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Chapter Four – Abyss

Fourteen days they marched through the darkness, and Alistair was certain his armour stank of darkspawn blood and darkspawn death. They lived in the spaces between the rocks, he thought, for there was surely no other way they could do this, leap from the gloom and attack so often and in such numbers. The strange ache in his chest sharpened, and he knew that Darrian felt it as well, because whenever he looked at the elf, his face was blank and tight and exhausted.

The high columns of Ortan Thaig rose above him, and he found himself watching the play of the pale light that fell through the shafts above. Pools shone between the rocks, unmoving and deep. He saw small stone houses, their windows empty and dark, and he wondered how long it had been since the living walked the pathways here.

When Darrian finally called a halt, Alistair shucked his pack and sighed. The light was soft, and he supposed there was no need for a fire. He touched the solid edge of the column, let his fingers sink into the strange shapes carved into it.

"No," Darrian said, somewhere behind him, his voice frayed. "It is not alright."

"There was no time," Zevran responded, his accent lilting and light. "There were many of them and we ran, if I recall correctly, my Warden."

"Your leathers are soaked with it," Darrian snapped. "Off, now, and clean them. Now, Zevran."

Alistair said nothing, only pressed his fingertips against his scalp. He heard the Crow's amused response, and the jangle of buckles snapping open. He turned away, and slowly, he made his way across the uneven ground. He sat beside one of the small pools and stared at the tired grey blur of his own reflection.

He remembered the witch's home, and the knifing grief, and the cold taste of his own tears, when he had hoped that he was alone enough.

He dragged himself upright and winced. His head felt strapped with iron, and his eyelids stung. He stared at the floorboards for a long moment, and wondered if he should simply burrow back beneath the sheets and try to will himself into sleep.

No, he thought. He should not – could not, not yet – not while the young elf was somewhere outside, somewhere lost in his own thoughts.

In the grey dusk he found Darrian, turned away from the soft glow of the windows and sitting cross-legged beside the pool. Alistair paused behind him and listened to the wind, rattling through the reeds.

"Got everything packed?" Darrian asked.

"Yes." Alistair closed the distance, flopped down beside him. "I can't…Maker above. It feels so strange."

"Yes."

He fell silent. He did not know what to say, what else he could say. He thought of Duncan and Cailan and the Wardens and the men in the valley and his throat thickened. He remembered the terrible, driving pain of the arrow that had thudded into his chest, and the shocking impact of the other one, the one that had bitten into his shoulder and spun him. He remembered how Darrian had screamed, and he had wondered if that meant the elf was already dying.

He remembered somehow forcing himself onto his side, and then onto his knees, and how he had seen Darrian, hunched over and bleeding, blood running in glossy ribbons down his side and his chest and one thigh. Blood falling in thick droplets from his mouth. Blood turning the stone all shiny beneath them.

"I left Denerim because I killed a noble's son," Darrian said, and turned his head into the press of the wind.

"You…what?"

"He was the Arl of Denerim's son. He came to the Alienage with his friends and he took my cousin Shianni and he took the girls my cousin Soris and I were supposed to marry."

"Supposed to marry?" Alistair turned, aware that he must have sounded foolish. "Maker above, Darrian. I…do you want to talk about it?"

"They had come to the Alienage to marry us. We'd never met them before that day."

"What happened?"

"I made Soris come with me, and we went to the arl's estate, and we found the girls and got them out. They had them all afternoon, and by the time we got there, it was, well. They'd been hurt. So Soris started to get them out of the estate, and I killed the arl's son."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said helplessly. "I didn't…Duncan never said anything."

"Of course he didn't."

"So why..?"

"The guards came for me, and Duncan spoke up for me."

"Thank you for telling me."

One side of the elf's mouth moved. "I thought perhaps you'd want to know what kind of Warden you're stuck with."

"Don't do that," Alistair told him warningly. "Don't even bother. I've been blaming myself solid for the past two nights, and all I've achieved is no sleep, swollen eyes, a sore throat, and a headache."

The elf laughed, uneven and rough. "Could your jokes have worse timing?"

"Probably. If I tried."

The elf laughed again, and he turned properly towards Alistair. "No need. Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"Alistair?" Darrian said, in the same hushed voice they all seemed to be using down here, down here where the silence swallowed words.

"Yes?"

"Oghren thinks he's found Branka's trail."

"He thinks," Alistair echoed, and almost immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry."

Darrian shook his head. "I don't like it either. There's less here. Given how many people Oghren said she took with her. There's not much left here."

"Maybe the darkspawn came through this place after them. She's been missing a while."

"I know."

"The Anvil of the Void," Alistair said, and grimaced. "Could it have a less inspiring name?"

Darrian barked out a laugh. "Probably. You want first watch?"

"More than I want third watch," Alistair said, and he let Darrian heave him up to his feet and away from the small pool.

In the quiet after they had eaten, Darrian caught Zevran's wrist and led him away from the others, up the low slope and past the last of the stone houses. He ignored whatever it was that Oghren bellowed after them and tugged the assassin around and behind the corner.

"Come here," Darrian said, and dug tired fingers under Zevran's loose hair. He was aware of the assassin's hands on him, and impatiently, he dragged Zevran down onto the ground with him. Desperately, he rolled beneath Zevran, sliding his hands along the assassin's sides. He murmured Zevran's name, and when he ground Zevran's hips hard against his own, the assassin caught his chin.

"My Warden," he breathed into Darrian's ear. "Slow down." He turned Darrian's head, and the movement of his mouth was soft and damp. "There is no need to rush this. Let me please you."

He knotted his hands at the back of Zevran's neck. "Is that what this is?" he asked, and wondered at the strange, wrenching ache in his belly. "You pleasing me?"

"Is that not what all pleasure of this kind is? Two people pleasing each other?"

"Yes, but," he said, and turned his head so that his cheek slid along Zevran's. "Yes."

Afterwards, they lingered until Darrian realised that the stone was chill beneath his bare skin, that his shoulder was uncomfortably lodged against something hard. He shoved up to his knees and watched as Zevran straightened his leathers, his hands quick and precise on dangling laces.

"Zev, maybe you could…" To distract himself, he grabbed for his shirt, heaved it on. "Maybe we could stay together. Tonight."

"Are there nights down here, my Warden?"

"You know what I mean. We could sleep. Together. Around here, maybe. Away from the others."

"Away from the others?" Zevran's golden eyebrows rose, and his teeth flashed in a vicious grin. "I'm to be hidden, am I? No, my Warden. It is far too dangerous down here, is it not? Even I do not care to be roused from sleep by darkspawn."

The tunnels twisted deeper and became the place Oghren called the Dead Trenches. There, Darrian spent the nights – or what he thought were the nights – with his arms around his shins. They stole keys from the ghosts of long-dead dwarves and in a cave where the walls were slick and crimson, they found a dying dwarf woman who stank of the darkspawn. She spoke strange words that made his skin tighten, and her dark, bloodshot eyes looked through him.

When he led the others away from her and the fading echoes of her voice, his spine was stiff. His fingers slipped inside his gloves, and he knew his stance was too rigid, too wary. Zevran's shoulder brushed his, and he bit back the instinctive need to lurch away.

The darkspawn, he thought, and the thought of them made his head buzz. They were here, he knew, on the other side of the stone walls. He remembered the rolling green of the Wilds, and how they had fallen beneath his blade, shrieking monsters that bled black blood onto the moss.

That was different, he thought. He had been different. His mind had been all full of Soris and Shianni and the arl's son and he not really seen the darkspawn, not really, as they crumpled beneath his sword. They were monsters, no more, monsters that snapped and hissed and died, and somewhere behind his eyes, they all wore the nobleman's face.

"Oh, Maker," Alistair murmured. "What is that?"

Darrian looked across the blood-wet stone and saw it, and even before the roaring in his head rose up again, he knew that it was the broodmother. Hespith had called it that. Hespith's words all harsh with her madness, and she had spoken of it, this thing that had once been a dwarven woman.

"They remade her in their image. And then she made more of them."

Laryn, Darrian thought. The woman's name had been Laryn, Hespith had said, before she had been forced into this change, this change that had made her grow and swell and forget herself and birth more of them.

The broodmother's head turned, eyes fierce and golden amid the rolling flesh of its face. For a terrible, frozen instant, he stared at it. Its hands lifted, dripping and heavy, and he knew he needed to be doing something, moving, anything.

"Darrian!" Alistair's shoulder cannoned into his, driving him to one side.

He remembered to call out to Oghren and Zevran to stay back, to not get themselves too near to its jaws or its grasping hands. He was aware of Alistair's solid shape at his shoulder, the sweep of the man's shield as he charged. Under his feet, the ground was slippery and treacherous and he knew he should slow himself down, watch his footing. But the thing itself – the broodmother, the thing that birthed the darkspawn – was above him, moving, the hands reaching down for him.

He spun beneath one heavy, clenched hand. The motion took him back up to his feet and he whirled again, forcing the point of his sword into the thing's wrist. When it howled, he held on, held on until it wrenched free, and the thick black blood ribboned his sword.

"Darrian, move," Alistair shouted.

He complied, shoving himself away fast enough that he stumbled. Alistair twisted, moving into the space in front of him, and the broodmother's closed hand thumped uselessly against his shield. Alistair braced himself, and the upward swing of his sword sheared into the thing's arm again. Darrian matched his next stroke, driving his sword into the thing's rippling flank until the blade was half-buried. The broodmother screamed, head flinging back, and the sudden pain of it shocked through him.

"Oghren, get back," Alistair snapped.

But the dwarf's axe rose and fell again, and Darrian saw it as the edge sank into the broodmother's trembling flesh. He saw the oily fall of its blood, and when he looked up at it, its jaws gaped. Shale's fist slammed into it again and again, and its huge head sagged back.

"That's it," Alistair said, between heaving breaths. "Yes? That's it?"

Darrian stared at it, and the blood that ran out of its mouth and onto the mounds of flesh below. "I think so."

Oghren spun his axe, jabbed the haft at the broodmother's slack arm. "She's done."

She, Darrian thought, and his throat closed up. She had been a dwarf, and she had been changed, forcibly and terribly. Blindly, he sheathed his sword and ignored the awful wet noise the fouled blade made. He swallowed again and muttered to Alistair, "Get them cleaned up. I'll check the tunnels ahead."

He turned away before he could see Alistair's face change, before he could see the man wonder whether to ask if he was alright. He curled his fingers against his palms and blundered through the winding tunnels. The salt in his eyes splintered the pale light from the small lanterns. The few darkspawn who hurtled at him dived too quickly at his sword, and he watched them fall, their throats opened and bleeding.

He found a small alcove, hollowed out at the far end, and he crawled through, hating the scrape of the stone against the small of his back. A single shaft of pale light cut the darkness here, and while he waited, he cupped his hands beneath it.

Eventually he heard their footsteps, hurried and brisk against the stone, and Shale explaining something to Oghren about Honnleath.

"There you are," Zevran said, and something in his smile was shadowed. "You shouldn't wander so far, my Warden. Not down here."

Darrian turned away, and he heard the soft sound of the assassin following him. He crossed the small chamber, and touched the curving rock. "I want to be alone."

"As you would have it."

Sidelong, he watched the assassin go, watched the grey light as it slanted across the assassin's narrow shoulders. Absurdly, he wondered if he should call Zevran back, should ask him to stay. He pressed his hand against the rock again, hard enough that his fingertips turned numb. He thought of the broodmother and the fetid air and the fierce glow of its eyes and the panic welled up. He swallowed, and closed his eyes until his breathing steadied.

Much later, after Oghren coaxed a tiny fire into life, and Shale stood wordlessly on watch, he heard Alistair's cautious approach.

"You're not hurt?"

"No."

"Good."

Darrian stared at his own fingers, curled against the stone. "You're not either?"

"No."

"It was horrible."

"Yes, it was," Alistair said. "I didn't…I've never seen anything like it. I know that sounds stupid."

"It doesn't. Do you know something?"

"What?"

"I miss my dog."

Alistair laughed, rough and slightly strained. "To hide behind?"

"Well, he is big enough."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"No," Alistair said. "I know what you mean."

Darrian saw the way the man's mouth creased downwards at the corners, the way his feet scraped unevenly against the stone. "But?"

"But Oghren's cooking something."

"And that is how you hope to restore my appetite?" Tiredly, Darrian let himself smile, and when Alistair gestured him back across the small stone chamber, he followed. "Well, I'm convinced."

The stone beneath his feet was uneven, and when he knelt to touch it, the coldness of it bit into his fingers. Above him was only darkness, and every time he tried to see through it, his head pounded. He knew it was there, somewhere, the thing that looked like a dragon. It flew beneath the high domed roofs of the caverns, he was sure. He looked up and up again, and when he saw it, he looked into the strange light of its eyes until it rushed towards him and the great sweep of its wings filled his vision.

He woke to the pressure of Zevran's arms around his waist and Zevran's mouth against his bare shoulder.

"It was here," he said, and his tongue scraped heavily against the back of his teeth. "It was here. I saw it."

"No," the assassin murmured. "Just a dream, my Warden. Another dream."

"Yes." He waited, eyes half-closed, until the deep, throbbing ache in his head ebbed a little. "Thank you."

"No need," Zevran said, and his lips parted in a crooked smile. "After you kicked me awake, I thought it best not to let you thrash around quite so loudly."

"Oh. Did I?"

"Twice, and painfully, my Warden."

He watched the slow crawl of the flamelight across the backs of Zevran's hands, slender and nicked with small scars. "And how is it that you were close enough for me to kick you?"

"Ah, well." The assassin shrugged. He rested his forehead against Darrian's shoulder, and his breathing hitched. "Perhaps you were right. Perhaps it would be better to be together. Down here."

Darrian drew the assassin down beside him, and they lay like that, the rumpled blankets between them. Darrian leaned his head against the crook of Zevran's elbow. Slowly, he traced the dark twist of the ink that followed the curve of Zevran's cheek. "Yes," he said. "Perhaps it would."

In the darkness, Caridin's anvil glowed. Each rise and fall of the hammer sent sparks tumbling in a livid rush onto the stone below. Carefully, Alistair unslung his shield, leaned it against the wall. He rolled his shoulders, felt the pull and twinge of exhausted muscles. Across the rise of the stone, he saw Shale, standing still and poised and watching every strike of Caridin's hammer.

Further away, Oghren sat silently, his axe flat on the floor and his chin cradled on crossed hands. Silently, Alistair sat beside him and stared down at some point between his own boots.

"Stupid woman," Oghren said, and heaved out a sigh. "Always had been. Brilliant, but stupid."

Alistair remembered her, the dwarf woman who had been Oghren's wife, her face all twisted with her terrible madness. He remembered how they had found the others, the last of her house, all them dead and pale and shrunken in the tunnels. Past the final gateway, Caridin himself had waited, Caridin with his anvil that had made stone monsters of breathing dwarves.

"Suppose this is the point where someone should say that it's better to know than not know," Oghren said in the same worn, tired voice. "Care to do the honours?"

"It's better to know," Alistair said. "At least, that's what they say."

"The dark down here does strange things to people. Spend long enough down here and it gets into you."

"I know."

"You would. That's what the Wardens are for, isn't it?"

"Sort of."

"Look." Oghren's head turned, the corners of his eyes creased and streaked with sweat. "What're you and the elf doing after?"

"After?"

"After we get this damn crown back to Harrowmont. Supposing none of us get ripped apart by the darkspawn."

"We'll be taking Harrowmont's pledge back with us to Arl Eamon," Alistair answered, and swallowed. "Long walk to Redcliffe."

"Facing off the Blight," Oghren said, and dug his fingers through his beard. "See, I do listen."

Despite himself, Alistair laughed. "Have I ever said that you don't?"

"It's not what you say. It's the way you look at me." Oghren sighed again. "Need some company?"

"You don't want to stay here? In Orzammar, I mean. I don't know why you'd want to stay here."

"Nothing decent to eat down here. Or in Orzammar, now I think of it."

"We'd be glad of the help," Alistair said. "If you're sure."

"Nothing left for me to do in Orzammar," Oghren muttered. He reached for his axe, and his fingers slipped clumsily along the haft. "Might as well help you lot beat some darkspawn into a nice pretty pulp."

"They're never pretty. In any shape."

"Redcliffe," Oghren said, musingly, and the word sounded strange and hollow. "What's there, then?"

"A castle." A castle and a lake and a choice he just knew he was going to have to make, probably while Eamon looked at him with that steel-hard gaze.

"I…look. I need to talk to you about something. Something important."

Darrian looked up, his hands busy with a whetstone. "Right now?"

"Please?"

The elf nodded, and uncoiled to his feet. "Alright."

Alistair led him away from the guttering fire, and he noticed the other elf, the assassin, the Crow, watching sidelong from where he sat with Leliana. When the trees crowded in on either side, and he knotted his hands together long enough to distract himself slightly, Alistair blurted, "You know I said my mother was a maid in Redcliffe castle?"

"Yes."

"And that Arl Eamon raised me, right?"

"Yes," Darrian said, in the same mild tone.

"Well, he wasn't my father, even though there were rumours."

"You told me that."

"That's because my father was King Maric," he said, and the words tumbled out in a clumsy rush. "Which made Cailan my brother. Half-brother."

"You're…" Darrian's shoulders stiffened. "You're the son of the king."

"Bastard son of the king."

"Royal bastard," Darrian said, and his smile turned crooked.

"Oh, yes, very funny." Alistair rubbed his knuckles across his forehead. "You're angry."

"You lied to me."

"I know," he said, and ached. He had not meant to, not really, but the weight of it was terrible and whenever he tried to speak of it, his tongue turned heavy and he tasted sweat on his lips. "It's just…now you know, you'll be different."

"I'll be different? I'm not the one walking around Ferelden with the blood of Maric in my veins."

"Thanks," he said, sourly. "I meant you'll be different to me. Around me."

"No, I won't. I might want to beat you stupid because you thought keeping this secret was a good idea, though."

"I know. I didn't – I just wanted you to think I was me."

"You are you."

"You don't understand." He turned, sharply, and jammed his hands into his belt. "It changes everything. Queen Anora will…I don't know what. I know it changes everything. It will change how Arl Eamon will be with me. With us. Being Wardens, I mean. If he's even still alright."

Darrian tipped his head back against the slope of the tree. "Yes. I know. Let's get to the castle and work out what's going on inside before we even think about Arl Eamon and Queen Anora, yes?"

"Yes," Alistair said. "Oh. Maker. I hated telling you that. And I didn't lie to you. I just didn't tell you."

"I once tried that on my father," Darrian said, and he grinned. "Apparently neglecting to mention is even worse when brought up as an argument as to why you shouldn't get punished."

"I'm sorry. I just – there was so much going on. I should have said something after Ostagar. Or at Lothering. Or…I don't know."

"It's alright. I understand." For a long moment, the elf simply regarded him through level blue eyes. "How did you know I was angry? I thought I was being subtle."

"You go all still when you're angry." He shrugged. "I prefer the old-fashioned pacing around and slamming doors thing, personally."

"Even when there's no doors to slam?" Darrian shoved away from the tree. He searched Alistair's face again, and said, "No more secrets?"

"No more secrets," he said, and the shaky relief of it unwound through him.

"Alistair?"

"Mmm?"

"Thanks for telling me," Darrian said, and his voice roughened. "For trusting me."

"I can tell you all about my secret obsession with fine cheeses as well, if you want."

"That's not a secret, your Highness."

"Oh, you are such a child sometimes."

"I know." Darrian elbowed past him, and the smile he threw over his shoulder was enviably light. "Come on. I'm hungry and I want dinner before the dog eats everything."

"Hey," Oghren said, and elbowed him. "You alive in there?"

"Yes." Alistair pressed folded fingers against his temples. "I think so."