I do not own Dragon Age Origins in any way shape or form. This is a work of fanfiction only… please don't sue!
Shadows
There is something dark about him. An evil taint, different from the one the Grey Wardens bare.
He hides it well. His actions seem to indicate that he is nothing but a kind-hearted elf. One who doesn't dabble in blood-magic, one who doesn't make pacts with demons, and one who doesn't look at everything as a potential tool or sacrifice.
He goes through great pains to keep his secrets safe. She suspects that the real reason he liberated Sten, and spared Zevran, was so they could act as a smokescreen of sorts. One is a man who murdered an entire family in a rage, the other is an assassin of dubious morals and unknown allegiance. They draw the suspicious eyes of the others away from him, and on to the obvious threats.
After all, why would they look for secrets from one who apparently has none, and cast suspicion on one who is not suspicious. Why guard against a man who for all appearances is open and honest, and who's only fault is that he is apparently too trusting.
He's good at that. Sometimes she even doubts herself. Doubts that the evil glint she sometimes sees in his eyes was ever really there. Dismisses the unmistakable feeling of warning she sometimes feels around him as her merely jumping at shadows. But sometimes the dark glint is unmistakable. Sometimes the taint within him is as obvious as the Kocari fog. It's a chilling thing that reminds her of her too much of her mother for comfort.
She cannot help but feel sometimes, that the only reason she has seen this part of him, is because he allows it. Certainly the others haven't seen anything wrong with him. The fool regards him as a trusted comrade, the circle mage seems to see nothing wrong with his actions, and even the orlesian shows him nothing but trust.
Of course, she suspects that the only one he trusts completely is the mongrel.
He has a certain lust for secrets she has noted. It's almost an obsession. She has learned that nothing bothers him more, than not knowing everything about what is happening around him. Often he presses them for stories about their past, and seeks to learn more about every one of them. She doesn't he would use everything he learned from them against them if he had too.
His love for tales is one of the few interests he's expressed, that she is certain is completely genuine. At camp the orlesian, will sing her songs, the fool will tell jokes, the drunkard will drown himself in ale, and he'll tell stories. Mostly elven ones, about gods that let themselves be betrayed, about the supposed timeless immortality of Elvhenan, about the fall of the Dales, and about the lore of the Dalish.
When he gives her Flemeth's Grimoire, she does not doubt that he himself has already read it over, and copied down what he believed to be important. When she teaches him shapeshifting, he takes to it like a frog to water, zealously pursuing complete mastery at a rate that shocks her.
The others silently marvel at how well he takes things. Lesser men, they say, would have broken under the weight of the responsibility that has been suddenly thrust upon him. That a weaker being would have crumbled before the horrors that he had confronted. That anyone else would have simply fallen to pieces. When she looks at him, the dark gleam is still in his eyes, but it's edged with the madness of one who is breaking, but has not yet broken.
When she lays with him, that night before they faced the Archdemon, she does not doubt he is just as interested in the child they are conceiving as she is. She is gone before morning comes. She will not admit it to herself, but the look on his face when she had made her offer had scared her.
It had been nearly a year before he tracked her down. She had been living in an abandoned shack tucked away in a valley in the Forstbacks. Never had she imagined the birthing of a child could be so painful. Even a whole moon later, and she still hadn't fully recovered from the ordeal. Then she sees the mongrel walk out of the forest. Her hands fly to her staff. If the dog is here, than he is too.
With every bit of confidence and self-assurance that she knows she has, she walks up to the mabari, and looks it straight in the eyes.
There is suddenly a sharp pain in the back of her head, and the world goes black.
Authors Note: This is a prequel to my creepy little drabble "Reunion" Mostly this is a way to exercise the dark little beast that dwells in my mind, without doing anything evil. It is also a slight remark on the idea that actions do not always reflect who a person actually is.
The writer in me also wants to know what you thought of this, and how you think it could be improved (it's short I know)