Title: Snow and Ice

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Sexual content, minor language, violence, blood, use of alcohol

Summary: Once upon a time, a maleficar had stopped the blight. Afterwards, she'd left for the colder North, leaving love for a life of loneliness and wandering. No one was to look for her. So why was Alistair calling her back? Zev/Surana

Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Review please. Sorry, minor writer's block on this chapter. Think it turned out rather well, though.

My lullaby sounds more like distant screams

I wake up sleep-deprived from every dream

You can sit there and try and watch me heal

It's been a long time coming...

Chapter 10

"Cullen," she addressed him, nearly making him jump out of his skin. She was only sixteen years old, but somehow managed to make her voice hard enough that he always thought it was Rehga, another templar. His superior. Staring at her through the helmet, he swallowed.

"Y-yes?"

Maker, but she was beautiful. Her long, sweeping silver hair fell elegantly over her back and neck, ending in rich curls that always got her in trouble with Irving. Somehow, though the apprentices were not allowed to have makeup, she snuck in charcoal to outline her eyes with, accenting the icy blue orbs that regarded him with something like distaste and wariness. Thin and gangly for an elf, he wondered how she managed to make her waist that small without simply falling over dead. Her fingers were long and elegant, curling over the spine of an open book. Black robes, sagging and sweeping, cloaked her entire body in shadows. A bright red ribbon was tied about her middle. She slammed the book shut, earning his attention.

"Did you hear me?" she demanded, slightly annoyed.

He did not, but he remembered her reputation for violence and decided to lie. "Of-of course."

Exasperated, she edged closer. "Then, can you? Tonight perhaps?"

He couldn't help it. His heart thudded in his chest. Cullen was sure that it was even louder with the armor on. "T-tonight? Um, do I need to bring anything?"

"Your eyes, perhaps. Or candles if you would like to get back to your quarters without running into a wall. Irving says I cannot practice magic without a templar. I would much prefer your eyes to anyone else's," she muttered, still frozen in the same spot while everyone else scattered to class. Her fingers dug into the spine of the book, dangerous. How could she be so small and still be positively terrifying?

He felt a little let down that he would be watching her practice magic rather than...whatever his imagination had led him to believe. Still, as eager as a puppy, the thought that she wanted him and no one else brought a blush to his face. "I will be there," he promised and for once his words were steady.

She actually smiled at him, though it was slight and lasted only for a second before her long fingers closed on the visor of his helmet. She whispered in his ear, "Best not wear this helmet when you blush so, Cullen. Next moment, there will be steam coming from it."

Then she slipped away in a flurry of robes. The other apprentices gave her a wide birth, that girl who had killed a templar.

Elda was startled into awareness, having not dreamed of the tower in so long. Having not dreamed of Cullen for so long, especially not that insignificant incident. The second the dream wore off, though, she began to feel the cotton of sheets beneath her and not sun-baked tar. Her hair was wet and sprawled across a feather pillow. Glancing up, she saw the familiar canopy of her bed. When a cool washcloth touched her head, she nearly threw herself off the bed in alarm. Only an explosion of pain from her entire body kept her immobile.

"By the Creators, what has happened to me?" she moaned.

"Calm down, my lady," a soothing voice said. It was not one she recognized. "You fell off the roof. The commander has gone to fetch the Healer. I'm afraid you've broken a few bones."

"A few?" she gasped, turning onto her side. One arm seemed completely useless. She was sure that the fire roaring in her brain meant that there were a few fractures up there. She couldn't move one leg. There was blood in her mouth, nausea in her belly. She scrambled over the side of the bed and promptly vomited into a floor pot.

The man, who was wearing very clunky armor, skirted around to the opposite side in no time, gathering back her hair to hold it in a bun while she continued to gag and choke. "I should have expected that, I suppose. Leliana gave you a rather potent tonic to keep you asleep. She said you might throw up." Elda's sharp nails scrambled up to take hold of the ponytail he'd gathered, forcing his hand away.

When she was finished, she wiped the remains of milk and bread away, sitting shakily on the floor, bones still throbbing. The man was there with a glass of water. She took it with broken fingers, and he helped her hold it up as she drank greedily.

He was Dalish, that much was certain. Black tattoos curled over the back of his neck, hidden by inky black hair probably for decorum's sake. Humans had hard enough time accepting elves without strange tattoos plastered all over their faces. His ears were much bigger than her own, and one of them was pierced with a tribal earring. Emerald green eyes stared with a mask of concern at her. He was handsome, she supposed, sizing him up. He would be easy to overcome, though. She could tell he was trained with a bow, seeming awkward with the longsword thrown across his back. Only a fool didn't wear a shield when fighting a mage. Apparently, he was a fool.

"What's a Dalish elf doing in the king's army?" she gasped, glancing down at her fingers. Two were definitely broken. She could barely move the other ones. Even though it was the hand she'd damaged beyond repair, she could still feel crumbling bones beneath the burned nerves. Judging by the amount of damage that seemed to be on once side of her body versus the other, she must have landed on her left side when she fell.

"How did you...?" but he trailed off as a very winded Wynne burst into the door, staff in hand. Elda couldn't believe her eyes, and the shock momentarily took away the pain. Wynne hadn't aged a day. In six years, she stilled had the same wrinkles, the same stern look in her eyes mixed with a bit of caring. The spirit possessing her had held on for six years? It was...awe-inspiring to say the least.

"By the Maker! What is she doing on the floor? Zevran, Theron, get her on the bed now. Be mindful of the leg, now, I think it's broken," she barked. Zevran and the guard picked her up off of the ground, laying her gently on the bed. She was in far too much pain to fight them anyhow.

Wynne smacked her on the shoulder. "Don't bite your lip; you'll worry that wound open. We'll have to splint the arm, but I think I can heal the leg. It's not too badly damaged." Cold fingers prodded her skull. "You've definitely cracked your head in several places."

"Keep poking me like that, and I'll have to bite you," she snapped.

Laughing lightly, Wynne grabbed her chin. "Bitten clean through your lip, have you? That'll leave a scar. And if you want me to heal you child, I need to measure the damage." Her hands dove beneath Elda's shirt, and the mage squeaked in surprise. Pain shot through her as Wynne's fingers danced over broken ribs.

"Two broken for sure, no way to tell how many are cracked," she clucked. "Reminds me of the broodmother incident. Took me nearly fourteen hours to fix you then, didn't it?" Smiling, she held out her hand. Theron hesitantly placed something on the palm. Wynne presented it to Elda. It was a long, leather strap full of teeth marks.

"Bite down, dear," said the old mage. "We've got to set that arm."

Surana, the mage who never cried, who never showed weakness, was actually perched on the side of one of the great windows at the top of the tower, looking forlorn. Outside, it snowed heavily. The lake was frozen solid, piles of snow collecting on the ice surface. The wintergreen trees were dusted with a wintry coat. Wolves howled in the distance. Incense and spice made up her scent. Jowan paused behind a bookcase, not wanting to alert her.

Greagoir had made her chop off all of her hair. She'd done it in a fit, angry at the lead templar for ordering her around. Of course the decision to sneak a kitchen knife and chop it all off in a fury came back to bite her rather than Greagoir. Instead of the long, water-like hair that all of the apprentice's were jealous of, she had a mop of short, spiked hair that they laughed at. She didn't care, though. To them, she'd always looked like a freak. An elf with skin too pale to be natural, eyes so blue that it looked as if the ocean was contained inside of them, silver hair, and a thinness most longed for meant she would never be welcome amongst people of her own age.

"I know you are there, Jowan," she whispered, fingers arched angrily over the glass. Her breath left a mist on the cool surface. "I can hear your heart beating."

He laughed lightly, coming out from behind the bookcase. "I will never get over how scary you are. What happened to the nice little elven girl I used to hang around with."

The corner of her mouth twitched up in a smile, cold, mirthless. "She died with that templar."

Allowing a moment of appropriate silence, Jowan asked, "What are you doing up here, Surana? If they catch you again, you'll be in trouble."

Turning her head to look at him, she said, "Might I remind you that you are out of bed, as well?" Hopping off the window sill, she spread her arms. "Even if they do catch us up here, Greagoir will be lenient on me after today."

"I guess he will," Jowan laughed. "But you didn't answer my question. What are you doing up here? You've been up here every day this past week."

She sighed, glancing at the window. "Do you know what happened a week ago?"

He thought for a moment. Jillian had set her hair on fire. Four new apprentices—three elven boys, one human girl, and another kid he didn't have a really good view of—had arrived at the tower. Thoma had become tranquil. But none of that would have her traveling to the top of the tower to stare out of a window. Surana did a lot of strange things. He had no chance at guessing her true purpose. So, he simply shrugged his shoulders.

The elf put her back to him. "It began to snow," she whispered.

"Ah," was his intelligent response. Surana always liked the snow, but she wasn't allowed outside because of her tendency towards violence and disobedience. Greagoir was far too afraid that she would run away. For good reason.

"I've never touched snow," she said sadly.

Jowan felt for her. He'd been in the tower longer, but he was also older. And allowed to visit the grounds when he finished his classes. Of course, that meant the templars were breathing down his neck, but it was completely worth it to breathe fresh air. She wasn't the only person who was stuck inside the tower, though. All of the troublemakers were. But it was worse for her. She'd grown up outside, in the open air of the Dalish until her family had gone to Denerim.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had grabbed her hand. "Jowan, by the Creators, what are you doing?"

"Showing you snow," he replied.

They were running down the stairs two at a time. She picked up the pace, running with him. Jowan had never elected to break rules before. She wondered just what had gotten in to him.

At the bottom of the tower, there was one templar guarding the door. Jowan skidded to a stop. She felt fire come alive in his hand, and he let go just to throw it straight at the female templar. She cried out, slamming against the doors. Jowan pushed her limp body aside and opened the door. Cold air blew straight at her face. Jowan grabbed her hand and pulled her through the doorway. She stepped over the body of the templar. A tiny flake fell on her nose.

Lake Calenhad was glorious with snow on it. She'd never felt such cold before, but she was reveling in it. Jowan smiled tentatively at her. She closed her mouth and smiled tentatively back.

"They'll have your head for this, you know. Attacking a templar is worthy of death," she murmured.

"Yeah," Jowan breathed, running a hand through his hair, "but I got to see you smile." Secretly, his heart was beating so fast it was humming. He knew Irving would have his hide. Greagoir would probably murder him on the spot.

Then, Surana did something that changed their relationship forever. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his mouth, forcing them back onto a pile of snow. That was how the templars found them, and Irving, as no one had actually escaped, could hardly hide his twitching smile.

Elda was trembling with cold. Standing in the middle of the bathroom, naked, she had her arms around her, soaking wet. The collar at her neck rubbed against the raw wounds. Her arm was splinted, but broken still. Her leg had been completely healed. Wynne, unmerciful, raised up another bucket of ice water and dumped it on her head. She gasped as all of her muscles froze simultaneously. It had been cold in the wilds, but not so cold. When Wynne lifted another bucket, this one still afloat with ice, Elda scrambled over to beg for mercy.

"No, please! Not again," she quivered.

Wynne glanced sympathetically at her, "Dear, I have to lower your body temperature. You're running a fever."

"I'm frozen! You can't possibly lower it anymore," she cried. "This is torture!" Wynne dumped the water on her head, and Elda curled into ball at the mage's feet, whimpering. Moments between buckets were the warmest. Chunks of ice clung to her hair.

Zevran seemed to take pity on her. "Surely there are other ways," he suggested.

"Perhaps," Wynne said at last, "that is enough. I hope it will help."

The guard was in the hall, respecting her privacy. As Zevran had both had sex with her and seen her naked plenty of times, he had no such respect. He unfolded a fur blanket and placed it around her shoulders, rubbing at her bare flesh to instill some warmth. She truly was a frozen mass. Whispering comforting words—even he couldn't be so callous as to tease her while she shivered so—he helped her to her feet and into the bedroom.

Later, after Wynne had left with Theron in tow, Zevran brought Rinna. The girl was asleep in her father's arms, curled against his chest so naturally it was as if she was sculpted just to fit there. Elda thanked him when he tucked the child in and then sat with his back to her, staring into the fire. Luke warm but still shaky with shock, she whispered to him, "Zevran, Alistair will be gone for three days?"

"Two, my dear," he replied. "This was the first day."

"Do you think—if you come with me—that we could make a trip?" she rasped. A shiver wracked her body. Rinna moaned softly in her sleep and curled closer.

He turned around, puzzled. "And where would you like to go, mi amora?"

"To the Circle of Magi."

Jowan was just too priceless to throw away. Before you bite my ear off, there is a reason that Greagoir wouldn't kill them both on the spot for being apostates. After all, they didn't kill Anders, now did they? And, yes, I stole the name Theron from one of the origins stories. Now we're getting into it!