"Poppa! You're home!" squealed Rowena, flinging herself at Zathrian for a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Cyrana and Falondrahl were sure you would be gone for at least another week! I've missed you, Poppa! Please, tell me you'll not be leaving again soon?"
Zathrian smiled warmly at his young daughter. "Emma da'vhenan, my little heart, surely your brother and his wife have taken good care of you while I was gone? You do not look ill-fed nor beaten." His mock stern glare elicited giggles from the girl. Hand on hips, he continued, "Tell me that they have abused my trust, dearest one, and I will punish them accordingly. You have but to say, and I shall have them whipped with feathers, flogged with the softest furs…"
"What lies are you telling our sire, little rabbit, that he would threaten me so?" A laughing young elf joined the pair on the path. "I swear Father, she all but ate Cyrana and I out of house and home, growing like a weed in the sun."
"Look, Poppa! I grew two whole thumbwidths! It was enough that Sahlandrath let me help with the halla fawning this year."
"Indeed he did. And said you had the gentlest touch and deftest hands of any of the younglings." Falondrahl smiled at his little sister, and ruffled her hair as she beamed back at him. "He's offered to take her on as an apprentice, Father. As has Xavrina. Rowena has been helping Cyrana this week at the healer's tent. Some fool added a batch of bad mushrooms to the stew and a number of the clan are still ill. Xavrina has been most grateful for her aid and tells me she shows signs of a great talent."
"Two offers of apprenticeship? My da'len is becoming an asha. I'll have to be sure not to leave again soon, lest I return to find you courted by all the young men or married with a da'len or three at your feet! Speaking of which, Falondrahl, I don't suppose you and your lovely young bride are planning to make me a grandfather any time soon?"
"Father! Not even to camp and you start? You're worse than Cyrana's mother. We've not yet been wed a turn of the seasons, and with Cyrana so newly made Xavrina's first... We'll get to it. I swear. We're young. We'll give you a dozen if you'll all just back off."
"All right, all right." Zathrian, laughing, threw his hands up in surrender. "Humor an old elf. You younglings are the future, everything I've lived for. Your little ones will carry it beyond me. Can't blame me for wanting to see them sooner rather than later. Catch me up on what else is new? That business with Rynia and that halfwit she had chosen for her first took all of the keepers longer than we wished."
"If it could wait just a bit? We were just leaving to fetch some herbs needed for the mushroom victims when we heard you had been sighted and couldn't resist greeting you. But we really should be off. I saw a patch of wolf's tooth yesterday and Rowena knows the location of some hart's bell, and the healers are running low on both with all of the knotted intestines at camp. Neither are far. We should be back by supper, should any of us dare eat it."
When they had not returned by dark, the hunters went out. And it took little time to find them. No attempt had been made to hide Falondrahl's mutilated corpse. Rowena's broken body had been tossed into the bushes like so much refuse. The hunter who found her wept, faced with the task of moving her. For there was nowhere she could be touched without hurting her, causing her to moan mindlessly, and to try to curl in upon herself. Falondrahl, at least, was beyond such concerns. A small mercy, given the marks upon him that told each hunter precisely what tortures he had undergone.
The tracks led straight to the human settlement, into which they could not follow. Slowly they returned, pulling Rowena and Falondrahl on a sledge, cringing as every root and stone caused her to softly cry out in response to the jostling. It was enough to rend the most hardened heart.
At the entrance to the camp, Cyrana stiffly stood with Zathrian. Forewarned, she had wrapped herself in dignity, pride only betrayed by the way she clutched at his arm. As they halted the sledge before them she slowly sank, as if her knees simply could not hold her, and she began to keen. It was a wordless cry, a strangled noise. Zathrian stood like stone, an ironbark staff in one hand, his other resting upon Cyrana's shoulder, tears pouring from his eyes.
"She yet lives?" he asked, voice void of emotion. At their nods, he visibly shook with relief. "Xavrina has a place prepared for her over here—please," his voice caught, "please be gentle."
They placed her in a cot in a tent set a bit apart from the communal one overrun by elves still suffering mushroom poisoning. The elderly elf woman gently chased out everyone but Zathrian. "I won't try to make you leave, but I'll need you to restrain yourself. There is no way to make this easy. And there are things I cannot heal."
"Is there nothing I can help with?"
"You are a great mage, Zathrian, a powerful one. Yet never has healing been among your gifts. Save your strength. Your daughter will need her father, and that will take all that you have to give. I can heal the breaks and the cuts and the burns and the bruises, but I cannot touch her spirit or mind. And after all she has been through, they might be slow in healing. If you wish to wait outside…"
"No! I… I failed her, Xavrina. I failed them. There is nothing I can do for Falondrahl now. Mourning and vengeance can wait, but I can be here for my little girl. I need to know, I need to know what these beasts did to her."
"It is not your fault, Zathrian," Xavrina said as she began to wipe the blood and filth from Rowena, her hand glowing as she assessed the wounds thus revealed. "No one could have known these humans would do something like this. We've never had more than the normal problems in the past."
"I am their father. What good am I if I cannot keep them safe? I can almost understand Falondrahl. Almost. He was a grown man, in the flower of strength. He was a warrior; he was a threat. But she is little more than a babe, Xavrina, just a da'asha. What sort of sick creature does this to a little girl? To a child? I know the history, I know of the evils of which men are capable, I have seen things I cannot forget, and yet I would not have imagined this. To do this to a child gathering flowers."
Xavrina stiffened, spine arching, and patterns of light writhed over Rowen's skin. Then, exhaling, she slumped forward, breathing heavily and it was once again only the dancing light and shadows cast by the lantern. Zathrian started toward her, but she waved him off. "I just need a moment, just give me a moment. She's hurt, Zathrian. She is hurt. I've managed the worst of it tonight. She'll live. I can keep her alive. But it will take time to heal all of this, and there will be scars I can't fix. I don't know a healer who can, and that is just speaking of the body. I don't know what she will wake to. She is so hurt."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing but wait, for now. She won't wake for hours. Go, rest. See Falondrahl. I can have the young ones watch and fetch you if there is any change."
"No… I will be here. Falondrahl," Zathrian inhaled sharply, visibly shook, "Falondrahl has eternity now. I will go to him. But tonight he is Cyrana's. Rowena has no one else."
Xavrina started to reach for him, but dropped her hand. "You are wrong. We are all here for her, for you. But you are her father, and so you are right. I'll have a cot or a bedroll brought to you. Let us know when you need someone to sit with her."
Through that night, and the following and a third, Zathrian sat by her side in silence. Rowena lay nearly as still as her brother, naught but her shallow breathing betraying that she yet lived. On the third day, he left her briefly to attend Falondrahl's burial. Upon his return, tears tracks marred her cheeks, though she lay as still as ever.
"She wept when we heard In Uthenera," the young healer who had sat with her explained. "Never made a sound, not a muscle twitched, but she wept. This is a very good sign, Keeper, a very good sign! She is with us, she's still in there! Likely aware of everything we say, and just not quite ready to come all the way back to us."
"You think she can hear me?"
"Aye, I do. Talk to her. Help give her a reason to return. Right now there is a lot of pain, maybe more than she is ready to face. Help her remember there is a lot of love waiting for her as well, and give her time, and we'll welcome her home." Tears ran down the healer's face now as well. "Bring her back, Keeper. She's been a dear friend to my younger sister, and a joy and great help with the sick. We all miss her too. If there is anything any of us can do, please, please let us help?"
Zathrian closed his eyes for a moment, blinking back tears of his own. "Thank you. I needed to hear that. And I think she did as well. I intend to still sleep here, and take my meals here, but if you could let Xavrina know I would appreciate someone sitting here for a bit each afternoon? I'd rather not fill her ears with camp business."
And so went the following days, and the days turned to weeks and the weeks into first one month and then a second and approached a third with little change from Rowena. In time she rose, would walk if led and would sit where she was placed. Still she was silent, her eyes blank, and never did she give sign that she took any notice nor had understanding of aught that was said to her, or that occurred around her. Zathrian quietly despaired, although none would see it in her presence. When he was with her he was again the keeper they adored, full of wit and banter.
Despair was well intertwined with impotent rage, for there had been found no way to identify the humans that had done this. Everything that the clan could track, by magic or woodcraft, led into the village of humans that had recently begun to encroach upon the Brecilian Forest. But they could not follow the trail there. Two of the scouts had been shot, one injured quite seriously, merely for approaching too closely. Even the best woodcraft was not sufficient to fool the humans' dogs if they were close enough. How he hated those dogs!
The village itself was sufficiently large and well enough armed to make an attack on the whole of it impractical, even had the clan been in agreement. And they were not in agreement. Some feared that it would lead to reprisals by other humans, perhaps troops, on all the Dalish. Others were unwilling to condemn all for the actions, horrific though they were, of a few. Unless a way was found to identify the humans responsible, and to destroy them in a way that would not call down the wrath of other humans, Zathrian would not have sufficient support to strike against them.
The darkness thus engendered festered. He plotted, fantasizing a thousand vengeances. But in none of them was he certain that he could reach those he wished to destroy, and so stayed his hand. He was beyond caring if innocents also suffered, in fact deemed none in the village to be innocent as they had sheltered and protected his son's killers, the ravagers of his daughter. But he would not risk that any of those directly involved should go free.
Returning to his tent from one of his trips to observe the human village, Zathrian paused at the common fire where much of the clan was gathered to listen to an elder share various tales from the past. Zathrian leaned briefly against a tree, watching his people. His clan. Children gathered at the storyteller's feet, intent upon his tale. Young couples cuddled on log benches, often more absorbed in each other than the familiar stories. And elders such as himself watched them all, enjoying the comfort of a familiar tale, Zathrian thought, recognizing the story of Abelas and his cursed bows. "And that is why we never cut living wood in this forest, for the spirits of this forest know nothing of mercy or forgiveness." With a sigh, he continued to his tent.
"I wish you had told me this sooner, Cyrana! It may be too late now. If I had known at the start, this could have been prevented..." Xavrina was anxiously pacing in his tent, while Cyrana sat next to Rowena on her cot, one hand absently stroking her hair.
"What is it?" demanded Zathrian, startling both of the women. "Is there a problem?"
"Yes. Cyrana, go. Zathrian and I need to speak. Alone."
"Yes, Xavrina. I'm sorry."
"I know, child," she said, her face softening for a moment. "You've had a lot to deal with yourself. I'm glad you brought it to me now. Now go."
Cyrana scuttled past Zathrian as he glowered in the tent doorway.
"Zathrian, we should sit for this," Xavrina said, gesturing at a pair of chairs off to one side. "You've some difficult decisions to make."
After a quick glance at Rowena, sitting peacefully, blankly, on her cot, Zathrian sat heavily into the chair opposite Xavrina. "Well? What now?"
"There isn't any easy way to say this. Rowena is pregnant."
"What?!" roared Zathrian. "But how? She's just a child!"
"The keeper gathering you attended just before…before what happened? Cyrana just told me that she had her first woman's flow while you were gone. She meant to speak to you about it after you settled in, but then, well, everything happened. She didn't think about it again until now. While she is a bit young, she's not unusually young to start the change, but it is young to bear a child. Especially a human one."
Zathrian breathed heavily, staring at his hand as it clenched and unclenched, resting on the table. When he spoke again, it was controlled, cold. "You mean those murdering beasts not only defiled my baby girl, damaged her, all but destroyed her: they planted their bastard and it might now finish the job?"
"She's too young to be carrying. If the father were an elf, it would be easier. But carrying a human is hard even on a full grown woman. It could kill her. If she survives, it could cause other damage. There is a good chance she won't be able to carry another child after."
"Can you end the pregnancy?"
"This is where the choices are hard. It may be too late to avoid damage. She was so hurt when they brought her in, Zathrian. It took everything I had to work with the immediately life-threatening wounds. And I misread the pregnancy as healing. I was looking at her when you arrived. She hasn't healed properly. Ending it at this point might allow us to heal her, or it might be more trauma than the system can deal with. Even if all goes well, she may never be able to carry to term. This pregnancy might be her best chance. Ending it may deny her a child, and you a grandchild."
"My only hope for a grandchild, a human? The bastard of one of those beasts who raped her and killed my son? I would sooner see my line end, Xavrina, than do that to her."
"It is also possible that ending it could kill her at this point. She's still fragile, Zathrian."
"I…I don't know, Xavrina. I just don't know."
"You don't have to decide right now. There is time for me to make a fuller examination, investigate a few possibilities, give you better information. The city elves have had more human pregnancies and I do have some contact with one of their healers. I just know so little about them. A few days won't cause any harm. But she isn't capable of making decisions as she is, so it will fall on you."
"I just want my baby, Xavrina. She's…she's everything I have left."
"I know. I remember when the aravel crashed and sent her mother into premature labor. She was so small. And her mother was so broken. She looked at me and simply said, 'save my baby.' And then she looked at you. Her eyes were so big. I remember how she held your hand, and held Rowena, and she told you…"
"She told me, 'Love her, emma vhenan, my heart. Love her.'"
"And that baby girl has been your world ever since. You still loved Falondrahl, you still were a good keeper, but that da'ashalen came before anything and everyone. I know you'll do what is best for her. You've been good through all of this, Zathrian. You have. She settles when you are near. Not a peep through all of this, look at… Where is she?"
"She must have slipped out while we were talking? She's not done that before. We've got to find her!"
"Go on ahead." Xavrina waved him out. "I'll get others to help look. You'll move faster than this old woman. I doubt anything is wrong, but this is new. With luck she's simply gone to Cyrana or the story circle."
Zathrian was halfway through the tent door before Xavrina finished speaking. Rowena was nowhere in sight, and none of the rest of the clan was near. His tent was pitched near the edge of the forest, and most of the clan in the camp were gathered around the central fire sharing tales. He started toward it, but a glint caught his eye. A trinket, a ribbon from which dangled a simple silver disc with the blessing of Mythal inscribed upon it.
It was Rowena's, one she always wore. It was caught on the bushes. Bushes with broken stems and torn leaves, as if someone had burst through them. He followed. There had been no attempt at secrecy, footprints clear in the soft loam. Her path carried her past several tents, the statue of Fen'Harel and the halla enclosure before it led off into the forest. Zathrian moved as quickly as he could without losing it, foreboding a lead weight in his gut. There was no need for her to be in the forest.
He did not catch up until deep in the forest. She knelt, rocking, arms curled around her belly and silent tears pouring from her eyes. At his approach, her head snapped up like a wild creature, her panic halting him. "Poppa," she said, her voice wavering and hoarse after months without use. "Poppa. I won't, Poppa. I won't." Hearing the growing wildness in her voice, Zathrian started to approach her again, but stopped as she grew more agitated. "Don't! Don't come near me! Don't let anyone near me. Make them leave me alone, Poppa? I just want to be left alone. Please, Poppa. Please. Don't let them hurt me anymore. Make them stop."
"I will, baby. I will. Just let me…"
"No. Stay back. I'm dirty. So dirty. They were filthy. Filthy filthy filthy. And they were on me and in me and touched me everywhere and I bled and they bled and Falondrahl bled and it was blood and blood, oh gods the blood. Don't touch me. Just don't touch me. I need water. I need water. I need to wash. I can't go back. I'm filthy, Poppa, filthy."
"It's okay, dearheart, it's okay. We can wash at camp."
"No! No no no no no nononononononoNO! I have to wash now. I can't bring this with me. I can't bring this back into the camp. It's on my skin, Poppa. It's on my skin and it crawls like bugs, and it burrows in. It's under and it crawls and it creeps and it is in me and I need to wash it off NOW!"
"There is a stream, just over here. We'll go, and wash. You'll be clean, sweetling, you'll be clean."
"It's too late, Poppa. I'll never be clean again. They are in me, you see. In me. It hurts, Poppa. It hurts. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry…"
"It is okay, it is okay. We can make it better. Please, please let me help you."
"It is too late, Poppa. It is too late. I tried. I tried. I tried. But it is too late. Nothing will make me clean. Nothing. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm just so tired…" Rowena staggered to her feet, as Zathrian stood frozen in horror. In one hand she held a sharp knife, like those used to trim halla hooves and repair harnesses. Sharp and bright and bloodied, it fell and stuck in the dirt, quivering. "It is too late, Poppa. I tried to cut it out. Poppa, I tried. But it is still in there."
The front of her simple gown was shredded, and drenched with blood. Gaping wounds, entrails and bone showing. She staggered toward him, one stumbling step, and fell, breaking his immobility. He rushed to her, gathering her into his arms, coating himself in her blood. "I tried, Poppa," she slurred, her eyes closing. "I'm sorry, so sorry."
"It's okay baby. It's okay. We'll make this right. We'll fix this. Just don't leave me, sweety. Just stay with me. Please baby, just don't leave. Just stay with me. It will be okay. We'll make it okay. Just don't leave me. Please, Rowena, please. Please…"
They found him like that. Tears dripping from his eyes onto her cold face, her head pillowed upon his shoulder, her body gently cradled in his arms. One of the hunters tried to approach, but was flung back as a domed shield burst into being. Xavriana helped the young woman to her feet.
"Let him be. There is not much we can do for him right now. Let him mourn. We'll wait. All we can do is be here for him."
Inside the bubble, Zathrian wept. For a time he wept quietly. For a time he howled with rage and pain. He shook his fist at the sky and cursed the absent gods, the forgotten gods, the old gods, the Maker. For a time he lay in the dirt, body racked with shuddering sobs. And never once did he drop Rowena, not once did he put her down. Eventually, hours later, he was still. All was still. Then, with a shimmer like fog in the moonlight, the shield dissipated as Zathrian slowly stood. Xavrina and the two younger elves who had waited with her rose as well, and hurried to his side. For a moment they all just stood, silently.
Then, giving her a final hug, Zathrian held Rowena's body out to the two who had waited with Xavrinas. He spoke softly, his voice hoarse, weathered by weeping, softly enough they had to strain to hear his request to take her home. Eager to be of service, to do something to help, they quickly were off, leaving Zathrian with Xavrina.
"You are not coming with me, are you, Zathrian? Those younglings assume you and I will be right behind them. But you are not coming, are you?"
"No. There is something I must do."
"I'm an old woman, Zathrian, and even if I were in the prime of life I never had the sort of power that you wield. There isn't anything I can do to stop you, even if I wanted to. For what it is worth, I understand you need to do what you need to do here. I just ask that you remember your clan, your people. Please, don't destroy us too."
"I don't quite know what I am doing yet. I just don't know. Just promise me you'll bury her next to Falandrahl?"
"You don't expect to survive, do you? If you can, Zathrian, come back to us when you are done. We need you too."
Turning, Zathrian stooped and plucked the hoof knife from where Rowena had dropped it. His back still to Xavrina, Zathrian stood silent for a moment before answering, "If I survive. If I live. I can't begin to see how. I'm dead already. But, should I live, I'll return. What is left of me after belongs to the clan. But first, first I belong to this."
He did not go to the village. What was the use? They would simply riddle him with arrows and then slaughter the clan. Though he trusted Xavrina would have warned them, they would not be able to stand against the reprisals of an arl or a major city. And that would happen; the murderous scum would likely survive. He needed something, something that would give him more of an edge. That would buy him time. And if he could find something that drew attention away from the Dalish…
There were stories. Stories, as keeper, that he knew better than most. Little more than rumors, some of them, whispered tales of fantastic spells and magical tools wielded by the old ones. And while such may have not stopped the Tevinter Imperium from destroying the elven nations of yore, a small human village, mistrustful of magic, would have no defense.
In the heart of the Brecillian Forest was a ruin. A ruin whose origins were lost. A ruin, some whispers claimed, where elves and humans worked together in the brief time when there was friendship between the races. There was much yet to find there. Haunted by the past, it was not a place any but the foolhardy would seek to raid. Or the desperate. The ruins were buried in foliage. Vines snaked up walls and pillars, trees burst through floors and ceilings. It was as if the forest had set about to remove what stones man and war had not. That, or it sought to repair it. Other forms of life had also invaded the dubious shelter of the ruins; birds sang, a startled rabbit darted into the underbrush, jagged claw marks high on tree trunks were evidence of a bear.
If only there were some way to turn the forest itself against the humans, he thought. Perhaps something like the sylvans, but under his command? The tree-beings were strong, but not particularly mobile. If you could stay out of sight long enough, they had a tendency to return to their favorite haunts and reroot. Bear? One would not be enough, even if he could enchant it into to something. The spiders attacked in swarms but were common pests, fairly easily cleared. It would not be something that would keep the humans away long. He wanted something lasting, something that would remain a curse upon not only this generation, but that would destroy their future as well. Just as they had destroyed his. Nothing less would balance the evil done. Nothing in the forest, however, was as murderous and vicious as human scum.
Aha! That was it! If he could but turn the humans on themselves as the beasts they had proven to be… something that would linger… something that would mark them and their offspring as cursed, cause them to be hunted by their fellows. Something like the taint of the darkspawn… Ah, but that was a thought! To think of recreating the taint, even in miniature? That was hubris. Yet, why not? When the gods are absent, be it locked away or in self-imposed exile, why worry about blasphemy?
There were tales of rabid werebeasts, abominations created when spirits were drawn into beasts and use that beast to deliver the curse. He could draw in a spirit. Something wild and unforgiving and merciless. Indeed, nothing would be better suited than the spirit of this very forest. It was long famed in story for its unforgiving ways. And through that spirit tap into the centuries of war, the uncountable deaths, a bloody history stretching far back before the Tevinter and their conquests, and through that into the Beyond to charge it, as all the blood shed had left the veils thin.
It could work. If he was strong enough to do it, it could work. He just needed a creature to carry it. Something fierce and strong enough to be able to attack the humans and damage them, spread the curse. Something swift enough to be able to chase them down or to escape if need be. Something cunning. Something that would be feared, not dismissed as inconvenient. He wanted them to live in fear, to worry. Something natural enough that it would be seen as an extension of the forest. But what? Bears were fierce, but slow. There were no large cats in this area. He smiled slowly, painfully, as the realization struck. What beast was better to serve as the carrier of this taint, to fill them with dread and cause them to betray their family, friends and fellow humans than the one that shared a form with the Betrayer himself, the wolf?
Zathrian thus set about bringing the spell into life. First, a trickle of magic sent out to lure a wolf. While waiting for it to arrive, he scouted the ruins. Deep into them, he found a large, open chamber that was relatively clear of rubble and foliage. Glyphs scribed onto the floor had pooled energies he could tap to draw in the spirit of the forest and bind it inside the wolf. This would not be like an abomination, with its willing and generally somewhat intelligent spirit assisting and a possibly reluctant host; the spirit of the forest could barely be considered sentient. And while the wolf's body could be frozen, its spirit would struggle like that of any trapped beast.
Ultimately, if successful, it would serve Zathrian's purpose to have the new beast frenzied. It would make success harder to achieve, however. How much harder he could not guess. This bastardization of forbidden magic was, to his knowledge, unprecedented. It did not take long to prepare what he could. This spell would be one of mind and will, not elaborate tools or materials, so he settled himself to wait.
It was dusk when the snapping of his trap spell told him a wolf had been caught, the release of the spell waking him from a light doze. It stood, frozen, only its eyes revealing its fury and its fear. It was a large wolf, lean, heavily scarred, likely a lone wolf. He would have preferred dark, but its light coat would be ghostly in the night. It would do.
Taking the bit of lyrium he'd been able to scavenge from the ruined storeroom and workshops, some old potions and even a bit of the straight dust, he drew on the energy pooled within the chamber. Ancient glyphs flared, returned to life, lighting the room. For a moment, Zathrian simply stood, letting the power pulse through his veins. It was tempting. Oh so tempting. He could just pull a little more, just a little more, and burn. Burn until there was nothing left but the power. And how glorious that would be. It was but a moment. And then he reached.
He reached out into the forest, power seeking power. Seeking that tendril, that webbing, that vine that bound together this forest as this forest, and not some other forest. It was the trees, the beasts, the birthing and dying. And he sought its root. Its implacable root. It was not the nature of the forest to forgive. It was not the nature of the forest to show mercy. Teeth sought bone through flesh, roots sought dirt and sky through stone. It was not the nature of the forest to change. It simply was, whatever the cost. Taking hold of that root, he pulled, and the forest screamed. It struggled. It fought. But slowly, ever so slowly, over the course of hours, he drew out the spirit of the forest and dragged it beneath the chamber. There it stuck. No matter how he strained, it would not budge. The wolf too fought. Though it remained frozen, faint snarls could be heard and it had managed to bare its teeth. Time was running out. Energy too. The lyrium was gone, the energy stored in the glyphs was all but depleted, and he had yet to merge the spirit and the wolf.
Sinking to his knees before the wolf, Zathrian dug his fingers into the thick fur at the ruff of its neck, eliciting a growl from the creature. "That's right. That's right. Hate me. Hate everything. But humankind shall be your prey," Zathrian told the beast, staring back into its enraged, and increasingly insane, eyes.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, eyes locked. Then, never breaking eye contact with the beast, in a smooth motion Zathrian jammed Rowena's knife into his own heart then pulled it out spraying the wolf with his blood. Simultaneously he pulled at the forest spirit, dragging it up through the floor and into the wolf. It howled and writhed in agony as it was transformed by melding with the spirit. It grew, its already pale fur bleached to near white, and a network of roots sprouted from its limbs. The last Zathrian saw, as he collapsed, was the wolf leap forth, and vanish into the forest.
Kendrick hated living out here, but what was he to do? It wasn't like he'd been given much choice. He hadn't recognized the shaggy stranger who'd dragged them off to this settlement, but Ma insisted it was Pa who had returned. His only memories of him were hazy, and featured a younger, cleaner man. But it had been five or six years since Kendrick had seen him, and he'd been a babe on leading strings at the time. He claimed he'd made enough as a merc to buy into the settlement out here and that it was their chance to own a good sized farm, not just work someone else's land.
Kendrick couldn't see how it mattered, seeing as he didn't seem interested in doing a lick of work on his own land neither. All he ever seemed to do in the years since they'd moved out here was drinking, whoring, walloping Kendrick and picking fights with other men. Kendrick was pretty sure it was shame Ma had died of, two years back, and Pa had only gotten worse for it. There were rumblings in the town about him bothering the women and stealing chickens and the like.
He sighed, and kicked a rock down the forest path. Maybe if Pa was run off it wouldn't be so bad. Kendrick was pretty sure he could find some place to take him on. He was known to be a good worker, and was coming up on thirteen years.
The force of the sudden impact knocked him to the ground. Teeth closed in his thigh. He lost a finger as he tried to beat off the beast. The huge jaws closed on his face, fangs tearing his cheeks and shredding an ear. Then just as suddenly as it had attacked, it released him, and was gone. Through the blood in his eyes, it appeared to be a wolf, an enormous white wolf.
An arrow in its flank explained its departure. Some neighbors had heard his cries and driven it off. They carried him home, and since Pa wasn't about to play nursemaid, were even kind enough to put him up for a few days while he recovered. They were the first to die when he turned three nights later. Pa was next, of course.
Eldwin was not happy with Fenton. Not that he was pleased with the others, mind you, but they at least had the sense to keep their mouths shut and try to forget about the whole nasty business. Fenton on the other hand appeared to have developed a taste for it, and was constantly badgering Eldwin and the others for a repeat adventure. Of late, it had started to take on a darker note, with thinly veiled threats to reveal to others what they had done. Eldwin couldn't have that. Oh no. Coelynne would have his hide if she found out what they had done to that elf boy. And if she were to discover what he and the boys had done to the girl, she'd remove some parts he was even more attached to. Which is why he'd agreed to meet the misbegotten fool out here this night. If the halfwit couldn't be convinced to hold his tongue, Eldwin was going to make certain of his silence.
Of course, all of that was dependent on the bastard showing up. It would figure that the would-be elf-bane couldn't find his arse with both hands. How he expected to find any of the notoriously elusive Dalish in the woods was beyond Eldwin. He was giving the fool just a few more minutes. This was his last chance. Impatient, he stalked across the small glade where they had agreed to meet. About halfway across he stepped in a patch of wet grass, slipped and fell hard on his back.
Staring up at the sliver of moon he could see through the trees, Eldwin cursed. When he finally ran out of things to call Fenton's ancestors, he started to sit up, and put his hand in something slimy. It took him a moment to realize what it was. When he recognized it as entrails, it inspired a fresh round of cursing. "You're dead, Fenton. I'm gonna kill you. Playing these games, and this close to town, is going to get us all caught. Please tell me it was a deer. Or a halla even. That we can get away with. If you killed livestock, Fenton, or a person… You are dead, Fenton. Dead."
Standing, he looked around the glade. There wasn't much moonlight, but there was enough now that he knew to look to see chunks of flesh scattered all over, and some of them were decidedly humanoid. He could feel a scream rise in is throat. He fought it down. If anyone else found this... what if someone found him here? He had to get out of here and tell the others that Fenton had to be stopped!
Turning, he hurried back to the path that had brought him from the village. He needed to wash before anyone saw him like this. Just five steps, and he tripped, slamming down on one knee. He'd stepped on a hand. Breathing hard, he started to rise, but his impact had jostled the bushes, dislodging the mangled head of the glade's victim. Torn, dirty, bloody: the face was still recognizable as Fenton. And there was no stopping his scream this time. Especially when he looked up to see a huge white wolf, muzzle coated with gore, standing on the path between him and the village.
What stood behind that, softly growling, was even worse. Wolflike, but twisted and reshaped to be eerily human. He scrambled to his feet as they darted forward, but it was too late. The one behind him killed him before they could reach him. When Eldwin and Fenton were found a few days later it was not possible to sort the bits of the bodies with any certainty. They buried them, what they were able to gather up, in a shared grave.
Myrna was known to be more than a bit saucy, renowned for her tart tongue and quick wit. But she was even better known for being a dab hand with needle and potions, invaluable skills out here. There was never a shortage of folks getting gored by cattle or hitting themselves with the ax instead of the firewood, and a steady stream in the morning of those who needed something to take the edge off a headache or the swelling off a blacked eye or split lip after an evening in one of the village's two taverns. She wasn't a real healer, but she was the best they had. And it worried her. Myrna's father had been a real healer, a renowned one. She'd learned enough to get by before he'd died, killed by a ague he'd caught tending to one of his patients, but she'd been just a girl at the time, and knew there had been much he'd keep from her out of respect for her tender years.
Injuries like she'd been seeing of late were the sort of thing she'd only caught brief glimpses of as her father sent her from the room. Even with all of his skills, the men and women wounded this badly rarely made it. She was afraid there was little she could offer beyond easing the pain as they passed. And there were so many of them! Every day seemed to bring another tale of man-beasts. Those who survived told stories of human-like wolves with incredible strength and horrific ferocity. And, within a few days to a week of being bitten, some became the beasts they had described. Wives had been slaughtered by husbands, babes by mothers, parents by their child. When someone turned, no one was safe. Yet people tried; they prayed and they hoped, unwilling to condemn their loved ones without a chance. After all, not all turned. Some few seemed to have escaped. Some argued that any bitten needed to be killed quickly, put down before they could change and swell the numbers of the beasts, but many chose to risk everything on the hope that their dear ones would be spared.
Myrna understood, though she knew it to be foolish. After all, wasn't that just what she was doing for Darrec? He smiled up at her as she entered their small cabin. He'd built it, cleared the trees, plowed and planted. And then he'd courted her with poetry. Her solid man, hearthstone to her wildfire. Putting down the book, he rose and opened his arms to her embrace. Or, rather, arm. His left arm was heavily bandaged and bound in a sling. He pulled her tightly against him with his free arm and nuzzled her hair as she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and pressed her face into his shirt to hide her tears. She couldn't help them. It had been a week, and he'd not been bitten badly. She had to hope. If he turned, if he were to become a beast, she didn't know how she'd live. Assuming, of course, he didn't kill her.
His nuzzling of her hair moved down to a nibble at her ear and a nip at her neck as he slowly walked her backwards. The edge of the bed hitting the back of her knees brought her out of her sensual daze, and she pushed against his chest. He took a half step back, loosened his grip, but didn't release her.
"What are you doing, you oaf!" she demanded. "What about your arm?"
"Myrna, it's been a week. It never was much of a bite; I've had worse from a whelping hound. I'm not even sure if I was bitten or just scratched. I'm only wearing this thing to please you. I know you are scared, love, but I haven't turned. I want my wife back. I need you, Myrna. How long are you going to make me wait to prove I'm not a beast?"
"You are sure your arm is okay?"
"Love, at this point I'd say yes even if it were lying on the floor if it would get you to bed me! But yes, it is fine. Take a look at it. I'm good."
Myrna gently ran her fingers down one side of his face. "If you're sure?" she asked, searching his eyes. Accepting the answer she found in them, she stretched for a kiss, reaching around behind his neck to untie the sling. "We can go easy, be careful with your arm…"
With a laughing growl, he scooped her up and tossed her on the bed, letting the sling flutter to the floor.
"Woman, I've been careful for a week. I don't want careful. I want you," he said as he pushed her skirts up to her knees to kiss and nip at her ankles.
Myrna pulled herself into a sitting position and opened her arms wide. "Come and get me then!" With another laughing growl, he pounced, pressing her to the bed as he kissed her.
Hours later, they slept. By morning, he was gone. The change called him to the pack. But Derrec didn't hurt his mate. She was marked, love bites in several places as well as their mating. She'd join them soon enough.
Zathrian woke on the floor of the ruins, a sharp metallic taste in his dry mouth. His hand immediately sought the wound in his chest, only to find nothing but a ropey scar. Sitting up, he tore at his robes to reveal a mark almost like a vine tendril. The wolf was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the knife.
Clutching his staff as a walking stick, he slowly staggered back to camp to discover he'd been absent a week. The camp broke the following morning, moving to their next site. The humans remained for another few months before the last of them fled, was killed or cursed. Time passed. In the forest, the werewolves established packs and ranks and bred. The Dalish moved as they were wont to do, never lingering longer than a few months in any one place. Cyrana returned to the clan of her mother.
Zathrian became a recluse. He discharged his duties as keeper, but retreated into his tent and into his studies whenever he was not engaged. A few, particularly Xavrina, tried to draw out the old Zathrian and were politely and firmly rebuffed. In time, Cyrana remarried. Though he wished her well in public, Zathrian privately discovered he felt nothing about it. He'd expected to feel something, some faint sting of betrayal, but there was nothing that moved him save duty and the vengeance he still followed avidly, albeit at a distance. By the time Xarvina passed, he had almost forgotten that he was expected to feel anything else.
Meetings of the clans were rare, both to prevent an opportunity for the people to be slaughtered easily and to avoid fighting amongst themselves. A real gathering of the clans took place generally no more frequently than once a decade. The first after the curse was about seven years later. Zathrian mostly kept to his tent, forgoing normal socializing and emerging only when his duties as keeper required it. There was not another for twelve years after that. Again Zathrian sought to keep to his tent. However, one of his duties as keeper was to participate in the "trading" of relics to ensure that they were shared out amongst the clans (both to allow the different clans to experience different relics and to protect the relics themselves; any one clan might be destroyed, but the other relics would be safe.)
Returning to his tent after one such trade, he paused to look through a the wares of a man selling old scrolls and books. As he sorted through the piles, a young child ran into him, nearly knocking him from his feet. Right behind the child was an older girl, perhaps fifteen and undoubtedly his sister.
"Talryn! What are you doing? Didn't you hear Mother? Apologize. Now!" The girl was obviously flustered, and Zathrian had to fight back a grin when the lad made a face at her and then, as proper as could be, made a short bow and begged pardon. Before Zathrian could begin to accept it, their mother came hurrying up behind them, an infant in her arms. She stopped dead at the sight of him, then handed the babe to the girl.
"Zathrian? Is that you? It has been almost twenty years and I swear you have not aged a day! How…. How is this possible?"
"I'm sorry, I don't remember... Cyrana?"
"Yes, I've changed quite a bit with the children and my vallaslin elaborated. But you, you look just as you did! What have you been doing all these years?"
"Little but study." Almost reflexively he rubbed at the scar over his heart. Could he be cursed as well? He should not have survived the binding of his life force into the spell. Had it changed him?
"You've found something in your studies. It is as if you've been blessed with the longevity of the ancestors." Noting someone in the crowd, she waved them over. "Keeper Liandrial! Please, you must see this…"
For the remaining days of the Arlathvhen, Zathrian was the center of attention, and by the time the clans parted again, many were convinced he had somehow stumbled into some portion of the immortality of the elvhenan of old, before the arrival of the shemlen. Zathrian was not so sure of that, but there were none he could share his suspicions with. Either way, if he were not going to age, his plans to bury himself in his books seemed like a fruitless endeavor. If he was to live, he would serve. And perhaps he could do something to better the lives of his people in the meantime.
Decades passed, becoming centuries. Generation after generation was born, aged, and died. And Zathrian lived on, never aging. He developed many skills. He had been a reputable warrior before, and with experience had become a legendary one. As a mage his skills were unmatched. As a scholar he was unparalleled. And he devoted these skills unto the service of his people. A few times he came close to death. He was not invulnerable. But what he survived, he healed from cleanly in time. Older scars also faded. All save the one on his chest. It remained, both a badge of pride and a mocking reminder that no matter his powers now, he had failed to protect those dearest to him.
He was reading in his tent when the news came that a scout had been killed. Human bandits, a fair sized camp. They had made no attempt to hide the scout, just left the body in the remains of their camp. He'd clearly been tortured. It looked like they had left in a hurry. Ordering a bag made up, Zathrian took a few of the scouts and warriors, leaving the rest of the clan with his first. No scum would touch his people and live. Never again. The bandit camp was far enough from where the scout was supposed to be, and just enough outside of the territory of the Dalish, that it had taken weeks to find him. They had a good lead. They couldn't know about Zathrian, however. He would track them for years if need be (and had.) Why not? He had the time.
It was getting dark. Lanaya tried not to shudder. It only attracted attention. She wasn't the only slave girl in the camp and sometimes, if she was careful enough, she was overlooked. They'd been drinking, celebrating a rich caravan, and while that meant a number of them would not be able to bother her or any of the others, the bulk of them would be worse. The chief forbade all but the highest ranked, and the guards of course, arms during such an event but the men (and a few women) of their camp didn't need swords and axes to handle half starved and cowed slave women and girls.
With years of practice she swallowed her tears, presenting a blank face and dead eyes. Any emotion and they would mark her. There were a few who enjoyed misery, and it was best to avoid their attention if she could. With her hair covering her ears, and dressed in the same rags as the others, there was nothing to set her apart from them. Even her youth was hidden beneath dirt and soot, and her posture carefully cowed. Occasionally the men would remember they had an elf, and make a game of it. The longer she could go between such rememberings, the happier she would be. The last had been a few months ago, when they'd caught that Dalish scout. They had included her in his torture, making her fetch implements and beg and be used in front of him. He'd alternately wept for her and spat upon her, to the bandit camp's amusement. It had been a full week after before they had tired of the novelty of her. With luck, they'd all be more interested in their new captives to notice her.
Round the fire, they called for wine. With an inaudible sigh, she picked up the wineskin and started towards them. She had gone but a few steps when the first of them died. Blood simply gushed out of the line that appeared almost magically across his throat. The man next to him and the woman beyond him both were dead before the first body had fallen. Several fell before any could draw a blade, the few that had them. The guards! The guards were nowhere! Had the dark blur that killed bandit after bandit killed them first? And without making a sound? Lanaya was rooted in place, drinking in every detail, relishing every blow. Perhaps this dark killer would slay her as well, but she could not move, would rather die than miss this. Blades swished, lightning struck, fireballs flew. It was clear that the killer was a mage, though one that seemed to enjoy a personal touch whenever possible. And each agonized cry brought tears of joy to her eyes. That is how he found her, after the last of the bandits were slain.
Zathrian sighed, looking over the camp. He'd come to slay bandits, not to rescue shemlen women. Their people could come rescue them and escort them back. He didn't care if they made it. They weren't his responsibility. The women seemed to recognize it, cowering away from him. None approached, not after he had reprimanded the first. All he wanted was to replenish his supplies and return to the clan. He'd sent the others back weeks ago, and his place really was with his people. But there she was, standing between him and what appeared to be the food stores. When he first saw her, he assumed she was human, perhaps elf-blooded. Then, she shifted, just slightly but just enough. For a moment, an achingly short moment, it was Rowena he saw standing there with tears pouring from her eyes.
But even as he rubbed the aching scar on his chest, the moment passed and it was simply a young elf woman, a girl perhaps a year or two older than Rowena had been. She was scrawny, clearly had been underfed for a long time. Her face was dirty, her hair grimy. She cringed as he approached her, breaking his heart, but just as quickly send a pang of pride through it as she straightened defiantly. These murderous shemlen might have hurt this daughter of his people, but they had not broken her.
"Lethallan, how came you to this place? Have you kin I can return you to? Come with me, we'll get you home…" Zathrian held out his hand, his heart constricting painfully with compassion as the poor, battered child hesitantly took it. And far from where he stood, a pale wolf howled in the forest, and shriveled into nothingness while deep in a ruined city, deep within the heart of an oddly shaped knot of vines whose roots were twined around a blade stained by three generations of blood, there was a matching heartbeat to his own. Something gasped for air, something clawed its way out of the cocoon of vines and spilled out onto the floor. The Lady was born.