A.N. - Another G-rated moment, this one taking us way back to between chapters 3 & 4 of MIT (and prior to chapter 4 of 'A Dog's Life', for those of you who have read that one). I've mentioned the combat forms that Talia learned from Sten a couple of times now, so I figured I'd devote a bit of time to how that learning came about, and also take another look at the very early interaction between Talia & Leliana, while they were still in the first stages of getting to know each other.
I picture the Qunari 'forms' as closely resembling the katas used in many forms of martial arts, and I rather suspect that there is a Qun version of 'The Art of War' floating around Seheron somewhere.
Talia came awake with a jerk, teeth instinctively clamping against the cry that tried to rise from her throat. The nightmares had become so familiar now that she could almost predict when she lay down to sleep which one would torment her that night, and yet, when she was in the grip of one, the fear, the pain and the helpless rage were as new and undiluted as if she experienced them for the first time.
Brego whined softly, nudging his way under her arm, and she hugged him tight, trying to will away the image of Oren in the massive fist of an ogre, his tiny body shaken and flung against a wall. It was frequently thus now, with dreams of the darkspawn insinuating themselves into the memories of the deaths of her family until she could no longer remember upon waking what had truly happened and what was the product of her tortured imagination. Nights when only the archdemon put in an appearance were actually a relief.
"Talia?" Leliana's voice at the entrance to her tent.
The Warden gritted her teeth, fighting back a surge of weary irritation. The others had all figured out that she preferred to be left alone after her nightmares; if she became too agitated without waking, Alistair would rouse her, but carefully. She had come up fighting and bloodied his nose the first time he had done so. Only the Orlesian persisted in approaching her after she woke, one of the reasons that Talia tried to stifle any sounds, but evidently she had been less than successful tonight.
"I'm fine," she said, taking a drink from the waterskin that she kept beside her bedroll as she waited for the pounding of her heart to settle. She wasn't sure how long she had been asleep, but she knew that trying to drop back off would be a lost cause. Pulling on her boots and buckling her sword belt around her waist, she donned her cloak and stepped out of the tent.
Leliana had returned to the fireside; she glanced up as Talia emerged, her expression concerned. "It's still a few more hours until your watch," she said. "You should try to sleep; you need rest."
"I'm awake," Talia replied simply, relieved to find that Sten was the second person on watch. The qunari had glanced up briefly when she appeared, then turned his attention back to his sword, drawing a whetstone along the edge in slow, measured strokes. He, at least, would not press her.
The minstrel, on the other hand, seemed unconvinced by her statement. "But -"
"I'm awake," Talia repeated, resisting the urge to snap the words. Her anger was all too ready to lash out at any provocation these days, but she refused to let her companions be its focus, knowing that they were not its true cause. They'd find themselves facing darkspawn or bandits or maybe both tomorrow, and she could unleash her emotions then, losing herself in the savage satisfaction of battle. The release that it brought was always short-lived, but it was the only thing that helped at all. "Why don't you get some sleep?"
Leliana frowned. "Talia, you need to sleep. Maybe if you would talk about your dreams..." She trailed off helplessly, clearly knowing what the Warden's response would be.
Talia's fists clenched and unclenched beneath her cloak. Talking of what she had lost would not bring it back, talking of Rendon Howe would not bring him to justice, talking of the darkspawn would not make them vanish, but shouting this out to the Orlesian would accomplish nothing, either. "Get some sleep," she said again, moving deliberately to the opposite side of the fire and settling to the ground, sliding her sword from its scabbard and laying it across her lap. As she fished in her belt pouch for her whetstone, she heard Leliana's resigned sigh, but did not look up as the minstrel rose and made her way to her tent.
Brego sank to the ground at her side, and for several minutes, the camp was silent, save for the wind in the trees, the crackle of the fire and the scrape of stone on metal. Focused on the familiar activity, Talia felt the tension begin to ebb from her muscles.
"Your dreams disturb you." Sten's voice surprised her, and she looked up to find his unblinking stare fixed upon her, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Yes," she replied tersely, dropping her eyes back to her task.
"But they are not real."
"I know that when I'm awake," she said, clenching her teeth again, "but when I'm asleep and dreaming, it feels real. Can you tell when you're dreaming?"
"Most often," he answered, holding his sword at arm's length and tilting it to and fro in the firelight, inspecting the edge and nodding in satisfaction.
"Do you ever have nightmares?" she challenged him.
"Sleep is intended to restore the mind and body," Sten said, as though stating a fact that all should know. "Dreams that disturb sleep are self defeating. Nightmares arise from fear, and fear from uncertainty. If you know your place and your duty, as defined by the Qun, there is no uncertainty, no fear and hence, no reason for nightmares."
"Lucky you," she muttered. "Or are you trying to convert me?"
"That would be problematic, given your current status," the qunari replied.
"Because I'm a woman and women can't fight, right?" They'd had this particular discussion several days ago, soon after Sten had joined them.
"Yes." For some reason, when she had grown impatient with his stubborn logic and snarled that she didn't give a damn what he thought she should be doing, that she had a duty and she would fulfill it, he had ceased his argument and actually seemed to respect her a bit more for it...though only a bit. "You would still benefit from the discipline that the Qun teaches, however. If you continue to allow your emotions to rule your actions, you will in all probability not survive."
"And this is a bad thing?" She was trying for flippancy, but the bitterness could not be hidden. Some days - most days, all she wanted was an end to the pain and the memories, but day after day, oblivion eluded her.
The warrior's strange, violet eyes regarded her sternly. "Either you wish to do your duty as a Grey Warden and to bring justice for the murder of your family, or you wish to die. You cannot accomplish both without putting those that you lead at risk."
He was right, damn it, though that didn't make his words sting any less. The idea that any of her odd assortment of companions could die in their travels was one that haunted her waking moments, as the losses of her past stalked her sleep. "What do I do, then?" she asked, annoyance and dejection warring in her voice.
He stood, towering over her. "Come with me," he ordered curtly. "Leave your cloak, bring your sword."
She eyed him curiously as he strode away from the fire, then reached up to release the clasp of her cloak, leaving it pooled on the ground as she moved to follow him. "We can't spar without waking the others, can we?" she wanted to know as she slipped the whetstone back into her pouch. She wasn't even wearing her armor, and while she had seen enough of the qunari's skill over the past few days to know that he would not harm her inadvertently, she had little doubt that the flat of his blade would leave bruises.
"Sparring has its uses," Sten replied, stopping a short distance away, his form still dimly lit by the flames that reflected on his sword in a golden dance, "but there are other things that you must learn, if you are to be a true warrior. What do you see?"
She cocked her head, knowing that the question was not an idle one, but unsure what answer the qunari sought. "I see you standing in front of me with your sword," she replied at last, her voice rising slightly on the last word in an uncertain query.
His expression gave no hint of whether or not her answer had been a good one, but he nodded. "And what will happen next?"
She frowned, thinking, and at last shook her head. "Whatever you decide to do," she said. "How could I know that?"
"By being aware of what could happen," came the prompt reply. "What are the possibilities?"
"For you, or for anyone?"
"Treat me as an opponent whom you know nothing about."
She nodded slowly. "All right, you could sheathe your weapon, or attack me, or -"
"How might I attack you?"
She sighed, thinking back to their sparrings and the techniques that he had utilized. "You could try a straight hammer shot to kill me quickly, a side to side sweep to do the same, or you could try to disable me by taking out an arm or a leg."
"If I were to do that, what might be my purpose?"
Impatience rose up in her, but she restrained it. The qunari did nothing without good reason, and that likely included this line of questioning. "You could be trying to take me alive, for ransom or information; you might be trying to get me out of the way to get past me and attack someone within the camp. Or maybe you just don't like killing."
He nodded again. "Possible, but not a motivation that I would advise ascribing to an enemy. Assume that any foe that you face intends to kill you, and fight accordingly."
"So...I'm supposed to go through all this each time that I face an opponent?" Seemed like a good way to get cut to pieces.
"You already do," Sten replied, continuing in response to her look of disbelief, "You currently do so without conscious thought, and that is how it should be in true combat, but if you engage in this exercise when you do not fight, asking yourself not only what you see, but what could happen next, and how you would respond to it, it will become much more difficult to take you by surprise."
It made a certain amount of sense, particularly since she already found herself sizing up nearly everyone they encountered, wondering if they would try to collect the bounty that Loghain had placed upon their heads.
"Now." Sten's voice brought her attention back to him as he drew himself to his full height, feet placed shoulder-width apart with the sword held upright before him. Drawing a slow breath through his nose, the qunari released it as he pivoted slowly to the left, the sword dropping smoothly into a blocking position. His elbows flexed as he drew the blade back, then extended again in a slow thrust as he stepped forward with his right foot. He stepped back, turning on the balls of his feet until he faced the opposite direction, sweeping the sword in a waist high arc, then bringing it back to the ready position, then out to block, back, thrust...
Talia watched as he proceeded, each movement slow, measured, precise, his eyes slightly unfocused, fixed somewhere in the middle distance. He finished in exactly the same spot and position as where he had begun, drawing a final slow breath and releasing it as his gaze came back into focus.
"What was that?" she asked him quietly. The slow, formal tempo of his movements had almost seemed like a dance.
"You would likely not be able to pronounce the name in the qunari tongue," he replied. "The closest word in your language is 'form'. It is a ritual used to bring mind and body together, to improve focus and discipline, and to become one with your weapon."
She shook her head. It didn't make sense. "You were moving so slowly, anyone could have dodged your attacks, or gotten by your blocks."
"The forms are not meant to be used directly in combat," he said. "In the beginning, they are used to teach basic technique and improve memory. As a student becomes more advanced, their purpose shifts to one of control and meditation, discipline and skill."
"Forms?" she echoed. "How many are there?"
"As many as there are warriors who practice them," was the somewhat unhelpful reply. "I can perform twenty-three adequately."
She looked down at the Cousland sword. "And you want me to learn them?"
"If you wish to." As always, his face gave no indication of his own opinion on the matter, if he had one at all.
She stared back down at the sword, at the intricate casting of the quillions and the Cousland crest set into the center of the crossguard. What she wished, she could not have, and while she still could not see the use in these 'forms', there had been something oddly compelling about the deliberate, precise grace of the big man's movements.
"All right," she said at last. "Teach me."
Leliana peered through the slight opening at the flap of her tent, watching as Talia attempted to mirror the giant's movements. She had been awkward and stilted at first, but she learned with her customary speed, and could now execute a passable version of the first of the forms.
The brooding expression had faded from the girl's face, replaced by a look of intense concentration and interest. That was good...wasn't it?
With a sigh, she rested her chin in her hand. Theoretically, anything that took Talia's mind off of her losses should be good, but the Orlesian could not help be uneasy with the knowledge that the young Warden's only escape was into combat, in one form or another.
The respite that it granted was brief; every evening, by the time camp had been set up, the pain had returned to her eyes, the shadows there stirring all too familiar feelings within Leliana. The Chantry, the Maker had helped to dull her own pain at what had been done to her, but simple repentance was not enough to erase the guilt over the things that she had done. If she could help Talia, it would be only the smallest step toward atonement for her sins, but it would be a step.
It was more than that, though. If the girl continued to fight so recklessly, she would get herself killed sooner or later, which was likely exactly what she intended, consciously or not. The odds of two novice Grey Wardens stopping a blight was a long shot to begin with, and if those odds were halved...
Alistair was a sweet and earnest young man, and a skilled fighter, but the bard that Leliana had been could see that the group's true strength lay with the Cousland heir. On those rare occasions when both the battle rage and the weight of sorrow lifted from her, it was plain that she had been nobly raised and taught to lead as well as fight, but those moments were as fleeting as they were seldom, and Talia had so far rejected (always politely, but always firmly) every effort that Leliana had made to get closer to her, to offer her comfort and encourage her to talk about her hurt, and the things that haunted her dreams.
She had to keep trying; this could well be the reason that the Maker had sent His vision to her. Perhaps if she shared the pain in her own history, entrusted Talia with those secrets...but her courage faltered at the thought of it. She had gone past half-truths and evasions by now, and had lied when asked about her past. To reveal that now might well destroy any chance of Talia trusting her, as bitterly ironic as the fact was. It was disheartening at times, to realize how easily she had fallen back into dissemblance and falsehood, the trappings of the life that had nearly killed her.
My Creator, judge me whole:
Find me well within Your grace
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed
Tell me I have sung to Your approval.
For You are the fire at the heart of the world
And comfort is only Yours to give.
The words of the Chant soothed her, as they always did, and after a last peek beyond the tent flap, she retired to her bedroll, resolving to begin her efforts anew in the morning.