The iron greaves pressed into the deep layer of snow step after step, each one seemingly slower and heavier than the last one as he made it up the slope of the mountain. Snowy wind hailed from ahead brushing up against his chin and cheeks like sandpaper.
I should've kept the beard.
A thought rung out through his head. For once a lighthearted thought, something that made him forget the mistakes, the pain and cold; a welcome change from the constant regrets and squalor since Welbrook.
It didn't have to end that way. The fucking Tal'Vashoth! Sten had talked about them, warned me about them, and I should have listened. Outcasts from the Qunari society he told me, rebels and exiles who fail to adhere to the Qun. Never understood their philosophy, but I did understand Sten and he was a good man. The tal'vashoth swung too far in the other direction: lack of morality, greed, indulgence and cruel ambition; at least some of them did. The good ones, as it often happens, aren't enough.
It still makes my blood boil, and at this point the warmth of the anger is more welcome than the biting cold.
The snowstorm was picking up as the Warden continued onwards and up the mountain-range. If not for the heavy coat made of snoufleur skin and inlaid with lambswool for insular warmth, the frostbite would have settled in and taken over his body, leaving him cold and lifeless atop the lonely peaks. The thought of failure kept him going, the thought of never returning and never seeing those he loves, kept him on his feet.
She would never forgive me if I died here.
His thoughts veered to the bard, the woman that kept him from spiraling into a self-destructive pattern, the woman that kept him humble and careful, the woman he loved dearly. He was reminded of her piercing, icy blue eyes, her soft red hair and her smell, something he could never forget, it felt like home.
She would have me die of old age in a bed surrounded by family, reveling in our fortunes and regaling in the deeds of the past as everyone around us grows fat and content from peace.
On some level he wanted that too, but the drive for action had him making mistakes and that had him fixing those mistakes. It was almost a perfect cycle that he was content with being stuck in.
Eventually I will die with a sword in my hand, and another sword through my heart, there is honor in that, bravery. A beautiful end.
Yet I escaped the traitors as they butchered that village; men, women, children...even those animals wouldn't kill children. I hope. I did it for her, I stayed alive to see her again, to have us together just one more time if for a brief moment, and I would do it again.
Something felt wrong all of a sudden. Like that feeling you get when you walk by a window at night and the it is dark and quiet outside. The feeling of being watched. He slowly turned on one foot, the snow crunching under his feet.
A dark, lone shadow slowly emerged on the washed out horizon between the grey snow storm above and the frigid white snow below. Like a drop of ink in a glass of milk the figure was washing out partly due to the relentless storm and partly due to the Wardens sight having to adjust to this single object after having to look ahead into a grey pandemonium of cold and nothing with the occasional stone formation looming over him.
He squinted and put up a gloved hand to the side of his face to block away the stinging snow from his eyes.
Another jackass out here looking for salvation or death?
"Shit!" He spit out as the realization hit him.
They fucking sent one of them after me. How paranoid are the bastards if they are willing to freeze their asses out here in the middle of nowhere just to make sure I am dead? I am the only one who knows what they have done, they probably think I am going to send word to Weisshaupt and hunt them down. They are sworn to the Grey Wardens now and the only way out is either to be cursed by taint or death.
He looked down for a brief moment in reminiscence. What was that morons name, Ser Godry, Gerry, Jory - that was it. Went for the blade after he saw what the Joining actually meant, what's at stake when you pick up the chalice. I couldn't blame him really, he had a family to go back to, he had something to lose.
What do these animals have to lose? Their right to pillage and kill for money? Freedom? They are like children that try to stick it to their authoritative parents and take it to the obvious extreme.
As the thought passed through his mind, he winced as the memories of his parents came flooding in, in quick flashes. Why is it always the horrible shit that keeps coming back?
The flicker of the figure in the distance snapped him back into the present: a deliberate, warrior like movement, purposeful.
He has noticed me.
The Warden turned around facing upwards the mountain once again, shaking off the snow gathered in his cloaks sable fur and hood. He began trudging up the snow-filled slope of the mountain quickening his pace, every step growing ever heavier. This change of pace hit him hard as he started breathing faster and with more frequency. The warm air leaving his lungs and cold air entering stung his chest. Now he truly began to feel the effects of being up on this mountain for so long, for the first time. He could feel his face getting flushed with feverish heat as the body attempted to fight the frigid air, yet he continued up towards the large stone formation - a lonely monolith amidst the wasteland filled with emptiness. A reflection of the warden and the times he was stuck in.
Never thought I would miss fighting the darkspawn. As cruel and terrible they were you always knew their goals, their intentions. It was a clear cut war, we were the good guys, against all odds uniting Fereldan to fight a dark tide of monsters. Nowadays it all seems so unclear, so muddy. I feel like I am being blown around like a leaf from one corner of the world to another and they all look up to me for guidance and help. The Hero of Fereldan - a man who saved the world and lived to tell the tale. Never though I would be living in my own shadow.
He took another look at the stone pillar and the large washed out shadow it cast on the snow below.
I can take haven behind it, take my time, figure out how I am going to handle this.
The warden slipped behind the large rock out of the eyesight of his pursuer and dropped to one knee, panting heavily. He took off his heavy furred cloak and dropped it next to him, in a hurry he did the same with the backpack that was under the cloak, now only wearing his breastplate, coat and woolen scarf to protect him from the cold winds.
He wasn't too far away. I'd give it a hundred feet, maybe less. Let's hope he is as exhausted as me. I don't plan on dying to a horned giant on some mountain in the middle of nowhere.
He pulled out his sword and leaned on it pacing his breathing, preparing for what's to come physically and emotionally. Back to the stone cold pillar, he lifted his sword and spun it a couple times in his hand, feeling it, molding with it. An extension of one's arm is what the sword was supposed to be, yet it felt sluggish and heavy, rusty. He hasn't used it in what seemed to be ages and it showed. Not something you want to feel in the moments that could decide your life or death. Fights always excited the Warden. The fear, the adrenaline the bloodlust all stirred something primitive within him. The tainted and wyvern blood that flowed within him only amplified that sensation. That power or curse grew with time no doubt, that is why he was out here - seeking a cure.
Felt more like chasing an old wives' tale, but then again so was the Ashes of Andraste and it cured the old arl. Isn't it worth to try for hopes sake? That strand of hope is wearing thinner by the day.
This was just another fight - you either win or you die, there is no middle ground - that was something he had to accept at a very young age.
When Fergus and I went out to hunt down bandits pillaging the Cousland lands, there was this one kid about my age; sixteen or seventeen. He had no business wielding a sword even less so to raise that sword against the lord of the lands he was happily stealing from. Didn't think about what had made him to join up with the thieves and murderers, didn't seem relevant at the time. I was there to prove my worth to my father, to my brother to my family, that I was a dutiful and diligent son, someone worthy of my name and nobility. More than that I wanted to prove it to myself that I could be a warrior, a noble knight like the ones we heard tales about when we were young brats. I bashed the kids face in with the side of his own shield. When the blood from his malformed face started seeping into the mud below him as I kneeled over his lifeless body, I realized there was no nobility in fighting or war. You were either good enough or dead.
Fifty feet away.
Wardens breathing was slowing down, more calm, more purposeful. He could ignore the pain in his lungs, the cold sting against his skin, the numbness in his toes and fingers.
No, use the pain, use the anger, bottle it up and unleash it against the sorry fucker who steps in front of you.
I could use some poison on this blade right about now, if it hadn't frozen two days ago. Never understood the value of poison until I met Zevran. That sly fucking elf. "One scratch of venom against their skin is enough to save you a whole lot of scratches, unless you're into that sort of thing." - In that Antivan accent of his. Wonder where he is now. Probably chasing down some skirt or some crows. I still prefer a straight forward fight, nothing gets the blood pumping quite the same with the right person. Very much like sex that one.
His thoughts veered to the witch, the mother of their child, the woman he could never understand. As his thoughts stranded into a dark place, a light shadow passed over the hand resting on the blades hilt in front of him.
"Shit!" The Warden dove to the side as something dropped where he stood a moment ago. Scrambling to his feet out of the snow, he switched back to look and saw a qunari standing tall, almost a foot taller than him, clad in boiled leather and a fur cloak, a sword in one hand and a gnarly shield in the other. Two large, black horns twisting back around his ears like a ram and a mean, ugly face filled with scars and purposeful fury. The look he has seen before many times in other faces, a look of a man who enjoys killing.
Blackhorn he called himself, back when I conscripted him. He seemed like a man who sought purpose in war, a purpose in serving a higher cause. When did that change, or was I wrong all along? Never trust a mercenary unless you have more gold than your enemy, I heard my father say once. I was desperate and it backfired - unleashing well-armed Tal-vashoth on defenseless villagers.
"Come here to die, qunari?"
"I am no qunari!" The giant spit out with equal disgust and anger.
I knew that one would get to him. "You ever think your qunari friends send you out here so they can reap the spoils without you? You were one of the toughest in the group. Think they are waiting for you out there? You are a dead man."
"Warden always talked too much." He exclaimed as he took a step forward arcing down a sword slash the warden quickly parried. Quickly but not as quickly as he had liked. The impact rung out through his body and his sword arm twitched as he took a step back to retreat from another attack. Blackhorn surely felt that, felt the weakness. Like a wild dog he grinned and snarled as he took another swing from the other side. Another parry and another step back. And another, and then two more. Each one bringing the pain back into his lungs and bones with sharp bursts.
I can't keep this up forever, he will outlast me. Look at the bloody thing, more ogre than man. He can just keep swinging with force and at some point my arms will give out. Fuck this cold! Whose brilliant idea was it to set up a village on the other side of this mountain range?
Another swing came down from the giant. This time the Warden spun through the snow to Blackhorn's side and made a quick jab aiming for the side of his knee. The shield came crashing down on top of the blade and the tip only grazed his leg instead. Drew some blood, but it's just a scratch.
It won't slow down this grey slab of meat.
The warden carried on with the momentum and circled at the back of the giant, and he quickly followed to face his opponent. "Getting tired yet big guy? Can't have been a pleasant road all the way up here, especially knowing it's all for nothing."
He did not respond, instead snarling furiously as he made another heavy downwards swing against the warden. Aedan brought up the blade to defend just in time and the sharp sound of the impact between two blades got his blood pumping faster. One hand still on the sword, warden drew the dagger from his belt and went for his opponent's heart. The giant, surprised but vigilant, shifted to the side and the dagger pierced into his shoulder instead. He snarled in pain and the warden withdrew, leaving the dagger as the giant made a rage filled swing where the warden once stood.
"You can keep it." He quipped at the giant after taking a deep breath through his nose.
Shield in one hand, sword in the other he will have to make one stupid decision in order to get that blade out. The way it looks from here I got him right in the joint of his shield arm. He won't be able to block that well from his left.
Blackhorn didn't respond, instead he charged the warden with a fierce battlecry. The snow almost didn't slow down the giants pace, he was now running purely on rage and bloodlust. If tipped over the edge he will make mistakes and one of them will be his end.
Warden sidestepped the charging bull to his left in an attempt to exploit his new weakness. As he was near the shield arm the giant spun to the right with a backhand swing and slammed his sword into the Warden's breastplate with a loud clang that resonated to his core. A silent hum rang out through his ears. The Warden snapped back to real time, pulled away as fast as he could, letting out a cough as the air escaped his lungs too fast from the impact. Wasn't a regular cough, it was wet, salty - blood. He touched the large impact scar on his breastplate to feel the damage as his leather gloves were tainted by a black liquid that turned red as the snowflakes touched upon it lightly. The cough came back with a strand of viscous blood dripping down his chin. He wiped it off quickly, still confused, shocked, blinking rapidly, darting his eyes to get his bearings.
I don't feel it. I don't feel the pain. I was cut across the chest and I don't feel the fucking pain.
The wound felt cold, unnatural and numb. The breathing got faster, chaotic, uneven. The thoughts raced through his head as the vision got a little blurry and the sounds started coming in faintly. All he could hear was his own broken breath and a muffled growl as a grey shadow moved towards him in his peripheral vision. He was still looking down, seemingly paralyzed.
It can't end like this, I made a promise. The shadow to his left shifted rapidly. Move, damn it!
Warden shifted to avoid the attack, and it felt like the danger had passed for a moment until he felt a sharp sting between his neck and shoulder. For almost a second it felt like a shard of ice had been stuck inside his chest, a cold sensation engulfing his inside reminding him of what he is made of. It left his body thereafter and a numbness overcame his body. The only thing he could feel were his cold frostbitten feet and his hand gripping the sword so tightly it burned.
A force grabbed him by the hair roughly and turned his head towards the giants ugly scar filled face as it grinned in satisfaction only another man's death could bring. He looked back into his eyes as a cold sting pierced his heart.
Icy blue eyes; nightingales eyes that slowly faded away.