When Taerith's new life began, he was born into silence.
He could make out the leaves of a tree above him, still and bright green in the dewy summer dawn. A faint breeze brushed a few blades of grass against his cheek, decorating it with glistening droplets which he hardly felt. They made clean streaks in the sticky blood as they dripped back down to the earth.
More than anything, the dagger in his chest commanded his attention. It was a simple blade, no more than a tool for work, and held no design nor mark to credit its maker, but one tended to notice things when they were stuck through one's ribs. Through the haze in his mind, Taerith thought it somewhat odd that it should be there, but couldn't quite put together why.
Naturally, he decided to remove it.
The hand that rose from his side was completely covered in red, dripping with half-dried blood to mingle with that which soaked his sleeve. Bad, he thought, very bad. Why was that bad?
He grasped the hilt firmly, staining the tarnished silver, and drew it out of his chest slowly. Warmth filled the wound it left behind and even more blood flowed out onto his front, though his robes would note no difference. They were already tattered and torn and retained only a hint of their former greens and whites. He was filled with a vague sense of disappointment at the fact that he would have to replace them. New robes were always a pain to obtain, in part due to his own pickiness. At least the clan's tailors were always excellent.
He let the dagger fall to his side. His chest should hurt, shouldn't it? But it didn't. Why didn't it hurt?
The wind brushed a lock of hair into his face, which he instinctively pushed aside, smearing more blood on his face. He could feel; lack of numbness was good, wasn't it?
If he sat up, he would die. Would bleed out before he could get anywhere.
His chest was no longer bleeding. Bad—he'd run out of blood.
What?
Something else about his chest. Something… off. Not right. He should be able to smell blood in this heat, shouldn't he? The flies dancing above him could.
Oh. Oh.
His chest lay flat and still and he was not breathing.
He sucked in a deep breath of air, coughing when it hit his lungs; he'd used more force than necessary, but apparently his breathing was not obstructed. He gulped down air greedily, but felt no relief, only movement in his muscles and fresh flecks of blood on his lips. A dull ache began deep in his torso, responding to the new movement.
One minute later and he was no longer breathing.
No blood flowed out of his chest and his body didn't scream for air. The silence still surrounded him, almost suffocating him—at least, if he could still be suffocated. Something else out of place—aha.
No heartbeat.
He might have laughed but for the fact that he had no air in his lungs.
Making his decision, he positioned his arms beside his body and slowly heaved himself up, hissing breathlessly with the sharp pain in his chest from the movement. He leaned forward once in a sitting position and took a moment to look around.
The carnage surrounding him was vile. He could see the burnt, splintered wood of an aravel buried beneath elven corpses, some with unrecognizable faces and some he knew right away from the vallaslin. Deshanna, his Keeper, lay with her cheek to the ground a few yards away, eyes empty and hands black from magical frostbite.
He clenched his teeth together. Whatever had happened, whatever was going on—too many had died. As the First of the clan, it was now his duty to be their new Keeper, which meant he had to search for survivors no matter how much pain he had to push through.
It turned out that his body was remarkably good at withstanding pain. What would have once prevented him from standing hindered him not at all, and his twisted ankle hurt beyond reason but did not drive him back to the ground. His muscles did not protest; it was only his mind.
He checked the pulse of every elf he could find who was not obviously dead, and then some. Tears did not roll down his face, though not for lack of trying, as it seemed to be yet another feature of… this. He checked and passed by the bodies of friends, family, lovers, and children. None remained alive, and any halla that had not been killed (he had stopped counting their bodies) had run off or been hunted by shemlen.
Not even Ilyria, his beloved. She hadn't even been from the clan, but was rather a resident of one of the nearby cities' alienages, and had come to visit Clan Lavellan on his invite. The clan had disapproved, of course, but he had argued that if they were to become less insular, they might accept such a relationship.
Deshanna hadn't even had the chance to approve his request to bond with her. He was certain she might have.
It didn't matter now. Ilyria didn't even have a face to look at him, even in her death. It had been burnt off. All that identified her were her clothes, impractical for the forest (sparse as it was here, so close to Orlais's deserts) and decidedly not Dalish.
There was nothing he could do here.
He was all that was left of Clan Lavellan, and he had no idea what to do. Traveling would be the first step—he could hide in the thick forests of the Dales, far to the east. He could provide for himself well enough despite his lack of experience as an official hunter and had done so on plenty of solitary excursions. Nobody would know to look for him unless another clan came across the scene and noticed his absence, but it was likely that they would not. He could take the time to figure out exactly what the hell was going on with him. Assuming this wasn't all a trick of demons, of course, but it was feeling a bit too real to be the Fade.
Gathering the bodies to burn and then bury would not be feasible. Over two hundred of his kin lay across the area of about a square mile, and the fire required for that would attract far too much unwanted attention.
He whispered prayers to Falon'Din first, gathering a few trinkets from the ones he had known the best. A copper bracelet from Ilyria, passed down from her late mother; a pair of promise rings from his own parents, exchanged on a day they had always recounted fondly; a beaded necklace his teenaged cousin, an aspiring crafter, had made for herself and had worn every day for six years now; his best friend's favored steel dagger, one of Andruil's designs carved into the halla-horn hilt; and a hunting knife with a ruby in the hilt from Felen, an old lover and fond friend. All but the blades went into a small pouch of fennec leather tied to his belt.
Necessities came next. His own staff had gone missing, so he claimed Deshanna's, strapping it to his back. He found a few pairs of spare robes, clothes, and armor still intact in one of the broken aravels, and took one set of robes, one of leather armor, and some clothes, tucking them into a large leather pack along with the weapons and one of his own leather binders which had thankfully survived the attack. There was space enough in the pack for a few days' worth of food, so he added a few small apples, salted meat, bread, and halla cheese. There were no intact tents for him to take.
He surveyed the scene again, emotionally numb from shock. How these humans could do this was beyond him. He had heard rumors, of course, even from his brief time in cities, where people would try to hide their words from them once they saw his face. Two human nobles, the empress and some other no doubt important politician, were having some more conflicts. They had forces who would clash every now and then, sometimes catching elves or other innocents in the middle. Few ever traveled to southwestern Orlais, so their clan should have been safe.
Evidently not.
A river flowed only a couple miles away. Within walking distance of the camp, but not close enough that travelers would find them by following the water. If only that had worked.
Taerith's legs were not sore from walking the distance, though they should be at this point. He shucked his robes, eager to rinse the filth from his body. Fingers combed through knots and clumps in his hair, which would have been calming except for the frustrating time it took, so he chopped off half of it unevenly, not bothering to try for any semblance of neatness.
He must have looked a complete mess. The thick brown hair atop his head may have looked askew had it not been flattened by water. Cuts and scrapes marked his face on and around his vallaslin, a blue design honoring Falon'Din decorating his bronze skin and tendrils of ink curling around deep emerald eyes. The tattoos touched his shoulders as well, but his wiry arms held the designs of Dirthamen, which dotted his limbs all the way to the backs of his hands, leaving his palms and fingers without marks. He would not honor one of the twins without the other, he had insisted, and the Keeper had obliged.
More scratches interrupted the lines on his arms, but the most grisly was, of course, the gash in his chest. It was deep, but did not bleed, and Taerith took care to reduce the contact it had with water, since it stung. Considering he was skinny even by elven standards—his clan had never had plentiful sources of food—the visual effect of his wounds was fairly emphasized. Hesitantly, he attempted to heal the wound. He was a mage, after all, and surely he could seal this like all others.
Miraculously, it worked. It took a number of minutes and his spirit—not his body—felt weakened by the effort. That was definitely a new feeling, but his body felt more whole and a lot less painful.
He finished scrubbing all the grime off of his body (finding out in the process that yes, he could stay underwater for some time without the need to breathe) then let himself dry out under the hot summer sun, which filtered through the sparse trees easily. Sitting on a rock to dry gave him time to think and time to practice breathing, which he found he now had to do consciously.
Almost everyone he knew was dead. Everyone he had ever thought important, all gone in a single night. And now he was… what, undead? He knew little of death magics except that they tended to be Nevarran, but how in the world had this come to happen to him? From what he could guess, his spirit must have been possessing his body. Which was bizarre, as mortal spirits were not at all the same as those from the Fade, but here he was.
Heading east into the Dales was still his best idea. Going north to Nevarra would be far too much hassle, there were still Darkspawn remaining from the Blight in Ferelden even though it had ended a year ago, Orlesian cities were still hostile towards elves, and he knew next to nothing about the Free Marches. At least in the Dales he would know how to fend for himself. The Emerald Graves would be dense with game this time of year. The outskirts were a popular spot for human hunters, but he knew how to hide.
Perhaps he would venture into towns after a while. A single elf stepping into a tavern every now and then wouldn't put too many people on edge.
Before that, however, he had one last task to do here.
The thought had entered his mind as he sunned himself, images of the camp flashing painfully through his mind. Among the elven bodies had been a few Orlesian soldiers, wearing full suits of heavy armor that still had not saved them from death.
Full armor meant masked helms. Masks which could easily hide a tattooed face, attached to helms that would hide pointed ears.
He returned to camp without a second thought, wearing only a simple shirt and pants and leaving his packs back at the river. He had nothing to lose here. Something in the back of his mind told him that it was foolish and his people would not have wanted him to seek revenge. Well, they were dead now, and so was he, wasn't he? Maybe he would find out how many stab wounds it would take to take him down for good. He had no illusions of surviving this attack; one didn't merely walk into a lion's den and walk out alive.
Few would even notice his lack of breath or heartbeat, he mused, stepping between corpses and forcing himself to look ahead, away from his deceased kin. The armor would hide anything identifiable about him. He knew some of the soldiers wandered about the cities in full uniform, trying to look important and spread the image of whomever they followed. Which side did these follow, the empress or the other one?
He stripped one of the few human bodies of its armor, glad to not have to breathe in the stench which no doubt permeated the area. The outfit would be a bit large on him, but no matter; he put it on over his thin clothes anyway after scraping off the worst of the blood and dirt. He strapped the dead soldier's knives and sword to his belt.
An hour into his walk north he realized he wasn't sweating. He could feel the heat of the sun and the armor, but if he wasn't sweating, his body might malfunction. More than it already was.
A quick frost spell helped solve that problem. He would have to take that into consideration in the future. Or not, since there would be no future for him. Considering his empty surroundings, he practiced breathing again and talking to himself, relearning how to do these things effectively enough to get to where he needed to be. He had no plan, but if he could figure out who gave the order…
He reached town by mid-afternoon, receiving a few odd glances but nothing to indicate that he was too out of place. Only a few soldiers mingled out here on the streets with townsfolk, who were mainly lower class humans. The richer people lived on the north side of town, he recalled from his few visits here with Ilyria, and the alienage lay to the west. The military sector was in the east.
He found the barracks easily enough through the amount of armored soldiers in the area. Some hid their faces and some did not, even once he entered the building. It was sturdy, made of stone, and apparently housed offices as well as beds, as he found out quite by accident.
"What is it, soldier?" growled out the man he interrupted, sitting at a desk in a cluttered and all-too-small room. He wore no armor but an outfit that indicated some sort of status. Its importance was lost on the elf.
Taerith responded with only a half-lie. "Forgive my interruption, monsieur," he said, the words coming out raspy but clear. Thank the Creators he could hold his tongue right now. "I am new here and took a wrong turn. My sincerest apologies." He went to close the door and leave the man in peace.
"No," the officer said, "come in." He waved an arm above the stacks of papers before him.
Not a good idea, not a good idea at all, but disobeying a superior's orders would be suspicious. "Yes, monsieur?"
"What's your name, soldier?"
"George," he blurted out, wincing. He'd pulled out a random human name, knowing that hesitation would get him nowhere. "George du Lac." Was that acceptable?
"You may call me Commander Pierre." The man looked straight at his eyes, which reminded him that he should blink every now and then. "You're not Orlesian. Where are you from?"
"Denerim, sir." One of the few cities in Ferelden he could remember the name of.
"Are you an elf?"
He stilled, which gave the Commander the answer he needed.
"Pas de problème. A soldier's a soldier. Have you been assigned yet? And," he continued, indicating Taerith's armor, "what happened to you?"
Blood still remained on some parts of the metal. "No, sir, I have not been assigned. I had… I had a run-in with some Dalish outside of town."
Pierre's eyes narrowed. "How many?"
"Three, sir. They fled before anyone sustained critical injuries. I don't expect they will be a problem anymore." There weren't even any Dalish remaining in the area.
"No, I suppose not," the human said, a grim smile flickering across his face. "Celene had us remove some of the nuisances just the other day. Only a few casualties on our side." He stood up then, offering his hand to Taerith, which he took stoically. "Welcome aboard, George du Lac. I will be your commanding officer for the time being, and you'll receive assignments starting tomorrow. Your shared quarters are just down the hall. Now, before you leave, might I see your face?"
"No."
Before Pierre could register the response, he found a knife in his throat. His eyes went wide as he fell back into his chair, blood running down his chest. He couldn't make any sound louder than a strained gurgle.
Taerith left him like that, closing the office door behind him and turning to the quarters he had been directed to. He had a name: Celene. And he had one of the men behind the attack already dead.
It was a shame the barracks were made of stone. If they had been wood, he could've had them go up like a tinderbox. As it was, most of the residents were either on duty or on break, with only a few reading or sleeping inside. Nobody noticed a single soldier tampering with a few beds in each room on multiple floors, casting quiet spells. Nobody even knew the officer was dead until hours later. He was actually getting out of this one alive.
By the time a number of explosions set those bedrooms aflame, Taerith was long gone to the east astride a stolen horse, armor forgotten by the river where he had retrieved his belongings.
