Disclaimer: the Dragon Age world doesn't belong to me
Chapter One: Pretty as a Painting
Mulling over a stout at Dane's Refuge was not an uncommon way for Leliana to spend an uneventful afternoon. This, however, was less of a casual circumstance, and the pensive wrinkles at the corners of her eyes gathered close with clock precision every time she rubbed the bridge of her nose, lost in thought. She weighed and measured for the hundredth time every word in the letter she'd written to Revered Mother Dorotheea. The letter had been due for a week.
Ostagar had fallen, that much was obvious, seeing the way that endless waves of refugees kept pouring from the south. Loghain had pulled out most of the army, one Chasind refugee had said, and that could easily be verified. Other than that, nothing was clear. Official news claimed the Wardens had betrayed the King, and then had all perished in battle.
In her letter, Leliana had added nothing more. Out of prudence, she decided against adding any of her personal take on the matter. Just as well, while sifting through the rumours for the umpteenth time, brazen thoughts reeled through her mind. Betrayed the king how, Leliana wondered, had all the Wardens sided with the Darkspawn at once, or, perhaps, with prior negotiations? Perished how, if not in straight battle? Had they fled the field in small groups and gotten themselves eaten by carnivorous flowers in the Korcari Wilds? All coming from a man that had emerged from the battle with his troops intact. The paradox of the scenario seemed lost on the simpletons who full-mouthedly spread the news, although everybody debated the subject at length over Maker knew how many stouts. Ale poured in Dane's Refuge, making the lack of food, sleep and coin, as well as the overall hopelessness of the situation, a little easier to swallow. But ale didn't favor reasoning, as the oozing fear that engulfed the place did not, and loss did not. They were eager to believe what was said without question.
A couple of days before, the army had come and gone, with not as much as an afterthought to help with the refugees; with the bandits and the cutpurses that flooded the roads; with the bears; with the wolves; with the giant spiders; with the Chasind; with the Qunari; with the lost children; with the lost crops; with the elder; with the lack of beds. They had, however, left behind five drunken sots that were cramming morosely at one of the tables in the middle, clutching a description poster and a pouch of coin, asking everybody who might answer about fugitive Grey Wardens. Wardens, again. Although her curiosity was piqued, Leliana hadn't written anything about them, either.
There was one more thing that Leliana had to write the Reverend Mother about: she had decided to leave the Chantry. It wasn't lack of gratitude: for the last couple of years, first in Denerim, then in Lothering, she had indeed found peace and shelter and had soothed her body and soul. Still, these were times one would find fitting to cover one's tracks and disappear forever, if one found herself in need to do so. Mother Dorotheea would understand. After all, it wasn't her the one Leliana hid from –the message between the lines was clear enough, Leliana thought. The Chantry spread high and wide throughout the land and Leliana was bound to check in every now and then, be within reach. She was not ungrateful. It was not like she was bending the truth much, also, in claiming that she'd had a vision; she'd had all kinds of disturbing dreams of late, and the rose that had blossomed in spite of war on what had seemed a long-withered bud had been a little miracle in its own right. One that spoke of a world of beauty, of the passing years, of wounds that opened, bled and closed, eventually. It told her it was time to get her life back.
Letter sealed in sleeve pocket, backpack on her shoulder, Leliana took one last sip of wine and rose. Time to go, she braced herself, eyeing the familiar tavern one last time.
Then the door swung open and the most unlikely bunch of people entered the place. A warrior, an elf, a witch and a war-dog. It was like in those funny little tales – "A warrior, an elf, a witch and a war-dog enter a tavern. The warrior asks for a table. The dog asks for a bone. The witch asks for a herb tea. The elf asks for a knife. The tavern keeper asks 'What do you need a knife for? You've got your ears…'". Hmm. Not so good of a joke. And the elf would most certainly not laugh. Perhaps she was a little bit out of touch. Leliana shrugged, before melting to shadow behind the strangers.
The soldiers at the table in the middle rose and drew steel, asking surrender from the Grey Wardens.
Grey Wardens? 'Keep an eye on the Wardens' Mother Dorotheea had said in her last. It had been before Ostagar, but that mattered little. If she wanted to ever learn what had happened she needed to speak with them.
But not at once. Maybe she could gain their trust. Maybe she could travel with them, at least for a while. Mother Dorotheea would be happy to know their whereabouts. Leliana was thinking fast. Yes, travelling with them seemed the best idea. Maybe the rose had indeed been a sign, after all. She stepped out in the open again, right between the two groups.
'Rusty.'
Leliana was angry with herself. It hadn't gone well at all. First, the soldiers had shown no sign of respect for the cloth – that had been unexpected, as well as their proneness to kill everyone without blinking. Then, there was the elf.
The damned knife-ears had fought Loghain's men like a banshee, 'happy to oblige' as she'd put it. Slim and small, with rueful black hair under a helmet only too big for her head, with mismatched, poor quality leathers and only slightly better weapons, she'd measured Leliana from head to toe, obviously suspicious of this, or any, Maker-given ally. Insisting that she spare the soldiers' lives hadn't helped either. The soldiers were to be shown no mercy; they had to die. 'Happy to save your life, miss', she'd added, and Leliana'd got flustered and retorted, snapping at the girl's cheeky smirk and piercing, yellow, inhuman gaze. Maker, she was so young, she'd realized only after; just a girl, indeed, and the realization gave pause to the annoyance. Couldn't expect manners from a child, no? She'd better tried a different angle. Especially since the tall blonde knight and the Chasind shaman witch seemed to look to her for a decision.
Kallian was the name. Other than admitting to be one of them Wardens, she gave away little, while shoving questions about Leliana's ways and motivations, pinning her with her eyes, weighing her with her elven, long-eared head thoughtfully tilted to the side. Leliana had not prepared. She turned to the rehearsed scenario, saying she had been sent by the Maker, that she'd had a vision, but, oh, just as well, she could see how the three in front of her were exchanging looks. Rusty Leliana. This was a story for the Chantry sisters, not for fighters freshly returned from Ostagar. She changed gear, speaking of how the people would suffer and fighting the blight was the Maker's work. Some new light glistened in the elf's eyes, and it seemed that she'd struck the chord. The elf kept asking her questions, about what she, Leliana, could do for them, about helping people there and then, and Leliana obliged patiently. But the glitter grew and turned to smirk as the elf said her last. They didn't need any help. At all. It had been amusement, that glitter, she realized, much too late… They hadn't intended to take her with them for a bit.
Oh, sod. This wasn't the last they heard from her. Rusty, but still. Leliana turned on her hills and out of Dane's Refuge in a storm.
A couple of hours later, she was strategically posed on the side of the road out of town, nibbling at a bit of dry cheese, comfortably seated at one end of the meadow that stretched from the mill to the path that led to the Imperial Highway. If the Wardens wanted to leave Lothering any time soon, they were bound to come her way. It was sunny, and the world seemed friendly enough - if one could count out the bandits lurking behind the hills and the famished farmers that were gathering near the mill, the quiet chatter of whom sounded menacing after a fashion. They were conniving about something, surely. She'd see about that later. Now, she was busy waiting.
And there they were, the Wardens, the witch and the dog, purposely striding across the meadow, with all their gear packed on their backs. The farmers gathered and huddled around the small party. One of them, a leader of some sort, exchanged a few snapped words with the elven Warden. Then, they attacked. By the Maker, that came as a surprise, but it was far from Leliana's mind to interfere this time. The Wardens fell back, retreating on the higher ground of the mill, reluctant to fight at first, it seemed. They fought their way through, though, without honor, crushing bones and men in their stride, until there was no one other standing but them and their own. Then, they took pace again.
The two Wardens seemed to disagree on something. The elf seemed annoyed, indeed, as she smashed her mismatched – and ruined without hope at the point, apparently - helmet to the ground. Better without, it hadn't suited her anyway, Leliana found herself thinking, she had nice features. It was easy to fall back on frivolous thoughts once outside the Chantry, it seemed. She giggled to herself.
The wind caught some of the heated conversation as the small group headed towards her.
"… I thought you were all for leaving this place…" the tall, blond man was saying.
"Yea, well, look around you. Don't you feel bad in the slightest?"
"You tell me about feeling bad? I'm fazed… Plus, they attacked us."
"We just killed more than a dozen able men. They could have provided for their families, protected them on the road… they could've fought and hunted and gotten their own to safety."
"You have no qualms to steal an expensive sword from an innocent errand boy, but you give coin to beggars – and now you worry upon a bunch of peasants set on murdering us for money."
"Did I look like a messenger to you? Did I? An elf can't afford to be that stupid."
"Oh, now you're telling me you were educating the boy…"
The elf waved her hand dismissively.
"You wouldn't understand. He's probably dead now, anyway, with all the others."
That made the blond man quiet for a moment. Then he spoke again.
"You're a strange one…"
She chuckled.
"Hunger is strange, not me. It's one thing to be young and easily fooled, and to be fully-grown and charge unarmed at armored and armed people and mages, quite another. Spells despair to me. That, and we could use some money ourselves."
The argument seemingly finished, they arrived at the cozy spot that Leliana had claimed for herself.
"Oh, hello again!" she chanted, feigning obliviousness both in regard to the gore that the Wardens were covered in and the conversation that she'd overheard.
"Sister."
She didn't do better this time. In fact, she was sure that her lengthy pleas were even lamer that the first. Yet the Wardens seemed more subdued, without any apparent reason. The blond one cracked a really stupid joke and the elf laughed in exasperation, only to copiously start coughing blood and black clots, sign that the wound was rather old, more than a day perhaps. Leliana had no healing potion on her, so she absentmindedly offered her waterskin, half filled with thoroughly watered-down cheap wine from the Dane's Refuge, her drink for the road. She did it without thinking, only because the other seemed to need something to wash the taste of blood in her mouth, and the elf accepted it likewise, with no fuss. She thrown her head back and took a big gulp, careful not to touch the waterskin with her lips. She spat, snorted and coughed again before handing it back to Leliana and thanking with a nod.
"You can come," she said, not really letting go of the waterskin as she looked Leliana straight in the eye. Leliana wanted to thank them all profusely for taking her along, as well as to assure them that she wouldn't be a burden, but she was cut before she made a sound. "- Just, keep your mouth shut."