Ongoing kinkmeme fill with plot bunnies that just. Won't. Let. Go. It'll get updated here whenever I have enough material to have an entire chapter out. It looks like it's going to be one of those long ones… but then again, I wanted to write more stuff with Anders and Cullen, so this is pretty much a perfect opportunity. As I like my Hawke's name, I'm keeping it, even if she isn't a mage in this story and they are unconnected. Like TBT, this is wildly AU.
The prompt is: Meredith expects her daughter (Hawke) to become a templar (might already be an apprentice), or expects her to devote her life to the chantry (is preparing to take vows?). Either way, it's not a life Hawke wants, but Mother Dear's word is final. She meets Anders; complicated star-crossed love blooms. Or Cullen begins to see Hawke in a new light (first met Hawke when she was just a teen).
o.O.o
One
o.O.o
As it happened every day for the past fifteen years in Kirkwall, a lone figure of a young woman entered the templar training grounds at seven in the morning, in full battle gear, a sword and shield. The templar training schedule was rigorous, but her armor and hopes in life were somewhat different. But every day, without fail, she appeared there, a stranger among the many uniformed men (and some women) who were brave, besotted and masochistic enough to come watch her without fail.
"Good morning, Lady Stannard."
"You are looking exceptionally well, Lady Stannard."
"Would you do me the honor of practicing with me later on, Lady Stannard?"
Not even fear of her mother kept this overeager politeness entirely at bay, especially in these rare moments when neither side was under Knight-Commander Meredith's careful scrutiny. And why would it? Every ounce of beauty the mother might have possessed in her youth was amplified in her daughter - they had the same flaxen hair, high cheekbones and angular features, but her daughter's eyes were a soft, sky blue, with none of the ice of the templar commander. She also wielded a sword with nearly equal ferocity as her feared and famous mother.
In fact, if Meredith was indeed the de facto queen of Kirkwall, then the templars certainly had a princess to pine after, as all knights in trashy romance stories should. It seemed like the perfect fairytale in which the princess ought to lack for nothing – she had a mother who would literally do anything for her happiness, a garrison of eligible and devoted knights worshipping her every step and lived in a city she loved.
To say that Illyria Stannard had a bad life would be an outright lie. To say she hated it was not a complete inaccuracy, though.
Her very birth had been a surprise; her mother still refused to say who her brief paramour had been, so Illyria assumed that his loss must have hurt her deeply. As the years passed, though, she caught the mutterings that speculated that perhaps it was because her lover had been a mage that the Knight-Commander refused to speak of him and why her daughter had been thrust into the ideals of the Chantry as swiftly as possible. And, as early in childhood as it had been possible, received a toy sword instead of a pretty doll in a velvet gown.
Looking back on her childhood and teenage years, Illyria could glumly admit that there was the distinct possibility that her mother had taken these precautions to ensure her obedience in the unlikely case she would be shamed with having a mage child. She received a beautifully crafted suit of armor on her eighteenth birthday, with Chantry symbols engraved all over it. It was at that point that she realized it was a reward for passing the test of faith, as her mother would no doubt call it.
Her mother had been so proud to see her defeat more recruits than before in her new chainmail. But it was a bitter victory, because Illyria eventually learned that the reward for not being a mage herself hardly meant no more mention of the subject of magic.
Growing up as the daughter of a devoted templar, Illyria had always been firmly steered towards the Andrastean faith and believed in the Maker more than most. But she had never intended to devote her life to enforcing religious law. She was fully aware of the dangers magic posed – at fourteen, she had almost made friends with a mage girl while waiting for Mother outside the First Enchanter's office. Two weeks later, she got taken to see a Harrowing. Just for telling Mother that the firefly-like sparks the girl had conjured up were pretty.
Illyria didn't hate mages. She didn't see them as barely-trained attack beasts to be unleashed only at the hour of greatest need. She had more than pity for them; she had sympathy for them.
She, too, hadn't chosen the life that was being prepared for her. Her mother had never been overly subtle about things, but her pride at how well she wielded her sword and how easily she quoted the Chant betrayed her time and time again. And this was before Illyria had turned twenty, whereupon she had been told that her basic combat training was all but complete… and that she could now move on to the more difficult part; combat against magic users.
There was no need to even say the words. And, in one moment, Illyria had forgotten all the stoicism she had been raised with and had the first true argument with her mother. She didn't want to be a templar. She didn't want to devote her life to the ideals of the Chantry. She wanted to find her own path, as well as she loved the Maker and valued her mother's good opinion.
It had gone about as well as if she had announced her unconditional love for the First Enchanter on the spot. Illyria spent that night in the Chantry, not praying these "absurd" thoughts away, but wondering if it was possible to escape the noose tightening around her. Today, having avoided the trap for so long, Illyria knew the dance couldn't possibly last forever, just like her training routine.
Her movements were fluid, elegant and deadly. Too bad that the emphasis in her training had been put on the last one.
"Lady Stannard."
The title no longer made her wince and break her kata; trying to get these skittish templars to call her Illyria would require ten times the patience she possessed. She finished her movements, then turned to see who was calling.
After the disaster of the Fereldan Circle of Magi, Cullen had been put through something akin to therapy to deal with his demons – at least, what the Chantry would call therapy. Meaning a vigil with the Chant repeated ad nauseum, or until one could no longer hear anything but the words. It hadn't been enough for him. He could no longer function in the vicinity of the Tower, or even near Fereldan mages. They had been saved and set free to help against the Blight by the one who had so cruelly taken his heart without realizing it.
Unstable templars were an embarrassment to the order. And retired templars could be a target for ridicule. The Kirkwall Circle required new power after the Blight – this provided the perfect excuse for Greagoir to be rid of him, as an escort to their mages, along with other, more stable knights. Miraculously, leaving Ferelden had worked. The cloud of madness left Cullen's mind and he joyfully understood that things in Kirkwall were run more akin to his line of thinking than in Ferelden. And there were no mages who looked at a templar with kindness here.
The only kindness in the Gallows came from the Knight-Commander's daughter, who displayed it to everyone. Cullen had been surprised to find out templars were allowed to have families in the Free Marches, but at first thoroughly perplexed as to how it could be allowed for their commander's daughter to be so obviously sighed after by the majority of his fellows – to put it mildly. Meredith was akin to a demi-goddess in the eyes of some templars; her daughter was thus sacrosanct. But still the sighing and daydreaming persisted, nowhere close to all of it being due to hopes of climbing ranks. And it wasn't as if they were foolish enough to actually entertain thoughts of anything beyond admiration from afar.
Cullen had ample experience with unrequited desire that burned shamelessly for years. He had promised himself never to allow such a thing to happen to him again, though it was more difficult with Lady Stannard. She was human, she was as close to being a templar as one could get without swearing the oath and her lips-
"Serah Cullen." she smiled effortlessly, her coral lips parting to show a hint of teeth. "I bid you good morning."
That road left to misery and possibly self-imposed self-flagellation. It was better not to take it.
"Good morning to you as well, m'lady." Lowering his eyes was a good way of looking away, though it did mean momentarily being subjected to seeing the remainder of her in one brief flash. "I am bid to tell you that the Knight-Commander has business to attend to this morning and cannot lead the training session of the newest recruits. I am led to understand she wished for you to join them."
Illyria pursed her lips, but felt a wave of relief wash through her. She hadn't been made aware of this newest development. Obviously her mother had decided that putting her on the spot in front of other templars would force her to accept the invitation. A sneaky, underhanded tactic unworthy of a knight – but Mother didn't care about honor or nobility, as long as she achieved her ends.
Still, if Mother was sending such information through the Knight-Captain, it was serious. Good. She didn't yet have to face the music and could stall a little longer. Or she could do the reasonable thing, do it the way she was brought up to.
"Indeed, serah. Did she say where she was headed?" She could face the problem head-on, weapon at the ready.
"I believe the business involved the Circle." What a careful way of putting it. The Fereldan templar had always appealed to Illyria. He was much more guarded than the others, more quietly devoted, but also very earnest in his devotion. "Apparently, the First Enchanter had received some sort of package that was hazardous in some manner – I have no details."
Illyria felt a triumphant smirk overtake her expression. Sometimes, it was useful to be able to convince templars to cooperate by sheer resemblance to their commander. "Thank you, Knight-Captain." she said firmly, meaning every word. "I have a few words for my mother that must be shared without delay."
"Are you certain that's wise, m'lady?" Bless his proper manners, the Fereldan was trying to be protective of her. "I'm certain you would be welcome to join the session nonetheless and the Commander's business rarely allows for interruptions of any kind."
"Tell you what. You apologize to whichever Knight-Lieutenant is running the training on my behalf, as urgent business calls me to my mother's side and I promise to show you how I parried Serah Emeric's finishing move. Deal?"
The templar reddened a little around the ears. No wonder – Illyria was especially proud of having figured out the famously unbeatable move and gotten the upper hand in her last duel with the skilled warrior.
"I-if you could, please forego mentioning my help to the Knight-Commander."
Cat, here's your bag.
Before the poor man could even fully notice her grateful smile, Illyria had slung her shield over her shoulder and was rushing off. She trained more than most of the poor sods in the courtyard, anyway; Knight-Commander Meredith's daughter was never allowed to be second best, even if it meant having few friends, studying and training from dusk 'til dawn and having her chance of meeting a man who wouldn't scream like a little girl at the sight of her mother's sword reduced to nil.
Illyria had spent all of her childhood in the Gallows, so finding her way towards her mother's office was basically second nature. She could hear the stern voices down the hallway as she approached; all others nearby were scurrying out of sight or trying their best to be as small and insignificant as possible.
Despite frequent spats, or maybe because of them, her mother and the First Enchanter worked well together. Given the frequency of these spats, Illyria had also overheard some speculations over the years that her father was perhaps close than she knew. Of course, the same people also speculated that hers had been an immaculate conception.
"-to screen those refugees more thoroughly! Don't you dare tell me the two aren't connected, not with this insult to common sense here!" Dear Mother, always reacting with such grace.
"It would be possible if only your templars actually allowed my people to interact with the populace, Knight-Commander. You cannot expect me to see if there are any apostates among the Fereldans from here. And isn't spotting those your job?"
Illyria didn't have the opportunity to make quite the dramatic entrance she was hoping for. The office door was nearly wide open, giving a fine view of the Knight-Commander rounding up on her counterpart with all the ferocity of a jilted debt collector.
"Would you have these mages turn to blood magic because they cannot enter the city, or find food once they do? Tread with care, Orsino. I am thinking of the safety of all citizens, those under your responsibility including!"
"Perhaps you should see to your main responsibility first, Knight-Commander." Illyria rather liked the First Enchanter. He was one of the few mages who didn't treat her like most templars treated them – a sloppily constructed explosive cask without any means of being disarmed. Still, she thought this little jab hadn't exactly been for her benefit, because it meant turning the full force of Mother's rant on her.
True enough, the Knight-Commander whirled to follow the elf's eyes. Years of experience allowed Illyria to easily discern that this battle would be a hard one. The opening blow had to be precise.
"Greetings, Mother, First Enchanter. Can I be of any assistance to you? I'm afraid all the more qualified help has fled by now."
The templar commander was not amused. "You're supposed to be training with Knight-Lieutenant Betris right now. I specifically instructed you to be given a place in the more advanced class. Why are you here?"
"Forgive me, Mother, but I was not informed that my attendance was required among the recruits. It would be wrong of an outsider to the Order to impose."
Orsino was clearly enjoying the stare-off between mother and daughter, though he had the decency to pretend not to.
"I will have no more protestations on the matter, Illyria." There had never been any pet names in the Stannard family, no abbreviations. "You have presented me with no plausible alternative to an excellent future thus far."
"With all due respect, Mother, I have never had the opportunity."
"I will not have this conversation here." Being raised by the Knight-Commander often meant that the line between that and someone she could call Mother often blurred for Illyria. "Return to the training grounds and report for the next session. I have duties to attend to."
"Perhaps Lady Stannard would be able to help us with our predicament, Knight-Commander." Orsino suggested unexpectedly. "Seeing your work first-hand would no doubt show her the importance of proper attention to the influx of foreigners to our city."
Illyria knew about the Blight across the sea and saw refugees from beyond the walls every day, even from Hightown. But still, it had to be far more desperate back there than she thought if these two believed mages would willingly come to Kirkwall.
"Absolutely not. These apostates will be dealt with in the traditional manner – and you will leave my daughter out of this."
The First Enchanter raised a tentative eyebrow. "My apologies, Knight-Commander. I was under the impression that sending a capable warrior without the templar insignia that would create panic among the Fereldans would be a way to approach these people peacefully. Unless, of course, the traditional manner is to hunt down penniless refugees for daring to smuggle in a letter."
Illyria spotted the thing on his desk – it stood out like a sore thumb. The material tried very hard to resemble parchment, but was a long way from matching even the cheapest variety in quality. The ink was also obviously cheap and thin, but the script was hardly one of a barely-literate peasant trying to remember how to spell five-and-more letter words.
"A letter? There are apostates among the refugees?" She actually found herself somewhat excited, if for the wrong reasons. If there were apostates around, there was no way her mother would ever find the time to focus on getting her to heel.
"Desperation drives us to many things we wouldn't dare otherwise." Orsino answered her unspoken question rather darkly.
Mother gave the First Enchanter a thoroughly dirty look, filled with promises of retribution. Yet she spoke to Illyria next. "This is templar business, child. I believe you were in the middle of trying to make a point of your unwillingness to get involved in the profession."
Translation: there was no chance she could have it both ways. Illyria would have loved the opportunity to get out of the Gallows; Hightown was her life. She barely remembered some of the streets in the less respectable districts and had never yet been to places like Darktown. It would be the ideal opportunity to prove to her mother that there was no need for her to be a templar in order to be an effective warrior.
But her moment of sulking and looking away allowed her to stare at the neat writing more carefully. It was even turned to her, as Mother had obviously snatched it out of Orsino's hands for a closer look.
To the revered and most respectable… we implore you… our need is as great as that of any unfortunate… reduced to poverty in the docks or Darktown, if we can pass the gates at all… your support would prove invaluable…
Ah, and there was the reason why Mother was so angry – petitioners were one thing, but this could be read as outright trying to get the Circle to support foreign apostates. Still, from what Illyria could briefly see, this was a far cry from the ramblings of a half-crazed, blood-lusting, baby-eating abomination Mother had taught her to expect when one mentioned the word "apostate." These were the words of a person with education and no small degree of conviction.
Unfortunately, Mother's hawk-like sight was legendary and she immediately recognized the danger of her child being subjected to what was essentially pro-mage propaganda.
"We will have words about your future and your insolence later. And I want those refugees thoroughly examined for any sign of magic. I will not have apostates running rampant in my city. We will weed them out, with your help or without it." The Knight-Commander stalked out of the office like a tiger on the prowl, clearly expecting her daughter to follow.
Illyria almost missed the odd look the First Enchanter spared her, but she couldn't discern if he was trying to get her to placate her mother or dash into Darktown to find these supposed apostates before they could be crushed under her mother's heel. However, she was smart enough to understand when her mother had been pushed past a certain point… and she knew well that if she was to escape the templar sword hanging by a thread above her, she couldn't afford to antagonize her yet.
She still ended up in the templar class an hour later, despite – or because of – her protestations. In her anger, she ended up beating the snot out of her fellow trainees, who were already reluctant to strike with their full strength at the Knight-Commander's daughter. She intended to prove to everyone that she didn't have the temperament to become a proper templar and thus allowed all her frustration to fuel her fighting style.
Not even the Knight-Lieutenant could find a flaw to harp on, though perhaps he was too frightened of her resemblance to her mother at that instant. Thus, a glowing recommendation, as far as anyone other than her was concerned. For her mother, this was enough of an argument for the idea that she was just going through a phase of unable to accept where her talent lay.
Illyria wasn't at all surprised to find herself wandering through the Hightown market at night. There were more than enough guardsmen around and in her plate armor, she was hardly an easy target for any criminal. It wasn't as if Mother would care much about what she did as long as she was ready for practice in the morning at the crack of dawn.
The letter stuck in her mind, though. Not because she was a particular fan of foreigners – she was a Marsher, born and bred, never having left Kirkwall, really. She wasn't even trying to fulfill Orsino's expectations and try to prove to Mother that templars were obsolete – on the contrary, they were still as important as ever. But being trapped… their situations weren't anywhere near the same, of course, but still…
Sympathy was also an undesirable quality for a templar. Illyria easily found herself walking towards the nearest gates.
Hightown by night was a breeze; well-guarded, barely disturbed and quiet. Crime rate tended to be low and everyone worth their salt knew that if they actually had the gall to assault the Knight-Commander's unmistakable daughter, their days were more or less numbered. So Illyria wasn't at all bothered by walking alone in the dark.
The further down one went, the odder it became, with less white marble and more dirt. Illyria actually felt somewhat childishly daring as she passed the entrances to the lower levels. The easiest way to leave the city meant going through the broadest squares of Hightown, but it was still far closer to unknown territory for her than her usual routine. Her time was divided between the Chantry, her home not far away and the Gallows, with few changes. She barely remembered what the main gates actually looked like.
Coming at night was a genius idea for more than one reason. Aside from actually having the time to do this without risking being hunted by every available templar in the city, she didn't have to worry about being begged by a swarm of refugees to be let into the place. There were also far fewer guards to remember her face – not that Mother would lower herself to dealings with the City Guard.
She was no queen of stealth, but Illyria hadn't survived sane in a templar household for this long without knowing how to disappear when she couldn't take things any longer. Sleepy guards were hardly noteworthy opponents – besides, if they caught her, they would recognize her, if only by the expensive cut of her armor.
The refugees had made a literal camp for themselves in front of the gates. Some of them were blessed with the luxury of tents; ratty old things, most of them, army leftovers or simply rags on sticks. Others had to make do with old blankets and softer spots on the ground. There were some fires burning around quietly, but conversation was scarce. Energy had to be saved up for another confrontation with the guards the next day, and the day after that.
Disappointingly, Illyria didn't see any dogs around. That was the first thing one learned about Ferelden; that their dogs were essential for every aspect of their life. But there seemed to be more urchins snoring around than dogs. Pity.
She didn't even know what she was looking for. She had no idea what apostate mages might dress like. Certainly not in Circle robes; that would be a laugh. Something to blend it. But then again, none of the dirty refugees looked particularly powerful or fearsome. Even the small stray cat mewling not far away looked ferocious in comparison to some of them. Not for long, though; with the agility of habit, a pair of refugees attempted to catch it for a late dinner, if Illyria heard correctly. Distasteful.
Apostates – learned people in general – hiding here? No, it had to be some jest from a Circle mage. She had wasted her time on that account. But it still was interesting to see this place.
"…why we can't just fight our way in! A few guardsmen'll never stand a chance…"
But there were others present, a variety of soldiers – or mercenaries – that were apparently growing restless. The camp had to be a melting pot by day. No wonder Mother was so put out about the entire situation – even less wonder that she thought mages here might become too desperate and snap. Other than those brief disturbances, though, there was nothing worth mentioning within sight. Illyria didn't know what she had been expecting… but this wasn't it.
A group of dwarves in oddly angular armor also wasn't the case.
There were many surface dwarves in Kirkwall – merchants and crafters, usually, an indispensable part of the trade life. Even Illyria, who hardly lacked for money, had to save up money if she wanted runes to be imbued in her armor. These dwarves were encased in foreign armor, with more angular symbols than she could ever remember seeing. And, in their midst, a truly wretched-looking elven family, which appeared to be trying to reason with one of the armored thugs.
"-trying to weasel your way out of a bargain? We got you this far and now you have the chance to work off your debt. You get in, you work for us."
"We will, ser, but please, spare my daughter." the obvious father was saying, with his wife nodding as if her life depended on it. "She hasn't yet seen ten summers."
"Exactly." the drawf's sneer was audible even through his helmet. "The littlest fingers can reach into the tightest pockets." The little girl hiding behind her parents was clutching a patched stuffed lamb, looking one step away from bawling her eyes out. "You weren't taken here because of my fetish for elven beggars. Although," Here, the wife trembled, though the dwarf's scrutiny was almost mechanical. "We could see if someone else in the city doesn't have such tastes."
That was more than enough for Illyria. She walked into the light with all the confidence of Kirkwall's best fighter, giving the dwarves quite a scare with her hand gently resting on the pommel of her sword. But she wasn't wearing a guard uniform and she was just one human woman.
"This is a private conversation, human." the dwarven ringleader gritted out, "Unless you've got coin enough, I suggest you try to get another ticket into the city. We've blades enough without your kind plaguing our territory."
Threats, criminality, attempted slavery and prostitution… oh, she was decidedly in luck here. "I have another idea. How about you and your cronies get lost while I'm asking nicely and thus get to keep your beards." For good measure, she patted her sword twice, in case they missed it.
In Kirkwall, this would be enough for anyone reasonable to get the message. But she wasn't in Kirkwall now, not truly, and things worked differently on unfamiliar ground.
"We've got ourselves a hero, boys! Tell me, hero, think your gear and your head will be enough to pay back for insults to the Carta? Or maybe it's just a whore hiding behind metal, looking to be put in her proper place."
No one had ever spoken to her so brazenly, nor challenged her so openly. Illyria didn't really have much capacity for diplomacy when encountering something so bizarre – not that it would have helped her much. There were swords being drawn and, for a trained warrior, that meant instinct was taking over.
Of course, fighting Lowtown thugs was somewhat different from the controlled environment of training duels, no matter how people were involved. Templars fought exclusively with swords, thus the switch to maces and axes was somewhat confusing for her practiced movements. Still, these were obviously self-trained fighters with little discipline or coordination.
As a relative lightweight compared to the standard burly recruits, Illyria's fighting style was heavily reliant on speed and momentum. The Carta dwarves were used to fighting by giving their opponent's skull one solid whack. Moving between them was like a nug navigating its way around a herd of brontos. But it was nearly impossible to keep the noise down, because the dwarves clearly threw themselves into everything they did with gusto. The elven family had scrambled to the side, but a collapsing tent scared the little girl, who apparently forgot about the danger of getting between sharp, colliding weapons and made a beeline for anywhere but where she was standing. Illyria managed to avoid striking anywhere near her, but no one else was nearly as gentle. A hammer-wielding dwarf all but slammed the whimpering child out of the way with an almost off-hand notion, sending her tumbling towards the nearest fireplace.
Illyria heard a scream from the child's mother, which alerted her to the girl's trouble. But this momentary hesitation made her lower her shield from its intended position. She heard the arrow before she felt it, and then almost pirouetted on the spot due to the force applied to the place where two of her armor plates met on her shoulder. Dwarven archers – the world really had to be turning upside down, she thought, even as her knees wobbled and the polished sword in her hand surrendered to gravity. The world dimmed for a moment, but the axe ready to descend upon her neck blocked her view from the elf child's fate.
The force of impact against her now improperly-held shield was bone-shattering, but the brief opening before the heavy weapon could descend again allowed her to smash it into the dwarf's crotch. The armor wasn't so strong there and her shield had a pointy end. Satisfying yell from the dwarf aside, she couldn't sustain this long with two injured arms. The comfortingly warm sheen of sweat on her forehead was turning cold. Maker, she was going to end up dead in a ditch, stripped of her armor and possibly used as target practice by some slum thugs. Way to prove herself capable of defending people without having to hide behind Mother's sword.
Still, she raised the shield weakly, fighting the urge to tear the arrow out of her shoulder. She had enough sense to understand it was stopping her from bleeding out, though it also meant she couldn't make a grab for her weapon. The dwarf intent on beheading her was stumbling backwards, roaring profanities left and right. Out of the eight-or-so Carta hirelings, only that one and the archer were left standing, the others littering the ground or possibly having slunk away into the gutter once more. Illyria could still defend herself somewhat, but attacking was an issue, especially at such a distance. The archer was preparing another shot – oh, it was a crossbow, not a full-fledged bow, which explained the shortness of the arrow, Illyria thought half-deliriously – which would likely be all that was necessary.
Then, the elf woman's cries turned into something filled with utter joyous relief and Illyria barely saw the child running towards her, crying all the way. And suddenly, theirs were the only cries. The injured dwarf rasped out a breath and something made a distinctly bone-crunching sound as it hit the dirt, rolling in a mass of dirty hair and half-fitting helmet. The crossbowman was also lying on the ground, blood gushing out of the general vicinity of his chest. Not even dwarven armor could protect against being impaled at close distance, though it was possible that the back of it also wasn't reinforced enough to withstand it.
Illyria had managed to stick the pointy end of her shield deep enough into the ground to be able to lean against it (when had she actually dropped to her knees? Her memory was a bit fuzzy on that account.), but it wasn't enough to support her for long. Not with the way-
"Don't go there, stay with me!"
Oh, right – she could barely feel the shield on her arm anymore. She must have stopped clutching to it at some point. She didn't remember any humans being around during the fight, though. The elves were apparently too frightened of her to even attempt to help her, let alone to summon other help. Maybe some of the mercenaries had overheard and wanted to cash in on helping?
No, why would they want her awake in that case? She didn't mind all that much, since the shield getting removed was hurting her arm and it was actually comfortable to not have to do anything and be supported by someone else. Such proximity to another person was downright unprecedented for her, if it didn't involve some kind of combat move. She tried to make her eyes focus on her caretaker's face, her body temperature now fluctuating back towards odd, sticky warmth.
"Talk to me, you're not allowed to sleep yet." But maybe that was the natural reaction to close proximity to surprisingly handsome rescuers. The trashy romance novels she kept finding in Mother's quarters whenever she was gone (and which she always denied being hers) would suggest that this was the case. Apparently, the reality involved far more dirt and grime, but even that wasn't enough to completely conceal appealing features. "What's your name?"
She tried to answer, but the comfortable drowsiness caused the syllables to be jumbled into something almost different. Still, it was better than nothing. "'Lyria… am I…?"
"That's a pretty name for a beautiful lady. Look at me, Lyria." She obeyed easily, because her head was sort of being disobedient today. The flattery was almost flat, meant only to distract her. But coming from someone with such gentle concern in his face, it couldn't be all bad. "You took a bad hit here, and I'm going to have to remove the arrow. It'll hurt for a moment, but I have to get it out of your arm. Do you understand?"
Having never been hit with an arrow before, Illyria couldn't exactly discern if it was normal for her vision to be swimming in an unearthly glow, but vaguely remembered that people who didn't fight fair were probably quite capable of poisoning an arrow or two. She could also feel hands running along her face, from her forehead to her cheeks. Something leathery was also touching her lips, though without any force.
"Do you think you could bite down on this strap of leather for me, Lyria? Just open your mouth and bite down, please. I don't want you breaking your teeth if you intend to be a hero about this." She tried to say that she was hardly a hero, but her rescuer seized the moment and placed the leather between her teeth. He kept saying other things, comforting things, but even focusing on his voice was getting somewhat difficult. Maker help her, did he have to talk so loud? "Just breathe, do you hear me, keep breathing, you'll be fine in a moment."
When the bolt came out a moment later, it was difficult to believe this was anything but a comforting lie. Injuries on the training field were inevitable, but pain like this was nearly unimaginable. And that was with her senses dulled. In fact, Illyria was quite certain she had blacked out for at least an hour when she felt consciousness stirring in her thoughts later on. She was no longer being held by anyone; there was something softer than the ground under her head, though not the superb comfort of her bed that would lead her to dismiss the fight and injury as a mere dream. There was a fire crackling nearby and the wetness on her forehead was no longer sweat, but a hopefully clean rag soaked in water. The leather was also gone from her mouth, though she could still taste it.
Forgetting all about her previous injury, she attempted to sit up and succeeded almost without trouble. Most of her upper armor had been stripped off, but she spotted it by the fire, no longer dirt and bloodstained. Either she had imagined the dwarves or someone had taken the time to clean it for her. The elves were nowhere in sight, though she hadn't truly expected them to stay.
"You shouldn't be trying to get up so soon." So she hadn't dreamed the voice. The man looked somewhat less impressive when she wasn't half-hallucinating, but then she noticed that he was actually carrying a stuffed pet lamb, obviously washed, back to the camp. The Fereldan could have been wearing gold and silver from head to toe instead of his worn coat with the odd decoration of feather pauldrons and boots stained with the dirt of many roads and she wouldn't have cared anymore. That gesture touched something in her, if only a little.
It made it a bit easier to find her voice, actually. "How long was I out?"
"About four hours. Far past Vanora's bedtime, otherwise she'd probably have stayed up with you. I had to promise you'd get to keep Ser Eilrys for the night as company." he said, presenting the stuffed lamb as if it were a guest. The man's manner was pleasant, almost gentle, and, best of all, he didn't seem intent on asking her questions. "I figured you'd be the kind of lady who'd prefer clean bedfellows, however. What are heroes without hygiene, after all?"
"Fools who get lucky." Her left arm was tied in something akin to a cast, but she couldn't feel pain from underneath. It was more like a firmly tied bandage. Her right shoulder, though, was thoroughly wrapped. "You helped me. You saved my life."
In the firelight, it seemed almost as if his ears reddened a little, but then the Fereldan was the image of composure. "As you saved the lives of others tonight. So you can just think of it as the Maker rewarding your good deeds." Handing her the toy, he proceeded to remove the wrapping from her shield arm and check on the other. "I believe you won't have to worry about any lasting damage. Give it a day or two and you'll be back to normal."
"I thought this was broken." Illyria could feel her fingers; she could even move them. Surely the dwarf had hit her harder than that.
And her miracle healer almost looked sheepish about it, but acted as if it were no big thing. "The poison would have made you feel that way before the effects took hold. Soldier's bane works quickly, but doesn't last too long. Usually, there is no need for it."
Illyria was growing somewhat aware that, in order to bandage her shoulder, most of the padding under her armor and parts of her undershirt had to have been removed. Unwittingly, she felt herself burning up around the cheeks once again. With her Mother's shadow looming over her shoulder all the time, there wasn't a man in Kirkwall who'd try courting her, let alone try to see her naked. The generally known if unwelcome jest in Kirkwall was that only one thing was more carefully guarded than the Gallows – three guesses as to whose virginity that would be. Not that she hadn't wondered or imagined, but… well.
But the Fereldan didn't have the slightest idea who she was, which was an oddly gratifying thought. She didn't have to play any part for him. Though she found herself wondering if she should; her mother would kill her, but from this small distance between them, she could see that it wasn't just the lack of light – her rescuer was indeed handsome, if in the need of some rest and a shave.
Apparently, he was also observant, because he gave her a small but reassuring smile. "I hope you'll forgive me for not paying much attention to what little I had to see. My concern was focused on ensuring your arm's continued functionality."
It certainly didn't lessen Illyria's blush, but she decided to veer away from that topic. "Thank you. I owe you- well, I'll be able to hold a sword again thanks to you. That means a lot to me." Not to mention Mother would kill her if she couldn't.
"What you did for that family meant much more. The remains of the Carta have started cracking down on those that paid them to get across the sea." The healer rewrapped her shoulder more securely – Illyria couldn't turn her head fully, but she still felt the wound there. "It might show those thugs that intimidating refugees to do their bidding doesn't always work."
"Carta?" That word was unfamiliar to Illyria. She could guess, though. "Kirkwall has its own thieves' guild already. I can't imagine the Coterie will allow a band of Fereldans step on their toes so easily."
"Ah, I thought you looked healthier than a refugee. Much cleaner, too – Ser Eilrys really had to pull her weight to measure up. If I may ask, what is a Kirkwall lady doing among us lowly refugees at nighttime? Not that beautiful vigilantes are unappreciated in these parts, believe me. But most people here are trying to get into the city, not leave it."
Illyria didn't really want to identify herself or delve too deeply about her reasons for being here. Come to think of it, she had sort of lost sight of them already. "I don't know myself. I wanted to see what it was like, I suppose. Not that I've come to gawk or anything." she added quickly, understanding how that sounded. "But… I just wanted to help somehow."
"That isn't a sentiment many people would share." The bandage was rewrapped and the careful hands deftly retreated. Illyria was almost disappointed. "Which makes it all the more admirable. A little daring, but admirable all the same. I'd advise against putting the armor back on, but I suppose it's a better solution than carrying it back to Kirkwall. I'm afraid I'll have to be rude and not offer to carry it back for you. Breaking and entering is not very popular in these parts, I understand."
"Thank you. I can't repay you as you deserve. Do you have relatives in the city, perchance? I could deliver a message for you, at least." She desperately wished she could convince Mother to let this one man enter the city, but that would cause so many inconvenient questions.
"I'm afraid the person I'm here to see would be difficult to reach. And I don't mean to impose on your kindness. You owe me nothing." He said it so earnestly, Illyria actually believed it. Anyone in the city would have jumped at the chance to have a favor from her. "If all my patients were like you, I should count myself fortunate, Lyria."
"Illyria." she corrected, "And you never did tell me your name."
"Well, it's the task of us lowly peasants to defer introductions to the nobility in the room – or should I say vicinity in this case? I believe I've accomplished that, so I'm allowed to speak for myself. Unless Ser Eilrys objects." the Fereldan noted, nodding respectfully to the stuffed lamb. Illyria had to laugh quietly. "Anders is my name. No title attached."