Thank you, thank you for the kind reviews! I appreciate those of you willing to take the time to comment on this fic, I'm still pretty hesitant about it – some of the Dragon Age fic here is amazing! But the plot bunny rattling around my brain refuses to be quiet so I keep writing.
Origins: Shadow of the Blight
By: Syntyche
Chapter Two: Dark Have Been My Dreams
Had they known what was to happen on the morrow, the mood this night would certainly have been different. However and perhaps most mercifully, they were not to know they would be slaughtered to a man tomorrow due to the treachery of an ambitious Teryn, and so tonight they drank freely and regaled each other with tales of their exploits. Duncan sat near the fire, close enough to keep a watchful eye on the King as the young man drank his ale and listened wide-eyed as the Ferelden Grey Wardens talked and laughed, even knowing that a battle drew near. That was one unexpected blessing of the Taint, Duncan knew – every Warden valued their waking moments, knowing the time would soon come for them to end their own lives before the darkspawn blood corrupting their bodies would end it for them after driving them into madness.
Duncan rose gracefully, nodding respectfully to the king and stretching carefully. He himself was approaching his final months, he felt; the dreams were getting worse, and he would soon venture into the Deep Roads of Orzammar for one last, glorious battle of his own.
Striding away from the fire and noise, Duncan quietly made his way to the tent of the newest Warden, pausing to listen carefully at the tent flap for any signs of distress within. The young Cousland had suffered grievously these past days and had declined to join her new fellow Wardens around the campfire tonight, instead retiring to her tent for some much-needed rest. There was no noise from inside other than the girl's quiet respiration and so Duncan turned away, considering ruefully that he should be getting his own rest for the night.
"How is she?"
Alistair; the junior Warden here. He had been—for him – unnaturally hushed since the Joining ceremony earlier, quietly helping Duncan dispose of the bodies of both Daveth and Ser Jory. Though he had known death was a possibility for all three Warden recruits, Alistair had still taken hard the fact that Duncan had by necessity killed Jory; Duncan suspected the unfortunate event reminded Alistair of the Harrowing ritual wherein the young Templar-in-training had been forced to slay a young mage who could not overcome the demon placed inside her as part of her testing.
"She will be all right," Duncan assured quietly. "She has endured much in a very short length of time."
Alistair nodded knowingly. "It was hard for me at my own Joining; I kept wondering why I had survived when another hadn't. I don't like the feeling," he admitted uncomfortably.
"Alistair… " Duncan quickly weighed the need for privacy against compassion, and settled on compassion. He laid a gentle hand on Alistair's shoulder. "I do not refer to Elissa's Joining. Her parents … her family… they were murdered just days ago. We … " Duncan sighed; though he was a man who had seen much death he still could not brush it away easily. He saw Alistair's features tighten in concerned expectation and he squeezed the broad shoulder below his fingertips. "We had to leave her parents behind. I could not save them all."
"That's terrible," Alistair breathed unhappily, grim with empathy. "I feel so sorry for her. I had no idea – she was so focused in the Wilds, so intent on finding the treaties."
Duncan glanced toward the Warden's tent, careful to keep his voice low. "Her family prizes duty above all else, Alistair, she knows no other way." He added quietly," I want you to watch over her tomorrow, if you can. I will need to focus on the King, but I trust you to keep Elissa close."
Alistair nodded briskly in harsh resolve. "I will, Duncan," he acquiesced and then, almost brightly because Alistair trying to rein in his good humor was like demanding the sun not shine, "I think she will do well in the Wardens. You do a good job taking care of strays."
Instead of the answering smile he knew Alistair expected, Duncan felt sadness settle over shoulders like a heavy mantle.
"Walk with me, Alistair," he requested gently, and the young Warden unquestioningly fell into step beside him as they moved away from the other Wardens and the warmth of the fire. There was no easy way to say it, so Duncan simply said, "I shall be leaving for the Deep Roads soon, Alistair."
Alistair's firm step didn't waver, but Duncan sensed the shift in the air: unhappiness, and a slight tinge of fear.
"But it's so soon," Alistair murmured woodenly, eyes focused on the path ahead. "There's so much I don't know yet. Why do we need Wardens to fight the archdemon? How do you prepare for the Joining?" A quick quirk of the lips. "Where is the key to the larder and was it ever kept locked before I Joined?"
Duncan allowed a small smile, encouraged as often as he was exasperated by the younger Warden's relentless amused cheer. "You'll see."
Alistair glanced over at him, wry indignation written across his young face. "That's what you always say."
"That's because it's true," Duncan replied swiftly, listening as small twigs made snapping noises under their boots as they walked, and the wind rustled lightly through the leaves above them. The evening breeze carried a distinct chill with it and humidity hung heavy in the air, cloying and oppressive. He nodded to the mage Wynne, long a friend of his, as they passed her sitting quietly near the tent designated for members of the Circle and she smiled back, sadness crowding her dark eyes.
"The dreams are getting worse, Alistair," Duncan continued gently. "I do not have much longer before I will succumb to the Taint."
"I … I'd rather not to think about that," Alistair admitted quietly, glancing down in shame at his weakness.
"Alistair," the older Grey Warden was firm. "You are strong. Do not be ashamed by your compassion; it was why you could never fully submit to being a Templar." He saw the truth of that reflected in Alistair's bright eyes and added somberly, "Whatever comes, however long we have left, do not let yourself be hardened, and focus on your duty. Any of could die at any time: no one is guaranteed tomorrow."
"Yes, Duncan," Alistair responded automatically. They found they had made their way back to the fireside, a welcome relief to ward off the encroaching night. Ominously thick clouds had gathered overhead, promising rain for the morrow, but the mood around the fire was still light.
Duncan smiled. "We will speak more when we are able. Remember to keep the young Cousland close during the battle as is possible."
Firelight glinted copper in Alistair's tawny hair as he nodded his understanding. He looked almost hesitant for a moment before adding, so quietly that Duncan barely heard, "Please look after my brother tomorrow."
"I swear to you that I will," Duncan replied.
OoOoOoOoOo
It was not an exaggeration to say that every single centimeter of his body hurt, and he was not a man unaccustomed to physical pain. Though both Arl Eamon and later Duncan had done their utmost to keep him out of harm's way (a nod to his skewed royal heritage, but what the hell did it matter since he was a bastard anyway? The throne? Not in his future, thankfully), there had still been the other unforgiving orphans raised by the Chantry, and later his fellow Templars-in-training who had no reservations about showing the unwelcome young bastard just how strong their collective dislike for him ran. Had Duncan not come along and conscripted him into the Grey Wardens just six short months ago, Alistair had had no allusions he was destined for anything other than drowning in a pool of his own blood after having the life beaten out of him.
He shivered and noted that he was cold, mortification staining his cheeks crimson as awareness slowly returned and he realized he had been completely stripped of his armor and clothing and his modesty was only protected at this moment by a very thin coverlet.
"In pain, naked, and cold? If this is the afterlife, I am so disappointed," he mumbled and was startled to hear a light trill of mocking laughter in reply, followed by a voice he had not expected nor wanted to hear ever again.
"Is it any less than you have earned, I wonder? Truly, what other fate does a mage-hunter deserve?"
Another voice, somehow both stern and gentle, how he secretly thought a mother might sound, broke in, chasing off the utter unwelcome of the first.
"Morrigan, girl, please. Do your mother a favor and prepare some of my special tea for our guests."
A gusty sigh, a swish of coarse fabric, and, "As you wish, Mother," drifted across Alistair's ears as the younger witch sauntered out of the room.
"Thank you," Alistair managed, trying to summon the inner resolve to open his eyes, but the bright sunshine trying to barrel in through his eyelids was almost as undesirable as Morrigan's presence.
"'Tis all right, boy. Morrigan is a good girl, but understandably awkward around others. We do not have much need to practice social graces here in the Wilds." The rough hands of Morrigan's mother were flitting over him now, briskly but carefully checking her handiwork, and Alistair tried not to squirm away. Weariness clung to his mind and body, and the Warden struggled to stay awake. Something wasn't right … it was on the tip of his brain, he needed to focus. Why was he here? Were the others here as well?
"Thank you for your kindness," he mumbled automatically, adding quietly because he felt he should, "I'm not a Templar anymore, you know. And I never actually hunted anyone."
"I know, young one. I've been watching you for awhile."
The ancient witch's fingernails raked through his short hair gently, soothing as she murmured words he did not understand, but a crushing exhaustion swept over him and he realized what the Witch was doing.
"I don't need to sleep, I need to see Duncan," Alistair protested wearily, struggling uselessly against the firm hands pressing him down. That triggered more memories that thankfully couldn't breach the witch's spell and Alistair felt his body resigning itself to sleep whether his mind wanted it or not.
"Please, I need to know that he's all right." His own voice was fading in his ears. "And the other Warden with me – she is my responsibility… please …"
"Hush," the Witch responded, her gravelly voice low and hypnotic, wrapping around his mind, bringing darkness he couldn't fight with it. "You need to sleep now, Warden; you will not get the chance to rest peacefully again for a very long time."
He wanted to refuse but couldn't, and as he sank unwillingly into oblivion the last image in his mind, curiously, was the sight of his mother's golden amulet smashing into the cold stone wall and shattering into many jagged pieces.
OoOoOoOoOo
"You're too harsh on the boy, Morrigan," Flemeth chided briskly as she emerged from her daughter's room, where the ex-Templar now slumbered in dark dreams. Flemeth's own room housed the female Warden, Elissa, lost too in her own grievous injuries.
Morrigan's catlike golden eyes blinked lazily at her mother as the younger witch glanced up from slicing fresh vegetables. Morrigan despised cooking, but her culinary skills were passable so she was often tasked with the chore. "I scarcely see how it is possible to not be hard on him, Mother," she pronounced disdainfully. "He is softer than a flower petal."
Flemeth smiled an almost reptilian grin, an expression oddly at home on her weathered features. "Really, Daughter? He seems quite hard to me."
The knife slipped in Morrigan's grasp, nearly taking one of her long fingers with it. "Mother, please!"
Flemeth chuckled, enjoying her proud daughter's embarrassment. "Then don't stare quite so closely, dear. Behave, and I might even let you dress him."
A loud sigh was her only response, but Flemeth's sharp eyes caught the fleeting look of wistfulness that crossed her daughter's face. It was a shame that she had had no choice but to teach Morrigan that men were useful only as playthings, but the remembrance of her dead husband's treachery still ran deep in her ancient heart and she knew that she could not allow her daughter to become weak for the want of any man.
Flemeth absently ran one rough hand over the other, reflecting that it would not be much longer before she needn't worry about her daughter at all. The thought of being lovely again, young and beautiful and desirable, far outweighed any remorse Flemeth may have felt about sacrificing any of her daughters; survival was what mattered. Survival was why the Wardens had been saved: one, to unite a vastly divided nation, and one, to ensure Flemeth's own continued existence.
OoOoOoOoOo
The dream had come to her again.
She had grown to expect it would interrupt her rest almost nightly, but the intensity of last night's disruption staggered her. Where before her dreams had been indistinct shadows conveying a vague sense of purpose, this latest dream was so vivid, so clear, Leliana felt she had no other choice but to bring it to the attention of the Revered Mother. Surely the wise woman would have advice for Leliana, herself only a lay sister of the Chantry who could not possibly unravel the deeper complexity of her dream on her own.
It was a dream with a message; of this, Leliana was certain. A vision given to her from a Maker the Chantry declared absent. It made her feel special, feel useful, feel like she had a purpose that went beyond caring for the refugees that daily flooded the Chantry.
Leliana wove her way through the Chantry's rose garden, the light breeze rustling her short red hair as she inhaled the delicate fragrance of the garden stirred into life by the wind. For a long time now Leliana had been happy within the safe harbor of the Chantry's walls, safe from those who had hunted and hurt her. The scars she bore no longer stung, but she saw them every day marring her pale skin with intertwining ribbons of red and reminding her why she had planned to spend the remainder of her life reflecting and meditating.
But now she had been called by the Maker to go the Source of the Blight. It was both a difficult and an easy choice for the former bard: if the Maker was calling her into service against the darkspawn, she would have to leave the Chantry behind.
Leliana hummed to herself absently, an old melody Ceceile had taught her when she was just small that she had kept close. The familiar music had always served as a comfort to the young woman and now it wound amidst her thoughts as she moved through the garden, trying to sort out her errant feelings until an unexpected sight in the corner of the garden caught her eye, startling her:
The rosebush had bloomed.
One single, beautiful rose had blossomed on a bush long dead. Leliana had never been one to accept any event as being "coincidental," and now as her finger gently soothed the soft rose petals Leliana realized she had been granted another sign from the Maker – not one, but two that made! The lay sister felt a rush of pride – no other in the Lothering Chantry could claim such a thing!
She needed to speak with the Revered Mother immediately.
OoOoOoOoOo
(Asala was missing! That could not be!)
He turned frantically, seeing only the beheaded bodies of his comrades, hearing only the pounding of adrenaline in his ears, and the capacity to reason that he was so proud of fled him, leaving his mind terrified and disoriented.
"Where is my sword?" he demanded, unaccustomed to the cresting waves of panic filling his thoughts and crowding his stomach with terror. "What have you done with it?"
"I'm sorry, you had no weapons on you – " was all the first farmer was able to get out before his massive fists had closed around the smaller man's neck …
He awoke with a start, immediately and immensely grateful he had awoken when he did, before his mind could replay in his dream his shameful loss of control and the horrifying events that had followed. He saw the faces of the innocents he had murdered with his waking eyes; he did not know how much longer he could endure seeing them in also in his dreams.
Soon it would no longer matter. Nineteen days he had been in this cage with no food nor water, and he was growing weak. The cold press of the iron bars behind him bit into his back uncomfortably but he did not move to ease his own pain, accepting the discomfort as a small but bitterly welcome act of penance for his failure.
I cannot go home. I have no sword and thus I have no name. I deserve to be here. I will not fight death, in whatever form it comes.
OoOoOoOoOo
Awareness tumbled across his mind and he surfaced from the darkness, gasping and flailing as if he'd been drowning.
He was shouting nonsense, distressed words that charged the air with his fear and desperation.
"Hush, lad, calm down," The old witch's voice soothed, but he was too miserable, too sick, too hopeless – he knew. Alistair promptly leaned over the side of the bed and vomited, acidic bile stinging his raw throat as it rushed past his cracked lips to spatter on the floor. He coughed and sputtered, heaving painfully as the motions pulled at his healing injuries. When he finally slumped back against the pillow, exhausted, Morrigan's mother kindly handed him a glass of water which he took with trembling hands.
"He's gone," Alistair whispered blandly over the rim of the glass, his sorrowful glance meeting the wise eyes gazing at him. "They're all gone, aren't they?"
"I am sorry, lad," she responded quietly, stealing away his last hope that he had been wrong, that the dreams were just dreams, that Duncan was waiting just outside for Alistair to hurry up and get over the latest mishap he'd gotten himself into and focus on his training, please!
He wasn't wrong. They were gone. He was alone again, and this time the situation was far graver than simply that the new arlessa hated him and was having him shipped off to the local Chantry. Duncan was dead. In a cruel stab of fate, Duncan had died on a bloody battlefield when it should have been him instead – why hadn't it been him instead? Then at least there would be some hope left.
"It should have been me," he forced past his ravaged throat, feeling the bile crowd into his mouth again as he choked against the wrongness of it. This time, he didn't fight the darkness that roared in his ears louder than any ogre, and let it swallow him whole, unresisting.
OoOoOoOoOo
Mumbling in his sleep, Oghren turned over, ignoring the fact that Branka's side of the bed had long been empty and cold.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Okay, if you made it this far, leave a review pleeeeeease? Posting a chap and getting no reviews is like Alistair finding out his happy Fade dream isn't real. Depressing. ;)