Daerlian dipped the bucket into the water butt and let it fill to the halfway point. He needed a way to rinse the stench of the humans from his skin; he wanted a bath, but his small group didn't the coin to pay for it. 'Emma isal'adahlen. I cannot breathe here.' This tiny village, Lothering, could have held his entire clan and its aravels five times over yet it felt congested, having the semblance of a dam close to bursting.
He plucked a leaf from the water's surface; then, before he changed his mind, shut his eyes and upended the pail over his head. For a brief moment, he imagined he was in the woods again - standing under the cascade of a natural waterfall, the accumulated filth of the day scoured away by the force of the water's flow. He opened his eyes, saw the droplets clinging to his long lashes and wondered how much of the liquid was harvested rainwater and how much was tears. 'It will never be my home again, not without…'
Tamlen. Of the two, Daerlian was always wary and methodical. Tamlen balanced him – taking risks with the reckless abandon of one who knew his partner would always be there to catch him if he made a misstep. The exception was a single, irreversible day – a day where the sun on his back and Tamlen's laughter goaded him to ignore the warnings all around him.
"With luck, we'll find something that will make us clan heroes!" It might have been enough to bring the carved stone to Marethari and let others – hunters more experienced – explore the underground ruins, the location of cave itself enough to elevate their status. Daerlian saw Tamlen's covetous stare as he looked at the artifact – its depiction of a woman antlered like a halla with hares poised to follow her footsteps – and knew the other elf saw it as leverage. Then he flashed Daerlian a familiar, cocksure smile and beckoned him, his gaze promising what his words didn't: Even if we don't find anything, at least we'll have a bit of privacy for a few hours, lethallin…
Daerlian let the bucket fall from his fingers; it landed in the mud with a moist whump. There was no sunshine today, no persistent warmth to make a cool, dark cavern a temptation. No blue-gray eyes begging him to abandon caution just this once. There was only a darkening sky, the wan light enough to determine daylight from nighttime and to forecast rain from the rising wind and rush of clouds. The scent of wet leather rose to greet his nostrils and underneath that, the stink of fear – human fear; they milled mindlessly about and it would take only a sparking catalyst, as smoke warns of a forest set ablaze, to transform them into panicked animals trying to run, get away, flee whatever was coming. What the Dalish elf had seen in his short tenure as a Grey Warden was enough to frighten men more stalwart than he - must not the humans' Teryn have grown afraid when he saw the vast darkspawn horde and fled rather than face it? He was not spurred to the flight or fight response. 'I am already dead; what horrors rival a walking corpse's curse?'
A low, excited barking turned him from his introspection. An enormous hound rounded the corner of the building, pushing its way past the obstacles strewn in its path in its eager, headlong charge: an empty crate, an overturned barrel and several irate chickens pecking at the softened soil who squawked their displeasure as they fluttered out of the way. Having reached its quarry, the dog sat on its haunches; its hindquarters wriggled with barely suppressed tail wagging. Daerlian's ingrained response was to lift a hand and stroke the fawn-colored head, in spite of his desire not to encourage such familiarity.
'Maren was wrong.' Admitting as much, even to himself, was difficult and made him even more resentful. 'Shemlen dominate; shemlen destroy,' and yet… The Ash Warriors spoke of kinship with their animals, partnerships that sounded similar to those between the Dalish and their halla. Then the king's Kennel Master had asked (begged!) him to seek medicine for an ailing mabari – a task he was certain the man would have performed himself, were it feasible to do so, regardless of personal risk. He agreed, unable to allow it to suffer and when the hound managed to find him afterward, a lone elf among a thousand soldiers, miles from where the battle raged, it seemed to confirm what he'd been told. 'No. I know all I need to know about the humans. Being wrong about a specific aspect does not make me wrong about the whole.' He drew a small measure of comfort from stroking the dog's bristly coat but inwardly shuddered at the thought of being responsible for any creature beside himself, 'My conscience cannot bear another failure. Go away, mage-bred beast. Find a master worthy of your loyalty.'
"There you are." The speaker's relief was palpable. "I thought maybe you got lost. Or… some of Loghain's men found you or…"
"Or I ran away?" He knew that was what the human had thought, just as he knew the man would never admit it.
Nervous laughter proved him correct. "Leave on an empty stomach, when I'm cooking stew tonight? It's not something I'd offer to do for just anyone. Morrigan for instance – her I'd just let starve…" The tall blond man took a few hesitant steps forward, seemingly torn between unwillingness to intrude on the elf's self-imposed solitude and not wanting to shout in order to be heard. "My luck, she'd turn into a… a… grandy-legged barmfarkle and gobble me up!"
"A…?" He had no patience for the other man's nonsensical language or behavior. "What do you want, s–" Daerlian caught himself just in time, "Ser?" He had almost called the man a shem and knew what sort of reaction he'd receive for doing so; he simply didn't have the energy to deal with the repercussions.
Duncan tolerated Daerlian's use of the slur against him while they traveled but his composure ran out when they arrived at the formerly abandoned fortress of Ostagar: You will address your fellow Wardens by their names. They are your family now and deserve better than your blind hatred.
"You don't have to call me that; really, just Alistair will do. That's 'Alistair', not 'Just Alistair'. In case I wasn't making sense. I often don't make sense - and I babble. A lot. Then it all ends with me losing my pants." His lopsided smile was as earnest as it was awkward but the Dalish elf just crossed his arms and waited for the answer to his question. "We're, um, ready to leave. Morrigan and Leliana are purchasing the last of the supplies we need and I don't think it's a good idea – leaving those two alone together for very long." He made a noise, a cross between a hiss and a growl, flexing his fingers into a parody of claws. "Mrowr – catfight." Suddenly, he blinked, staring at Daerlian as if seeing him for the first time. "Why are you all wet?"
"Why do you care?" Daerlian shot back and the mabari picked up on his anger, growling at the human which caused Alistair to take a step backward. "Does it truly matter to you or do you talk to hear yourself speak? You know nothing about me – nothing about my people, my culture, my rituals, my traditions, my gods–"
Alistair interrupted him, standing his ground against the animosity of the elf's verbal attack and the hound's menace. "I know you're a fellow Grey Warden standing in boiled leather that's dripping wet, with your hair plastered to your skull and no way to dry yourself off. I know that if you walk a few miles like that – and you're going to have to, because we can't stay here in Lothering – you're going to chafe yourself raw. Likely catch cold too, if it rains – and this is Ferelden, so you may as well strike the 'if'. I know," he said, his voice quieter now that his initial outburst spent itself in the first few sentences, "that you're my brother. And brothers look out for each other." Alistair's grin reappeared, as if nothing untoward had happened. "I also know that brothers wrestle and try to push one another into the dirt while yelling, 'I'm the king, I'm the king!' until someone comes along and separates them and one gets thrown into the kennels with the dogs. We have a dog, plenty of mud," he toed the ground with a mailed boot, "but no kennels so I'll spare you from that… for now." and he waggled his eyebrows as if to imply that the first kennel they came to, he and Daerlian would revisit this conversation.
"I…" the Dalish elf couldn't find adequate vocabulary to reply. 'A brother? My brother? This… this shem thinks he can replace…' He studied Alistair: bright-eyed, his blond hair shorn close to his skull, his face with a hint of stubble and clear of vallaslin; the Dalish would label him a child and indeed, without the blood writing it was almost as if he was naked. What Daerlian didn't see was dishonesty or anything to indicate the human didn't mean what he said; it surprised him with its innocence. 'He believes we are bonded in some way. Why? Because of a shared poison and a reverently murmured motto? I do not understand this shemlan.' Aloud, he said, "Our supplies contain blankets. Before we leave I will dry myself with one of them." The next words almost choked him. "Thank you for your concern," but once they were said he felt better for having spoken, although he tried to dismiss it as empty courtesy to one undeserving. 'He can never replace Tamlen, but maybe…' and for the first time since he left his clan, with his mabari's nose nudging his palm and Alistair droning on about cheese as they walked back to the main thoroughfare together, Daerlian felt a glimmer of an emotion he tried not to identify but recognized despite his heart's protest – hope.
My entry for misi-chan's contest over on deviantART. This story is based on her original character, Daerlian Mahariel, whom she describes thusly:
"Daerlian Mahariel, my third play and one of my favourites. Very serious and reasonable, the only thing he wants since he was infected is... to die. He deeply hates humans _ He likes nature and animals, he's so pure. Love interest: Alistair, but I play the Xbox version, so no romance for Daerlian. Best friend: Zevran and Dog xD"
Proofreading and punctuation are pants. Daerlian Mahariel belongs to misi-chan. Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).
I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is - and even when he's not in the story, he's my inspiration).