Thank you BioWare for a fantabulous world for us to play in.
My boss does not thank you for the lack of work I got done while this story was filling my head.
Author Note:
This story started bubbling up before I was even half way through my first play through of DA:O, and has been re-written fully at least three times as I got further, cemented when I got totally blindsided by my ending.
I know I've set this significantly in the future to indulge some ideas. If you hadn't guessed, I have not played DA2, so bully on me if I don't match up with that timeline ;)
I always write for myself, but nonetheless, I hope you all enjoy this; feedback and corrections are welcome (I've gone over the story at least three dozen times in two different word processors, but I'm only human!).
She stood on the crest of the hill at the edge of the central camp; behind her was an endless field of trampled mud where the army had been encamped. There wasn't a sound except the harsh rasping of her ragged breathing, each breath visible before her in the cold air. Looking down, she discovered she was barefooted, her shins and feet covered in bleeding cuts and mud. She was wearing her ruined wedding clothes, now covered in smears of mud and blood; the hem was damp and clinging coldly to her legs. Her hair was unbound, the wind causing it to painfully whip against her face.
Around her were the ruins of the central camp in Ostagar, under a layer of ash, mud and snow. Muted by the freezing temperatures, there was still a blanket of that sickly-sweet smell of rot hanging in the air. The silence was unnerving. She could feel eyes watching her, but still nothing was moving except torn rags of flags or tents in the wind.
This was a dream she had relived more than once, usually the same, sometimes different. It felt like one of the latter. Still it's easy to forget as the hollow feelings of loss and failure and helplessness, the guilt at being one of the few who lived, the anger at the loss, all threatened to overwhelm her, so she pushed them down and started on the familiar path. Waking or asleep, familiar weary resignation took over as she picked her way through the ruins, ignoring the stinging pain as the frozen crust of snow added more cuts to her skin.
The wind whistled hollowly as she stepped onto the crumbling bridge spanning the valley. Bodies and broken pieces of the ballista littered the path; she was able to find a short spear in only minor disrepair to use as a walking stick. Every other time, she was unable to wake until she got to the king's body. This time was different. This time, the bridge was empty.
Sighing, she turned and looked out into the valley, hugging herself to keep warm; this high up, the valley looked unmarred and peaceful. As she looked around, the Tower caught her eye and a feeling of dread started itching at the back of her mind. Never before had the dream gone on this quietly for this long.
She made her way across Ostagar to the Tower of Ishal – this was her first time going to the dream-tower. As time is meaningless in dreams, it felt both like she was walking across Fereldan and arriving in an instant. The doors hung open, broken and shattered, and snow had drifted in. Bodies were piled everywhere as she found the stairs and began climbing, leaning heavily on the spear. The tap of the spear handle on the floor was the only sound echoing through the abandoned towers' halls.
She stopped on the landing before the fourth floor and realized she was shaking. "The ogre is dead. We survived." She tried to calm herself; her heart felt like it was going to crush itself against her ribs. Taking a steadying breath she finished the climb and stepped into that familiar room.
The gloom was pushed back by the daylight coming in the large opening to the balcony. The ogre lay rotting where they had killed it. Next to it was the guard she long had forgotten the name of, his body laying unnaturally. His armor was crushed from knee to stomach, the floor stained in ogre and human blood beneath them. She looked around and spotted something blue by the wall. The brave mage who accompanied them was crumpled on the floor, an arm torn off by the monster, scorch marks on the wall around him, and she counted six arrows protruding from the rotting corpse.
She made her way into the blinding light, stepping out onto the balcony. Involuntarily, she cried out, her hand covering her mouth. Lying on their own stained floor was what could only be the bodies of her and Alistair, both were riddled with arrows. Unlike the other dead in various stages of decomposition, they looked as if they only just taken their last breath – even the blood was thick and glistening on the floor.
She staggered, dizzy and unable to catch her breath. A deep throbbing pain radiated from her chest, and she looked down to see two arrows buried in her chest, blossoms of red growing around the shafts. She could feel herself falling; the floor seemed a long way off.
Calitae's eyes snapped open. She lay still, getting her breathing under control, while she used her senses to assess the room around her. The fire had burned out and an autumn chill had crept into the room; the sheet had tangled around her legs. Struggling to put two thoughts in order, she managed to get to her feet and open the shutters; the sky hadn't even started to pale, stars still visible. She rubbed her face and her hands came back damp, she didn't realize she had been crying in her sleep. Steeling herself, she went to get dressed, this was going to make the last day of paperwork miserable.