"There are things that make me mad, but you are not one of them.
There are things that make me sad, but you are not one of them.
There are things that make me Dad, you seem to be all of them."
-Barenaked Ladies (Things)
The sun drooped low in the sky, final, feeble rays clinging to cloud, tree and house alike in a last, desperate attempt to hold it's place. Alas, with each passing second, with each weary step of a bedraggled traveller the sun slipped slowly 'round the bend in the earth; relinquishing it's hold to the mighty and waiting moon. The man sighed softly as the last warm tendrils of day seeped from his back, shrouding his world in a cool wind and heavy shadows. The trees stretched over his head, pillars of the night, drenched in ominous shadow. This was not a time for wanderers, but a time for fiends and demons. Yet there he was, a lone figure weaving his way down a long and winding path home. WIth a hushed word and fleeting motion the stone set in the woven sprigs of his walking staff began to glow, chasing the deepening shadows away, causing them to cluster and scurry and dance around the edges of the man's vision.
The man was not afraid. These woods hadn't long been his friend but he could hear it call to him. He could feel the motion of the trees, the sway of the grass, could understand the song of flora and fauna that hummed softly around him. It was for that reason that his steps faltered, just once, as he rounded a bend in the wood. Here there was a missing whisper, a silent hole where the daisies should be rustling and dancing in the evening breeze. There should be the lonesome call of a nightingale awaiting it's mate on the small, glimmering pond. There should be the low baritone of the toads and the easy splashing of Sunfish. Instead there stood a bottomless silence that rang into the man's very bones. Something was deeply wrong.
But it didn't feel dangerous. It didn't feel threatening or haunting. It just felt wrong. The evening traveller swept the end of his staff in a few short arcs and murmured a word of power and slowly a sigil shimmered into life on the path below his feet. With deliberate, careful steps the figure tread away from the beaten road he knew so well and towards the small, silver pond not fifty feet ahead. As he approached the silence only grew more profound, causing his ears to ring and his heart to race, despite himself.
Malcolm, you fool. There are no such thing as ghosts and you can handle any demon these fickle shadows could hope to summon.
As he reached the edge of the pond he spied a shadow that didn't match the pattern of undergrowth and trees. With hurried steps he moved around the bank, never letting his eyes leave the darkened spot for fear it would disappear. When he reached it he knelt and lowered his staff to allow the light to bathe the object and uncover it's true form.
There were no Dalish in the area that Malcolm knew of. No nomadic tribes of any sort for that matter. And certainly none that an Elf would be associated with. The only Elves in Lothering were servants or slaves, or too poor and broken to be either. And even those were few and far between. Most elves lived in the massive Alienage in Denerim, not in some, mid-way farming town on the outskirts of the Hinterlands. So to find such a person here, clothes tattered, body dirty, scratched and cold beyond shivering, and a child no less was bewildering. Malcolm had a kind heart, and children of his own, and so to see the poor boy curled under a pile of dirt and leaves, his hair dark or just caked in mud and... blood? Was that blood? All thoughts froze in that moment and the man wasted no more time pondering the circumstances.
He removed his own cloak and quickly bundled the wild boy in it, carefully juggling his staff and the far-too-light-to-be-healthy elf as he made his way quickly back to where his sigil glowed low and welcomingly on the beaten path. A scuff of his foot erased all evidence of the magic and Malcolm rushed home with a new sense of purpose, no longer strolling to enjoy the night and the world he had so long been deprived of. He was too tired and weary to heal the poor child, not did he care to try his hand at magic so out in the open. Even if he was in a forest, even if it was night, even if he hadn't seen another sentient being in over an hour. It didn't matter, he couldn't afford to be caught, to leave his wife and three young children to fend for themselves in a foreign land when he had been the one to drag them here.
He wasn't far from home and before long the soft, inviting glow of the little, warm house rolled into view through the trees. The mage had barely made it halfway up the walk when his eldest was already bursting through the door into the chilled night to greet him.
"Dad! Dad lookit! Lookit what I made!" The small boy was charging towards him with determination in his eyes and one hand held high, brandishing his latest creative endeavour. On any other night Malcolm would have stopped and knelt down, swinging his son into the air and then chased him back inside with monstrous barks and growls. But that night he was too preoccupied. He rushed past the small boy and straight into the house where his dear and loving wife was waiting anxiously by the fire, rocking one of their twin babies to sleep. "Malcolm...?" She carefully placed the bundle back into the crib and followed her husband into their bedroom where he was laying out the elven boy and unwrapping the cloak. "Build up the fire, will you, Leandra?"
"Malcolm, what is-" She froze, blinking in astonishment at the package he had brought with him, "Malcolm, what- who is that?" Her voice was quiet, shaken, almost scared. What a world they lived in that any stranger, even a beaten, unconscious and lost elf child was a source of worry and fear. What world had he brought them to that this was enough to shake his strong, loving and fearless wife?
"Just a boy. I found him on my way home, please, we need to warm him up, I promise we'll talk after." Leandra pursed her lips but nodded, retrieving firewood and stoking the fire high, causing the room to heat in minutes and a fine sweat to break out on her forehead. Her own boy, his art project abandoned was perched in the doorway, craning his neck around the corner to see what his parents were in such a hub-ub about. "Sweetie," she swiftly strode over to him and crouched in front of him, holding on to his shoulders, her pale eyes meeting his electric blue, "go run and grab daddy some of his Lyrium potions, okay? You remember where they are?" The boy nodded and broke free of his mother to scurry off to the small trap door under the worn rug in the kitchen. Down the ladder into their hand-made basement, where they kept all evidence of Malcolm's magic, he loaded his arms with as many potions as he could carry and not drop. Back up the ladder and back to his parents room he raced, stumbling on the door frame but managing to keep hold of all the glowing, glass bottles.
His father kissed his head quickly and pulled one free from his grasp, tipping it back with a scowl and moving back to the unconscious boy's side. "Leandra, take Garrett into the living room, please?" The woman nodded and scooped their son up, carefully lining the other two bottles up on the mantle, before stepping out of the room and closing the door with a soft click behind her. Malcolm did not sleep until the sun once more was pulling itself creepingly into the sky. Garrett was long asleep by that point and Leandra had tucked him into his own bed before creeping back into the room she shared with her beloved husband. He was in a deep sleep in a cushioned chair by the bed and she took a moment to cover him with a spare quilt before she approached the small figure in the bed.
He was dirty, disgusting and scrawny but no longer shivering, and no longer covered in cuts and bruises. With a small sigh she stroked his dark, crusted hair back over one finely pointed ear. Maker, did he frighten her, this stranger, this unknown quantity in their tiny house of secrets and danger. But he was still a child and she was still a mother and so with no further thought she warmed up a pitcher of water over the fire, grabbed some soap and a few rags and took to cleaning the boy. She wiped away the crud on his face, uncovering encrusted tear tracks, causing her to give a soft cluck in distress. Then his neck and body, throwing the rags he wore as clothing into a pile on the floor. His arms and legs were next, her strokes slow and methodical, careful to clean each finger and toe, scrub each crease and nail, replacing the water and rag when needed before returning to her task. And as she cleaned she began to hum a soft lullaby she often sang to her own children.
She had just finished churning the last dirt loose from his scalp when she felt a warm hand on her arm and a weight on her opposite shoulder. Malcolm sighed into her neck and pressed a kiss there, stroking her arm with a soothing, gentle hand. "You haven't slept all night." Was the soft, low whisper. She shook her head and gave a little shrug, careful not to dislodge his head, "Someone needs to take care of this family." She could feel his smile against the soft skin of her neck and tilted her head to rest against his. "I'm going to fetch him some of Garrett's sleeping clothes, would you change out the blankets, it's filthy." Malcolm nodded and released her. But before she could leave he caught her hand and pulled her back to him. She supressed a surprised giggle and lightly slapped his chest, "You big oaf." She teased, pecking his nose.
The mage smiled and brushed her fine, blond hair out of her face before cupping her cheek and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, "You are so wonderful." He whispered to her, his dark eyes locked onto hers, "You are so brave and kind and I must be the luckiest man in the world." Her face flushed red and she looked away, "Lucky that you got me with child before Count prissy pants or Duke old hag had the chance." Malcolm almost roared with laughter, but burried it in her hair as he pulled her tight to him, "And people say I've the sharp tongue."
She pulled away with a smile and left to fetch something for the poor boy to wear. When she returned Malcolm was just placing the elf back in bed, on fresh sheets and quilts. He helped her dress him and tuck him in. "I'll make breakfast, you stay here and rest. You need it. And someone should be here in case he wakes up..." Malcolm paused a long, sad look crossing his face, "If he wakes up, I suppose..." Leandra touched his shoulder and guided him out of the room, "Keep your mind occupied, don't fret. You've done all you can and that is a lot. He will be fine."
Malcolm nodded, pressed a kiss to her forehead and left the room to make breakfast for the family and, hopefully, their new guest. His mind was a whirlwind of questions and anxious energy, but above all he just hoped he'd done the right thing, he hoped he'd done enough, he hoped he hadn't wait too long. He hoped, above all, that he hadn't brought this boy into a new world of danger and trouble, that he wouldn't have been better off with some one else. And he hoped that small elf would, in time, forgive him for the minimal life of constant worry he was about to endure.
(A/N::Welcome all to fanfic number two! Since so many people seemed to like my other one (seriously y'all are great and get me through the long days) I figured I'd try my hand at something very different. I've never been a fan of fics that just copy and paste what happened in the game, because well... we've all played the game! So this is an AU that will follow the same time line but with significant changes. Namely Leto ran away and was taken in by Malcolm, and the way he gets his tattoos is inspired by an awesome theory by flutiebear on Tumblr called "A long rambly post on Seheron, Fenris's mother".)