Spiralling: A Dragon Age: Origins fanfic.

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age. Dragon Age: Origins, the darkspawn, Alistair, Sten, Morrigan and Zevran all belong to Bioware. Arlyan is mine, and so too, I think, is the Archdemon – what a combination!

Many thanks to dannyfranx and Sara's Girl for being supportive, constructively critical and generally fabulous, and also to AlmightyGamer on deviantArt for proof-reading – love you guys!

He saw the tarnished bridge of the Black City stand defiantly above him. The stone was dark and broken, covered in the black blood of those who had gone before. And died. Crowning the cold stone, a dragon thrashed in rage and jubilation. A dark beacon above the flames of the deep roads, she surveys her legions moving closer towards her, the roar of her dark armies below spiralling into ecstasies of gluttonous desire. She arches her neck to survey her troops, a cold wave sweeps over him. Her serpentine eyes narrow and it feels as though she is waiting. Waiting for – she whips her head around to stare spheres of malice right into his eyes. Her look is one of poisonous victory as she throws her head back and lets out a cackling roar, shaking the foundations of the dark bridge and causing the depraved multitude below to pause in their twisted devotions. She chuckles and, stretching forward, covers him in a roaring, burning wall of baleful flame. Falling, he hears her terrible, mocking voice as he fades into insensibility: "I know you, Warden."

x.x.x.x.x

Arlyan awoke with a start. He ran a hand over his eyes, pushing his long black braids out of his face. Sitting up, he carefully peeled back the folds of his tent to look for Alistair. The elf breathed a small sigh of relief as he saw no sign of his friend emerging from slumber. If Alistair hadn't had the same dream then it wasn't a reaction to the Archdemon – just a twisted creation of his own mind. He smiled to himself – just an ordinary nightmare. No dramatic portents, no omens from a mysterious taint – just a dream.

Fully awake, he decided that a quick check of the camp boundaries wouldn't hurt, just in case. Arlyan pulled on his boots, slung his sword sheath over his back, and silently left his tent. Away from the dying light of the smouldering campfire, the night forest whispered solace into his mind. He always felt a small spark of wonder when they camped in the forest – a remnant of the city elf who used to dream of the Dalish in the mythical wilds. Passing under the sighing branches he thought of the distance he had come since the Alienage. The sullen elf child was a memory of the distant past now. Strangely, he found himself thinking of his mother. He wondered if Adaia had intended for his path to be woven this way.

A strange noise pulled him out of his reverie. A ways off, he could hear a singing sound out of tune with the song of the forest. A metallic sound, sharp and alien. His senses focused, he stalked forward, moving closer to the noise. As he closed the distance he knew it was the sound of a blade. In the twilight ahead of him he could just make out a lithe figure holding an outstretched sword. Silently, Arlyan wondered if he had been too quick to dismiss his nightmare. Something which shouldn't be here was stalking the camp, which seemed too much like strange coincidence. Keeping to the line of the trees so that the forest shadows hid his progress, he edged closer. He noiselessly drew his own blade from its sheath in a deadly silence and moved into the longer grass, ready to strike.

The figure was coming into focus now. Clearly no darkspawn, the man in front of him wore no armour, and Arlyan could make out the outline of strong arms and a well-muscled torso. No easy prey here; this person was clearly trained. Arlyan adjusted his path to move behind the figure and tensed, ready to take him down quickly. Primed, he launched into his strike and the moon shone free of the clouds. Arlyan saw the Crow lines on the man's face, and checked his thrust just in time to avoid a killing blow. Shaken, sultry eyes looked straight at him, "I know you, Warden."

Caught off guard, Arlyan stumbled back into the long grass. Those words... the dream... no, it couldn't be... Zevran stepped towards him, his eyes a little wide, "Careful, Warden!" Too late, Arlyan saw the rusty trap hidden in the grass next to him and gasped as it snapped closed around his calf.

x.x.x.x.x

"Zevran, I'm fine. I really don't think this is necessary."

"Ah, well, in that case, perhaps I should let go and you can hobble off unaided, hmm?" The Crow had wrapped the Warden's arm over his shoulders and was holding him around his waist to keep him upright.

"Please. It's humiliating enough without me being carried back to my tent in front of everyone else." An amused smile escaped from the corner of Zevran's mouth as the assassin found the Warden's embarrassed discomfort preciously amusing. The hand around his waist started guiding him in a different direction, away from the main camp.

Arlyan was just about to raise the question as Zevran answered with a smirk, "In that case, my good Warden, it is just as well that we are going to my tent instead."

Arlyan stumbled, only to be caught by the safe hands around him.

"But –"

"Warden, you can barely stand. My tent is closer and we can take a look at your leg there. I assure you, my motives in this are quite honourable."

Arlyan let out a defeated sigh. "Okay."

A wide smile spread across Zevran's lips. "Excellent. Though I shall leave it to you to explain to the others what you were doing spending the night topless in my tent when you leave in the morning. I should be very interested in what explanation you come up with."

Arlyan groaned and continued to hobble on with the aid of the assassin, laughing at his side.