Possession
Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all those life-like, strikingly endearing characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I hardly claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!
Fern' Harel's touch was not gentle.
Nyx emerged from Marjolaine's home in a state of utter confusion. She hesitated on the threshold, dazzled by the gentle afternoon sunlight, head throbbing with the mother of all headaches, and then rushed into what she hoped was the direction of the hostel, her oversized green velvet dress trailing in the mix of mud and raw sewage that was a fixture of the streets of Denerim.
Her companions hurried to catch up with her. They were a sorry-looking lot: the drunken dwarf in dirty armor, bloodstains still visible in the joints; the formerly handsome knight whose bruised face seemed to have been caught in a door, and the pretty redhead in a blue dress, who looked as pale as old man Death himself.
The three misfits exchanged worried looks as their leader's course through the streets grew increasingly erratic. Nyx made abrupt turns to examine trivial objects, talking to herself all the while in a tone that jumped randomly from anger to laughter, from sadness to exhilaration. Nyx ran to a dusty barrel by the marketplace and chastised it for being ugly. She laughed at the stinking fish on a street stall; the hawker, a thin, sour-looking man in his mid-fifties, eyed her suspiciously and commented loudly on the drunken knife-ear in a stolen dress. Nyx cried at the sight of a puddle of horse piss. She generally made no sense at all, and finally had to be firmly encased between Oghren and Alistair's armored shoulders and literally dragged along, lest she ran into a moving carriage.
By the time they reached their hostel, Alistair was carrying the unconscious elf– she was hardly heavier than a human child. The companions' irruption into the inn's common room caused a little commotion among local patrons – they looked more than a little like a raiding party carrying back a kidnapped victim. Things settled a bit when a blond elf, clad in discrete brown leather and smooth as a snake oil peddler, offered the assistance a round to compensate for his associates' breach of the peace. After a few minutes spent watching the crowd, elven assassin and Grey Warden companion Zevran Ariainai felt reassured that no one was seriously considering calling the guards. Law enforcement was not highly popular in the neighborhood, especially under the new Arl of Denerim.
Zevran quietly made his way to the hostel's second floor lodgings, clean little rooms neatly aligned on either side of a wooden-planked hallway. He had personally chosen the place and briefed his companions on exit routes and contingency plans. Nyx respected his professional competence and, after a brief period during which she had appaeared ready to unleash magical hell at any sign of foul play, the sorceress now seemed to trust his judgment and abilities as much as anybody else's. Which, Zevran reflected as he silently walked past the first rows of doors, was probably not that much: Nyx trusted her own strength first and foremost. She and Zevran had much in common.
Nyx's door was half-open; the great hound Runt sat before it, a barrier of fur and muscle that trespassers would break at their own risk. The dog looked nervous, and did not wag his tail when Zevran patted his head and opened the door. The room was small but sunny, its walls lined with warm-looking oak paneling, the bed linen and matching curtains bright saffron. The cozy space felt sorely cramped now. Alistair, the second Grey Warden on their group, watched befuddled as Wynne, their healer and the group's eldest, argued in a muffled voice with Morrigan, the witch of the wilds. Zevran tapped Alistair's shoulder.
"How is she?" he asked in a whisper.
"She has a bad fever, been unconscious for over an hour" The former Templar's murmur betrayed concern and a hint of panic. "Things went pretty bad with Leliana's former master. We took her down, but she has done something to Nyx, maybe poison. Nyx started talking gibberish on her way here, acted crazy, and then she just collapsed."
"Did you find any open wound on her?" The Antivan knew, and had used, at least half a dozen substances that could cause similar symptoms.
"None. But Wynne thinks she healed herself anyway."
"I am positive that there is no poison in her blood." The old healer's voice resounded with an anxiety that was in sharp contrast to her usually serene, some said almost royal countenance. She rose and turned away from the bed, deep lines of concern and sadness on her face.
"I think, I believe she is…"
Morrigan's voice cut through the old Circle mage's like a sharp, poisoned blade.
"That fool believes the Warden is possessed, an abomination to be purged by fire and brimstone." Zevran watched with a mixture of erotic thrall and repulsion as Morrigan pointed an accusing finger at Wynne's face. The witch reminded him of a snake coiling for the strike. Only she was more beautiful, and a thousand times deadlier.
"Tell them, old woman. Tell them about your grand plan." Morrigan continued, yellow eyes almost luminous in her pale face.
Wynne crossed her arms, very calm and defiant. Alistair and Zevran stared in disbelief as she spoke.
"I believe the Warden has fallen victim to a Fade spirit. Maybe she had to make a pact in order to save her life and that of our companions. I do not know what kind of entity may control her, but the signs are here: the sudden change in personality, the gibberish, the fever. The coma is even worse. We have to refer Nyx to the Chantry."
Zevran raked his brains for an appropriate expletive in the Fereldan tongue, but Alistair beat him to it.
"Great sodding Hell, woman, are you serious?" The former Templar's eyes were almost bulging out of his head. "Did you ever hear the Templars' saying: smite first and the Maker will sort out his own? They will have Nyx's head on a pike before she has a chance to wake up. And that's if they feel nice and accommodating."
"The idiot speaks the truth", Morrigan added helpfully. Alistair looked about to punch her in the mouth.
"And what will happen when she wakes up in here, a heavily populated area, and turns into an abomination?" Wynne's eyes were icy cold as she made her case.
"How many innocents will be slaughtered? Will you stop her then? Do any of you think they can stand against that?" Alistair averted his eyes, looking at a dark spot on the wooden floor where someone had spilled tea. Wynne felt his hesitation, carried on, her voice more gentle but no less urgent.
"Alistair, you are a Grey Warden. You are sworn to do whatever it takes to protect the people. To protect your people."
Alistair looked sad and confused as he finally looked up at the old enchantress. He slowly turned to face Morrigan. His lips were trembling a little.
"Look how quickly the Templar boy crawls back to his masters!" Morrigan made no effort to hide her fury now. Sunlight from the window seemed to recede as she took a step forward. Her shadow filled the room. Zevran realized that her staff, a gnarled length of wood, blackened and wizened by her touch, was clasped firmly in her right hand. Things were going south quickly. Things were getting interesting.
In a perfectly innocent movement, the elf rested his hands on the flaps of leather that hid his poisoned blades, and quietly started to circle around Morrigan while the others' eyes were fixed on her. He moved towards the bed, his face betraying nothing but grief and concern for the Grey Warden who lay there, rosy with fever. Zevran, smooth and unremarkable like a snake in the grass, was closing in on the old healer. Always take care of the spell-caster first.
He was almost within reach of his target when he perceived movement at the door. He had to keep his peripheral vision on his quarry, but his other senses never idled. Clicking paws on the wooden floor: the Mabari hound was escorting someone in. The newcomer stepped as lightly as a cat, but a faint hint of lily mixed with leather brought him an answer: Leliana. He smiled.
"You are walking in the midst of a rather interesting discussion, my dear. Although, considering your present health condition, I would advise you refrained from entering our little debate." Zevran was truly concerned, but not so much about the Orlesian bard's health. Her presence upset the delicate balance of power in the room. Should she pick a side now, things would definitely turn ugly. And Zevran entertained no illusion about the side she would pick. Before Leliana joined the Warden's group, she had been pursuing a new life as a darned Chantry sister.
The scent of lily and leather grew stronger and more sensual to Zevran's discerning nostrils as Leliana stepped past the glaring witch and warrior. She did not so much as look at them. Her red-gold mane entered Zevran's field of vision as she knelt by the Warden's bed. Leliana was even paler than usual. The little wound on her left cheek, left unattended, was the only trace of color in her face. With a dreamy expression, she reached for the sleeping sorceress' temple and gently pushed a black lock away. Then she took the Warden's small hand in hers and started praying quietly. The bickering had stopped with Leliana's entrance, and the silence in the room now felt religious, even to one as jaded as Zevran.
Runt whimpered softly.
"Leliana…" Wynne started, her voice a hoarse whisper in the silence. "Please. We must…"
"She did it to save me." No trace of emotion in Leliana's voice. She rose slowly and faced the old enchanter.
"Leliana, you must let her go. Nyx is…" Wynne's sentence ended in a cry of pain as the younger woman grabbed her throat and slammed her hard against the wall, once, twice, stars dancing in her head, and Leliana's long dagger suddenly materialized in her hand, very cold and hard against the pulsating artery in the old healer's neck. Wynne felt the bard's breath, cool and fragrant and oh so menacing, when she drew her face very close. There was madness in the blue eyes, madness mixed with an icy resolve that made her wish she were facing a rage demon. Incongruously, two words from an old ballad jumped to her mind: Fallen angel.
The angel with the eyes of steel spoke in a detached, matter-of-fact tone as she explained the situation. Zevran made a mental note: try and get in the bard's pants if possible, but never be on her bad side.
"Here are the rules: if you touch her, I will kill you. If you tell anybody about her, I will kill you. If you run to the Chantry or the Templars, I will catch you, and kill you." A pause, the steel eyes studying their prey. "Do not think I will shy from it. You don't know me." A cold smile now, as Leliana assessed the impact of her words on the old woman. "Promise me you won't make me do it."
Wynne struggled to regain her bearings. The others were watching her, waiting: the snarling witch, the quiet assassin. Alistair was intently looking at the point of his shoes, once more incapable of making his own decisions. She called to the Spirit for guidance, but it did not answer. This, more than the threat to her life, convinced her to back off. For now.
"Very well. But I will require your word that you will do your best to stop Nyx if she wakes up… changed," Wynne managed to articulate despite the pressure and pain in her throat.
Leliana nodded slowly and let go of her. "If it comes to that, I will kill her myself," she murmured as she sheathed her dagger. She paused to survey the rest of the group, seemingly just taking notice of their presence. "Now get out, all of you. Runt can stay."
Morrigan seemed about to say something and Zevran gently prodded her arm, shaking his head. Now was not a good time to argue. He waited until Leliana bolted the door on their backs to exchange a few words with the witch, the two of them agreeing to keep an eye on Wynne's moves, especially her interactions with Alistair. There was not much use watching Nyx's door: Runt and a bat-crazy Leliana were protection enough, unless the unconscious sorceress turned into a full-fledged abomination. In that case, Morrigan added with a little nervous laugh, their best bet would be to grow wings and fly the hell away. Zevran was not amused. He could not grow wings.
Alone in the sunny room with the stoic hound and the unconscious elven sorceress, Leliana finally allowed her tears to flow as she dragged a chair and sat besides the bed. She studied the small figure lying under the warm saffron wool comforters. The elf was sweating profusely, her usually pale face flushed from the fever. Her face and ears twitched now and then, in reaction to dreams or perhaps to some unknown, deeper process. From time to time there came a moan or a whisper, the words indistinct, unrecognizable. Nyx had once boasted of being able to read seven languages, dead languages mostly, and Leliana wondered who she may be talking to. She whispered back, words of encouragement and appeasement that never seemed to reach her friend through the barrier of sleep.
When she felt that all words failed, and that the Warden was slipping further down a dark slope, Leliana did the only thing she knew. She started singing, her voice strong and crystal-clear in the little sun-drenched room.
On and on she sang, ballads of valor or romance, Orlesian or Fereldan, child lullabies and bawdy tunes, sweeping epics and drinking songs. She sang as the sun set behind the mountains, and the noise from the tavern rose to a crescendo, then slowly died out. She sang until her voice was broken, and then she lay onto the bed, cradled Nyx's head and whispered the songs to her ear.
And in the end the sorceress responded. As Leliana whispered her songs, the nervous twitches became less frequent and finally stopped. The pointed ears became still, as if listening intently. Then, as Leliana was nearing the end of her fifth run of the ballad of Callahad, Nyx's lips started to move, forming the words along her. Leliana kept singing, caressing the sleeping elf's brow. After a while, Nyx opened her eyes. Leliana felt a pang of fear when she saw that those eyes were now more silver than green. Then the sorceress smiled, and the fear receded.
"Your voice," murmured Nyx. She seemed to have difficulty remembering words, like one who has spent a very long time in a foreign country. "It was shining through. Like a firefly. I followed it to you."
Leliana smiled. The sorceress was indeed talking gibberish, describing voices as fireflies, but at least this was classic Nyx gibberish. The elf always seemed to mix up her senses, all six of them. Leliana suddenly realized that she was still holding her, remembered how the sorceress usually recoiled from human contact, and started to pull away.
"Stay. Please." Nyx's voice was stronger now, but without her usual assurance. There was a hint of something Leliana had never heard in it. The ruthless sorceress, the butcher of men and beasts, was pleading. "You have to know. I have to tell you what happened. What I am."
Nyx spoke and Leliana listened, contradictory emotions fighting for control as the enchantress related the events in Marjolaine's bedroom. Leliana felt cold fear grip her as Nyx told her of the Great Wolf, Fern' Harel, and of the pact that was made as the sorceress was devoured and reborn. Of Leliana's own blood, running through Nyx's veins and hurling Marjolaine to her loss. When Nyx stopped talking, Leliana stayed silent for a long minute before she asked what she knew she must.
"What did it do to you, Nyx? Did it… turn you into something?" It was difficult to utter the last word. The dagger's hilt felt very hard and cold under her palm.
Nyx was uncertain of the answer, but she tried her best to figure it out as she spoke.
"To be honest, I don't know. I am still the same person, I think: I remember my life in the Tower, then our travels, every day, every battle." A pause. "And there are things that I think I may be able to remember in time, things that Fern' Harel made me forget when I was a child. I am not sure it's a good thing." Nyx paused again, and there was a trace of humor in the silvery green eyes.
"And I think, I feel, that Fern' Harel has unlocked more than memories. Everything I feel… all sensations, all feelings are just more intense: the sunlight, the noises, the fear of the Taint, everything. I feel like my life before today was spent in a gray haze. Everything was dull. Maybe Wolf was protecting me all this time, protecting me from the colors, the smells, the emotions. Maybe he wanted me to focus on my magic and avoid distractions."
She smiled at Leliana, a happy smile the likes of which were seldom seen on the sorceress' face. Then she returned to the task of answering the question she saw in the blue eyes. The bard's hand was still on her dagger's hilt.
"I don't think Wolf is here with us, no. I think he only gave me a small part of his essence, maybe something like a seed that may grow bigger as time passes. But I know one thing, Leliana. Wolf will not mess with my mission. He has no interest in letting Thedas go to the Blight. He would sodding starve if no souls were left to cross into the beyond."
Nyx stopped to take a sip from the water jug on the bedside table. She felt ravenous, the hunger from the taint added to that of a long, fasted day. And it was not all: underneath the hunger, other, less understood needs were clawing their way to the light, demanding to be acknowledged after a life of neglect. Nyx tilted her head back, reveling in Leliana's smell, lily and leather and a hint of cinnamon.
"I think it was not Wolf's fault that I fell on my ass in the street. Yes, I remember that, and the stupid green dress, too. I think that I was simply overwhelmed by the intensity of all those sensations, and the feelings…" Nyx suddenly laughed. "You know how I always get angry at Alistair for being whiny and stupid? When I got out of that bedroom I looked at him and I found him all bruised and silly and I realized that actually cared for him. And I cared for the smelly drunken dwarf, too. Then you walked in wearing that blue velvet dress."
Nyx paused, her expression grew serious again, and she tried her best to choose her words, feeling like a child describing art to a professor.
"You laughed at Alistair holding me. You looked awfully pale, your hair was a mess, and that cut on your face was bleeding. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And I, I was overwhelmed, because I always knew you were beautiful, but I had never felt it." She sighed. She had done a poor job of expressing herself again. "I don't make much sense, do I?"
Leliana laughed softly and caressed her hair. The touch felt electric.
"Maybe not. Or maybe you make more sense now than you ever did." Leliana gently pulled the sorceress's head closer to her own, felt the tension in her muscles, a hint of animal fear that stood in sharp contrast to the interrogative, hungry expression of her eyes. Nyx just stared, her face mere inches from her friend's, absolutely clueless as to the motions that were expected of her, and Leliana hesitated.
"Please. Show me. I want to be complete," Nyx whispered in a voice that was hoarse with urgency. She timidly reached to Leliana's face, wondering at the elastic warmth of her skin, at the strange sensations it gave her to actually feel another person's life through it.
"Help me. Show me."
Leliana's lips met her own then, and she did her best to respond, clumsy at first, but quickly gaining in assurance and boldness. Nyx's body, it turned out, was willing and able to compensate for her brain's inadequacy.
The revelations of this night struck Nyx with world-shattering intensity, but fortunately did not send her back into a coma.
She was not alone any more.
On the second day, Nyx reluctantly put on her spare white robes – the ones she wore during the Marjolaine incident were irrecoverable- and called Wynne to her room.
The old healer stood proud and unregretful as Nyx gave her a short, censored explanation of her recent condition. The Grey Warden did not mention her pact with the Great Wolf and her newfound Blood Magic abilities. Nyx abruptly explained that she required unquestioning loyalty from her companions and that Wynne's devotion to certain philosophical principles was not compatible with Grey Warden service. Thus Nyx released her from service and sent her back to the Tower with the coolest of farewells. Leliana stood watchful during the whole process. Wynne left and did not look back.
That very evening, Nyx and her companions packed and left for the Brecilian Forest in search of the Wild Elves.
