."

The red-haired woman glanced over her shoulder at the warm light of the flames crackling through the trees, then looked back to me.  "Kiann, you shouldn't--"

"Go back to camp."  Command laced my tone, the first time I'd purposely inserted it into my voice.

Leliana hesitated.  "You're sure?"

"It's out of my system."  I crossed my arms.  "Go."

Uncertainty dwelled in her deep blue eyes, but she knew me as her leader, and she obeyed.  With Leliana gone, my shoulders sagged, but I refused to break again.  I would not. 

I don't know how long I stood there, my thoughts scattered like the stray leaves tossed about by the breeze.  I didn't know who I was.  I knew who I wasn't--I wasn't Kiann any longer, at least not the Kiann who'd roamed the halls of the Circle, laughing with Jowan, driving teachers to distraction, and getting into as much trouble as I could. 

That Kiann, I knew now, had died in the forest by Lake Calenhad.

Before I truly realized what I was doing, my belt knife was in my hands and my long, wavy auburn locks began to fall around me.  I dropped the strands, watching them flutter to the ground like some kind of odd spiderweb.  With every cut, I became more sure of my actions. 

I sheathed my knife after the last tress fell.  My fingers brushed over my choppy, rough hair, and I enjoyed the oddness of it.  My thumb grazed the scars on the right side of my face and I paused.  Hair could--and would--grow back.  I wanted...no, I needed a permanent reminder that I was not the Kiann-that-was.

Zevran.  He had ink; I'd seen it as we packed for travel.  He would help me, because I'd seen the brokenness in him before I'd experienced it myself.  He would understand the need to be different.  He would understand that Kiann was dead.

Long live whoever I was.

[Sandtigress]

Please, ser, can I have some more??? :-P



The end, by the way, is fantastic. I love the last line.

[Treason1]

Very engrossing story, Freckles.



Just as a note, any and all rapists should be shot. That's from a male perspective, by the way.

[bloodtallow]

Great story, as always, Freckles! Very much looking forward to learning more about Kiann!

[Freckles04]

Thanks for the feedback, everyone.



@ Sandi: Thank you. I actually originally had that line up a few paragraphs, but I decided it was an awesome chapter-ending line, so there you go.



@ Treason: Absolutely. I'm with you 100% on that.



@bt: Thanks! So am I, lol. She's surprised me. This was really not the story I started writing...I was intending to write a happy fluffy story a la Auditions. Um. So, yeah, failed in that respect...

[Sandtigress]

Freckles04 wrote...


@bt: Thanks! So am I, lol. She's surprised me. This was really not the story I started writing...I was intending to write a happy fluffy story a la Auditions. Um. So, yeah, failed in that respect...

In that respect, perhaps, but it seems like what we're getting is a far more interesting story.  Funny how characters do that to us, huh?

[Freckles04]

Sandtigress wrote...

In that respect, perhaps, but it seems like what we're getting is a far more interesting story.  Funny how characters do that to us, huh?

She's not the first to take me places I wasn't expecting to go, and I'm sure she won't be the last.

[Kulkodar]

Whoa... Freckles, this is amazing. I can hardly wait for the next chapter. You've gone in a completely unexpected direction

[Freckles04]

Thanks, Kulkodar. I'm having a lot of fun with this story, despite it being rather dark.

[Freckles04]

Challenge

I woke before anyone else the next morning and scampered to Bodhan's cart.  The dwarven merchant earned his place in my camp by carrying some of our heavier goods, like spare armor and weapons, in addition to offering us supplies for a discounted price.  He received all the protection a well-armed crew could muster, and we enjoyed the convenience of our own personal store, an arrangement that benefited everyone.   I rummaged through the crates until I found what I sought:  plate armor, dragonbone, that we'd retrieved from an ancient, haunted Grey Warden base.  The breastplate wasn't shiny like most of the armors we'd collected over our travels; it gleamed dully in the early morning light, like the black matte finish ingested the sunlight.  The golden griffon on the front beckoned me, reminding me of who I wasn't.

I gathered up the pieces and carried them back to the ring of tents surrounding the languid fire.  Leliana had risen and was stoking the flames in preparation for breakfast.  She turned as I approached and her eyes lingered on me, taking in my new appearance, but she said nothing.  Of all my companions, I knew she and Zevran would not judge me. 

The night before, when Zev had done my ink, the assassin had remained uncharacteristically quiet.  The importance of my request had not been lost on him, as I'd suspected it wouldn't.  He hadn't protested my decision.  He hadn't tried to talk me out of it.  He had given the situation the weight it deserved, because he'd simply understood.

Alistair...I wasn't so sure of.  But I was not going to shy away from him.  He would either accept me as I was now, or he wouldn't.  The outcome did not matter to me.

I let my armload of armor clatter to the ground outside of his tent.  It had the expected result of provoking grumbles and protests from his bedroll, but in moments his head poked through the flap.

"Who in the--"  He blinked up at me, sleep still clouding his eyes, and frowned.  "Kiann?"

My shoulders tensed at that name.  "Surana," I corrected him.

"Uh...all right.  You cut your hair."  He scrubbed a hand over his face.  "And...tattooed your face?  Why by Andraste's holy pyre--"

"I need help putting on the armor," I said.

Alistair looked down at the pile of ebony and burnished gold metal.  He hadn't wanted it, insisting that he wasn't worthy of wearing the Warden Commander suit of plate.  That's Duncan's role, not mine.  "It won't be too heavy for you?"

"No."

He stared at me for a moment, then pushed to his feet, heedless of his lack of shirt.  "Kiann, please.  We're--we're friends, right?  I want to help.  I want to fix whatever it is that's hurting you."  He stepped around the pile of armor, toward me, and I retreated to maintain the space between us.  His face fell.  "Kiann."

I crossed my arms over my chest.  "Don't."

"Don't what?  Don't call you by your name?" He thrust a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.  "I just--I don't understand what's happened.  Were you remembering the attack last night?  Is that it?  Did I hurt you, or say something, or--or do something, that made you remember being beaten?"

I laughed.  It burst out of me without warning, without warmth.  Suddenly I felt so much older than the templar.  Not wiser.  Just ancient.  "You're such a boy."

His eyes narrowed.  "I beg your pardon?"

"I know you were sheltered, Alistair, but please."

He crossed his arms.  "Don't talk to me like I'm stupid.  They don't make stupid templars, you know."

"Having lived with templars my entire life and hoodwinked more than my share, I beg to differ."  I glared at him.  He glared right back.  "Fine.  I'll ask Sten."  I turned to leave.

He grabbed my wrist.  "Kiann--"

The knowledge of how to free myself flowed into my mind.  Before I could make the conscious choice to do so, I had knocked Alistair on his ass.  He swore as he fell onto the pile of armor, one of the armor's ridges digging into his skin. 

"No one touches me," I growled.  "No one.  Not ever again.  I'm not the stupid, weak girl who--who--"  I narrowed my eyes.  "I'm not her.  She's dead.  They killed her, in the woods by Lake Calenhad.  You will call me Warden, or you will call me Surana, but you will not touch me."

"They killed you?  But I don't understand.  That was nearly a month ago, so why..." Realization dawned.  I could see it cascade over his face.  "You remembered something, didn't you?  When we--when we kissed, and I was holding you..."  His eyes widened.  "Oh, sweet Maker.  Kiann, they didn't--tell me they didn't."

The look of horror on his face reached to the core of me, threatening to make me feel, so I turned away.  "I'll be back for the armor."

"Wait.  Where are you going?"

"Away."  I didn't look back.  He let me go.

I walked, and then I ran, and the pounding of my feet into the hard earth helped me rediscover my equilibrium.  My world diminished to the path I followed and my next few steps, and my mind cleared.  I returned to the camp within the hour to find a bowl of porridge waiting for me, balanced on one of the rocks surrounding the crackling fire.  The warm mush had been sweetened and spiced just to my liking, and I wondered who had taken the time to add the extra sugar and cinnamon.

The spoon paused on its way to my mouth as Alistair sat beside me.  He gave me space--at least an arm's-length--and a knot inside of me loosened, just a bit.  I continued eating, but I no longer really tasted it.

"I'm not going to call you Warden," he said after a long moment.  His eyes stayed on the fire.  "That's just stupid.  I'm a Warden too, after all, and people might think I'm talking to myself.  So Surana it is.  But if I slip up, don't run me through."

I swallowed the oatmeal past a lump in my throat.  "Deal."

"And...this needs to be said."  He took a deep breath.  "Whatever decisions you've made--good or bad, ones I've agreed with and not--I respect you for making them.  You are my friend, my comrade-in-arms, and I have your back.  Regardless of what comes, I will be there for you."

My throat clenched, and I cleared it.  "Thank you, Alistair."

"Right."  He slapped his hands against his knees and rose.  "Now that the mushy bits are over, let's move on to armor training, shall we?  This morning:  the care and feeding of dragonbone armor.  Ready?"

For the first time in what felt like forever, a smile tickled my lips.  Just a tiny one, just barely enough to lift one corner, but that was all right.  "Ready," I assured him, and rose to follow.

###

The armor felt...odd.  Not that it was too heavy, it was just bulky.  It jutted out from my body, making me look bigger, making me feel bigger, and moving in it required practice.  Alistair showed a great deal of patience in teaching me how to clean it, how to secure it in place, and how to swing my sword while wearing it.  After the first few movements, something clicked.  Ancient memories flowed into my muscles, and once again I felt the rightness of my abilities.

The templar raised a brow as I swept the sword in an artistic form, much less awkwardly than I had been moving.  "Ancient elven magic to the rescue, I see."  He chuckled.  "Let me tell you, that would have been a very handy trick when I was learning all this stuff the hard way."

I finished the form and snapped the sword to my back.  "Does this mean you're going to stop yelling at me when I join the battle?"

"Maybe.  Don't hold your breath.  And if you get hurt, all bets are off."

"So.  We are to sit around the camp for yet another day."

I turned at the rough, deep voice to see Sten glowering at me.  His white braids stood out in stark contrast to his dark, rough skin and piercing violet eyes.  Of all of my companions, the Qunari was the one I understood the least.  His philosophy--that all people were born to be one thing, and one thing only, unchanging--was something I couldn't comprehend, particularly now.  He had no tolerance for women, and even less for mages.  He had bound himself to the task of defeating the Blight at my side, a vow  his odd sense of honor would not allow him to abandon even though he'd made no effort to hide his contempt for me.

"I think we deserved a break, after Redcliffe," I countered. 

"I see."  The Qunari's eyes were as hard as gemstones.  "And this delay has nothing to do with your weakness as a woman?"

Alistair stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides.  "Hey, now, just wait a minute--"

I held up a hand and the templar subsided, grumbling.

"No," I said, my voice even.  "This has nothing to do with me being a woman."

"I do not believe you."  The Qunari stepped toward me and crossed his arms.  Even wearing the bulky plate armor, the difference in our sizes was remarkable.  He stood well over six feet tall, and was built for war--broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, well-muscled.  I barely reached the middle of his chest.  "Women are not warriors, and this is why.  They are too emotional.  They cannot lead objectively."

I arched a brow.  "And you could do better?"

"Yes." 

"I don't think so."  I turned and stepped away, only to have my progress halted by Sten's massive two-handed sword.  My eyes whipped to his.

"If you will not lead us to the archdemon," he growled, "I will."

Slowly, I unlatched Spellweaver from my back.  "A challenge, then, is it?"

The Qunari inclined his head.  "I will try not to damage you permanently."

"Too late," I murmured, then darted away from him.

I fell to the opposite side of our impromptu dueling ring and mirrored Sten's movements as he paced to the right, watching me, searching for an initial opening.  My steps were sure.  No fear rumbled through my mind.  No uncertainty.  My world narrowed down to just this:  the ring, the challenge, my opponent.  Everything else was inconsequential.

The Qunari leapt forward, his speed surprising for one so large.  At the last moment, he spun and swept his enormous sword in an arc toward my midsection.  I ducked and rushed forward, underneath his swing, the words of a spell falling from my lips.  A bolt of lightning caught Sten in the back and he rumbled in his chest, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face me again.

"Magic.  Vashedan."

My lips twitched and I shrugged, the joints of my armor rasping. With a grunt, he charged again.  This time, instead of going for a swing with his blade, he thrust the pommel at me.  It caught me on the chin and my vision faded.  When it cleared again, I was on my back, and Sten's sword was arcing down toward me.  Instinct brought Spellweaver to bear, blocking his strike.  The contact reverberated down my arm, into my shoulder, and my magic strained to counter his amazing strength.  I cried out and kicked, pushing him back enough that I could roll away and regain my feet.

He gave me no time to recover.  He struck out with his blade again.  The length caught me across the arm.  I stumbled away from the blow, the clang of metal on dragonbone ringing in my ears.  He pressed his advantage, forcing me into a defensive stance.  Ancient knowledge rumbled through my mind.  I had to switch tactics.  I could not hope to outlast him by simply defending myself; Qunari were renowned for their incredible stamina.  Maker's breath, when I'd met Sten he'd been caged for more than twenty days, and yet was still able to fight moments later.  No, I needed a better strategy.

I didn't want to kill him.  I dashed out of his reach and threw a spell at him, then another, staying away from the ones with the highest risk of death.  I needed to slow him down and create opportunities for my sword.  Winter's Grasp didn't freeze him--I'd known it wouldn't, but it did encase his limbs in ice and halt his attack for a handful of seconds.  I danced in close to him and slashed Spellweaver across his arms and chest.  Three strikes, my hands moving faster than I'd thought myself capable, and then I was jolting out of his reach again.

Sten eyed the trickle of blood that welled between the joints of his armor.  "Interesting," he said.

I didn't wait for more banter.  I cast Lightning.  He staggered as the electricity coursed through him.  I moved in closer, just beyond his reach, and cast Shock.  A web of lightning bolts shot from my hands, enveloping the Qunari in a maelstrom.  He jerked under the assault, his lips stretched in a grimace.  The bolts sizzled into nothing and he fell to one knee, breathing heavily.

With the point of Spellweaver, I nudged his chin up so his eyes met mine.  "Do you yield?"

I saw something in his gaze I hadn't seen before:  a flicker of respect.  "I yield.  I will follow."

"Good.  It would be a waste for me to have to kill you."  I stepped back and returned Spellweaver to its latch.

"Agreed."  The Qunari lumbered to his feet and without another word, returned to his tent near the fire.

The rest of my companions began moving away as well, and I belatedly realized that Sten and I had acquired an audience during our duel.  Leliana shot me a quick smile as she returned to the fire.  Zevran inclined his head, one brow lifted in appreciation.  Wynne's face had its trademark gentle smile, but was otherwise impassive.  Only Morrigan had not joined the group to watch the spectacle.

Alistair fell into step beside me as I made my way back to the circle of tents.  "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I don't think you'll have to worry about me yelling at you anymore."

My lips quirked, and I nodded.  "I'm glad to hear it."

[Jules8445]

Loving your work as always Freckles! I hope you don't mind having another fangirl...this is a deep fic and I love how you're not afraid to work with what could be considered uncomfortable for some people.

Beautiful. Can't wait to see how it turns out!

[Sandtigress]

I don't think I said this before, so I'll say it here - I like your development of a arcane warrior - the other stories I've read with one in it are usually after the fact. I also like the uncertain relationship between Kiann and Alistair, since most of us We Alistair girls are in full head-on romances. :-P



Loving Kiann's development - she's changed a lot in 8 chapters, and looking forward to seeing her continue to grow!

[nos_astra]

I was a little shocked by chapter 8. Curious how the story gos on.

[MireliA]

I always did wonder what would happen if Sten tried to stage a coup - now we know

[Sisimka]

I really liked the Sten part of this chapter, he does not get enough time in fan fiction. Great work (as always), Freckles.

[Freckles04]

Thank you for the feedback, everyone!



@ Jules: You can never have too many fans! LOL...as long as you don't try stalking me. Then we might have words.



@ Sandi: I find the idea of the Arcane Warrior pretty neat, so I like being able to explore how it might actually happen. And yes, the relationship between Al and Kiann is very uncertain. Friends, yes, but more? We'll see.



@ klara: Shocked by Chapter 8 (Challenge) or Chapter 7 (Chrysalis)?



@ MireliA and Sisi: Sten is fun. I wouldn't want to do an entire fic with him, but he has such a different take on things from anyone else in the party. And I kind of liked having the chance to present an addendum to his "women can't be warriors" argument.

[nos_astra]

I was a little shocked by how radically her personality changed, so mostly Chapter 8. Don't know why, it's understandable that remembering being raped has such an impact.