1.
"After time adrift among open stars, along tides of light and through shoals of dust, I will return to where I began."
-Tali'Zorah vas Normandy, 2185 CE
Awareness slipped gradually as Shepard woke. She first felt the comfortable weight of a blanket on her, then the aroma of onion and broth mixed with the faint hint of damp lichen, and last, the sounds of someone cooking. She stirred and opened her eyes cautiously. To her relief, the light was dim, pulsating from a fireplace in the corner of the room where a person was evidently cooking.
A fireplace. The sight was odd, archaic. People simply did not use fireplaces anymore. Even stoves with actual flames were rare to be found, except in planets with a suitable nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere. In ships, space stations, and colonies in less prolific worlds, air was continuously recycled and regulated, thus a restricted commodity. Flames were not only fire hazard (and potentially explosive, should it be handled wrong), they also wasted precious oxygen and fuel. People nowadays mostly cooked with electric ovens and heat stoves.
She had heard, of course, that some people on Earth insisted on isolating themselves from the modern world and its technological advances, instead living in wooden structures in areas close to wilderness. Over the years, however, especially since the First Contact War, a lot of these communities either dispersed or simply died slowly. The ones that survived only went to isolate themselves deeper, further away from view in fear of the aliens.
Maybe that was where she was: a xenophobic, technologically-backwards village on Earth.
Crap.
Shepard sat up and the blanket fell from her shoulders, pooling at her waist. She was naked, she realized belatedly.
She was also completely healed. Exactly how, she was not sure, but clearly it could not be just Cerberus' implants and cybernetics. Bruises and minor cuts might have healed overnight. What Shepard had, however, were not just some injuries obtained after a fistfight with a brute. She was sure she had at least internal bleeding and bruising due to Harbinger's firepower, the shrapnel said firepower had created and embedded in her flesh, and wounds caused by the subsequent blast of a galaxy-wide weapon mounted on the biggest space station ever existed.
Even a half-cyborg like her should have died.
The person in front of the fireplace turned towards her. An old woman, wearing a drab dress that looked like a prop for a medieval peasant in one of those fantasy vids. Her hair was gray and wiry, her skin mottled by spots, but her gait was strong and her posture straight. "You are awake," she said, "good."
The woman pressed a tin cup into Shepard's hands. The water smelled bad—as she drank it, she found that it tasted worse. Shepard tried not to think about what Mordin would have said about contamination and infection. Or worse, how Tali would have reacted. She had never had to test it, but she hoped Cerberus' body immunity implant covered whatever the water had, because she was too thirsty to be picky.
"Where am I?" she asked in Galactic after draining the cup.
"Far away from home," answered the old woman with a grin, "but you are aware of that already."
It took Shepard exactly two seconds before she realized that the old lady had answered her question in English.
The woman understood Galactic, but chose to speak English. Maybe she really was in a xenophobic village somewhere on Earth. But why would a xenophobe bother to learn Galactic? Cautiously in English, Shepard said, "You understand Galactic."
"Ah, is that was the tongue was called? When you are as old as I am, some questions sound the same no matter what language they are spoken in." She took the empty tin cup from Shepard and handed her a chipped porcelain bowl filled with some kind of soup. "And you speak the Common Tongue, lost one. How curious."
"The Common Tongue? I—where am I, exactly?"
"My hut. The Korcari Wilds. Ferelden. Thedas. I doubt these are the answers you were looking for."
"Far away from home," Shepard echoed weakly.
"Indeed you are."
Shepard drank the soup—onion and broth, scalding her tongue but not unwelcome—and went back to sleep, tired in more ways than one.
When Shepard was back awake the hut was empty, the fire out. Beams of sunlight streamed through a solitary window by the door. Some sort of garment was folded on a stool by the bed; when she unfolded it, she found it to be a thin gray shift, a string to fasten it on the waist. She put it on, and just as she was knotting the string on her waist, the door opened and a young woman walked in with a basket swinging from her elbow.
"Ah," the woman said, although she did not look surprised at all. "Mother did say you were awake before, but this is fast recovery even for her skills."
Shepard cleared her throat. "I've heard that before. That I heal fast, I mean."
"Clearly," she answered. The woman took her in again, and Shepard felt a bit exposed despite being more covered. She was wearing little, almost enough to rival Jack's state of undress. Her eyelids were heavily-lidded and painted purple, echoing the shade of her lips and top. Her iris looked uncannily like a nocturnal animal, golden yellow and sharp—maybe that was why—as she contemplated Shepard like a person might contemplate an interesting natural phenomenon.
Shepard cleared her throat again and crossed her arms. "So," she said, "mother?"
"Yes," the woman responded, "mother. The old woman who tended your wounds before is Flemeth. My mother."
"Isn't she a bit…"
"Old? Maybe. 'Tis no matter if I was not born from her womb; she raised me as her daughter, and so she is mother."
"I see."
The woman apparently took this as the end of their conversation. She walked across the room towards the fireplace and set her basket by it. She took out an assortment of plants, tubers, and fruits, methodically sorting and washing them in a bucket of water. Meanwhile, Shepard fidgeted on the spot, wringing her wrists. Then after a while, she blurted, "Can I use your toilet?"
"My what?"
"Toilet." Shepard paused. "Restroom? Water closet? Lavatory? Washroom? Somewhere I can relieve myself and preferably wash up?"
"Ah. The privy is out that door, to the left, by the lake."
Fresh air greeted her as soon as she exited the hut—a welcome feeling—and she took a look around. What the old woman's daughter had called lake turned out to be a murky body of water more resembling a marsh than an actual lake. Vegetation surrounded the area, taller trees marking the perimeter. No other houses or huts, not even a dirt road leading somewhere through the forest. Ancient towering ruins—pillars and broken archways—stood far in the distance as a lonely landmark.
And by the marsh, a little bit to the left, was a wooden structure not much bigger than a shower stall.
The concept of a separate building for only a toilet was completely lost on Shepard, but upon nearing the outhouse she began to understand. The thing reeked—not as bad as it would have been if placed indoors, but enough to trigger a gag reflex—even with its door closed. She could hazard a guess on what was beyond the door; years ago, she went through one week of survival training in boot camp and they were forced to make do with what they had. She held her breath, placed a hand on the door, and pushed.
A barrel of fresh water (please, please be rainwater, she thought) was placed on loose wooden planks that serve as a floor, the gaps between allowing water to drain off. Beside it was a deep hole from which the smell came from. She pushed down the urge to gag.
Shepard finished her business as quickly as possible. She paused at the sight of the hut; it was taller and bigger from the outside, the shape of it indicating the presence of a second floor and even possibly an attic. Odd. She did not notice any door or stairways leading up from the room she had been staying in. No ladders or stairs leaning from the outside of the hut, either. Or maybe she simply missed it, in the middle of her sleeping and waking and meeting strange cultists (they had to be cultists, the way they were dressed and lived) in an odd garden world with a history of ancient civilization?
The hut's front door creaked when she opened it. For the first time, Shepard actually took in the room. Two beds, one fireplace—bottles and phials littered the mantelpiece—with dying embers, fur pelts here and there, a makeshift table made of a plank supported by two barrels. A bookshelf sat in the corner with more books it could handle, some big and some small, most bound in leather and tough book spines, several manuscripts lay bare. No door to secret second floor.
She stood there, facing the room, trying to make sense of the hut and its inhabitants, to place it in the world she knew, and failing.
The woman turned and regarded her with a questioning look. Shepard licked her lips. "When I… was there… do you still have my things with you?"
She pointed to a crate sitting in the corner. Shepard stood on the wooden floor, cross-legged, and started taking out the things inside. There were only a few items in the crate. She took out the item at the very top: her M-3 Predator. The heavy pistol was battered, but it survived—just as it was the only weapon that survived the blast of a Reaper shot back in London. Its weight was familiar in her hand as she turned it and checked the heat sink to see how many shots she had left.
Nine.
And of course, Harbinger just had to fry her armor along with all the spare heat sinks she had. Shepard put the pistol aside. She clenched her hand, unclenched it, and—
—a small singularity, too small to actually affect anything, floated over her palm.
Shepard breathed a sigh of relief. If she did not have problems controlling her biotics, her implants and bio-amp should be intact. At the very least she would not be rendered defenseless. She really should thank Cerberus for the L5n sometime.
Next she took out a bundle of fabric, which turned out to be her under-armor as she opened it. It reeked of sweat and spoiled water, the cloth caked with mud and blood and burnt in several places. From its tattered state, it was clear that her rescuers had to cut the suit off her. Shepard turned an oddly-textured part and immediately regretted it upon finding part of what must have been her skin sticking and melded into one with the suit material. Bile rose to her mouth.
"Hey," Shepard called weakly.
"Yes?"
"Were you the one who found me?" she asked, her hands still clutching the remnants of her under-armor.
"Yes, and then I called Flemeth." Shepard heard the woman rose from where she was sitting, and soon a shadow was cast over her hunching figure. "I had to rip that thing off your body before Flemeth could start healing you."
"Thank you…" Shepard trailed away.
"Morrigan. And what are you called?"
"My name's Shepard. Thank you, Morrigan."
Morrigan's shadow stilled and Shepard turned to see that the younger woman was standing close-mouthed with an odd expression on her face. "What Flemeth does is never out of the goodness of her heart. She saved you for a purpose, though I could not fathom what," she said tersely.
Shepard blinked a few times and then shrugged. "I used to wish people would just help me, no strings attached, but that's as far as wishful thinking goes." Not that she asked for help this time around. The first time she died she had been grateful for Cerberus' reconstruction, dodgy agendas notwithstanding. This time she had been so ready to make the leap—figuratively and literally, in her case—and yet she was awakened in a foreign world, rescued by an old lady with a suspicious plan. She was not sure how to feel about being denied death, but thanking the person saving you was just what people should do.
"You do not know my mother. Otherwise, you would not be so calm."
"Should I know her?" asked Shepard, attention already back on her under-armor. She examined the back plating that covered the medi-gel dispenser and shields generator. The shields generator was most likely fried, but maybe she could still salvage some medi-gel. She reached inside the crate and smiled; the switchblade she usually kept in her boot was still there.
"You are not from this world. 'Tis understandable." Morrigan was now crouching beside Shepard, observing as she tried to pry the plating open with the switchblade. "In Ferelden, Flemeth is known as the Witch of the Wilds. They scare their children with tales of her."
Crack. The plating was off, and it was as Shepard had predicted. The shields generator was definitely busted—ah well, I can always make my own barrier—but the there was still some medi-gel left. She managed to liberate two tubes of medi-gel despite the dented dispenser cylinder where they were stored. "Those tales can't all be true," said Shepard as she put aside the tubes of medi-gel carefully beside her pistol and switchblade. Applied conventionally, the two tubes were not much, but better than none.
"No, not all. For one, my mother does not actually consume children as snacks." Morrigan's nose wrinkled in disgust.
Shepard did not know what to make of this. "And the witch part?"
"Mother uses magic. 'Tis true enough."
Shepard was about to reach in the crate to grab her boots, but froze. She looked at Morrigan levelly. "Magic isn't real."
"Do not be foolish, Shepard. How else did you think my mother healed you?" To illustrate her point, Morrigan put up a hand and much like how Shepard held a singularity earlier, she held in her palm red flickers of fire.
Whatever denial Shepard was about to stutter died on her tongue. That was not biotics… was it? As far as her knowledge went—and that was far enough, considering her N7 training when she honed her skills—biotics could not generate fire. Biotic individuals could manipulate mass effect field to various effect, some of which might trigger a spark, but not generate fire just like that. What other explanation did she have? Morrigan did not seem to have activated an incinerate command; no, Morrigan did not even own an omni-tool and considering how she lived, she might not even know what an omni-tool was.
Unsure of how to react, she instead said, half joking, "And I suppose you also have dragons and elves and dwarves?"
"For one who do not belong here, 'tis surprising how knowledgeable you are."
"Fairies?"
Morrigan frowned. "Fairies only exist in the imagination of foolish children. 'Tis why they call it fairy tales, after all."
Shepard's mouth twitched. "Of course. How silly of me." She slumped, one hand pinching the bridge of her nose. This was making even less sense by the minute.
"From how you reacted earlier, I assume magic does not exist in your world?"
Shepard shook her head. "Only in stories. Hell, if you go to a bookstore in any city there would be an entire section dedicated for elaborate magical adventures." She took out her boots from the crate before dumping them back in—just like the under-armor, the boots had to be cut off from her feet. Even if they had not been so damaged, the magnetic soles would be impractical unless she was planning to go somewhere with zero G. "So… what world is this?"
"Thedas. You are in the south of a country called Ferelden, in a forest called the Korcari Wilds."
Sighing, Shepard shook her head as she reached in the crate again and took out the last item in it: her omni-tool. "I mean," she said as she strapped the omni-tool on her left forearm, "is where this world is. What system? Which cluster?" She turned the omni-tool on, and the orange holographic display flickered for a few seconds before stabilizing.
[SYSTEM ERROR: CANNOT LOCATE POSITION]
[SYSTEM ERROR: NO RADIO FREQUENCY DETECTED. COMMUNICATION SYSTEM INACCESSIBLE]
[SYSTEM ERROR: NO EXTRANET SIGNAL DETECTED. CANNOT RETRIEVE MESSAGES]
[SYSTEM ERROR: SCANNING SENSORS OFFLINE]
[SYSTEM ERROR: REPAIR AND FABRICATION MODULE HARDWARE DAMAGED]
Shepard muttered a particularly vile Quarian curse and upon the look on Morrigan's face she supplied, "This isn't magic. It's technology. A device."
Morrigan watched as Shepard checked the omni-tool's functions, fingers flitting on the display. "I do not see what you mean by system and cluster."
"What star system and cluster you are—right. Well." Shepard pulled out a galaxy map, projecting it big enough between them. The usual blue dot usually blinking to indicate her position was absent, the diagnostics screen still obnoxiously projecting the various error messages. About the only thing the omni-tool could still do was accessing its own data storage. "I can't get any signal whatsoever from here, not extranet, no radio, nothing. So I think we're somewhere far from the Traverse, maybe in the Terminus, and that's why the signal either doesn't reach here or I'm unauthorized to access it." Shepard zoomed in the map to highlight the known clusters in the Terminus Systems. "I've never heard of a planet called Thedas in the Terminus, though, and I should know. I spent a year in the Terminus."
"Wait," Morrigan said, "I do not think Thedas is there."
"Not in the Terminus?"
She shook her head. "No, I do not think it is there in your map—fascinating as it is."
"What?"
Morrigan stood and walked towards the bookshelf, picking up books and removing piles until she returned with her arms full of scrolls. She dumped them on the floor before picking one and opening it. "This is a—"
"Star chart," Shepard said. "I know. But that means we have to match the constellations with the star chart of every damn garden planet in the galaxy."
"The point is that I do not think there will be any matches," Morrigan said. "Think. This world does not work the way yours does. 'Tis not a mere matter of distance. You said it yourself that there are magic and creatures in Thedas that do not exist in your world. Accept it, Shepard, you are far away—"
"No. No. You see, nearly thirty years ago humanity discovered that in the galaxy there are other creatures, other races, if you will, who do not even look human. And if they are there, and you are here, very much human, speaking in human language, then there must be a meeting point. I got here somehow. A link. There has to be one." Shepard thought about the prothean ruin in Eletania and the vision it gave her. A link from the Protheans to the past of humanity existed, there in Eletania, so surely there was a link between this Thedas and Earth? She pulled the star chart closer and began comparing it with Ilos' constellations.
Morrigan stood. "If you wish to waste your time, 'tis not of my concern," she said. "Mother will be home soon. Maybe she would be able to knock some sense in your head."
Shepard ignored her.
Nine bullets, two tubes of medi-gel, and an almost useless omni-tool were all she had.
I've faced worse odds, she assured herself. Her fingers trembled as she straightened the curling parchment of the star chart.
I'll find that link, and I'll find a way back.
.
A/N: And this is chapter one. To answer Raven the Blood Witch, I think now it's clear enough that the timeline takes place during the Fifth Blight. Extra cookies for frozendude for identifying the two people who found Shepard. Do tell me what you think of this chapter, I like knowing what people think. :3
EDITED: some minor errors. Yep.