Author's Note: I was in class and this popped out. Not sure why, but it wouldn't stop scratching inside my head. Depending on responses I may continue, I may not. I have so much I'm working on, but this pairing just... jumped out at me. Let me know what you think...
She ran. Running was so much easier. Simpler. The act of forcing one foot before the other in a punishing mantra was cathartic, soothing to the tortured soul. Three days out, only pausing to partake of water, the shadow, the overwhelming nightmare she'd left behind still hounded her, urging her on, eager to grow the distance. There was no traumatic occurrence she was fleeing or a horrific scene to drown out with her harried breaths; more a decade of ache. A life uprooted and slowly shattered, bit by bit until nothing but a twisted, broken shell remained of a once vibrant and innocent being, eager to see the future the world may impart. Cruel irony dictated a cold wake up call.
Many would decry her decision, bandy about accusations of duties shirked and a nation left without. There were no shirked duties, just a people wholly dependent on one person to fulfill their every need. So long had they pawed, clung to and drug her down she had forgotten what freedom felt like. The cold walls of her responsibilities had so chained her that even the subtle call of nature felt almost foreign; her ranger's senses gloried in this renewed assault. Oh the travesty! The horror! The mere thought of losing their beloved King's Commander sent tremors to their very cores! Tree branches reached for her, not to slow her; pale skin rejuvenated by the welcoming embrace of her place of true belonging.
Nothing remained for her amongst those walls of brick, stone and shaped wood. Not even him. Incrementally her pace increased at the thought of him, eager to amplify the growing space between. Silent tread despite her pace, dark hair whipped about her face, neck and shoulders, tangled with her bow, but she paid it no heed. The great Hero of Ferelden bounded like a halla, intent on leaving the kingdom of her heroes fame far behind. Indeed she'd done her duty; they had no further need of her except to cling to an icon past her time. Better she had died with the archdemon.
She knew this to be an untruth even as the thought flitted through her mind, but it was a liberating consideration, none-the-less. Her sensitivity to the darkspawn had only increased over the years, aiding her greatly in the pursuit of and subsequent submission of The Architect and the demise of the spume spewing 'Mother.' Supposition never able to be confirmed her responsive darkspawn sense was due to long exposure to the plague before induction to the Wardens. She was quite ill before she drank of the chalice; grayness hedged her pale face and whitened her eyes while blackening the sockets. As it was, much of the evidence remained. Dark veins trekked her angular jaw and trespassed a short way onto her chiseled cheeks. Already extremely pale blue, her eyes never retained all their original blue color, instead fading to a silvery blue, shadows made them larger and more gaunt than her nature called for. The dark lines of her vallaslin only further accentuated her pale skin, the elegant lines of her ears protruding from her hair were broken on her left side where a large chunk of the ear was missing; the milky skin around marred by scarring.
Though small in stature, her appearance aided greatly in garnering the fear of her enemies, as to look at her face in combat was to witness the cold precision of a master Dalish archer. A full head shorter than the normal elven male, height was never an issue during command for the Warden. Never shout. Never show anything but suppressed anger. Silence and the eerie coldness of her stare was always more than plenty to send grown men scrambling for cover. You did not cross the Warden Commander.
How tiring was this? To be revered. To be feared. To be honored. None of this she wanted. Then the one solace in her storm, the harbor from the pain, the loss, the sorrow; this was taken from her too. Purposefully done and without backward glance. Her pace increased once more.
To say she was startled to plow headlong into a small, one man camp would be a gross understatement. The smoldering coals let off no smoke or smell and the clearing barely long enough to house the single occupant. In the blink of an eye momentum was reversed and found her in a crouch just within the safety of the tree line, huge longbow taut. Cold albeit surprised eyes were met with an equally shocked and equally ready opponent, wicked daggers in hand similarly crouched directly across from her. A shemlen? This far in the Dales?
"Who are you and why do you intrude in the Dales?" she hissed quietly as though she would disturb the very rest of the ancient forest around them. He cocked his head at her curiously, reminding her of her mabari. Poor Widget.
"I might ask you the same question. You did after all burst so very rudely into my camp," she cocked her head and the man couldn't help staring at her. There was no doubt in his mind she was Dalish, her elegantly made bow and vallaslin gave that away. Her leathers however, though Dalish in make were modified far beyond what was considered normal for a hunter. Of course the ears were another dead giveaway. But her face was what drew the bulk of his consideration. In the shadows of the moonless night she had a haunted appearance; dark circles lined her eyes, her pale skin had unnatural shadows along her jaw and neck. But her eyes, almost too large for her face, threatened to swallow him whole, the glinting silvery depths beckoned him in the darkness.
Evaluations were done on both sides. It took little for her to realize he would tower over her when extended to full height, not that this was difficult. The rugged lines of his features, the scruffiness of his face, wolfish bright blue eyes, his accent… he was Ferelden! The armor he wore was odd however; the spikes and straps spoke of Kirkwall design, a city in the Free Marches. Perhaps, if her luck held, he wouldn't recognize her. Ports and villages of Ferelden had been carefully avoided for that very reason. The less anyone knew of her whereabouts the smaller the chance of being tracked.
With small appraising steps she began to circle the edge of his tiny camp, prepared to spring into action if the need called for it.
"Fine, let's be specific," she said, her accent lilting her words, "these are the Dales. Elven territory by most consideration. Your little camp notwithstanding, you are somewhere you don't belong. Why," her deadly bow was sighted flawlessly to his right eye and he couldn't help wondering how someone so small wielded such a large bow with practiced ease.
"And what's a Dalish doing heading toward Orlesian territory? There are no clans north of here," how could he know that? She struggled to keep the shock off her features as she continued moving, noting his mirror movements. A question was twice answered with another question. If he kept his up she was tempted to simply back from the light of the camp into the welcoming darkness of the forest and melt away. Abruptly he sheathed his daggers, the movement as smooth and natural as if the blades were a very part of him, then he held out his hands, palms facing her in a gesture of peace.
"Look, I mean you no harm. Even if I did, you look like you could handle it," he eyed her appraisingly and she shifted a little uncomfortably. He chuckled at her discomfort. "You look like you've been running a long time. As long as your pursuers aren't right on your tail, which considering how far we are from civilized land I would think they aren't, let me re-stoke the fire and you can share it as long as you will," he raised his eyebrows in question and spread his hands further, a small smile graced his angular features.
Slowly she lowered her bow and stowed it, sliding the arrow she'd nocked back into the quiver he noted with interest was latched to her lower back and thigh. It took a few more moments of assessment before she stepped warily into the camp itself, still watching him guardedly.
"I'm Hawke, by the way. Reven Hawke," her eyes widened minutely and he sighed. "Damnit, even here in the Dales? That isn't fair," he sat down with a huff, but there was a teasing twinkle in his eye that was achingly familiar… only auburn hair… she shook herself mentally.
"Well, one ironic turn deserves another," he looked at her curiously before returning his attention to the rapidly growing flames, "I'm Elswyth Mahariel." His head snapped up and his eyes widened.
"Mahariel? The Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall trip over one another in the woods? Oh, Varric would have a field day with this…" she raised a brow at the mention of the infamous storyteller's name.