Challenge

I woke before anyone else the next morning and scampered to Bodhan's cart. The dwarven merchant earned his place in my camp by carrying some of our heavier goods, like spare armor and weapons, in addition to offering us supplies for a discounted price. He received all the protection a well-armed crew could muster, and we enjoyed the convenience of our own personal store, an arrangement that benefited everyone. I rummaged through the crates until I found what I sought: plate armor, dragonbone, that we'd retrieved from an ancient, haunted Grey Warden base. The breastplate wasn't shiny like most of the armors we'd collected over our travels; it gleamed dully in the early morning light, like the black matte finish ingested the sunlight. The golden griffon on the front beckoned me, reminding me of who I wasn't.

I gathered up the pieces and carried them back to the ring of tents surrounding the languid fire. Leliana had risen and was stoking the flames in preparation for breakfast. She turned as I approached and her eyes lingered on me, taking in my new appearance, but she said nothing. Of all my companions, I knew she and Zevran would not judge me.

The night before, when Zev had done my ink, the assassin had remained uncharacteristically quiet. The importance of my request had not been lost on him, as I'd suspected it wouldn't. He hadn't protested my decision. He hadn't tried to talk me out of it. He had given the situation the weight it deserved, because he'd simply understood.

Alistair...I wasn't so sure of. But I was not going to shy away from him. He would either accept me as I was now, or he wouldn't. The outcome did not matter to me.

I let my armload of armor clatter to the ground outside of his tent. It had the expected result of provoking grumbles and protests from his bedroll, but in moments his head poked through the flap.

"Who in the--" He blinked up at me, sleep still clouding his eyes, and frowned. "Kiann?"

My shoulders tensed at that name. "Surana," I corrected him.

"Uh...all right. You cut your hair." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "And...tattooed your face? Why by Andraste's holy pyre--"

"I need help putting on the armor," I said.

Alistair looked down at the pile of ebony and burnished gold metal. He hadn't wanted it, insisting that he wasn't worthy of wearing the Warden Commander suit of plate. That's Duncan's role, not mine. "It won't be too heavy for you?"

"No."

He stared at me for a moment, then pushed to his feet, heedless of his lack of shirt. "Kiann, please. We're--we're friends, right? I want to help. I want to fix whatever it is that's hurting you." He stepped around the pile of armor, toward me, and I retreated to maintain the space between us. His face fell. "Kiann."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't call you by your name?" He thrust a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "I just--I don't understand what's happened. Were you remembering the attack last night? Is that it? Did I hurt you, or say something, or--or do something, that made you remember being beaten?"

I laughed. It burst out of me without warning, without warmth. Suddenly I felt so much older than the templar. Not wiser. Just ancient. "You're such a boy."

His eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"I know you were sheltered, Alistair, but please."

He crossed his arms. "Don't talk to me like I'm stupid. They don't make stupid templars, you know."

"Having lived with templars my entire life and hoodwinked more than my share, I beg to differ." I glared at him. He glared right back. "Fine. I'll ask Sten." I turned to leave.

He grabbed my wrist. "Kiann--"

The knowledge of how to free myself flowed into my mind. Before I could make the conscious choice to do so, I had knocked Alistair on his ass. He swore as he fell onto the pile of armor.

"No one touches me," I growled. "No one. Not ever again. I'm not the stupid, weak girl who--who--" I narrowed my eyes. "I'm not her. She's dead. They killed her, in the woods by Lake Calenhad. You will call me Warden, or you will call me Surana, but you will not touch me."

"They killed you? But I don't understand. That was nearly a month ago, so why..." Realization dawned. I could see it cascade over his face. "You remembered something, didn't you? When we--when we kissed, and I was holding you..." His eyes widened. "Oh, sweet Maker. Kiann, they didn't--tell me they didn't."

The look of horror on his face reached to the core of me, threatening to make me feel, so I turned away. "I'll be back for the armor."

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"Away." I didn't look back. He let me go.

I walked, and then I ran, and the pounding of my feet into the hard earth helped me rediscover my equilibrium. My world diminished to the path I followed and my next few steps, and my mind cleared. I returned to the camp within the hour to find a bowl of porridge waiting for me, balanced on one of the rocks surrounding the crackling fire. The warm mush had been sweetened and spiced just to my liking, and I wondered who had taken the time to add the extra sugar and cinnamon.

The spoon paused on its way to my mouth as Alistair sat beside me. He gave me space--at least an arm's-length--and a knot inside of me loosened, just a bit. I continued eating, but I no longer really tasted it.

"I'm not going to call you Warden," he said after a long moment. His eyes stayed on the fire. "That's just stupid. I'm a Warden too, after all, and people might think I'm talking to myself. So Surana it is. But if I slip up, don't run me through."

I swallowed the oatmeal past a lump in my throat. "Deal."

"And...this needs to be said." He took a deep breath. "Whatever decisions you've made--good or bad, ones I've agreed with and not--I respect you for making them. You are my friend, my comrade-in-arms, and I have your back. Regardless of what comes, I will be there for you."

My throat clenched, and I cleared it. "Thank you, Alistair."

"Right." He slapped his hands against his knees and rose. "Now that the mushy bits are over, let's move on to armor training, shall we? This morning: the care and feeding of dragonbone armor. Ready?"

For the first time in what felt like forever, a smile tickled my lips. Just a tiny one, just barely enough to lift one corner, but that was all right. "Ready," I assured him, and rose to follow.

###

The armor felt...odd. Not that it was too heavy, it was just bulky. It jutted out from my body, making me look bigger, making me feel bigger, and moving in it required practice. Alistair showed a great deal of patience in teaching me how to clean it, how to secure it in place, and how to swing my sword while wearing it. After the first few movements, something clicked. Ancient memories flowed into my muscles, and once again I felt the rightness of my abilities.

The templar raised a brow as I swept the sword in an artistic form, much less awkwardly than I had been moving. "Ancient elven magic to the rescue, I see." He chuckled. "Let me tell you, that would have been a very handy trick when I was learning all this stuff the hard way."

I finished the form and snapped the sword to my back. "Does this mean you're going to stop yelling at me when I join the battle?"

"Maybe. Don't hold your breath. And if you get hurt, all bets are off."

"So. We are to sit around the camp for yet another day."

I turned at the rough, deep voice to see Sten glowering at me. His white braids stood out in stark contrast to his dark, rough skin and piercing violet eyes. Of all of my companions, the Qunari was the one I understood the least. His philosophy--that all people were born to be one thing, and one thing only, unchanging--was something I couldn't comprehend, particularly now. He had no tolerance for women, and even less for mages. He had bound himself to the task of defeating the Blight at my side, a vow his odd sense of honor would not allow him to abandon even though he'd made no effort to hide his contempt for me.

"I think we deserved a break, after Redcliffe," I countered.

"I see." The Qunari's eyes were as hard as gemstones. "And this delay has nothing to do with your weakness as a woman?"

Alistair stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides. "Hey, now, just wait a minute--"

I held up a hand and the templar subsided, grumbling.

"No," I said, my voice even. "This has nothing to do with me being a woman."

"I do not believe you." The Qunari stepped toward me and crossed his arms. Even wearing the bulky plate armor, the difference in our sizes was remarkable. He stood well over six feet tall, and was built for war--broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, well-muscled. I barely reached the middle of his chest. "Women are not warriors, and this is why. They are too emotional. They cannot lead objectively."

I arched a brow. "And you could do better?"

"Yes."

"I don't think so." I turned and stepped away, only to have my progress halted by Sten's massive two-handed sword. My eyes whipped to his.

"If you will not lead us to the archdemon," he growled, "I will."

Slowly, I unlatched Spellweaver from my back. "A challenge, then, is it?"

The Qunari inclined his head. "I will try not to damage you permanently."

"Too late," I murmured, then darted away from him.

I fell to the opposite side of our impromptu dueling ring and mirrored Sten's movements as he paced to the right, watching me, searching for an initial opening. My steps were sure. No fear rumbled through my mind. No uncertainty. My world narrowed down to just this: the ring, the challenge, my opponent. Everything else was inconsequential.

The Qunari leapt forward, his speed surprising for one so large. At the last moment, he spun and swept his enormous sword in an arc toward my midsection. I ducked and rushed forward, underneath his swing, the words of a spell falling from my lips. A bolt of lightning caught Sten in the back and he rumbled in his chest, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face me again.

"Magic. Vashedan."

My lips twitched and I shrugged, the joints of my armor rasping. With a grunt, he charged again. This time, instead of going for a swing with his blade, he thrust the pommel at me. It caught me on the chin and my vision faded. When it cleared again, I was on my back, and Sten's sword was arcing down toward me. Instinct brought Spellweaver to bear, blocking his strike. The contact reverberated down my arm, into my shoulder, and my magic strained to counter his amazing strength. I cried out and kicked, pushing him back enough that I could roll away and regain my feet.

He gave me no time to recover. He struck out with his blade again. The length caught me across the arm. I stumbled away from the blow, the clang of metal on dragonbone ringing in my ears. He pressed his advantage, forcing me into a defensive stance. Ancient knowledge rumbled through my mind. I had to switch tactics. I could not hope to outlast him by simply defending myself; Qunari were renowned for their incredible stamina. Maker's breath, when I'd met Sten he'd been caged for more than twenty days, and yet was still able to fight moments later. No, I needed a better strategy.

I didn't want to kill him. I dashed out of his reach and threw a spell at him, then another, staying away from the ones with the highest risk of death. I needed to slow him down and create opportunities for my sword. Winter's Grasp didn't freeze him--I'd known it wouldn't, but it did encase his limbs in ice and halt his attack for a handful of seconds. I danced in close to him and slashed Spellweaver across his arms and chest. Three strikes, my hands moving faster than I'd thought myself capable, and then I was jolting out of his reach again.

Sten eyed the trickle of blood that welled between the joints of his armor. "Interesting," he said.

I didn't wait for more banter. I cast Lightning. He staggered as the electricity coursed through him. I moved in closer, just beyond his reach, and cast Shock. A web of lightning bolts shot from my hands, enveloping the Qunari in a maelstrom. He jerked under the assault, his lips stretched in a grimace. The bolts sizzled into nothing and he fell to one knee, breathing heavily.

With the point of Spellweaver, I nudged his chin up so his eyes met mine. "Do you yield?"

I saw something in his gaze I hadn't seen before: a flicker of respect. "I yield. I will follow."

"Good. It would be a waste for me to have to kill you." I stepped back and returned Spellweaver to its latch.

"Agreed." The Qunari lumbered to his feet and without another word, returned to his tent near the fire.

The rest of my companions began moving away as well, and I belatedly realized that Sten and I had acquired an audience during our duel. Leliana shot me a quick smile as she returned to the fire. Zevran inclined his head, one brow lifted in appreciation. Wynne's face had its trademark gentle smile, but was otherwise impassive. Only Morrigan had not joined the group to watch the spectacle.

Alistair fell into step beside me as I made my way back to the circle of tents. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I don't think you'll have to worry about me yelling at you anymore."

My lips quirked, and I nodded. "I'm glad to hear it."