Author's notes: Completed for the March challenge "Spring" over at the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writer's Group on Facebook. The cover art was drawn by Aileen Landry, Tai-kee over on deviantArt.
The flowers were young, but fragrant.
The seasons were strange in this land. Heat, then chill and then bitter cold. In Par Vollen, the air was always warm and humid. The weather was constant and unchanging, like the Qun.
Ferelden was chaos.
Its leaders squabbled over petty things, its people tried to be something other than what they are and even the land itself was unsure of what it was. All the while, the Blight grew and no one except the Basilit-an did anything to stop it.
But the cold was giving way to warmth once more, and under snow and ice, there was life again.
This changing was unfamiliar to Sten, but not unwelcome.
He had once before stooped low to admire the wildflowers as they sprouted from the damp earth, small buds opening to the sun for the first time. Their petals were many-colored - white, yellow, pink, orange and purple. He had picked a few of them.
The red-haired priestess had seen. She had called him "softie." The word was foreign and unknown, but he had gleaned its meaning by her tone. What he had done was not characteristic. A soldier should not partake of flowers.
The Qun demanded answers. The Qun demanded knowledge. The Qun demanded obedience.
Wildflowers did not fit. They were known to the Qun. Harvested. Studied. They did not have use. They were understood. Wildflowers were frivolous. It was wrong to indulge in them.
Yet again, Sten knelt before the patch of wildflowers, admiring their petals and the sweet scent they gave off. The others had gone across the lake to the mage's prison, including the priestess. He was alone.
Sten was alone.
Months ago, this had been a battlefield. The darkspawn had ambushed him here. His comrades were killed. Sten had been wounded. They had stripped him of Asala. He was lost.
The Basilit-an had returned purpose.
The elf had re-united him with his blade, his soul. He did not understand how. He did not understand why. She only did.
She did not act as she should. She fought. While the elves ran and hid, she stood. While the Fereldans tore themselves, she acted with purpose. She would fail as viddathari. She would not submit. She would require viddathlok to be brought to understanding.
She was not Qunari, but she demanded respect.
She did not fit, but was worthy.
Sometimes, things did not fit. The Qun was not perfect. It evolved. The Qun did not say a soldier should admire flowers. But it did not say he should not.
These flowers had bright red petals.
They drank the blood from the soil. There was death in this place. But now, there was life.
Life did not come from death. That was known. Understood.
Ashaad and Karashok would not return. That, too, was known.
Sten picked the flowers. He smelled them. They were unique, unlike the jungles of Seheron or the incense and tea of the Qunari ports. They did not smell of the blood and iron they had been born of.
"Leliana mentioned you had a love of flowers." The elderly mage spoke quietly. He had not heard her approach.
"They are medicinal," Sten lied.
"Those are not," Wynne said confidently. "I am an old woman and have spent many years studying tomes of every plant, root and bulb in Thedas."
"You shall not speak of this," Sten said.
Wynne smiled and gave a caring nod. "I will not speak of this," she agreed. She was saarebas, but she acted with the care and thoughtfulness of the kindly tamassrans that had taught him, cared for him and gave him purpose. She was not under the Qun. Sten disapproved, but tolerated.
"We have all lost someone close to us," the mage continued. "There is no shame in keeping their memory."
"I do not-"
"This is where you were attacked. I am not so old and senile to forget," Wynne interrupted.
"Yes," Sten conceded.
"I have trained apprentices that went up the tower and never came back down. I have watched as Templars returned from hunts for students who thought they could escape the tower. I watched as the Templars carried my son away, without ever letting me hold him.
"When I would lose an apprentice, I would walk down to their quarters and sit upon their beds. I would look around and experience their world as it was and wonder why it had happened. Was it something I had done wrong that took them away from me?
"But I knew they made their own choices. I did not tell them to run. They were not forced to learn from me. Maybe there was more I could have done to help them, but I could not change the path they chose for themselves," Wynne said.
"It was my mistake. I was careless," Sten said.
"Maybe," the mage said. "Your Qun may have required them to follow you. But they could always have chosen not to. They could have suggested to camp somewhere else, to take a different road, or to walk for one more hour that night."
Sten looked at the remaining flowers he had not touched. They swayed gently in the breeze.
"These flowers. They do not die in the cold?" he asked.
"These blooms will grow and drink up the sun all summer and they will die in the winter. But a piece of them will lie dormant in the land, waiting to bloom again in spring," Wynne said. "They never truly die."
"This 'spring.' It comes every year?"
The mage chuckled softly to herself at his ignorance. "Always after the winter. I like to think that the Maker reminds us that even when we pass, a new life will emerge and carry on. I know that may not be your belief, but it brings me peace."
Sten considered the idea.
"Asit tal-eb," he said.
Wynne raised an eyebrow.
"It is to be.
For the world and the self are one.
Existence is a choice.
A self of suffering, brings only suffering to the world.
It is a choice, and we can refuse it."
Wynne smiled. "That is a beautiful passage."
"It is the Qun," Sten explained. She perhaps understood, but bas were unknowing. "Thank you for reminding me. It is … unexpected." Sten said.
He carefully placed two of the flowers into his pack, taking care to not break or bend the petals.