Reverse

There was little to do on the journey back to the lowlands but talk. I had somehow managed to acquire a new addition to my motley crew in Orzammar, a robust warrior by the name of Oghren. His lewd comments and vulgarities made Morrigan roll her eyes and Wynne grimace, but I found myself genuinely liking him. Oghren was what he was, and he made no apologies for it. We walked together a lot, him doing most of the talking, and me listening and smiling when a particularly dirty joke made Alistair, who always hovered nearby, blush. If the dwarf was surprised I didn't laugh, he said nothing; he carried his own darkness in the depths of his eyes, and something told me he understood more than he let on.

I was surprised and yet not when Oghren cornered me after dinner one night on our way back to Redcliffe, hesitantly confirmed our friendship, and confessed that he wanted to rekindle an old flame, now that he was on the surface. A tiny smile curved my lips as his gravelly voice described this woman, Felsi, that he'd managed to love and lose. Typical Oghren.

"Sure, why not. We can look her up." I leaned against the log at my back, extending my legs. "Do you know where she might be?"

"Last I heard, she was working in a tavern. Near Lake Cleanbad, I think it was."

My throat closed. I stared at the fire for a long moment, as if the flames could melt the ice that had started forming in the pit of me. "Lake Calenhad, you mean?"

"Ki--Surana." Alistair's voice was filled with concern. He'd heard, of course he'd heard; he was always close at hand now, it seemed.

"I'm fine." I made sure my voice sounded like it, too.

Oghren's eyes darted from the templar and back to me. "No, not Lake Calenhad. Cleanbad. I remember, because I thought, 'right; clean is bad'."

"I know the place." I pushed to my feet and strode into the darkness edging the camp.

Alistair's familiar footsteps pursued me. "We don't have to do this. You don't have to do this," he said as he caught up to me.

"So I'm going to permanently avoid that area of Ferelden, now? Don't be an ass."

"I can go. I can take Oghren and whoever else. You don't need to go back."

"Alistair." I spun on my heel to face him, ready to lash out verbally, but his expression stopped me. Bone-deep worry dwelled in every line of his face. Something in my chest twisted and the words I'd been about to spit at him evaporated. "Thank you, but..."

"No. No 'but'." He crossed his arms over his chest, his plate armor rasping through the quiet night. "You're not going."

"Oh." My eyes narrowed as my appreciation faded. "I'm not?"

"No, you're not." His hand reached out, and I stepped back, the movement automatic. His fist clenched and fell back to his side. "I don't want you anywhere near those--those pigs. Not ever."

"It's not your choice."

"There is no point in this."

"Kind of like there's really no point in looking up your sister."

His eyes narrowed and I knew I'd struck a blow. He'd revealed the existence of his half-sister as we'd trekked to Orzammar, how he wanted to meet her before the Blight overtook the country. I couldn't blame him; I'd seen his desire for a family first-hand when we'd been trapped in the Fade and I'd stumbled into his warm, fuzzy dream.

"That's low," he said quietly.

I shrugged to hide the twinge of guilt that rippled through me. "Maybe. But it's true, and you know it."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," he grumbled.

"Since when have you ever liked my decisions, anyway?"

"Excellent point. I supposed I should be used to this by now." His eyes glittered, and I couldn't halt the chuckle that snuck past my lips. "Why, Kiann, I do believe you giggled."

"It was a cough."

"Right." He touched a hand to my arm to stop me as I turned back to the fire, just a quick moment of contact. "Promise me something."

My breath hitched at the seriousness of his voice. "What?"

"If it's too much--if seeing the tavern and, Maker forbid, the sons-of-whores who did that--" His lips thinned. "Promise me you'll walk away and let me handle it. I don't want you to be hurt. Not physically, and not...otherwise, either."

A sour taste rose in my throat, an unholy desire to visit pain on another living creature. I didn't welcome it, but nor did I shy away from it, either. "I can't promise that."

The templar sighed, then nodded. "Somehow, I didn't really think you would."

###

Seeing the tavern in the daylight diminished some of its affect on me. It wasn't the hulking, monstrous structure of my memories, darkened by the night and mist from the lake. It was just a building, with strips of paint peeling away here and there, a worn sign creaking as the breeze played with it, and familiar pub smells of roasting food and spilled ale emanating from it.

I felt Alistair's eyes on me as heavy as a hand on my shoulder. And, in some ways, as comforting. I wasn't alone. Whatever was to happen, I would have him and my other companions at my back.

All of them, it seemed, since no one had wanted to remain at camp for this. My entire company of friends stood arranged behind me, and I regarded them with an exasperated look. "We can't all go inside. We'll terrify everyone."

"I fail to see how 'twould be a bad thing, that," Morrigan sneered. "All evidence shows that these men could stand to learn some manners. I would be more than pleased to teach them." Magic crackled around her fingertips.

"Right. Morrigan, you're staying outside. Wynne, you too." I held up a hand to stall the elder mage's protest. "It's far too obvious that you two are mages, and I don't want to chance either of you getting hurt."

"And yourself, my dear?" Wynne asked, gently.

A crooked smile jerked my lips upward as I surveyed my black plate armor. "I don't think anyone will think I'm a mage. Nor will they recognize me, not now."

"Ah, but my dear Surana, that handsome outfit certainly identifies you as a Grey Warden, which will be nearly as bad here, no?" Zevran arched a brow, the lines tattooed on his face shifting subtle with the motion.

The assassin had a point, but I wasn't about to change out of my armor, and I would not remain behind. I glanced at The Spoiled Princess. I needed to do this. Helping Oghren reconnect with this woman…it was only an excuse. I needed to prove to myself that this place--these people--had no power over me. They'd killed Kiann, and I wasn't her.

"Oghren, Zevran, Alistair, you're with me. The rest of you…" I sighed, eying the well-armored sentinels stationed near the dock to the Tower. They were always there, ready to prevent the escape of any mages daring enough to brave the deep, frigid waters of the lake. "Try not to give the templars any reason to arrest you, all right?"

Sam whined at my side and I dropped a gauntleted hand to scratch his head. "No, boy," I said softly. "You stay out here."

The four of us walked into the tavern, and I was inappropriately reminded of a joke that Oghren had tried to tell me a few nights before. He'd been drunk--when wasn't he?--and had keeled over, passed out, before he'd said more than, "An elf walks into this bar, see…"

Even though it was barely past noon, the tavern had a healthy number of customers. One table in the back had three figures seated around it, and two more men sat hunched over the stools at the bar. A couple more were occupied with lone drinkers. Without the laughter and dancing and music, the atmosphere was not pleasant. These men had come to drink and forget, and we were interrupting that.

"There she is," Oghren said, his rough voice carrying an uncharacteristic note of hope. "Warden, you have to back me up."

"Back you up?" I snorted. "Oghren, she's not a genlock."

"Just follow my lead, will you?"

I rolled my eyes and followed the dwarf as he approached the woman, currently on her hands and knees and scrubbing a particularly nasty stain on the floor. I didn't want to know what it was.

Oghren approached her with what I could only describe as a leer stretched across his rotund face. "Are you sure you're not a baker? 'Cause you've got a sodding nice set of buns."

"Dear Maker," I groaned.

Felsi rose to her feet, her gaze puzzled. "Oghren? Is that you?"

"In the flesh, baby."

It went downhill from there. Or, at least, I thought it did. I said what I hoped were the appropriate things to help his cause, but the two dwarves traded insults and not-so-friendly banter. When Oghren finally let Felsi return to her work, he had a smile on his face.

"I still got it," he said as we moved toward the door.

"Wait." I frowned. "That was a success?"

"Weren't you listening, Warden? I practically had to pry her off me."

"Warden?"

I froze at the voice. That awful voice.

"Kiann," Alistair breathed. He shook his head. "Let's go."

My eyes narrowed. My teeth clenched. "I am not Kiann."

"Aye, it is you." I turned, and watched the man approach, none too steady on his feet. My dance partner from that night. Maker, I didn't even know his name. "Cut your hair, did you. And painted your face, I see, like the good little whore you are."

Alistair stepped in front of me, his entire body vibrating with rage. "You will show some respect, ser."

"Respect?" The man laughed. "For that? Maker's breath. You must be joking." He swayed, just a little, as he looked over his shoulder to his friends, who had also risen from the table. "This is the bitch who set fire to the tavern, lads. Remember her?"

"Oh, aye," one of them slurred. His long hair hung in greasy strips framing a gaunt, stubbled face. Bile rose in my throat as memories rushed into me. He grunts as he thrusts and laughs at my tears and the whimpers emanating from my throat. "I remember. She looks like she's gained a bit of fight to her now, though." He chuckled darkly. "All the better."

"I am warning you, gentlemen," Alistair growled. "Come no closer. We don't want to start any trouble--"

"But we'll be happy to finish it," Zevran interjected. He shrugged as Alistair shot him a furious glare.

My dance partner drew closer. Alistair's hands flexed at his side, but he didn't reach for his sword. I didn't, either. Unlatching our weapons would signal the start of something, and, Maker, now that I was here and faced with this, I realized I didn't want it. I didn't want to kill anyone, I didn't want to hurt anyone. All I wanted was to run away, far away, where they could never, ever find me again.

I was Kiann. As much as I wanted to deny it, as much as I wanted it to be different, I was still the same scared little elven girl who'd been brutalized and left for dead, and I would never be anything but her.

"Just because you have fancy armor and weaponry doesn't mean you know how to use it." My dance partner sneered as he reached the templar. "She couldn't even throw up a decent spell to defend herself, and you're in her company, so…what are the chances you're anything but a pretender? Like her? A Grey Warden, my arse."

"Alistair." His name whimpered out of me. A tear rolled down my cheek. Too much. He told me to walk away if it was too much, he made me promise him that, but I couldn't make my feet obey me. Andraste's mercy…I needed his help in this. I wasn't strong enough, I wasn't good enough…

His eyes flashed to mine, his mouth opened to speak--

A grunt of surprise emerged instead. A trickle of blood.

"Hmph," my dance partner scoffed. He released the knife jabbed into the templar's stomach and wiped his hand on his already stained shirt. "Pretender. As I'd thought."

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. Alistair stumbled to the side, his hands fastened around the hilt protruding from his belly. The bastard had aimed it just right, snuck it through the plates of the templar's armor to reach the soft skin beneath. Blood, so dark in the dim light it looked black, gushed over the gleaming silver armor to pool on the floor. It lapped at the toes of my ebony boot, but still I didn't move. The templar crashed to the floor, upending a table. The sound should have jolted me, but it didn't. I was stone.

It was Oghren who rushed to Alistair's aid. "Easy, lad," he said, his rumbling voice more gentle than I'd ever heard it. "Bet that hurts like a bitch, don't it? No, leave it in, just until we get Wynne in here."

"Damn it," Alistair gasped. Blood stained his teeth.

"What are you standing there for, you sodding elf?" Oghren roared, his eyes on Zevran. "Go get Wynne!"

"Warden?" Zevran's sword and dagger were in his hands. Death danced in his eyes.

I stared at him, my brain slow and stupid. What was he asking me?

"I don't know what the sod is wrong with her, but she's useless. Go!"

A whisper of air, and the assassin was gone, melted into the shadows. My dance partner snorted and stepped up to me, his posture radiating confidence. I was powerless. He knew it. His fingers trailed along my cheek, a simple gesture that promised so much pain and hurt.

A hitched breath from beside me. "Get your--get your hands off her." Even injured, the templar still wanted to defend me. But it was too late. It had always been too late, hadn't it?

I was a pretender. I pretended to know what I was doing. I pretended I was strong. I pretended I was powerful. My entire sodding life was a lie, wasn't it?

I'd even pretended that--that I didn't care for the templar. Alistair. And now he was laying there, bleeding, and I…

My dance partner gripped my chin, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise. "So, does the boy in the pretty armor fancy you, then?" His eyes narrowed to slits. "Even without your maidenhead intact? You did tell him about that, I hope. How you didn't fight us, how you just lay there and let it happen."

"You son of a--" Alistair choked. Coughed. My eyes darted to him, even as my face was held immobile. He sagged back, struggling for breath. More blood rushed out of his mouth.

Oghren swore. "Bloody nug-licker. Stay still, or you'll--" He broke off. Shook the templar. "Alistair. Alistair!"

My fellow Warden didn't move.

I broke.

I acted, and yet I didn't. It was me, and yet not, controlling my movements. I grabbed my dance partner's hand and shoved him away. He cried out as he stumbled back, my magically-enhanced strength taking him by surprise. I felt like I'd been split into two: one half watching in stunned shock, unable to do anything but that; and the other operating on instinct to protect myself.

And do as much damage to my enemies as possible.

Words tumbled out of my mouth as I channeled a spell. In moments, I flung it into the air, and the temperature dropped as snow swirled around us. I'd barely taken a breath before my lips began forming the words to the next spell. Unarmored, nothing more than simple common folk without any combat training, these men could barely resist the effects of my summoned blizzard; paired with another spell, they would fall. Everyone within the tavern would. But I would be safe, and they would have paid, and--

"Kiann, no."

My mind truly was broken, because that was Alistair's voice, and he was dead. Pain lanced through my heart. I was going to be alone because of these bastards, on my own to defeat this darkness spreading across Ferelden. And I would defeat it. I'd crush it beneath my armored foot, because that's what Alistair would have wanted me to do. And as much as I wanted to curl up in a hole and just let the Blight take everything, I would not dishonor him like that. But first--first they would pay.

"Please. Don't do this." The words, his voice, rushed through my head. "It'll kill everyone."

Probably. I didn't care. And why did he? He was dead and only existed in my broken mind.

"Kiann--"

The final words spilled from my lips.

"No!"

A flash of power slammed into me, through me, tunneling through my magic deep into my spirit. I flew backwards and slammed into something that didn't give. The wall? My head cracked against it, and everything faded.