A

9:05 dragon

28 th day of Solis

Eastern clans had been overrun in the last five years by the Qunari. A constant tug of war between Tevinter and them, the gray horned giants, there was little else on the minds of the people who sat in-between, his people, than this threat. The threat was never the slaughter or even the torture, although both had been whispered in the ears of children as warnings, but the machinations behind the Qunari—to convert all and kill those who oppose. The weaker minded or the lost found solace in their Qun with their guidelines and strict regulations of what living actually meant. To Qunari, it meant fulfilling a purpose as another cog in the world's machine. To Tevinter, those who fought the Qunari simply because they could, it meant everlasting glory, it meant immortality.

Elves, on the other hand, were now nomadic by nature and maturity was a reward won through trials. Life for elves was the euphoria of reaching maturity and experiencing its wonders. Before humans, Qunari, and Tevinter, his people were everything these cowardly spines endeavored to be—immortal and ever important to the continuation of Thedas. Now they were split and ripped apart into duller but more complex versions of their former shades. How could you experience life if you knew you could do it all? There was no fear and no adrenaline. His ancestors were nothing like their descendants.

Of them, the elvhen, there were the Dalish. They alone have a custom where their hunters gain their title through their first kill and tradesmen through their first successful craft. City elves—elves bound to subservience but not technically slaves—through marriage. His people on Seheron won it through laying waste to the Qunari and Tevinters.

He had never said his people were a merciful bunch.

Plunk

The arrow embedded itself an inch shy of the target—a red ribbon tied around the thick of the tree. He stood near his father—both wearing the white clay of battle on their skin— standing on highest branches of a tree several feet above ground and a few feet distanced away.

The older elf furrowed his graying black brows and shook his head. "Da'len, you haven't been practicing have you?"

"I practice every day, every hour, and every minute." The younger elf crouched to his knee and pulled the bow back to his side with another arrow on his fingertip. Although younger, he had pale white hair braided tight against his scalp in three twists , swinging in his irritation. "Not that it matters."

"It will when our enemies attack. Will you run then? Apologize and say that you've practiced every day, every hour of every—

"I get it, father."

"Do you remember the story?" His father's voice said with the solidness of stone and the rigidity of a mountain. He couldn't help but falter in his response. The young elf broke focus and his eyes veered on the elder. "Does anyone?"

"Our family line stretches back to the days of Arlathan. ."

The young elf sighed, before turning back to the red ribbon—taunting him; while the stories of Arlathan, the Pantheon, and Elvhen once excited him, they now did little more than poke at a scabbing wound unlikely to ever heal. Tales of fantasy, magic, and adventure that kept him up all night had little strength against the reality. He was never going to find it–whatever it was—here on Seheron surrounded by war. His whole life, an adventurous tale, was a dream.

Sweat piled up on the edge of his fingertips as his heart pounded.

He let the arrow fly without even paying attention to it. His eyes had gone deaf and his ears had blinked for a moment. His parents once told him over a late dinner—his father had been arguing with the Clan Head again for many hours that day—that he was the extra word in a song that had been singing for centuries. They told him he would lead his people to a great place, much like his ancestors, and he would bestow this wisdom to his descendants as his ancestors did for him. And he believed it once. This end they called, "Dragon Fire." where hope would be found and given back to his people.

When the arrow spun in the air and missed the target, he couldn't help but wonder if he was born tone deaf.

"Da'len."

The young elf hissed. "The stories were wrong. The tales, the dreams, the Elvhen, it doesn't exist." He resisted the temptation to break the bow and watch the shattered remains plummet to the ground. His hand clenched and unclenched.

What kind of elf was he that he couldn't shoot a bow?

His father, a hahren, had trained and mastered swordmanship younger than he was now. War sung in his father's blood. His father began to say, like he always did, "Centuries ago—

"And now we hide in the shadows, live in garbage, and have no home of our own." He ended his father's usual tirade about elven strength and honor.

His father's lips quirked. "Home is a state of mind."

"We aren't the Dalish. Our home isn't in an aravel traveling from city to city or even this fenedhis of an island. The humans have nothing but the mind to use us as objects. We have no home." The young elf pulled out another arrow and it rattled in the container leashed to his shoulder, a lone catch running away from his hand.

He sucked in a breath and pulled the bow taut with the arrow sliding into place along his fingertips once again. His eyes narrowed.

"Emma lath! Da'len!"

The thick forests of Seheron had been thinned by fires and the carnage of battles fought. There were large gaps between trees and wide open spaces of broken towers, the shattered remains of their history. It was no doubt far from an equal match for his mother's voice, a timbre sound that flew up the trees to their ears like a winged hum.

His fingers fell slack knowing that it was another day he had not grown and he had not become. Become "what" he did not know but the deep-seated notion of his talents and skills hiding underneath his skin was as fleeting a notion as the Qun believing conversion the cure to all world evil—thus committing evil as a necessary skipping stone to that end. It sounded nice in theory. And he was tired of deluding himself.

His father's heavy hand rocked against his shoulder and then he saw his father move from his side to slide down the tree trunk, disappearing through the leaves.

The young elf spit over his shoulder and shot the arrow.

Wisps of fog flitted around the young elf as he stepped out from the forest into the flatlands. He cupped his hands around his mouth and chirped into the air. The blinding, humid fog dissipated and his village appeared ahead. He ran forward and slid down the hill into where the twenty odd huts, the feast fire pits, and the Clan Head's house sat. The huts were made of twisted tree trunks and leaves. A few of them had glass decorating the doors and the window perches to add variety to the village. Unlike these homes, the Clan Head's house was made of two contortionist trees merged at its side and splitting at their roots milling in the dirt like jumping fish. Villagers walked around its emerald green leaves in their dug in paths watching them curl above them like woven threads. Children ran under the roots and swung themselves off it like a playground. But like most villages, those were on cooler, freer days. With the noise on both sides of the island raising in pitch, there was rarely a time you would catch their villagers doing anything but sewing furs, skinning animals, and wrapping plants prepping for them to be dried. The tension was thick and unspoken.

"I hear someone needs more training." A voice teased behind him.

The young elf tossed a lazy look back at the girl. "No one can be good at everything."

Carin is Inan's, the clan head, daughter. Carin's father had called himself "Inan" as his people's custom was to be called an animal that represented their clan, but the Nazari had no symbol or crest to represent them. His resolution was to simply call himself "leader" in Alamarran-the Avvar language. Their southern neighbors who live in high mountains, the Avvar, are a burly, strong people and many of which share that bright red hair on their heads like Carin and Inan. ".

"Someone isn't very good at anything." She said in a sing-song voice looming over him by a few inches.

Damn humans and their height.

He held back a bitter retort. Carin didn't deserve his spite. She wasn't the failure of an ancient legacy. "And this is why people don't like mages."

Carin blew a raspberry.

Most clans in Seheron kept to themselves and there was no judgment on what members joined which clan. Unless their sister clans needed help, they were free to live life as is—well, except for one thing. His people were the remnants of warrior rebels. They fought against Tevinter and the Qunari, refusing both sides.

"Tevinter loves us."

The young elf tossed an incredulous look and opened his mouth to speak only to reel back when Inan clapped a hand on both their shoulders.

"And," the aged, wizened voice of Inan spoke, "They would kill us at the first chance."

"Dad." Surprise colored Carin's cheeks.

"You've got to take the bad with the good, sweetheart." Inan tugged at his reddish-brown beard and grinned before turning to the elf at his side. "And you, young sir, ought to bathe the paint off before dinner. We'll be having it at the house tonight. Don't be late."

The young elf nodded and moved out from the older man's uncomfortably tight hold.

Carin jumped in. "Aren't we having nug chops?"

"Of course, my dear. Your mother is making stew."

Carin looked over her father's shoulder as they walked away down the dug pathway and mouthed, "See you."

The young elf returned the smile.

The showers were on the other side of the village in the opposite direction. He flipped his braid over his shoulder and ran back to the entrance, swiveling through the open area fire pits. The showers were pipes and faucets imported from Tevinter, gears and sprockets from Qunandar but the water came straight from the lower hills of Seheron.

He twisted the faucet and stood under the water, closing his eyes only to feel. . . nothing. He blinked and then squinted up. The switch was turned on and he had never heard of a time that the water didn't work properly.

He crouched to the pipe and pressed his ears against it. He followed it back up the hill listening for the squeak of water pressure. It took him back through the thick fog, toeing close to the ground. His feet silent against the grass. He heard only his own breathing as he flipped underneath the pipes and reached a sharp decline. He still couldn't hear a thing. He leaned closer until his ear was touching the hollow metal when he finally did begin to hear sounds, except that they were voices.

He flattened his body to the ground and crawled closer to the voices until the trees opened into a camp below. Armor squealed against armor clanging in movement as they marched around their tents. Writing nearer to the back end of the camp sat a man writing on parchment at his desk. He figured him to be the leader for the level of shininess on his armor. The opening of his tent hanging wide but still not wide enough for him to see what he was writing.

Loud hooved steps stomped to the right of him, he flattened himself even lower into the grass when a horse flew past right into the camp. The messenger unhooked himself from the horse as the young elf huddled to hear the conversation between the messenger and this dark-haired leader.

"Knight-Captain, the Mad Ox is at it again. He has divided his troop and begun moving shipments to avoid those painted elves."

A humorous voice replied, "And you don't know where the deserter is."

The messenger frowned and then began tugging at his collar. "Well, sir, we tried, but then those Fog Warriors appeared and—

The Knight-Captain raised a placating hand. "No worries. I will handle the rest. Have you heard word of when my brother will arrive?"

"No, sir."

"Good."

The messenger fidgeted uncomfortably before saying, rather slowly, carefully, "Is there a reason why, sir? Should we expect trouble?"

The Knight-Captain gave a very put-upon look on his face and made a heavy sigh. "Funalis begins soon and that means trials for the Hole. One of my very least favorite duties."

"Everyone makes it seem as though watching the chosen are well worth the visit."

"Indeed." The Knight-Captain answered with an annoyed tone. He waved his hand. "Off with you. You have work to do."

"Of course, sir."

The young elf pulled his attention from the camp below and slid around the other side of the pipe. He kept low to the grass until he saw the loose bolt on the pipe. Leaning forward, lower on the decline, he stretched downward. His hand twisted the screw until it couldn't be twisted further. He crawled backwards, pushing back up the decline with another glance at the open tent before getting up entirely.

Nug chop stew was a delicacy here not because it tasted especially good but for its rarity. Although he himself liked nug chop stew, Carin ate it only to have the chance in the next morning to say, "I had nug chop stew yesterday." To spur the jealousy of the villagers that did not.

He had never even seen a nug but the tradesmen from the southern lands always brought a good weight of meat on hand. Nug for dinner meant the village was doing well for itself. Clean of the white paint, his skin was back to its natural burnished brown. He was a happy median between his mother and father's, who was closer to his own but darker They sat at the long bench table with his family on one side and Inan's on the other. A large bowl of stew sat in the middle of the table as each of them had much smaller bowls and a slice of bread in front of them. His foot knocked against a pointy metal object under the table and it squeaked under foot. Inan, Carin, and Carin's mother giggled as soon as they heard the sound.

"It's one of those Orlesian bath toys." Carin giggled. "They're so aristocratic."

The spoon in his hand stirred in the bowl as he mumbled, "And obnoxious."

The Clan Head's house was full of all kinds of odds and ends from bottles, cork tops, clinking stones, and shriveled up grass, mostly because his wife and daughter were both healers for the village. The mages in their clan were either healers or alchemists and their positions were important enough to allow them leeway in their oddness. Inan lifted up a mug of mead and swallowed quick. "We'll have to send more men to our brothers and sisters in the west. Anyone you recommend?"

"Inan," His father's voice paused to scoop up a chunk of meat and vegetables from the stew, "you know most of our men are out checking out the tradesmen."

"There has to be someone left. Even a few are coming back tonight if I remember," Inan raised a thoughtful hand and continued, "Even that fisher, ah, what was his name again?"

"Halesta."

Inan snapped his fingers. "Exactly!"

"All this movement from the Qunari in the north and the Tevinters in the east making you uneasy, finally? We should plan to hit a few supply camps and record their trade routes." His father answered. His father sipped the stew and then leaned forward, whispering to Inan. "I have an idea, old friend."

Their voices lowered until he could no longer hear their conversation. He turned to his mother and Carin's who also spoke in hushed tones but loud enough for him to hear. He contemplated telling his parents about the Tevinter camp he had seen. They couldn't find their village and they seemed rather focused more on attacking the Qunari than his people.

But, if he did tell them then he would have to fight and embarrass his family. No. He would wait and if the Tevinters showed any signs of getting sword happy then he would tell them.

"I don't trust that Kellis." His mother said. She hadn't touched a bowl of her stew but neither had Carin's mother. Contrary to both their mothers, Carin slurped her bowl like it was going to run away from her if she stopped.

His mother had long thick rivulets of hair that held together like airy sticks of bread. It reminded him of when he was small and she would hug him close as she baked fresh loaves. She would put him down and click her music box, one of the few things she kept from her old home, and she would dance as the dancer in the box would with long flowing steps, her arms lifted in the air, around, then down. She had a long scar cut across her eye down her chin along her arm lightening her otherwise dark brown skin. He always noticed it particularly when she would dance.

His mother had told him that she was raised in a place called Antiva. It hadn't been the Qunari or even the Imperium but these people called the Crows that scarred her. She was lucky that his father's previous clan was traveling by. "It was pure luck you were even born." they said.

He hated it when they said things like that. Always did. It wasn't luck that he was born. It was something that simply was.

Carin's mother nodded with a deep frown. "I don't either but he's the only tradesmen willing to travel around these parts."

She wore a full-bodied dress, much like Carin, or, perhaps, it was the other way around. He was told it was a thing mages wore—long and inflexible clothing.

"Kellis?" He asked. He turned to both women but no one answered.

Carin, with her mouth full of food, said, "Heb's the gyb bwe geb ball bower ingrebients fromph."

He retorted. "Sorry, I don't speak Tevene."

Carin rolled her eyes. She repeated. "We get our ingredients from him. Like elfroot, spindleweed, and even dragonthorn. He has everything."

"Yes," Carin's mother said distastefully. "He's rather useful."

Carin added carefully. "I put the shipment in for the elfroot but I couldn't carry it all even with the villagers help. He said to come by tonight to pick it up, if I could. He's leaving tomorrow and—"

"Absolutely not!" Her mother said sharply. "You can't even raise your shields yet. We'll just have to find some other way."

"Well—

Carin's mother swung around at Inan's interruption. "Josef, you can't be serious."

His father spoke instead, "Well, Josef and I do have most of our men returning tonight. If anything were to happen—

"Exactly!" Inan said. His heavy hand smacked the table. "And we'll need those elfroots for when the men return anyhow."

"Fine," Carin's mother relented. "But I don't want her going alone."

This time, his mother took a sip of her own mug of mead before stating that he was going to tag along too.

There was no discussion of what he wanted to do—of course.

They stood outside the Clan Head house after dinner as the sun fell below the eastern skyline and it stained the clouds a water-colored blue and purple streak. And the sky, like a blank canvas, turned to black. The stars like riveted holes appeared hovering above them and he wondered if the sky was not one whole layer but three. With three layers each one had a specific purpose, never to be deterred. It was nice to think about.

His mother pulled him aside to the right of the large house nearly hidden out of sight from the others. She pulled a leather notebook out from behind her apron.

"This journal is important to me, important to you. You will need to record the things you learn. One day, as you watch your own children grow, you will record the things that they are yet unable." His mother said.

He shook his head at his mother. "You know that I can't—

"Nothing is impossible," His mother returned and she handed the leather journal to him, "when you know where you've been and where you're going. Tomorrow, I will tell you of our birthright, but, for now, I want you to read our history—the true history."

His fingers graced the journal and felt it to be as rough and jagged as he expected it to be. It wasn't a familiar texture—fuzzy and smooth. "What is it made of?"

"Halla leather and ancient tree bark."

A part of him wished that it wasn't elven. It was too beautiful and too different. Hallas were a rare creature and ancient trees no longer existed. He opened his mouth in curiosity, "There must be things about me in here."

"Things about our family, our lineage. You were a relatively average elfling but there were a few notes here and there."

His mother rarely spoke about her family and his father about his. He knew more about his ancestors of a thousand, even two thousand years ago, then he ever learned of his grandparents or if he had uncles and aunts. He frowned but pulled the journal close to his chest. "I don't know much of anything. I have nothing to add."

His mother put a gentle hand under his chin and smiled. "Da'len, we never know until we do. The pages will fill up faster than you think." She kissed his cheek and shooed him off.

Scattered among the rumored clout of his people, the People, this journal made those ethereal stories seem rocked in reality. Those few pages they read stated that in all of time and land there was nothing more valuable than the belief that their lives could be better—hope. Yet, he didn't believe it. Three pages that depicted a world wrought in war and destruction long before Tevinter and Qunari were names. Clearly, there had to be an ancestor of his that was a little too drunk, a little too insane, and a little too clever to write so convincingly. Civil war destroyed the elves.

He stared up at the moon, pale and grey, as if growing ill as the night passed. It would be a shared sentiment between. There had to be another explanation. He would ask his mother the next time they spoke.

The night's creatures whistled and clicked in the trees, the bushes, and the ground around them. The forest paths winded and there were few actual roads to follow. It would be at least a few hours travel and they would not make it back to the village until morning. But in the dead of night, there was no use in dressing in white paint. They fought in groups and one sole fighter wasn't much of a fight at all. His bow felt stiff against his shoulder blades. It shifted uncomfortably digging into his bone.

"You do know how to shield, right?"

Carin huffed.

"I'm serious." He repeated. He wasn't sure if it was the air or the fact that he hadn't ever ventured out the village with the moon and not the sun in the sky. His instincts were itching him. The sound of branches cracking underfoot didn't sound the way they did during the day.

"Of course I do. Mother was just kidding." She retorted. "It's not like the wards where I need a key to open it or ingredients for a potion. It's easy."

He tossed a look of disbelief. He added, "Healing potions?"

Carin cursed, "Scitte, really? I've been training for years."

"Really." He paused. "Have you ever fought before?"

"Have you ever fought before?"

"I asked you first."

"Well, I also know how your bow training went and—

"And, what?"

"You know the answer. Don't play dumb."

He stopped and looked at Carin. He repeated. "Seriously, what? You spoke to my parents."

"More like what they said to mine." Carin sighed and lifted a hand to her forehead . "Look, maybe hunting isn't the thing for you."

He felt as if someone had slapped him in the face. The indent and bruise now swelling on his cheeks. "I'm an elf."

"And I'm a human. It doesn't mean I want to live in a circle or in mountains with goats." Carin shivered.

"A circle?"

"It's not worth explaining, just know that they suck."

"Unlike you, I don't have the choice." He shot back. She patronized him as if he was to blame for his bowmanship as if he had no reason not to be good; like a mage born with magic an elf was born with the skills to hunt. And a part of him agreed with her, perhaps that was made this so infuriating. She complained about her choices when his stood between living in packed, dirty cities or traveling the land without a home, a country to go to. If her sense of self stood in her talents, she was lucky. His only relied on his survival. On choices that weren't much of a choice at all, but admitting that would be too much of a weakness. "An elf that can't shoot a bow or hunt is like an elf without ears."

"You'd just be a short human then, that's not so bad."

"But I wouldn't be human—that's the point."

"The point is—

The heavy sound of footsteps and rustling stomped. He motioned a quick hushing motion and they both crouched to the ground.

A deep, nearly growling voice spoke. Through the shrouded leaves, they could see two Qunari bare-chested with the leggings of their warriors and weapons on their back. They stood at a height taller than Carin. "Have you seen anyone?"

"No," said an equally, perhaps slightly less growling voice, "They're looking for the Saarebas. We will choke them at the midpoint."

"One less Tevinter." The first voice added.

The footsteps stomped off until they went quieter and quieter into the night. Carin and him didn't start to move until the footsteps fell to silence. Carin breathed. "Maybe we should turn back."

He could hear the mirrored anxiety and fear he felt finding its way through his own body in her voice. He wanted to go back. Yet. . . he shook his head. "We can't. The others should meet us on the way."

"And if they don't?"

He didn't want to think about what would happen if half of their strongest were wiped out or even captured. They would have to merge with another clan just to keep safe and things were already too unbalanced as it was. "We have to know. They don't where we are or what we'll see. If we find out what's going on, then we can tell everyone back home."

"It's only a good idea if we don't get caught."

Yeah, he was fully aware of that.

It was a shit plan, but it was going to keep their village safer if not safe.