Chapter Two: Charred
Everything Is Good For You - Crowded House
Solona felt as if she could conquer the world in her new boots. Maker, five years of wearing delicate mage slippers had dyed the skin of her feet a sweet rosy pink. Her thighs felt as if they were ready to fall right from the bone to hide in the comfort her new shoes, the supple leather supporting all sides—even the ankles—something she had strongly missed about the outside world.
Duncan must have slipped a word to the craftsman, because the grizzled old thing cornered her two days prior to measure her feet. He sat her down and planned with the lengths of his spindly fingers, giving her a gentle conversation about the artistry of women's shoes. It wasn't often he made boots smaller than the size of his hand, and besides, what kind of monster lets a circle mage run loose in the world in only her slippers?
Slightly uncomfortable moment aside, the man had done an incredibly decent job. It sure was nice to walk through the fresh breeze without it being just a sleepy visit to the Fade. It was actually real, all of it - even the horrid smell of a badly decomposed fox baking in the afternoon sun!
It sure was beautiful outside.
The older mages seemed rather nonchalant when they caught a glimpse of the real horizon, not just the glorified one all the runaways spoke of. Perhaps it was because they knew they were destined to return to the tower, that or to die on the battlefield. The way that some of them looked at her made her think that she was getting the short end of the stick – as if being a grey warden was worse than being the prisoner of your own body and soul.
She counted herself lucky regardless and spent the last few days before the battle bathing in the sunlight that shone from between the heavy leaves, calmly rolling that ball of fire within her palms when she felt no one was looking.
It was a sigh of pure relief, knowing that she could still do it – foolishly believing that her magical prowess had somehow been concentrated by all the magic and lyrium stuffed into the tower. Her magic had never been so powerful, even as a child, spells bursting with a new energy that must have come with a long-awaited lungful of fresh air. Solona had not realised how confining the tower really was.
It did have a plus side, she realised, faced with the dreary reminder that the outside world was far more flammable than she remembered. At least the stone did not light up and take to flames like the withered branches of the wilds did, especially after a significantly scorching summertime.
She had tried to explain that to Daveth, taking shade under an unfortunately charred tree while the senior warden took a vial of blood from their last conquest.
"Fire is a living thing, Daveth, it breathes just as much as you and I." She told him; annoyed by the casual way he folded his arms. "I can't just suck it all back where it came from, I just make the damned stuff."
"Surely they taught you how to control your magic in that big, old tower of yours." The scruffy thug had been on her for days – firstly because of her gender, as apparently women weren't skilled enough to be grey wardens, and later because of her origin. He'd obviously never come toe-to-toe with a circle mage before, and Solona was having difficulty figuring out whether he was openly frightened or just plain daft. "They wouldn't let you out without knowing you weren't going to accidentally kill us all, right?" The archer continued. "Right?"
"I wasn't 'let out'," she reminded him, savouring the flicker of distress that crossed his face. "I was conscripted. I've told you this."
He shifted nervously as she glanced over towards Alistair – the blond shadowed by the shivery knight and the quiet nobleman. "Besides," she tried to ease Daveth's nerves, "I put it out, didn't I?"
"Barely." The rogue let out a strangled breath, trying to keep cool and collected. "You may as well've lit a signal fire for the darkspawn."
His own thoughts seemed to scare him, and he blanched in their silence.
The idea of being swarmed by the stinking creatures ran a delicate shiver down her spine, and the mage caught the attention of her superior. "Alistair!" She called, and the friendly face looked away from his conversation with the noble. "Where to next?"
"We go in deeper." He returned with his serious voice, stretching up and tucking the vial somewhere safe before nodding at the dark-haired rogue in front of him. Aedan took the lead without complaint, taking them over a small rise in the earth towards the crumbling pillars in the distance.
Returning to the camp an hour or so later, the recruits were slightly torn and mildly baked. Having been cornered by a swamp witch wearing the most glorious excuse for rags, they had retrieved the age-old treaties and had completed their minor goal. Next in line was their Joining ceremony, being prepared by Duncan and a few of the older wardens in their secretive little tent.
Aedan was snacking on the butt of a bread loaf, breezing through a pleasant conversation with Alistair by the fire. Darkness was squashing the sun into the horizon and a chill had begun to seep into the smoky air, Solona enjoying the various buzzings of foreign insects that hid underneath their conversations.
She hadn't quite worked up enough courage to question the nobleman of his origins, but she had a funny feeling she knew just who he was. Her mother had kept a screen-printed portrait card of the Teryn and his family on their fireplace, and included them in her prayers each night.
He had grown since she had last seen him, but Solona was sure that her fellow recruit was definitely Aedan Cousland. He had the colours of his father and the build of his mother – tall and lithe, quaint features that pinched slightly feminine. Dark eyes, dark hair, and wrapped in expensive-looking armour that had been dinted and scuffed beyond repair.
One particularly bad summer, the shores of their village began to wash with slick oil that had burst from a fractured cargo ship offshore – the cramped fishing community suffering greatly. Her father and a few other men from the township had appealed to the Teryn's court for aid, and they received it – fast and efficient, before the townsfolk had time to starve and fall sick. The village had been forever grateful, forever devoted, and the portrait card sat as a reminder of the great Couslands who petted them with kind, gentle hands.
She sat and stared rather blatantly, awed by his presence. One thing was setting her back, an appreciation of reason, because there was no way by the Maker's sweet breath that Teryn Cousland would let his youngest son become a grey warden. It made absolutely no sense, and Solona chalked it up to be the strangest coincidence she had ever encountered. He must have been a noble, of course; he was too polite to be a street urchin like Daveth, and was far to smooth-skinned to be a knight like Ser Jory. His face was innocent, fresh, but his eyes seared with crushed embers – as if he had seen far too much to be a true nobleman.
It really was rather odd, and it made her more curious the longer she watched him. The times he would catch her glance showed her just how shy he was - shoulders twitching nervously when he caught her stare. It would have been sweet, if it weren't so bloody confusing. If anything, she argued with herself, he would have been a part of his father's army – who must have been gathered with the King's militia by the rendezvous point. There was no reason for him to be mixed in with the wardens around camp.
Her thoughts drifted, eyes fixing onto the scratched insignia on the noble's armour. Daylen, her eldest brother, had signed up to join the King's army a year or so before she had left for the circle. He must have waiting with the other men down below, shaking off the pre-battle jitters behind the swing of his greatsword. He had always been so proud of himself, and it would have thrilled Solona to have been able to see him before he threw himself wholeheartedly into combat. But Duncan had suggested against it – something about keeping focus on the main goal. She knew that Daylen would survive, as he had always been so strong and brave, and perhaps there would be time after the battle to sneak down and see him. Duncan didn't have to know.
The battle was looming however, and the minutes were ticking away. The recruits were awaiting Duncan's return, and the anxieties that came together with the unknown were beginning to needle themselves beneath Solona's skin. There was no knowing whether she would survive the night, and try as she may there was no way of forcing that fear away. The darkspawn were horrific-looking creatures, to say the least – lumbering through the wilds with their Maker-forsaken stench and dribbling with the black goo that she'd never be able to scrape from her robes. The thought of facing an entire hoard gave her goosepimples, puffed pores rippling down her arms and up her legs. Perhaps she wouldn't get to see her brother. Perhaps she'd never see anything again after that night.
Daveth flopped down beside her a moment later, offering a strange mixture of mottled cheese and jam to the young mage before stealing her away from her thoughts by voicing his own fears. As much as the thief bothered her with his small-minded ways, she still found him better company than Wynne or Ser Jory – and she was sure that he felt the same about her. They, unlike Ser Jory or Wynne, could hold a conversation that didn't end in dithers or motherly scoldings, and it seemed to be more than comfortable. They chatted softly for another half hour, the far light in the distance fading while the glow of the fire painted their faces.
Soon Alistair stood, coaxed by Duncan's signal – rounding up the recruits and leading them to a shadowy plateau, crumbling cobble spattered with the faded moonlight flitting through the rustling trees above. The mood fell sombre, and Ser Jory began to shake – the eldest recruit setting the lowest possible standard for the strength of the human spirit. She felt as if her bones were trembling, trying jumble themselves and leave her as a sad puddle between the stones, but there was no way that Solona would be out-wardened by a snivelling knight. She stood still, and proud, and felt only mildly wary when Duncan produced a well-thumbed chalice.
He read them their oaths, and a heavier chill slipped around their ankles like a furtive anchor. Drinking the blood of a Darkspawn? There was no escaping it now, and the knight's armour began to rattle slightly – the clinking pitching and mixing with the white noise in the back of her head. The commander's words hid beneath the empty sound of incredible fear, his dark, scarred hands gently offering her the heavy goblet.
Solona stared into the mixture, overwhelmed by the peculiar stench, blanching as she realised that the moment was real, not just a strange dream. Daveth was unsettled by the discovery, his thieving eyes sneaking a glance at the grimy liquid.
"Do I have to drink all of it?" She asked, and Duncan's response was just as stoic as she thought it would be. Just enough for a decent mouthful was not a difficult task, but her gullet was already beginning to seize at the smell. The mage let out a heavy breath. "Here we go." She drew in a nervous sniff, shoulders straightening and brave face pulled tight.
Cold silver met her worried lips and the woman took a tentative sip, an odd feeling soaking into her tongue as the drink met the back of her throat. It burnt, swimming to her stomach in an acid wash, and the darkness began to chew on the corners of her vision. Her legs finally gave out.
