Strange Light
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the lore and characters and settings in this story. They all belong to BioWare and are found in the Dragon Age Universe.
Summary: Neria Surana is adept at finding profound things in the most unexpected places. She does not know it, but all she lost will be but memories, and that after saving so many, there will come one who is strong enough to save her as well.
The view at the top of the Vigil's battlements wasn't as breathtaking as the view from the top of the tower, but if she closed her eyes she could not tell any difference between her first home and her new one. There was still nothing beneath her feet, the stone was as coarse and unforgiving to her thighs, and no one seemed to notice what she was doing.
Neria Surana leaned back and swung her legs up and down, her hands supporting her from behind. She stretched languidly, and leaned over her own precarious seat in front of the ballista to observe the business of the Keep below.
She was listening to Master Wade's incessant complaining and Herren's alternate scoldings and placations while she watched the soldiers perform their drills. It was a pleasant day, and the wind blew her blood red hair into her eyes and away from her face and in all other directions that after a time she just stopped it from getting into her mouth.
Her hand still involuntarily went to her side as if to pet something, and for more times than she could count, she felt nothing and missed the texture of mabari fur. A small smile quirked her lips, and she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer to Andraste for her faithful warhound.
"Neria…" she heard a voice say softly behind her, and she turned back to see Nathaniel Howe—no, just Nathaniel, call out to her, almost cautiously.
"Hm? What is it, Nathaniel?" she hummed, and looked back down towards the denizens of the Keep, thoughts of soft mabari fur, wagging tails and friends long gone pushed to the back of her mind.
A delay in response made her think she only imagined him there, so she looked back again, but indeed he stood there, looking rather distressed. He wore light armor, but his weapon was nowhere in sight. He looked as if he wanted to step forward or reach out to her, she wasn't sure.
"What's the matter, Nathaniel?" she made a puzzled face and turned around quickly and hopped off the edge. The look on his face immediately changed, and he looked relieved, if nothing else.
She approached him and touched his shoulder, looking up at him worriedly.
"It's just…you're…sitting there again." He rubbed the spot between his brows with his fingers. This she always saw him do whenever something distressed him rather gravely.
"And…? Is there something wrong with sitting there?" she replied, smiling up at him sweetly.
"Dear Maker..no, there's nothing wrong with it at all. Just…be careful, when you're sitting there." He let out a long-suffering sigh.
She giggled softly at this. He seemed very old to her whenever he did that.
"Of course, Nathaniel. You shouldn't worry at all." She reached up to pat his cheek affectionately, albeit dismissively, and walked past him towards the interior of the Keep.
She heard another sigh from behind her, and this made her smile again.
"Was there something you needed?" she looked back, her hand already on the handle of the door.
"Varel said you had messages. He put them in your study."
"Thank you for telling me. You didn't have to do it yourself. Next time ask one of the guards." She had closed the door even before he could reply.
She was…melancholic again.
Her eyes shone with a strange light, so unlike the strong, level gaze she had for each of them every time they went into battle, or the amused twinkle whenever she heard them bantering between themselves.
Before, even as a new Warden, he had identified her as the woman who killed his father. But now, he saw her as the woman who gave him a chance to be something greater than he had ever dreamed.
He had returned to Amaranthine thristing for her blood, her death on his hands, damn the consequences, he told himself back then. He had nothing else to lose.
Instead, she looked up at him with her large, blue eyes, within their depths some sort of apology. Then she Conscripted him and within the space of a few weeks, gave him back his sister, his dignity and the chance to find the truth for himself.
And if all that she had done for him wasn't enough, she made him her second in command.
Of course, there weren't any real ranks, in the Fereldan Wardens at least, besides her own position as Commander. But she had insisted that everyone knew she deferred to him and that he was in charge in her absence. It honored and embarrassed him immensely.
That she could place so much trust in a man who had admitted to planning her murder astounded him.
He certainly wouldn't have done it, if he was in her place. In fact, he would have banished her from the arling and had her hunted down by some assassin friends of his for good measure. Ah, such a worthwhile man he used to be.
Having served as her fellow Grey Warden for the past year, he had witnessed her make decisions which he could only call foolhardy and reckless, his Conscription included.
And even when he made no attempt to hide disdain, she never failed to hide her determination either.
But when she decided to save Amaranthine herself with nothing but 3 other Wardens and a handful of soldiers, he didn't bother looking disdained. He stopped short of pleading with her on his knees.
But she smiled at him, and she seemed far too young and far too beautiful to be involved in anything concerning the darkspawn. She laid her head on his chest and said in a playful tone, "You're in charge. I want at least the larder intact when I get back."
He could only gape like a fool and stare dumbly after her as she exited the Main Hall. She even deigned to wave farewell to him from the steps.
As if she was going on a bloody holiday, and not to a city overrun by talking and insectile darkspawn.
Beside him, Anders clucked his tongue and shook his head in amusement. "You know, if she wasn't so small people would take her more seriously."
"She's an elf, Anders. They're all small."
"Yes, I know. Still, the way she stares nobles down sometimes, I wonder if she was half qunari." Then the blond mage turned to him and clapped his back. "So, my worthy lieutenant, let's not let our half qunari, half witch Commander down, shall we? I happen to like seeing nobles wet their drawers."
A few hours later, when the scouts returned with news of a darkspawn army on the march and none of her or the other Wardens, he had told himself, "The larder. At least the larder."
When it was all over, they did manage to save the larder, and little else.
She had come up to him, her face pale, her eyes sunken he armor torn, bloodied and gaping to reveal wounds half-healed or horribly scarred, and patted his cheek much like she had just done and rested her head on his chest again, a moment longer than she previously had.
The wave of relief that had washed over him at the simple gesture was so immense he had forgotten himself and stroked the back of her head involuntarily. She had looked up at him then with her blue eyes and smiled at him with the light of the Maker. It took his breath away and he had to take a step back.
She had looked curiously at him then, but she was immediately caught up in a bear hug from Anders, who then set her down. The two mages exchanged the biggest grins he had ever seen, after which she was screamed at for such deplorable healing skills.
Throughout his whole tirade, Anders never let go of her hand, and neither did she, but she glanced sideways at him, and the way she smiled at him reminded him of the feeling when he shot his first arrow right on the target. This time, the smile reached her eyes, and if only she would smile like that more, he can forgive himself for ever doubting her.
At that moment he realized that more than being Conscripted, he was saved.
More than being a Warden, he was her friend.
It had been many months since then, and without the pressing urgency of the Architect and the Mother and all the nonsense of talking darkspawn, he found himself understanding less and less about his Commander. It was as if without a darkspawn threat, she became less and less the Hero of Ferelden he spent at least once a day I complete awe of and more a strange, sweet, kind elven girl whose smile graced everyone but rarely reached her own eyes.
And when he noticed that she liked to sit several stories above the ground with a goodly portion of her tiny body dangling over the ledge, her eyes the saddest he had ever seen, he thought it might be time he became to her what she was to him.
He thought he might be the one to save her this time.
As Neria read the letter, she felt the ground pulled from beneath her feet.
Her hand shook, and she laid the thin parchment down gently on her desk and began to breathe in great, gasping sobs.
Her hand reached down to stroke fur that wasn't there, and the loss was so sharp at that moment that she had to sit down and..and…
There was nothing she could do. There were no words for this, except for those written in Irving's flowing, shaky script.
She felt the breath stolen from her, and it was something she had felt before. This pained gasping, this horrible constriction for air that was all around her but she could not seem to take in…a memory of golden armor walking up a raised dais, or the same armor turning away from her, with all the words and the love in her throat unsaid and undying.
It does not mean I do not love you. It is not about you or me. Not this. It is about duty. It is about being a Warden.
Then duty had been shoved in her face as well, and the Taint flowing through her veins and the barren organ beneath the stomach became her undoing. It was fitting, she had thought in retrospect, but hurt no less.
Then, there had been small reprieves, sometimes found in the most unexpected of places. She found it in the harsh grinding of living stone, in the sound of Antivan, flirtatious but tender, cautious and sincere for the first time, in the sound of Orlesian tales and the quiet of plaited hair, in the distinctly Fereldan smell of fur and saliva, in the cheap swill and manic dwarven cursing of a fellow redhead, in the silence of rustling grimoire pages and new forms learned and failed, and most curiously…
She found understanding and kindness in the cold blue eyes of an old general and his breathless thanks atop Fort Drakon, light spilling from his last act of atonement.
All these, when put together, made a mosaic that replaced the useless pieces of her heart. They could not all replace what was sundered by her Warden decision, but it was enough to keep her intact and functioning.
A man who committed regicide became her brother for the sake of duty, and the first Grey Warden on the throne of Ferelden discarded her for the same reason.
She was wrong. A lesson she had to learn again and again. Thinking that for a mage, happiness would be freely given, even if she put her life on the line in a day more times than a whole town goes to the slop bucket.
She thought the empty place by the campfire was payment enough, or the absence of happy barks, or the sleepless, cold nights that would never end, or the loss of a brother whose eyes held more despair than anyone she's ever known, his scowl and harsh voice testaments to the bitterness taken root deeper than a thaig inside him. For the chance to unite Ferelden and stop the Blight, she paid with what she thought was enough happiness for her lifetime.
Apparently, she wasn't done paying.
Her breathing calmed somewhat, after a few minutes, and she was able to read the missive again.
Dearest Neria,
It is with utmost regret that I tell you of the passing of one of our brethren, and as I know, someone very close to you.
Wynne has gone to the Maker's side.
She has left things to be said and given, and it would help me handle my own grief if you would come to the Circle to see her off.
We will wait for you.
Irving.
She covered her eyes with her hand, and images of Wynne passed beneath her lids. She had just seen the Senior Enchanter a year ago in Amaranthine, asking her for a favor. Had the latter known her time was almost up? Why had she not said anything?
The feeling of Wynne's hand in hers as she watched a surrendered dream walk up to become the King of Ferelden became a memory burned into her skin. It was the only thing that had kept her standing throughout the whole ordeal when all she wanted was to be in her bunk in the Circle Tower.
She bit her lip, stopping just short of drawing blood. She leaned forward on her desk and rested her head on her arms. No tears came, and she supposed none would until she arrived at the Tower, most probably.
She squeezed her eyes shut and screwed her face up in the most difficult grimace she could manage.
Let it all be a dream. I am in thrall, in thrall the in the arms of a demon who feeds off my grief.
But when she opened her eyes the letter lay before her gaze and Irving's words were unchanged.
That night, Neria prayed for dreamless sleep, and that no more payment would be exacted.
~end of Chapter I
Thank you so much for reading. I'm looking for a beta, so please leave me a message if you're interested. Please review if you have something to say about my work.