Yes, the title is a reference to a sentence in the first chapter. Although, I actually started to write this one-shot before any of the others, so the first chapter really contains a reference to this one. Who cares? Enjoy!
Katari Adaar. Her name meant, "A weapon that brings death." Though her parents had abandoned the way of the Qun in order to be more than their roles would allow, to give their future child that same opportunity, they'd given her a Qunlat name, and Katari had grown into that name as well as any Qunari whose role had been chosen by the Qun. Running with the Valo-kas, Katari had learned to rely only on herself. It was as though in forsaking the Qun, the mercenaries had also forsaken the very idea of "the whole," each member its own independent unit, working heedlessly of the others. They had completed their jobs successfully, of course, and jokes and stories had been shared around the campfire; however, there had never been a sense of togetherness amongst the other Vashoth and Tal-Vashoth while in battle, almost as though they had been competing against one another for kills. Men and women had held their own alongside one another, bearing scars with pride. Those with scars had failed in combat and suffered the consequences of his or her mistakes without complaint. They had not cried out for help like children or accepted acts of heroism. They had not been weak links in the disconnected mercenary chain. Katari bore many scars, but learning to enlist the shadows as her ally when she found none in flesh had left her less blemished than most of her fellow mercenaries.
Thus, when Sera ventured into one of the many lakes of the Fallow Mire in order to lighten a floating body's pockets, and at least six wasted bodies rose from the depths of the water, Katari instinctively unsheathed her blades and entered the cover of the shadows without a word, leaving her companions to fend for themselves. They were a formidable lot, at least as far as she had witnessed. Sera kept her distance well enough, with all her leaping about, and Solas had a way of freezing foes solid just before they could close in on him, not to mention his barriers would have protected him even if the ice failed. Blackwall, however, she'd barely had the opportunity to gauge in combat. Cassandra usually accompanied her, for although their first meeting was less than pleasant, Katari had come to respect her, and she was talented at keeping the bulk of the opposition away from the more fragile elves; she had also learned to give Katari her space during a fight. But Cassandra had been wounded during their last mission on the Storm Coast and was recuperating at Haven. Not that Katari minded Blackwall, but his suspicion of her wore on her nerves.
She kept to the shadows, flanking each corpse as it stepped clear of the water, while Sera and Solas released a barrage of arrows and spells on those still wading forward. They were holding their own, and she would do the same. She expected nothing less from them, or from herself. So, when she slipped in the mud surrounding the lake, lost her footing and came crashing down directly behind one of those damn corpses, splattering muck against its legs and bringing its attention whirling around to her, she cursed her incompetence.
It was obvious that the creature could see her, the way its undead eyes stared directly at her instead of spinning wildly with an air of confusion. Either her stealth had been broken, the shadows fleeing from her in her time of need (even though the area was composed of hardly anything except shadows), or she was covered in enough mud to render the illusion ineffective. Panic had washed over her so abruptly that she couldn't tell which was the case, and as she tried again and again to regain her footing, her hands and feet digging deeper lines in the mud, all she could think was that she might as well be digging her own grave. She clamped her eyes shut just as the creature brought down its sword with a force that would surely carve a rift in her shoulder. What made her jerk back was not the sting of a blade ripping through her flesh, however, but a loud clang echoing directly in front of her.
Katari opened her eyes, and she blinked them thrice and wiped at them with her muddy hands because she could not believe the sight that they showed her: Blackwall towering over her, his shield braced against the undead's sword. He was so close to her that if she dared lean forward at all she'd be rubbing her face against his leg like a damn cat.
With a roar, he shoved the creature away, giving Katari the time she needed to roll to safety, because she had finished trying to stand up in that damn mud. Once her boots found purchase, she darted behind the distracted undead and thrust her daggers into its withered shoulders, dragging it to the ground. She plunged her blades into every expanse of flesh they could find, furiously wishing that they were large enough to chop the creature's body into pieces rather than fill it with holes. Once satisfied that the creature was deader than dead could be (although with the undead, exactly how dead was that?) she lowered her daggers, slathered in ochre and mud, and met the eyes of the man who had defended her. He nodded his head in regard and offered a small smile.
How dare he smile, when he had just deprived her of a well-earned scar?
She sneered. Setting her jaw, she sheathed her blades, turned from him, and strode further into the mire.
~8~
Upon returning to Haven, Katari was the very opposite of the light-footed Qunari she prided herself on being. Clouds of snow rose around her furious footfalls, curses bursting beneath her breath at nearly every turn through the encampment. Solas and Sera had smartly decided to leave the Qunari to whether her rage alone, the cause of which they truly could not fathom. The clattering of armor that followed Katari, however, made her aware that not all of her companions were so kind.
"Leave me be," she snapped over her shoulder, gritting her teeth and forcing as much venom into her voice as possible. The tactic worked for a moment, if the way Blackwall hesitated in his steps was any indication. Good. Perhaps if he feared her, he'd be less likely to come near her again.
"Lady Adaar," (Oh, Lady was she? Damn him.), "I couldn't help but notice you've been in a mood since your slip in the bog."
She said nothing. If she said something, it was bound to be entirely insulting and probably racist. Not that she cared for his feelings, but the last rumor that needed circulating was that the Herald wanted to slaughter every human in the world. Complete rubbish, by the way.
Finally, as they neared the stables, she rounded on him. He was following her so closely that he nearly collided with her. Standing at least a head taller than Blackwall, her fists clenched at her sides, she glowered down at him. "I didn't ask for your help," she said.
"You didn't," he agreed with a brief nod, "but it was obvious that you needed it."
"Oh, was it?"
"You had fallen." He strode past her into the barn, leaving the door open, its hinges creaking. Taking that as an invitation to continue the conversation in warmer conditions, Katari looked either way to see if anyone was watching, bit her lip and growled, rolled her eyes, and followed him inside.
"Yes, and as far as I'm concerned," she said, swinging the door shut behind her, "if I fall in battle, then the one who suffers the consequences of that is me." She suddenly felt claustrophobic in the small, sad excuse of a barn. Amongst the bales of hay, presumably for the horses, there was a rickety table, upon which Blackwall rested his helmet, and a cot tucked away into a corner. Nothing but ashes remained in the fireplace.
Blackwall knelt before the hearth with kindling in hand and set about building a fire. "You're daft if you think that," he said, the sound of scraping flint filling the room.
"Why? Because I'm a woman? And you have some blown-up sense of chivalry that prevents you from letting one pay for her mistakes? I'm no damsel in distress that needs rescuing."
The scraping flint stopped abruptly. "Is that why you're upset?" he asked, a hint of amusement ringing the question as he resumed his work.
"I'm sure that you wouldn't be so quick to jump to Bull's defense," she continued. "He's a big boy, right, can handle himself just fine? He can take a few stabs." Bull fought like the Valo-kas, proud of every kill and reveling in the blood that spattered his skin, whether it was his own or an enemy's.
A small flame sputtered into existence. "What're you getting at?" Blackwall asked. He fed the flame until it blossomed, and Katari clenched her fists behind her back, trying to reign in her frustration at his lack of comprehension.
She stomped her foot, rattling the floorboards. "I don't want special treatment!"
"Well, that's a shame," he said, rising to his feet as his gauntlets clattered onto the table with a casual toss, "because it's exactly what you'll get."
"I am just as skilled a fighter as Bull."
"Bull isn't the damn Herald of Andraste."
She crossed her arms. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything!" he finally shouted, throwing his sopping gloves on the floor. "You're the one with the mark. Without you, we have no way to close the breach and no way to restore order to this world. In this fight, you're the only one who isn't expendable." He turned away from her and warmed his bare hands before the fire, flexing fingers stiff from the cold. "If you fall, then we all pay. This endeavor has no room for your petty pride."
She pursed her lips and exhaled heavily through her nostrils. It was not an argument that she had expected, but it was a valid one nonetheless. Still, the thought of being guarded, kept safe, far from battle, was sickening. The thick of battle was where she excelled, where she could most effectively contribute to the inquisition. "I'm not going to wait around while everyone else fights my battles for me," she said, her tone decisive but no longer argumentative.
"No, I didn't think you would," he admitted as he ran a hand through his hair, soaked with either rain or sweat (she couldn't tell which it was, but her own hair, tied back as it was, had fallen victim to the rain).
For a moment, she was…concerned about how she must look herself. Her leathers were stiff with caked mud, and her war paint must have smudged and run beyond salvaging. She swiped a hand across her jaw, and her fingers came away stained blue. All the way down to her jaw? Her cheeks flushed, and she was grateful that the man had his back to her.
"It's obvious that Cassandra doesn't protect you as well as she should," he said, his hands unfastening the buckles of his armor, "the way you always come back bloodied up in some way or another. I suppose I'll need to accompany you into the field more often."
"Oh, you will, will you?" she asked, trying to tame the flyaway ringlets that had escaped their bun.
"You can refuse, if you like." He turned to face her again, shrugging out of his shoulder plating, and she snapped her arms down at her sides, embarrassed by her primping. Had she not just been complaining about being treated like a woman? And here she was, acting like one. Disgusting. "You are, after all, in charge." He seemed oblivious to her vain attentions. The breastplate joined the other armor on the table.
She narrowed her eyes. "I feel like you'll still tag along even if I do."
He smirked. "You're very perceptive."
"Just…don't get in my way."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good." She gave a curt nod. "I'm glad we have an understanding." She turned to leave, wanted to venture into the cold atmosphere once more and chill her flushed face, but his voice stopped her:
"Not quite. Before you go, there're two things you need to hear."
She pivoted on her heel, planting her hands on her hips and tilting her head as though to ask, "What now?"
Her impatience seemed to amuse him. "Never mistake my aid in battle as an insult to your skill. I would do the same for any member of my unit," he smirked, "even Bull, big boy that he is. And…" he paused, as though carefully considering his next words, "I doubt that anyone could ever mistake you for a damsel in distress. Even if you full-out swooned, you're too tall to be one."
And there it was, the remaining elephant in the room, the "you're much taller than I expected" remark that everyone and his mother needed to tell her, as if she had lived her entire life unaware of her size. Yes, she was a Qunari, and yes, she was tall.
He averted his eyes and coughed into his hand. "I, um, must have lost my touch. That was meant to be a compliment."
Then, unprepared for, and unaccustomed to, such a comment, Katari knew that no amount of smudged paint could hide the surprise in her widened eyes or the blush that consumed her cheeks and ears.
~8~
Varric nods in approval of what he's written. There are a few rough spots, but for a first draft, it holds definite promise. Every epic adventure needs a good romance to soften the edges of battle, death, and betrayal, and the Inquisitor's ordeal is no exception. Not that this romance ended well, but the emotional roller coaster will leave readers clamoring for more. At least it all began amusingly enough.
"And all of it's true?" he asks.
Sera reclines on the cushions of her bay window, her tongue poking between her teeth as she scrawls a doodle on a roll pf parchment. "Of course," she says, scribbling curly moustaches where Dorian's eyebrows should be. "You think I could make this shite up?"
"I could."
"Yeah, well, I'm not you."
"Then again, I would never write a less-than-successful attempt at seduction."
"Oh, I wouldn't call it seduction," she trails off into giggles. "Lemme see," she says, once she's recovered, one hand grabbing empty air until Varric places a sheaf of freshly-inked parchment between her fingers.
Eventually, she hands them back to him, her eyes squinted accusingly. "I never said she fixed her hair."
"Well," he examines a phrase that he had written down verbatim and then crossed out, "saying, "It was sort of cute how she was nervous and into him, because she was totally into him," isn't exactly good enough."
"Whatever," she grumbles, "I tell stories just fine, thanks very much. Also, what's with all that rubbish at the beginning?"
"Some sort of introduction was necessary. I pieced it together from things she's mentioned now and then. Plus some artistic liberty."
"You mean lies."
He grins. "It's what I do." He stands from the desk, rolling his shoulders and looking out the window. The sun has sunk lower than he realized. Edits may need to way until another day. "I must thank you again for your spying," he says as he tucks away his quill and jar of ink into his coat.
"Not like it was hard." Sera sits up and carefully folds the doodle into a hat, each crease slow and measured. "Arguments are juicy with secrets, and I know how to spot one in the making. Besides, dummies who leave doors open are asking for eavesdroppers."
From one of his pockets, Varric extracts a small scrap of parchment, which he holds out to Sera. "Your payment, my good woman." With greedy fingers, the elf snatches the paper and scans the cookie recipe.
"And these will be good?" she asks, her brow cocked. "They need to be good."
"They'll be as good as you can make them."
She scrunches her nose. "Might make her feel even worse then. I've never baked before."
"Maybe buy some cookies then?"
"Right," she says with a decisive nod. She rises from the cushions, scoops up her notebook by the doorway, and writes Buy good cookies for Inquisitor. "Got any coin?"
He holds up his hands, palms forward. "That wasn't part of the deal. I've held up my half of the bargain."
"Half of your half," Sera corrects him, puffing the folded hat into shape. She approaches Varric and tugs the hat down on his head, careful not to rip the parchment. "To be delivered to Josie at once," she orders with extreme gravity, as though her drawing is essential to the success of their ambassador's current negotiations.
He tucks the rough draft into his coat and raises his hand to his forehead in a salute. "Right away," he says, and he about-faces with a seriousness to rival the elf's. For all he knows, it might very well be a vital document that Sera pilfered for her own amusement. He sighs as he makes his way from the Herald's Rest, attracting stares and leaving a trail of laughter behind him. The things he does for a good story.
So, what's true and what's an author's embellishment? I'll let you decide!
Irony: Line in the Sand got in my way all the time until I finally disabled it.
