Author's notes: I don't like this chapter. At all. And I nicked the Keeper's name. Tusk-y troll kisses to the one who knows from where ;)
Witch
Her prison was a stone room with a single entry; part of one of the old ruins among which the Dalish preferred to set up their camps. This entry being barred by a wooden door, there was no light except for what the cracks between door and stone wall let in. That, and the brazier the guard lit for her at night; the People were kind to prisoners, at least to prisoners of their own blood. She had furs to sleep in, food and water, and a chain long enough to walk around the entire room fastened to one of her ankles, though not long enough to get to the door.
Merrill had no wish to walk around much, though. Most of her days she spent sitting on her furs, knees drawn to her chest and head resting on them. Most of the nights she lay awake, watching the flickering shadows her little fire created on the walls and ceiling of her prison.
Most of the time, she spent thinking, and wondering. And worrying about Fenris. No one would tell her anything about him, except for "The city elf is alive.", once, on the first day. No more, though she asked every time, braving the disgusted looks she got for it. They probably thought her in love with him, and little wonder.
She knew what Dalish thought about mes-alliances like this, had once shared their opinion. The old Merrill; the Merrill who had left her people to live amongst humans and once-enslaved elves; would have been mortified by the mere thought that she would be held capable of such. The Merrill she was now couldn't have cared less. She thought of tattooed shoulders relaxing ever so slightly under her touch, looked her guards straight in the eyes, and asked her question.
Finally, after her brazier had been lit for the fourth time, it was the Keeper herself who came to see her. A middle-aged woman, small and fragile-looking, but there it was in her bearing, in the look she directed upon her outcast sister, the inherent strength that enabled her to fulfill the office of Keeper, something Merrill herself had ever sadly lacked.
She seated herself across from her, unafraid that Merrill would use the freedom of movement her chain allowed her to do her harm. Brown eyes, flecked with green, like a moss-grown forest floor, studied the younger elf calmly for a long time, for what seemed almost like eternity before she spoke. Her voice was low, deep for a woman's and melodious without trying to be.
"Andaran'atishan, sister. I am Keeper Sabrielle. I apologize for keeping you in uncertainty about your fate for so long, and the fate of the elf in your company. I understand, from what my brothers and sisters tell me, that you have been asking about him quite frequently. I may now safely tell you that he is on his way to recovery, though his punishment remains to be determined."
His punishment. The words shivered through Merrill like an ice-cold wind. She opened her mouth to respond, only to find that her voice had died in her throat.
"You will be put on trial after Dalish law, for the murder of Keeper Marethari, who was your teacher. I have come here to hear you out. I would hear all that has happened, from your own mouth. And you would be well advised to answer truthfully; I will know if you do not."
With these words, the petite woman settled back, watching Merrill attentively, but patiently; waiting for her to speak.
She finally found her voice. "Fenris... is to be punished?", she asked haltingly, though she already knew the answer.
"Of course.", the Keeper answered. Her searching gaze rested on Merrill's face; what it was she was looking for there, she couldn't guess.
"But... it was my fault that he was even there! I brought him to the caves, and... everything that... happened there, it's all on my head! Please, you can't...", she plunged forward, only to be brought up short by one delicate hand held up in silent command.
"It was him who killed our hunters. Unless you wish to claim that you took the blade he wields from him and cleaved our brother nearly in two, as well as stabbed Lythiel? A blade that is almost as long as you are tall; yes, and heavier, I daresay." Her voice betrayed no emotion. Merrill hung her head, pressing her palms to her eyes.
"But... it was me who brought him there in the first place...", she tried again. It was no good.
"That is of no consequence as to how we will deal with him. But this is not about his crime. Will you tell me your story? I want to understand. Please believe that."
She did believe it; and despite knowing that it would not change her fate in the end, she took a deep breath and told it all, from the very beginning, starting with two of her clan's hunters going missing in an old Tevinter ruin; how thoughts of the eluvian would not leave her alone; the journey to the Free Marches, the spirit on Sundermount, blood magic, Hawke and her companions, and then- her voice having gone hoarse long ago, her throat aching, but unable to stop the torrent pouring out of her (it was so good to finally talk about it, tell someone, bear herself to judgment without fearing it, because this was repentance, this was what she longed for), how it had all ended; her disastrous plan to ask the spirit for help one last time, Marethari sacrificing herself for her beloved pupil, Hawke jumping into the gap for her despite everything she had done, and taking the full responsibility for her actions; the return from Sundermount under the unsympathetic gazes of Hawke, Fenris, and Anders; her destruction of the mirror.
After what felt like hours of endless talking, she fell silent, having told all, feeling as if she would crumble to dust any second. She was empty; empty of feeling, drained of all her strength. Now there was nothing to do except await punishment; it was over.
The Keeper had not uttered a word since she began to speak. Now the tiny woman got to her legs and crossed over to her, putting a hand on her head.
"Thank you for telling the truth."
Then she left; and Merrill sagged to her furs, curled into as small a ball as she could, and slept.
The first days were a blur of light and darkness and more or less insistent pain. And dreams; vivid, disturbing fever dreams, so absurd and yet so real, flashes of things past and things that could have happened (the worst of all), and things that might or might not happen, as if a horde of demons had gotten into his skull and were delightedly digging out and pulling about all his most painful memories, shredding them into nigh unrecognizable bits, mixing them together, and painting them in brightest colors on the canvas of his blank mind. He would wake to the feeling of hands touching him, hands he had not permitted to do so, and he would lash out blindly and try to fight them, then plummet into darkness once again. The warmth of healing magic enveloped him, and he dreamt of Anders scoffing at him in his weakness; food and drink would be forced past his lips, and it was Merrill crouching at his side, her chest pierced by arrows, her eyes wide and vacant and staring.
He came to with a start and a snarl, abrupt enough to scare the elvhen woman sitting at his bedside- who very definitely wasn't Merrill, and who also very definitely had no arrows sticking from her body, to his relief- off of it and send her crashing to the floor. A wooden cup somehow upended in the process hit him in the head and spilled its contents down his front. It landed in his lap.
Thus it was that the guard bursting through the tent flap at the sudden noise found them. Fenris felt he had never been this embarrassed so shortly after waking up (No, that wasn't entirely true. Sleeping anywhere around Varric or Isabela led to one waking to impending embarrassment sooner or later. It was inevitable.)- but at least any remaining shreds of his dream had fled, and his head felt almost clear.
"I'll tell the Keeper he's awake.", the guard stated flatly, and left.
Fenris ran a hand through his hair and pushed up from his half-sitting position to a sitting one. That he could do so on his own power, with only a slight bout of dizziness, was a good sign. The girl- young woman?- was back on her feet as well, watching him with a mixture of wariness and amusement as he removed the empty cup from his lap and stared down at the drenched bandages around his chest. He felt weak and a little sore and stiff, but otherwise none the worse for wear.
He glanced at the elvhen girl. "Does this mean you won't kill me, or is the killing just postponed?", he asked in a voice rough with disuse, as he started unwrapping the bandage from his chest. His companion (Guard? Healer?) did not try to stop him, as there was no reason, he saw when he had gotten the fabric off. The wound was closed, the fresh scar still tender and the skin around it bruised.
"The Keeper has decided to give you a trial. You are elvhen, after all." The young elf was moving to his bedside now, after a detour towards a small chest, from which she drew a clean shirt and trousers. Those she thrust at him, then kneeled down and gathered up the discarded bandages from the ground.
"How noble." Fenris scoffed. He lifted the blanket, noticed that someone had literally stripped him to the skin, then decided to take a leaf out of Merrill's book and swung his feet over the side of the cot, the easier to put the trousers on. Modesty be blighted. To her credit, the girl didn't blush; in fact, she hardly seemed to notice. She didn't grace his statement with an answer, either.
"What happened to the witch? Did you give her a... trial?"
"Not yet. The clan will hear you out together." So, she was alive. Something in his chest unclenched at the news.
He drew the shirt over his head to hide his face, just in case.
The clothing was loose on him, tailored for someone broader in the chest and waist, and too short at the same time. Of his armor or sword, there was no trace, which came as no surprise. Still, he felt naked without them. For as long as he could remember, he had held the hilt of a sword in his hands every single day; being weaponless was like missing a limb.
They couldn't take his lyrium tattoos, though. He might not have his weapon, but he still was one.
"And when is that going to happen?" She wasn't very forthcoming with information. Anything useful he'd have to draw from her in fits and starts- and carefully. The girl was already giving him suspicious looks.
"That is for the Keeper to decide."
The Keeper this, the Keeper that. Andraste's ass, could these people do anything without their Keeper? - He didn't voice the thought aloud, though. It would not help him to antagonize his only source of information, and so he bit back the snort and finished tying the drawstring on his shirt.
"How long since you caught us?"
"You're very talkative for a captive, aren't you?"- Talkative? Now he did snort. Not one of the things he'd ever been called.
"Can you blame a man for wanting to get his bearings? Are you going to answer my question, or are you not?"
She hesitated; but, apparently finding no harm in telling him, she finally volunteered, "Three days."
Fenris' eyebrow quirked. That long? He must have been worse off than he'd thought. Little wonder he felt weak; clothing himself had already nearly left him exhausted.
There was a rustle at the tent flap, and then another elf stepped through, armed, armored, and grim of face. And bearing a bowl of something that smelled very much edible. This little detail rather ruined the effect.
"The Keeper will come to see you soon. This-", he held the bowl out towards Fenris, "Is for you, if you feel up to eating."
He did, in fact. Though he still wondered why they even bothered, he took the bowl with a curt nod of thanks and, after making certain of the contents (old habits died hard), started in on the stew, forcing himself to go slow. Not an easy feat. He was nearly starved, and the food tasted good, certainly not like prisoners' fare. It tasted like something cooked to be enjoyed.
While he was eating, the girl left with her armful of damp fabric, and the guard withdrew outside. So, they apparently felt they had drawn all his fangs, and didn't see the need to watch him all that closely. Maybe that would yet turn out useful.
After the worst of his hunger had been sated, he put the bowl away. He knew better than to eat his fill right now, after a long period of starvation; his experiences as a slave, and from the time spent on the run from Danarius, had taught him that.
Instead, he got up, waited until the slight bout of wooziness had passed, and distracted himself with exploring the tent.
Not that there was much to see. It was of solid Dalish make, big enough for one person to live in comfortably, and sadly lacked any corners to hide in. He approached the flap, trying to see out. There was no sign of the guard from here; he obviously wasn't stupid enough to turn his back to the exit. What he saw from the outside world didn't help him much, either: Only the boughs of a tree, bare of leaves, an aravell close by, and more trees.
The back wall offered no gaps to look out of, and the sturdy hides were well fastened in the trodden earth. The entire tent was entirely devoid of any blades, or anything that might be used to cut.
So far, so bad.
Then voices from outside and the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. Quickly he crossed the two steps over to his cot and sat on it, drawing one foot under him in a posture that seemed relaxed, but from which he could jump up and run at a moment's notice.
Not half a minute later, the tent flap moved again to admit a delicate elf woman; briefly, Fenris got a glimpse of his guard and another elf armed with bow and quiver, then the cloth fell down again, and he was alone with what was presumably the Keeper of this clan.
"Keeper.", he greeted her calmly. "You are quite brave to leave your guards behind like this."
A quick nod was his answer. "Not all that brave, with my clansmen just outside, and yourself barely recovered and unarmed." Her face betrayed nothing. It was impossible for him to tell whether she knew what his markings were, and what he could do with them. She might be ignorant of it, or be feigning ignorance. He decided he better tread carefully around this woman.
"How are you feeling? You were quite gravely wounded when we found you; for a time I doubted you'd live, if I am honest." She was moving towards him, her hand extended; he stiffened, and that was enough to halt her in her steps. Her hand sank down at her side again, but still he looked in vain for a sign of fear in her eyes.
"I am well.", he replied brusquely. "Though, from what I hear, you might have spared yourselves the trouble you took to nurse me back to health. Wouldn't it have been easier to leave me to die?"
Her eyes regarded him thoughtfully. "Easier, yes. And also barbaric. Shemlen might do such a thing. Dalish, never."
"I am sure." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. The Keeper either hadn't heard the remark, or chose not to respond; he could see where the young woman from earlier had got her attitude.
Silence fell between them then; and stretched on, and on. Fenris sat still as a statue on his cot, watching the Keeper, who in turn watched him. He felt that she was testing him, and was resolved to pass the test. There would be no fidgeting, no awkward remarks to break the silence. Stone-faced, he returned her green-brown gaze with a liquid green one of his own.
Then suddenly, she smiled, and went on talking as if nothing had happened. "You truly are an interesting man, lyrium warrior." Ah. "I think I know what the young one sees in you...", cocking her head and regarding him slightly more intently, as he bit his lip and inwardly cursed the brief slip of his features, "She has been asking after you at every opportunity, you see. Of course, until now, there was not much we could tell her."
This woman was toying with him.
"Give her my regards. I am looking forward to being beheaded at her side." Flames. It was working, too... he hadn't meant to say that, or to sound as sarcastic as he did, but it was too late now. She was smiling again, Blight take her.
"You do not deny that it was you who murdered our two scouts."
Now it was his turn to smile, a brief curling of his lips, unamused. "To what use? You have seen my sword. You have seen the wounds on their corpses. I am sure you are also capable of putting two and two together; that is the next best thing to catching me red-handed. So, no, I do not deny it. Do you want me to?"
"No." The Keeper shook her head. "I know all I wanted to know. Except for one thing: Why you came to this place at all. Will you tell me?"
Fenris eyed her warily. Was that a trap? Then again, what did it matter now...?
He lifted one shoulder in a minute shrug. "There was a party of human hunters on our tail. My tail, to be exact. The little witch simply showed me a place to hide."
"You are the one the Shemlen have been after." - He confirmed this with a nod. The Keeper returned it with one of her own, before turning to leave. "Rest now. You will be brought before the clan tomorrow."
Fenris didn't bother with an answer. Tomorrow, then. This didn't leave him much time.
But he thought he might have the beginnings of a plan.
