His cousin Varyn had adored tales of love at first sight, of star-crossed lovers, of love lost. Soris had always made fun of her for it – egged on by Shianni, of course – and it hurts him to remember it now, as he sits rotting in a cell and staring at the empty one across from him. If all her pretty romantic dreams hadn't been destroyed by Vaughn, the long months imprisoned, her slowly growing belly and, finally, mercifully, her death... well. It is old, bitter ground, and all Soris can do for her now is murmur a Dalish prayer his mother taught him long ago.
More than sunlight, more than decent food and water and cleanliness, more than everything save his family – steady, quiet Cyrion, fiery, impetuous Shianni and laughing, light-hearted Varyn - he misses music. He had been a harpist of rare skill (and no false modesty); he used to earn a fair wage for an alienage elf, playing in the taverns. In the early days of his imprisonment, he had practised on an imaginary harp, and whispered the songs under his breath, and that had strengthened both of them in the times when despair was a greater torture than anything the shems could inflict.
Now, though, Soris is silent, and he will never play the harp again. They made certain of that when they broke every bone in his hands. They had taken a great deal of amusement in knotting his fingers in strange, unnatural shapes – some curled against his misshapen palm, others bent backwards nearly to the wrists. He cannot move them at all.
They chose that one well. None of the other things they have done (save Varyn) hurt so badly as knowing he will never make music again.
Now they slide the little dish of water through the bars for him. It used to be a cup, but he can hardly hold one of those any more; besides, it amuses them to see him lap like a dog. Soris has no pride left to spare, and he is always thirsty. At least this time, he thinks, they haven't pissed in it.
He is so intent on the water that it takes a while for the sounds to sink in. There is always screaming, down here in the dark, and gurgling cries cut short, but there is a note of genuine panic in the guards' voices, and it's then that Soris understands - they are under attack. Someone is slaughtering their way through the dungeons.
He tries desperately not to hope.
The water lies forgotten at his feet; his ears strain to intercept and decipher the meaning of each sound; the fighting grows closer and sweeps around the corner –
- all the world stills as he sees her. Fair hair cut short to reveal her elegantly pointed ears, fire blossoming from her fingers, glorious in her wrath, terrible in her beauty, almost laughing as her flames devour the guards and the tall, silly mage hat falls from her head. It's an image of such breathtaking wonder that for one moment Soris thinks that the shems' precious Andraste must have looked so.
And in the next, he feels giddy and queasy and hysterical and sad all at once, for it turns out that Varyn was right. There is such a thing as love at first sight. It's happened to him, and he doesn't know her name, or whether she's here as benefactor or malefactor, whether she is a Tower mage or an apostate...
... and none of it matters anyway.
The last of the guards fall, and a blonde elf sheathes his blades. He loots the bodies expertly, as she picks up her hat, winces at the blood that now adorns it, and shoves it back on her head.
"I have the keys," the blonde elf says, his voice thickened with an accent Soris recognises as Antivan.
"Good," says the mage. "Let everyone out, Zevran. I'm not about to leave a single soul to Howe's tender mercies."
It's rescue, then. Rescue, after all this time... he can barely understand the concept. He presses closer to the bars as the Antivan deftly frees the human lad – Ostwick? Oswald? – from the rack. A red-haired human girl keeps watch, a mabari by her side.
The mage runs her hands over the human's twisted legs. All the laughter has gone from her face; her grey eyes are flat and devastated. "They used lyrium. I... I can't fix this."
"Just get me home to my father, Bann Sighard," the man begs, "and he will give you anything you ask."
"We could do with his support in the Landsmeet," she answers quietly, "but we'll get you out of here anyway. Don't try to stand yet." She moves confidently about the cells, keys in hand, letting out the others imprisoned there. Soris knows them all – not by name, but by their injuries and the sound of their screams.
She gets around to him. Her eyes brighten, and a rosy flush touches her expressive features. There's the slightest pause before she says, "Hello."
"Lady," is all the response Soris can muster, but by her surprised smile, it does not displease her.
The door swings open, and she steps back. "Right, everyone," she says. "My name is Keskie Surana. I am a Grey Warden; I am mostly here to free Queen Anora, for reasons that are politically messy. Suffice it to say that my order is not responsible for King Cailan's death, no matter what you may have heard."
"I doubt they have heard anything," the blonde Zevran says, an odd sympathy in his dark amber eyes. "If I am any judge of these things – and I am, amica – most have been here far too long."
"Oh," Keskie says blankly, then recovers. "Well, I am going to get you out of here anyway. If you can walk, help those who can't. Stay well back; Howe is dead, but there's still guards upstairs. We'll keep them off you."
Soris is in better shape than usual. The guard have rather ignored him lately, in favour of the human lad - "Oswyn," the boy says as he puts his arm over the shoulder Soris offers.
"Soris," he introduces himself, as they straighten, and Oswyn's feet touch the floor. He can put barely any weight on them, and Soris certainly can't carry him – nevertheless, they manage somehow. Two men who are physically in better shape, but seem to retain little sanity, make up the full count of the prisoners. Everyone else is dead.
They follow their rescuers up the stairs (and that is a harsh test indeed; they nearly fall more than once) and Oswyn mutters a question, apparently to distract himself. "Why were you here?"
Soris tries to control his voice as he answers, "My cousin Varyn and I were having a joint wedding. The Arl's son ... He took the women. Her groom and I tried to rescue them, but he was killed and I was captured. They let the other women go – after they'd..."
"Yes," Oswyn says, mercifully. There is a lot of silence; everyone is listening to him.
"Varyn was the last – and she killed him. The Arl was not merciful. She... she died down here."
There is even more silence. It is comforting, in a way. "You?" Soris asks finally.
"I was at Ostagar. After the rout, I heard Loghain's men got the order to retreat before the battle was lost... I went looking for him. I accepted a drink from the wrong man, and woke up here."
The other men murmur disconnected words that nearly make up their own stories.
"Hush, now," the redheaded woman says, her accent of Orlais. "We have company."
They rest against the wall as their rescuers spring into battle against more of the guards. Soris is vaguely aware of Zevran slashing at them with twin longswords, the redhead firing arrow after arrow, the mabari knocking the guards down and slashing at their faces. He is watching Keskie (such an odd, adorable name) as magic dances from her slender hands.
Not a single guard escapes them, and they trail down the corridors Soris had passed through a lifetime ago, to the cell where the Queen is waiting. Few words are exchanged, and the tall human woman, dressed in the mail of the guards, joins their little group.
They reach the front hall – and disaster. The walls are lined with archers, mages and swordsmen; the imposing woman who leads them does not look pleased.
Perhaps the Queen and Keskie's party could run, but the survivors of Howe's dungeon cannot. Keskie glances – almost apologetically – at her companions, at the Queen, and (he is almost sure, but that is monstrous vanity) at him, and steps forward.
"You don't know the full story, Ser Cauthrien," she says. "On the condition that all who are with me are allowed to leave in peace, I will stand down."
The woman stares at her for nearly a full minute, during which time Soris does not breathe. Then her head nods stiffly.
"You'll want this," Keskie says, and hands them her staff.
"Amica... this is a very bad idea," the Antivan protests.
"Most of mine are," the mage answers, almost cheerfully. "You know what I need you to do, Zevran," and offers her hands to be bound.
Zevran's eyes bore into hers as Ser Cauthrien ties a leather thong tight about her wrists. Finally, he nods, a stiff, angry gesture of grudging acquiescence, and jerks his head. The mabari growls, a sound guaranteed to inform anyone hearing it that here was an apex predator who was not at all happy with the current situation and contemplating tearing out the spines of those responsible for it.
"Dane," the mage says firmly, "go with Leliana. Protect them for me."
The mabari whines, his eyes wide and pleading.
"No, I mean it."
The dog slinks away, stubby tail distinctly downcast, and rejoins the red-haired woman – Leliana – as she ushers the Queen out the door Zevran holds open for them, and the freed prisoners follow.
"Be safe, lady," Soris says as he passes Keskie. Her eyes hold his for an instant that steals his breath and strikes cold fear into his heart, for she is nowhere near as sanguine about this surrender as she has tried to appear.
"I'll try, Soris," she answers. "And it's Keskie, if you please."
"Keskie," he breathes, and tastes the sweetness of it on his tongue, before the doors close behind him and she is lost to sight.
"So, what is the plan?" Leliana asks in her lilting Orlesian accent, as they slowly put the estate behind them. "We are going after her, no?"
"First, you take these unfortunates to the Chantry, or wherever it is they need to go," the Queen says. "You-" she indicates Zevran –"will accompany me to Arl Eamon's estate, where you may plot your next move in relative safety."
Zevran and Leliana exchange glances, and the Antivan shrugs as if to say: it is as good a plan as any. It's a very expressive shrug, not that Soris is in any mood to appreciate it. His head is reeling; far too much has happened to take in.
"Will they hurt her?" someone asks, and it's only when they all turn to Soris that he realises it was him. Zevran looks at him and visibly weighs his words.
"Not if we are on time, my friend."
-0-0-0-0-0-
Leliana takes the two madmen to the Chantry; after repeated assurances from both of them that they will be fine without her aid, Soris and Oswyn make their own slow, limping way to the Gnawed Noble, where Oswyn is certain his father will be staying for the Landsmeet. They make an odd pair, the noble's son and the elf, their injuries clearly visible, their clothing only rags, but fortunately there is some kind of a commotion over the other side of the marketplace, and nobody pays any attention to them.
They make rather more of a stir when they enter the tavern. Oswyn cries out "Father!", and nearly falls at the feet of the bearded man who comes running and catches him in his arms, murmuring all kinds of joyful, incoherent words. Soris backs away slowly. This is no place for him.
"Oh, no you don't," calls Oswyn, settled now on a chair. "Father, this is Soris, another of Howe's victims. The Grey Warden Keskie Surana rescued us, but he dragged me all the way from Howe's estate. Soris, my father Bann Sighard of the Dragon's Peak Bannorn."
"My deepest gratitude to you, then, as well as the Warden," the Bann says, and holds out a hand for Soris to shake. It's overwhelming – this morning, he was a prisoner with no future ahead of him but more torture, and now she has seen the Queen and a Bann is offering to shake hands with him. And... and Keskie...
"I am sorry, ser," Soris says, and holds up one of his broken hands as explanation. Outrage and pity and a few other emotions chase each other across the Bann's face, but finally his expression settles on pity.
"Well, Soris... I doubt you can find work like that, and I don't know if the healers can fix it –" he stops there, and Soris knows it's because of the expression on his own face. He hadn't thought to have a life again before Keskie found him in the dark, but crippled like this? No music, no way to feed himself save begging, and the alienage already has enough beggars – the Bann resumes, more gently, "Sorry, lad. Tactful as a rat trap, the wife tells me. I just wanted to say, if you've no other options and you don't mind travelling, we'll find you a place with us. For what you've done for my boy."
"I – uh – thank you, ser." Soris casts about for words to express himself, and fishes up, "It's more than kind, ser."
The Bann smiles. "We'll be here until this Landsmeet business is settled, lad, so think it over. Longer, if everything I hear about the Blight is true. Now, do you need an escort to get you back home?"
"Ah... no, ser. Thank you." He ducks his head in an awkward acknowledgement of the noble's incredible generosity, and of Oswyn's words of gratitude. He needs... he needs to sit down somewhere quiet, and to think...
"Very well, then," the Bann says, and makes a motion to his bodyguard, who opens the door for Soris, releasing him again into the welcome sunlight.
-0-0-0-0-0-
It takes some persuasion to make the gate-guard let Soris into the alienage; apparently the district is full of plague. The gate slam behind him in a very final manner, and perhaps he has cut himself off from the Bann's offer of support, but he can't find it in himself to care at that precise moment.
He's home.
After so long, so very long, the familiar squalor of the alienage closes about him like a caress. Nothing seems to have changed, although it's very quiet even for early afternoon. Soris makes his way to the vhenadahl, and hears the shouting.
Clustered around some humans in mage robes is a large portion of the alienage's population. They are calling for help, begging to be allowed within, while the humans try to keep order. There is one dissenting voice – a small, vocal, red-haired elf is shouting her lungs out and being ignored.
Soris smiles. Shianni hasn't changed at all.
"Soris!" It's all the warning he gets before his cousin envelops him in a bone-crushing hug. His arms go about her, and he mutters her name in turn, glad beyond words that she has survived, that she's well. Finally she holds him at arms' length and looks at him critically. "You, ser, are nothing but skin and bones. What did they do to you in there?" She shakes her head, dismissing the question as soon as she'd asked it, in favour of a more important one. "Varyn?"
"Dead," he says simply.
Shianni looks away, her lips pulled tight with sorrow. "I want to hear it all," she says, "and there's a lot you need to know. Let's not do this out on the street." They go home.
Usually their uncle maintains a friendly clutter, bits of wood and carving implements scattered about his house, perhaps a few books. Varyn's daggers tended to end up stuck in the walls, pinning down bits of paper that only she thought were important – although even Cyrion had reluctantly admitted that her sketch of Valendrian was as amusing as it was impertinent. Soris's contribution to the mess was generally minimal – a bit of sheet music, some dirty clothes once in a while. Shianni was the only one of them who'd ever attempted to tidy anything.
Now, though, the little house is empty. It holds no touch of Varyn's personality, or of his, which does not surprise him – but Cyrion's is gone, too. He looks at Shianni, who shakes her head. "Let's keep it in order."
She speaks first, and tells him of all that has transpired since his fateful wedding day. How, once Vaughn and his men had finished with them, the women had trailed home one by one. How they'd picked up their lives again, until the Tevinters and their so-called plague had arrived.
"They don't look that sick to me," Shianni says, "but once they go in that Hospice, they don't come out again. Not even bodies." She looks, suddenly, rather ill herself. "They took Valendrian. Valora. And.. and uncle Cyrion. Soris, I don't know what's happened to them. I'm at my wits' end, and nobody will listen to me."
Soris sits in silence, trying to understand this. Cyrion, the one constant in their lives, who'd taken in his brother's son and his sister's daughter, always ready with a hug or a word of wisdom – gone.
After a time, he tells Shianni how he and Nelaros had tried to go to their rescue and pitifully their heroics had failed; how Nelaros had been cut down almost as soon as they'd set foot in the Bann's estate, and his capture had followed soon after. How Varyn had killed Vaughn, and how they'd dragged the body off her and thrown her down into the cells. He speaks of the long months that followed, of all that had been done to both of them (and he tells this without softening or hiding any of the details, as Shianni grows angrier and angrier), and finally, of Varyn's death.
His throat dries, and Shianni brings him water and helps him drink it.
He tells her of the rescue, how the Grey Warden and her friends had scoured the dungeons clean, and then how she'd given herself up to get the rest of them out.
Shianni stares at him. "I never thought I'd see it."
"What?"
"You're in love with her."
He splutters a bit. He isn't used to this sort of thing.
"You've got the stupidest smile on your face when you talk about her." Shianni's voice is surprisingly gentle. "You were going on and on about her face. And you should just hear the way you say her name. 'Keskie'," she sighs melodramatically.
"Shut up," Soris says, and the familiar warmth of the bickering closes in about them, and makes everything easier. Despite all that has happened, they still have each other.
"So," Shianni says, after a while, "what are you going to do?"
"Nothing I can do," Soris says quietly. "I don't know where she is. Even if I did, it didn't go too well the last time I played the hero, and I could hold a sword then. She's... she's a Grey Warden. I'll probably never see her again..." he trails off.
Shianni stares at him harder. "I was talking about your hands."
"Oh."
-0-0-0-0-0-
Soris lies on a soft bed. His stomach is full; he is clean. The night is silent about him, save for Shianni's steady breathing from the top bunk, and the mournful howl of someone's dog in the distance.
It is too luxurious and too unfamiliar for sleep.
So he lies there, staring at a ceiling he cannot see in the darkness. He thinks, and he feels – all the thoughts and emotions that are too dangerous for prison cells and the light of day. Varyn. Cyrion. His hands, his music. Plague, or Tevinter treachery. Valendrian.
Then, Shianni. Home. A promise of aid. Clean water, clean food, clean bed.
Keskie.
Ah, that's bittersweet.
She is so very lovely. She is more than that; she is strong and fiery and magnificent. She is kind; she surrendered herself to save them. She is a hero – she is a Grey Warden. Soris knows the stories as well as anyone (he sees, for a moment, how she would look on the back of a griffon, riding to battle) and knows that Blights take a heavy toll from the Wardens. She has a job to do – he never doubts that she will achieve her goal – and he... he...
What could he ever be to her? He has no illusions; he had fallen in love with her as soon as he'd seen her, but that does not make the rest of Varyn's romantic tales either likely or true. 'The Alienage Cripple and The Grey Warden'? Ha. He is less than nothing, not worthy even of her notice, rescued only because he was there and she had pity.
Truthfully, he doesn't mind much. He can adore her from a distance; it only hurts a little.
Only – and Soris squeezes his eyes tight – let Keskie be safe. Wherever she is, wherever she goes, through all the Blight and beyond, let her be safe. He prays to the Creators, to the Maker and to Andraste, to whoever and whatever may be listening. Let her be safe, and let her be happy.
And the wings of that prayer bear him to sleep.
-0-0-0-0-0-
The days pass on leaden feet. Soris learns what he can and cannot do with his ruined hands – and there is little enough of the former – and he thinks that he will have to take Bann Sighard up on his offer. But the district is still locked down, and he will not go without Shianni anyway, and she doesn't really want to leave, at least not before she knows what is happening behind the doors of the Tevinter hospice.
He waits for news of Keskie, but realises that with the alienage under quarantine, it's unlikely he will hear anything.
The warm light of early afternoon, and there's a knock on his door. Shianni returning home, Soris thinks, and fumbles with the doorknob.
The door opens, and it's Keskie.
Oh, Soris remembers. Shianni never knocks.
But this is a small thought, instantly swallowed up in the sudden, searing joy of seeing her again.
"Soris," she says, soft and surprised.
"Keskie," he replies, and hears why Shianni was mocking him about the way he says her name. It can't be helped. "Ah... do you want to come in?" he adds, rather belatedly.
"And me too, yes?" Zevran sticks his blonde head around the door.
"Thank you," Keskie says, and enters the little house, looking about her with wide, appalled eyes. "I never realised how lucky I was to be raised in the Circle."
"This is better than most, amica."
Soris shrugs, offers a chair. "Are you... are you well?" he asks, aware of the inadequacy of the question.
Keskie exchanges a glance with Zevran. "Mostly," she says. "I wouldn't recommend the hospitality of Fort Drakon to anyone." Just as Soris puts that together, she adds, "But their security is equally terrible, so that's all right."
"I'm sorry," he says, and her eyes meet his with a flash of understanding. He, too, has been tortured. There is something else in her gaze... but she drops her eyes before he can recognise it.
"Well," she says. "Soris, I've been sent to find out what's happening here."
Ah. Of course she is on business. "I don't know exactly," he says. "You need to find my cousin Shianni for that. But this is what she suspects – " and he explains about the Tevinter mages, and the plague, and the disappearances.
When he falls silent, Keskie thanks him. "I'll find Shianni, and I'll see what I can do about the hospice." She reaches out, touches one of his crippled hands. His heart hammers painfully in his chest. Her fingers are soft and warm, trailing gently over the ruined joints. "And about fixing these. You can't live like that."
-0-0-0-0-0-
She returns just after sunset, with Shianni and Zevran. They look tired, and not happy, but satisfied. They sit down, and they tell Soris how Keskie and Zevran had pretended to be sick to gain admittance to the hospice, and how they'd discovered the Tevinter slavers who'd been operating under guise of healers. They show him the papers that implicate Regent Loghain. Keskie swears to see justice done, and mourns with them the loss of so many.
"Now," she says, when the conversation falters, "I made you a promise. Let me take a proper look." She takes his hand in hers, inspecting the damage done with her hands as well as her eyes. A soft blue glow emanates from her fingers as her magic probes deeper. Finally she purses her lips (he finds himself watching their movement) and shakes her head.
"You can't -?" words fail him. The disappointment is too much.
"Oh, Soris," she flushes with colour, words falling quickly from her. "Don't – I could fix them. But the bones set long ago – I... I'd need to rebreak them to set them properly." She looks up at him, grey eyes distressed. "It would hurt you."
"No more than when it was done," Zevran says, with a surprising air of expertise. He studies Soris, and seems satisfied by what he sees. "He has the courage for this, amica."
Keskie looks at him uncertainly.
"Please," Soris says. He shouldn't – she has already given him his life, but he is greedy. To have his hands back, to be free... the possibility is intoxicating.
She nods.
"I can help you with the breaking," Zevran offers. "It will need to be done carefully, and I am somewhat stronger than you, no?"
"Can... can I help?" Shianni asks, uncharacteristically quiet. She is relieved when Keskie refuses, and Soris is glad. Shianni never had a very strong stomach, and she cannot stand the sight of people in pain. She makes herself scarce as Keskie lays out lyrium potions, and Zevran pulls a variety of tools from the recesses of his armour.
The sight of them makes Soris feel faint, just for a moment. It is too strong a reminder –
"Interesting toys you have there," Keskie comments, and by concentrating on her voice, Soris keeps himself together.
Zevran shrugs, an elaborately artificial gesture. "An Antivan Crow is always prepared, amica. I did not give up all my good habits when I left. One never knows when one may need... a little persuasion."
"A Crow?" Soris croaks.
"Ex-Crow, my friend," the blonde elf corrects him, as Soris lays his misshapen hand as flat as it gets against the table.
"We'll start here," Keskie says, and touches a lump of bone. "Soris... you're certain about this?"
He nods. The mage repeats the gesture, and Zevran begins.
It goes on for a very long time, and it is very bad. Each bone is broken again. Some Keskie can heal right away; others must wait until others are broken, so they can be joined properly. It is worst when Keskie must drag the bone ends back into position and they grate against each other.
His mouth is full of blood, as he bites his lip to keep from screaming; his pulse is a rapid thrumming in his ears; he nearly passes out more than once. Keskie downs her lyrium potions hurriedly, her face pale and sweaty. She thanks Zevran more than once, for it would not be possible without his sure touch and matter-of-fact, almost cheerful demeanour. Even his near-endless supply of risqué stories helps, gives Soris something else to listen to other than the crunching of his bones splintering beneath the Antivan's cruel tools.
One thing stands out in that eternity – the sight of Keskie's arms, when she rolls her sleeves back. Words have been branded into her white skin, the livid burns crisscrossing and spelling out elf and knife-ear and whore and mage and bitch and worthless and other, fouler things.
He does not wonder about them, for they have started on his second hand and the agony is fresh – but he does not forget, either.
There comes a time when the pain is gone, when Keskie pushes her sweat-soaked hair off her forehead and sighs. "There. That's it. Flex them, Soris, and let's see."
Obediently, he tests his now-straight fingers, his hand healed and whole. It feels amazing – he had forgotten how it felt, how easy it is to move, to tense and relax, to tap his fingertips on the table. His incredulous smile echoes hers, and he stammers out his gratitude, thanking her – thanking them both – again and again.
"No more," Zevran says, smirking. "Truly, you will turn my head with all this lavish praise. I shall have to escape from your fulsomeness." His smirk turns even more sly. "I shall go find your cousin, I think."
"Zevran!" Keskie's half-rebuking, half-playful tone makes Soris stare. He's missed something. The blonde elf just laughs and slips away.
Soris thanks Keskie again.
"It's nothing," she says. "Truly. I just wish it hadn't hurt you so much." There's a tenderness to her voice... but surely it is just her kindness. She watches him as he revels in his new-found freedom, in the working of his hands.
It's clumsy, he knows, but..."Your arms..."
"Oh," Keskie says, and looks away. She sounds embarrassed, even ashamed. "You saw. Souvenirs of Fort Drakon."
"You... you can't heal them?"
There is something vulnerable in her eyes, something painful in the line of her mouth. "Not these... they dusted the burns with lyrium. Ask the dwarves. Lyrium feeds magic, but it resists it too." She shrugs, an attempted dismissal of the subject. "They may heal in time."
Silence closes in about them, an easy and comfortable acknowledgement of the similarities of what they've endured, and of the differences. There are glances that are more eloquent than ever words could be, although Soris believes that he is surely fooling himself. Speech comes, sometimes, as natural as silence, a continuation of the same conversation.
He asks about her unusual name, and she laughs. "Actually, my full name is stranger – it's Kesseket. I don't know why; I never knew my family. But I can tell you it's not a traditional name. It doesn't mean anything, and it's not Antivan, Orlesian, elvhen, dwarvish or even Qunari." She shrugs. "I like to tell people that it's in a long-forgotten dialect and means blindingly beautiful mage with double-jointed thumbs, rather good at whistling, and see who believes me."
Soris laughs – a sound that surprises him. It is the first time he has laughed since the morning of his wedding.
It's not the last time that night, either. They talk, jumping from subject to subject; they are silent when the mood takes them. Soris treasures every moment of it. He tells her about his childhood, about his Dalish mother, about his cousins.
She talks about growing up in the Circle, about her friends Jowan and Anders. She laughs at her complete ignorance of Elvish, and about her dreadful accent when she mimics Soris.
He talks about music, and Keskie begs him to play for her. He agrees, of course; music is one of the joys of his life, and the healing of his hands is another, and her presence is the greatest of them all. He pulls the little lap-harp from its hiding place (it is the most valuable thing in the house), and tunes the strings as he asks her what she'd like to hear.
"Anything, so long as it's not the Chant of Light," Keskie says.
Soris grins. "I don't know it anyway." He tests the sound, and can't help smiling. He'd thought he would never be able to play again.
He begins simply, with the soft, modal chords of a Dalish lullaby his mother had taught him. It brings her back to his memory; a tall, laughing woman with bright hair, who smelt like grass. He plays the verse, then quietly starts to sing the chorus. "Dareth, da'len..."
Keskie's eyes are shining; encouraged, Soris enters the verse with more confidence. His voice is nothing special, he knows – all his talent is in his hands – but here, when she listens, he sings better than he ever has. Softly, still, he sings of rest, of dreams, and of safety, of a mother who keeps the Dread Wolf away.
The last chord lingers on the air, and then dies away. "That was wonderful," Keskie murmurs. "Another?"
His hands are warmed up now, and her healing has been thorough; they feel strong. Soris thinks about his repertoire, and cannot deny either the urge towards mischief (it has been so long since he felt that way) or the desire to show off. He begins the intricate accompaniment to "The Lady Tam", one of Varyn's favourites. Keskie shows no signs of recognising it.
So he sings the ballad for her, the tale of the high-born maiden Tam, who espied a peasant lad from her window and fell hopelessly in love with him. She let down a rope ladder to him, and he'd climbed to her tower – and fallen hopelessly in love with her.
Hopelessly, because neither of them knew Tam's father had betrothed her to a teyrn's son. The groom came to claim his bride. On their wedding night, the peasant lad climbed to Tam's window and saw the newly-weds. Betrayed, loving, jealous, he had slain the groom – and then, in his fury, stabbed Tam as well.
With her last breaths, she told him that she loved him, and his madness cleared. They shared a last kiss as she died, and then the peasant lad threw himself from the tower window.
Soris's fingers are sore by the time he finishes the song, but it's a good kind of hurt. He waits for Keskie's reaction, hoping that...
... yes, she bursts into laughter.
She laughs for a long time, scattering words among her laughter. "I'm sorry. I really am. You played beautifully. It's just so... just so ludicrous."
Soris is laughing too. How wonderful she is! "I know! It's a load of maudlin tripe."
"How could she just let him – and the bit where he – " she shakes her head. "Does anyone really think that way? 'Oh, my lover's been unfaithful, I'll just go kill myself now'?"
"Now, now," Soris chides her playfully, "my cousin Varyn used to adore that song! She really believed in all that – dying for love, killing the unfaithful lover, love at first sight –" he stops abruptly, realising what he's said. His opinion on that particular phenomenon has changed dramatically in recent times.
Only when it's too late does he recognise how dangerous that pause is, how the silence betrays him.
Keskie is very still. His careless words have changed the very air about them. "Do you?"
He cannot lie, he cannot hide or laugh it off, or pretend he misunderstands. Not to her, not in this place where they suddenly find themselves. Soris takes a breath, looks down at the dirty wooden floor. His fingers tangle in the harp strings, reaching for their familiarity.
"Not... not until I saw you."
Keskie says nothing, and he cannot raise his head to look at her. The silence demands more.
"Something... something happened to me when I saw you, that light in that darkness, all beauty and fire. I don't pretend to understand it. I'm not sure what to do about it. I don't want to get in your way, and I..." words fail him, suddenly. He tries again. "It's ridiculous, really. I never believed in love at first sight. But I don't know what else to call it. I saw you... and... and I love you."
"Soris." Now he does look up, for she does not sound disgusted, or rebuking, or annoyed, or anything else; it's just his name, softly voiced.
He is mesmerised by what he sees in her eyes.
"I saw you there," she says. "Tortured, filthy. Handsome despite it. Unbroken, for all they'd done to you. In Fort Drakon... I kept thinking of you. It helped me. You hadn't broken, and neither would I. You...you play the harp like nothing I've ever heard."
That rosy flush touches her face again. She's never looked lovelier. "I... I l-care for you, Soris. A lot."
And it's more than he ever could have imagined to hear her say those words. They are music in their own right, but he hears the accompaniment anyway, a rippling series of crystalline chords, clear and strong and joyous. His fingers itch to play it, as his arms ache to hold her.
Then just one word sours it all, brings dissonance and discords crashing around him.
It's 'but'.
"But," Keskie says, slow and sad, "that's all. I can't – we can't – it won't – doesn't – oh, Maker." She buries her face in her hands, and her next words are muffled. "Soris, I'm a mage. And a Grey Warden. I have a job to do, and it's a death sentence – thirty years of killing darkspawn, if the Blight doesn't get me or I don't turn into an abomination first."
He puts his harp down, kneels by her chair, pries her hands from her face.
"It's not much of a life," she says, simple and bleak, "and I don't see any place where you could fit in it. I wouldn't drag you into it even if I did."
"Keskie," he murmurs as her words echoes thoughts he has had before. He cannot, will not beg or plead; it is her choice, and he sees that it's so hard for her to speak.
"This...this is what I wish – that you live, far away from it all. That you find another l-love," – and her voice cracks on the word. It is more bitter than sweet, that she does care for him this much- "someone who can stay with you. That you... that you think of me kindly, just every once in a while. I... I won't forget you, Soris."
"Keskie –" he says again.
She shakes her head, a final denial, pulls her hands from his (but gently), rises from her chair. "I'd... better go." Her mouth stretches in a painful semblance of a smile. "Got a Landsmeet to call, an Archdemon to kill."
He sees her to the door. There is so much he wants to say, but he controls himself. It is hard enough for her already. So it's a simple "Be... be safe, vhenan'ara," that sees her disappear into the darkness.
-0-0-0-0-0-
Soris tries to go back to his life, but the tavern has found another musician, the little house feels too big with only he and Shianni sharing it, and everything feels hollow anyway. He gives more thought to leaving with Bann Sighard.
The Landsmeet comes to an end, and he hears she killed Regent Loghain in single combat (he knows just how she would have looked, beautiful and terrible, fire blossoming from her hands) and cried out 'For the elves!' as she did.
He knows, beyond any possibility of doubt or false modesty, that what she meant was 'For Soris'.
Time passes, and one morning he wakes to the screaming of people in mortal fear. He rushes outside, where the sky is blackened with smoke and the sun shines red. Denerim is burning.
He rushes to the barred gates, where Shianni is mustering a small group of elves with highly illegal bows. "Up on the platforms," she says. "Pick them off one at a time. Don't waste your arrows, we don't have many. If the darkspawn have mages, take them out first. Don't get shot."
"Shianni?"
She looks scared to death. "Soris! The darkspawn are here!"
He can see that. The gates weren't made for sieges, or for the large ogre who's wading up through the horde; there is no way they can hold. Soris ducks back to the house, and retrieves his (highly illegal) sword, making it back as the ogre lowers his head to charge the gate.
This is how it ends, then.
He is not dissatisfied.
The gates hold through one assault, as Soris stands behind them. The ogre turns back for another go –
"What the bloody blue blazes do you think you're doing?"
Keskie. She's here. Soris is smiling despite everything as he turns around to see her, Zevran and Leliana by her side, as well as a big blonde human he doesn't know.
"Get away from that gate," she orders them. "You aren't equipped for this. We are." Shianni and the archers scurry obediently down from their posts. "You too, Soris. Get to safety."
The gate bursts, showering them in splinters. Keskie swears viciously and shoves him out of the way, as the human warrior charges the ogre. Leliana sprints up to the platform; Keskie joins her there and raises her arms as she calls a rain of fire down on the darkspawn horde. Zevran unsheathes his blades and disappears.
Soris refuses to run. He stands at the foot of the stairs – if any of the darkspawn try to get to Keskie, they will have to go through him. He knows he is no great warrior, and he cannot hold them for long. He knows it doesn't matter.
The darkspawn come.
Burnt, charred, but not yet dead, they pour through the gates. Arrows fly – not just Leliana's, for Shianni and her archers have stayed near. The ogre roars, his attention focused on the blonde human – smaller darkspawn, like nightmare creatures, charge past. Some turn for the mage, and now Soris fights and kills.
He has little enough skill with the sword, and he has never killed before - he barely managed to wound Vaughn's guards that day – but it is easier than he expected. The darkspawn are weak, having struggled through Keskie's flames and the archer's barrage, and they are not swift.
"Well fought, my friend," Zevran says, as he materialises nearby, stabs a darkspawn in the back, and vanishes again.
There are simply so many of them.
So very many. His arms tire, and then he is wounded.
Too many.
He fights on.
"Soris, you idiot!" Keskie's voice cuts through the darkspawn howling and the battle haze, as her magic cuts through his fatigue and pain, making them disappear.
He turns, hacking through another foe, and turns again as one tries to slip past him. The world narrowed to a point – thrust, parry, step back, lunge forward, turn, another darkspawn – he nearly takes the head off the blonde human when he appears alongside, and his sword skids off the warrior's shield.
He isn't made for this.
Downstroke, side-step, turn and –
- there are no more.
Tired, shaking, his reflexes aren't fast enough to dodge the slap to the back of his head that Keskie deals. She is white, save for two red spots that burn in her cheeks, and her eyes look so stormy that Soris half expects lightning to strike him. She is frightened, he realises.
He realises a moment later that she's also absolutely furious.
"You complete and utter imbecile. I told you to get away – did you think I was just ordering you about for the fun of it? Do you think this is a game? Do you have any idea what could have happened to you? What darkspawn corruption does to-"
"Keskie," the blonde human interrupts firmly, "that's a fantastic tirade, and I'm grateful that it's not aimed at me, but we've sort of got an appointment with an overgrown lizard, and I really don't want to be late and have it come looking for us..."
"Besides," Zevran adds, "it was necessary, no?"
"And rather ro-"
"Shut up, Leliana," Keskie says, but her wrath has died. "You scared me, Soris," she apologises quietly.
He apologises, too, and there's just one moment when they look at each other...
... then she sighs, squares her shoulders, and is once more the Grey Warden. "We must press on, but I don't think the darkspawn will trouble you further today. Unless we fail."
Shianni speaks from behind him. "Thank you, Warden. We would have died if you hadn't been here. We owe you more than we can ever repay."
"That's the job," Keskie says. Her hand brushes against his as she pushes past him to rejoin her companions. "Stay safe."
Soris walks with them to the bridge that marks the boundary of the alienage, putting off the moment of another goodbye as long as possible.
It arrives too soon, of course, and Soris has no words for it.
Keskie looks at him, and there's something calm and deathly in her grey eyes. He understands, suddenly, that she doesn't expect to survive this. Her words echo the same resignation. "Farewell, Soris. Be safe, and be happy. Live-"
"Get back!" the blonde human cries out with genuine panic. Keskie jolts towards the warrior; Soris towards the alienage, as a huge shadow blots out the scarlet sun, and a roar like the death of worlds thunders from above. The dragon – the Archdemon - is huge and terrible beyond words. Soris knows that if anyone can slay it, Keskie can, but it seems an impossible feat. A lance of purple flame (but there is no heat) cuts through the bridge as though the stone offers no more resistance than cloth.
The Archdemon flies away, leaving them on opposite sides of the sundered bridge.
The distance is too great to cross, and her companions are hurrying her away, but for just one moment, Keskie looks back at him, and her lips form words.
I love you.
-0-0-0-0-0-
It is the blonde human – Alistair, the bastard son of King Maric – who dies atop Fort Drakon, and Keskie who survives. They are both heroes, and the city of Denerim celebrates them equally. There is a softening of the tensions between elf and human, for after all, one of the heroes is an elf, so maybe they're not so bad, eh? It won't last, they all know, but it makes for a pleasant change.
Soris attends a few of the celebrations, but not enough for Shianni's tastes. He visits with Oswyn and his father, plays for them, and politely declines their offer.
He spends a great deal of time at home, with his harp and his memories.
There's a knock at the door one evening, and his heart leaps; it knows who it must be, that he's been waiting for her.
"Soris," she says, leaning against the doorway; she refuses his suggestion to come inside. "I've... I've come to say goodbye. Again. I've orders from Weisshaupt." She doesn't look at him. "I'm to go to Amaranthine and take command of Vigil's Keep."
"Oh," he says, stupidly. She is going, and he hadn't expected anything else, but perhaps he'd hoped, with the Archdemon dead... No. A Grey Warden's duty does not end, and the Hero of Ferelden is still too far above him. He thinks of flame, dancing from her fingers and dying, thinks of frost.
"I leave tomorrow." Now she does look at him, and the love and the longing in her eyes don't make anything easier. "But I wanted to... I don't know. To see you again. To thank you too, I think. It's good to know that there are people worth fighting for."
"Take care of yourself," he says, fighting to get the words out; when he hears how halting and awkward they are, he wonders why he bothered. "You're worth fighting for, too."
Suddenly she's very close. "You say the sweetest things," Keskie says, and her lips brush his cheek. A small gesture, a farewell to a friend. Nothing more, he tells himself, but he cannot stop his hand from creeping up to touch his cheek as she backs away.
She flushes painfully red; even the lovely points of her ears are pink. "I... ah... shouldn't have done that. Sorry, Soris."
"Vhenan'ara," he breathes. Heart's desire.
"Well... goodbye, then."
"Farewell," he says, and watches her walk out of his life. Again.
-0-0-0-0-0-
It's not much of a life, what with the famine and the disease that sweep the alienage. A few of the young bloods (Soris no longer counts himself as one of them) start a riot, which is violently put down. Things in the alienage get very bad, then.
He has a job again, playing for a different tavern. It fills the nights, and during the days, he hides at home and plays for himself. That's a bittersweet pleasure indeed. His fingers move swiftly and easily over the strings, and that is her gift. He plays a lament of love lost, and tastes her farewells in it. He composes a song for the Hero of Ferelden, the Grey Warden, the Commander of Vigil's Keep, and although it's applauded, only he can hear that it's hollow.
There's another song, a love song, born in that breathless moment of her beauty and her glory and her fire. It sings through his mind and it follows the beat of his heart. He tries to play it, once, but he gets only halfway through, and after that, he puts his harp down.
After that, he lifts it only to play the light, easy, meaningless songs that a tavern audience requests.
He hears the news, sometimes. Her name is no longer on everyone's lips, now that the Blight is over, but news travels anyway, and Denerim and Amaranthine are not really so far apart.
He hears that the Keep has fallen.
He hears that she is dead.
The harp strings break under his fingers.
Soris limps back to the house and locks the door behind him. He does not sleep that night, nor eat, nor drink; he does not think or feel.
He endures.
Dawn comes slowly, and the day passes slowly away, and slowly the black night comes once more.
There is a knock at his door, and it jolts him back from his grey numbness to reality and to pain. He's locked Shianni outside. He rises from his chair like an old man, and he goes to answer it.
The woman is old as he is old, strained almost beyond bearing, white and tired. Her eyes have seen too much sorrow and have forgotten laughter.
But it's her, it's Keskie, and she's alive, and there is thirst and hunger and desire and colour and music and life.
"Soris," she says, and his breath catches at the way she says his name."I've orders from Weisshaupt. I... I can't talk about them, but..."
"You're alive."
"I can't do this without you. Not any more. It won't be safe, or easy, but...come with me," and all the world stills as her voice softens, "vhenan'ara."
And he does.