A/N: The Hedgehog Song belongs to Terry Pratchett…
-oo-
Chapter 10 – Connection
Talion turned the amulet over several times, making it jump from finger to finger and hand to hand contemplatively, unaware how she was making it dance between her palms. She was too busy watching the two human figures across the wide clearing and as the conversation between the two distant figures continued, the more the bright-haired elf hunched; her jaw jutting in concentration, wishing that - like Morrigan - she could turn into a raven, fly up into the nearest tree and listen in, unseen.
As she turned slowly into a colourful boulder, the amulet continued to leap and twirl, rays of the day's tired sun glinting off the edges of polished copper. Once, Alistair paused, turning to blink at her; a single eyebrow raised. Talion offered him a single, surreptitious thumbs-up then sinking her chin onto her bony knees, continued to simply observe.
He was going to give her the rose. She just knew it. It wasn't such a bad thing. Really. Was it? Technically Leliana probably wasn't the very first woman Alistair had met. It might well have been an aunt, or someone's nanny or…A Chantry Sister. In fact, when Talion worked her way back to possible candidates, she came up with a very long list and decided that her fellow Grey Warden must be an extremely experienced and well-practised romantic hero…not that she could imagine him making any kind romantic gesture to a Chantry Sister or…That sort of thing was frowned upon, wasn't it?
He should wait…maybe…when the Blight was over, so he could concentrate on…Or maybe…Talion sighed, not too sure what her garbled thoughts meant. Leliana was pretty. And she could sing. She even knew all one-hundred and thirty-two stanzas of A Drunken Nug Can't be Bothered At All. She was also a very good cook, could speak Orlesian, Fereldan and Antivan fluently, sewed, embroidered, was an adept in the art of poison and pastry making and could take down three Hurlocks with a single shot of her bow. It was just…
Talion's eyebrows drew downwards in a very un-Talion-like frown. There was just something…wrong here.
Something wasn't right…Well. There wasn't much she could do about changing Alistair's mind. And he'd already turned down all Talion's efforts to assist…Really, there was absolutely nothing wrong with giving a person a love frog. Everyone wanted one of those, surely? Well, maybe not Alarith apparently, but even Shianni had to concede that if that love frog hadn't appeared on Alarith's doorstep with Shianni's name on it, the handsome Alienage Shopkeeper would never have known that Shianni ever existed, never mind that she had a huge crush on him.
Who was to know Alarith had a deep and abiding terror of amphibians?
When Talion saw Alistair reach behind him, she rose to her feet rapidly, resolving to trust in Alistair's judgement. He should know what was appropriate for him, right?
Then why do I feel so…disappointed?
Kicking a pebble across the dead grass, Talion soon found herself beside the busy, narrow creek through the forest. She stopped for a moment to drink in the sight; sunlight illuminating the leaves of overhanging branches and sparkling on the water's surface. On the other side of the stream bank, a young fox sat perched on its haunches, regarding her with fearless interest, until he grew bored and ambled away. Talion, crouching at the water's surface watched him leave, admiring the jaunty angle of his frost-tipped tail and how the deep russet of his pelt melted into the shadows of the undergrowth.
With a sigh, she slid her fingers into the water, skin stinging with unexpected cold. She shivered, the rabbit skulls on her shoulders rattling along with her teeth. Before her, her watery reflection flickered, distorted by the movement of the water and complemented by flashes of silver as tiny fish darted in and around the rocks and her fingers. She stared at the ripples, trying to discern why she wasn't as happy about Alistair being happy as she thought she should be. After the sadness of Duncan and the Grey Wardens' deaths and the enormous pressure of needing to gather allies to battle the Blight, it was truly wonderful that one of them could find happiness…in amongst all the tragedy and death and destruction.
Surely?
For the briefest moment, Talion thought of her father. She wondered what he was doing, whether he was worrying about her…well of course he was – and she smiled at the image her mind conjured in her head – he always worried. Whether or not she was warm enough, or was wearing her good pair of socks today or had remembered to brush her teeth…he worried.
She wondered what her father would say about this situation. What wise words he would have offered to her and found her memory failing her.
Humans should be with humans…? Except Warden Alistair wasn't just another human. Just like Warden Commander Duncan hadn't been just another human. They had been…friends, comrades, equals. Duncan had been like Father; giving her his blanket because she had none, his bread because he thought she looked too thin. He had always encouraged her to sit closer to the fire, his silent presence a simple comfort away from everything that had been so familiar, talking with admiration about the close bonds elves formed in their communities and how humans could learn from that. How the Grey Wardens protected the lands from Darkspawn. He reassured her…Not that Talion had been frightened. No, she had been excited, relieved that she would no longer be a burden to her father; to the Alienage. Just another mouth that couldn't be fed or clothed or…
She promised herself that she would make the most of her situation with the Grey Wardens, relying on Mother's lessons time and time again, but finding every day that she was more her father's daughter. There is beauty to be found everywhere…he used to tell her. In a single raindrop…in the colours of a new day…in the smile of a good friend.
Father was right. There was beauty to be found everywhere; from the rainbows in a greasy puddle to the majestic arc of blood spurting whenever she decapitated a Darkspawn. She thought the Darkspawn were…incredible, endlessly fascinating…none of them looked alike. None of them even smelled the same. And when they were gutted and limbless and bleeding at her feet, there was poetry and artistry in that. True beauty. Colour.
It was…Talion thought to herself, amazing andawesome. It was amazing and incredible that supposedly mindless creatures could find it in themselves to keep going, no matter what, doing what Darkspawn did every day.
Warden Alistair was like that…He…
Talion spun suddenly, daggers whirring. Metal met metal midair with a ringing clang and a shower of sparks. Lavender eyes looked into gleaming golden ones and on skin the colour of warmed honey, an eyebrow quirked beside a tattoo the shape of a wave. Talion sniffed at him…wood smoke and exotic spice with just a hint of bacon.
"You're an assassin!" she stated, head cocking to the side speculatively.
"Ah…" the golden eyed elf purred appreciatively. "Beautiful and perceptive. Perhaps I should have brought reinforcements with me after all."
Talion stared. She had never seen eyes that colour before…except on Morrigan, but the witch's eyes were more like that of an eagle, some kind of hunting bird. His were like little golden orbs…like the abdomens of those spiders that spun webs every evening across the Alienage gates, but were always gone the next morning (possibly eaten by eagles or some kind of hunting bird). He'd also spoken with an accent that was familiar and yet…not; some almost-forgotten fragment from her childhood niggling away at her memory as their swords crossed again and again, ringing in the late-afternoon air.
Sensing her distraction, the assassin pressed forward and suddenly…the flame-haired Warden was simply not there. Is she a Mage, as well…he began to wonder when he felt the press of her very sharp knee in the small of his back - quite conveniently placed between two vertebrae - and her bony arms pinning his to his sides. The blade she held at his throat already had a thin rivulet of his own blood creeping down the length of the metal. Despite the thud of his heart beating in his ears and the leg-crossing trickle of running water, the sounds of battle could be heard from over their shoulders. If he failed with this one…at least his people would not with the other…
Behind him, Talion gritted her teeth, knowing quite well what she was hearing. The camp was being attacked and she needed to get back there quickly. She needed to protect Alistair…
"You know, I…" the assassin began, his words cut off abruptly. In a blur Talion had brought her dagger upwards and then down; the enchanted steel handle striking the assassin's temple at just the right spot where it would render him unconscious for precisely thirty-four minutes, ten seconds.
Just like Mama taught her.
She didn't need to kill him. He wasn't a Darkspawn and it would be interesting and exciting to find out why an assassin was here. Thinking up more possibilities, Talion sped through the forest, exploding from the greenery in a shower of broken foliage. The others…were different. They were not assassins, only hired thugs, if the way they…smelled was correct. A neck snapped here, her blade through a gut there, Talion fought her way towards the single target at the edge of the clearing, almost too far away: to the head of honey-wheat hair and the shield emblazoned with the Maker's Sun.
Protect at all costs.
A hound lunged at her from the side. Talion skidded, tripped, reluctant to engage someone's pet in battle. Scrambling back to her feet, her hand fell on something sharp. A burst of sweet fragrance teased her nostrils. Alistair's rose…? Blinking up at the barred teeth and dripping snarls of the war hound, Talion grinned. She reached up, finding a pair of jaws clamping around her wrist. Unperturbed, Talion wiggled her fingers, tickling the side of the mabari's muzzle.
"Oosa lubbly little puppy wuppy den?" she cooed.
The mabari rolled its eyes at her.
"You are!" Talion told it cheerfully. "Oh yes you are!"
Confused, the mabari released her wrist and stood over the prone elf, continuing to growl menacingly, though increasingly with less enthusiasm with each passing second.
"Was the golden eyed elf your Papa?" Talion asked it. She reached over again, quickly…slipped her hand to a certain spot just below the animal's ear. "He's safe, don't worry…" she told it as her fingers worked. "I promise I won't hurt him."
The mabari found himself sitting, without meaning to. The elf stood up and he watched her go, feeling light-headed and woozy. After a while, there was screaming and shouts of terror, but for once the sounds of battle did not spur him on to fight. Instead he lay down, resting his muzzle on the ground; the strong scent of something flowery making him feel very, very sleepy.
After a while, curled around the remains of a single, red rose, the mabari began to snore.
-oo-
"How long do you intend to mope, boy?"
Every neck and shoulder muscle tensed as that voice rumbled behind him.
They'd taken him off tent duty. And dinner duty. In fact, life as a Grey Warden was beginning to feel like his days at the monastery; those long afternoons and late nights spent elbow-deep in greasy soap water, fingers rapidly turning into stubby pink prunes. The only thing missing from that picture was the sound of Sister Magenta's strident voice hammering away at his ears, reminding him why discipline was so important and how he'd missed yet another spot and if he didn't apply proper attention to the task at hand, he'd have to do all two-hundred and fifty-six dishes all over again.
On the other hand…another voice had replaced Sister Magenta's quite accurately. One far less feminine but no less insistent on doing things right.
Why did they think he needed supervision anyway?
"I sometimes wonder why Duncan condones such distracting behaviour amongst his Wardens…"
Alistair cringed inwardly. Oh, here we go again…
"This is a war we're fighting, not a marriage service…"
Shaking the water from his hands, Alistair piled up the pots and dishes and loaded them carefully and neatly into the sacks, in anticipation of being told that he was doing it all wrong. Why it mattered in the first place, he didn't know. When Bodahn came around later to pick up the sacks to load onto his little wagon, they'd just be thrown haphazardly on there anyway, ruining his perfectly piled arrangements.
"With so much pressure mounting as the Grey Warden treaties are reclaimed, one would think any kind of distraction would be forcibly removed…A good soldier always…Small bowls on top of the larger ones, Theirin!" the Warden behind barked abruptly, making Alistair jump. "What did they teach you at that monastery?" Warden Loghain demanded in addition. "How to be slapdash and sloppy? Back straight! Shoulders square! Bad posture is the bane of an efficient army!"
Alistair rolled his eyes, unseen. He wanted to point out that the Wardens weren't an army, but found the sound of nearby laughter distracting him from this course of action.
His teeth ground as he caught sight of Daveth moving closer to Ella on their shared log; watched the crafty cutpurse fake a yawn; stretching his arms up and then around the young mage. Teeth still grinding, Alistair turned resolutely away, only to come face to face with Loghain's mocking glare.
The ex-Ferelden General enjoyed making his life miserable far too much. No one else in the camp received the same amount of attention or disparagement. No one else had his steps dogged as his were dogged. No one else was referred to by a long defunct and no-longer-applicable surname as a means of ridicule. He wasn't a Theirin…He'd never been recognised as one (not publicly anyhow) and so had no intention of making any claim to it. If he didn't know any better, Alistair would have been quite sure that all of those criticisms and censures that had never been able to stick to a certain monarch were now being heaped upon him.
Recycling…He almost felt sorry for his half-blood-brother, except that it was easier to resent the man instead. It was more convenient that way. Perhaps if Cailan Theirin had been everything that Loghain had wished for, then I wouldn't be such a target.
"I really don't see the point of simply standing about ogling them…" Loghain continued in his sardonically-amused voice. "Unless of course you actually are a bit of a voyeur…"
"I am not…!" Alistair began automatically, the rest of his protest lost in another bout of grinding molars. He waved a hand that he hoped was dismissive enough. "Never mind."
"Oh, but I do mind," Loghain countered, the corner of his mouth curling downwards.
"Well, you shouldn't."
"I do."
"You're enjoying making an ass out of me, aren't you?" Alistair finally demanded. He received as a response, a humourless, thin-lipped smile and brief silence.
Then…
"You missed a spot, by the way," Loghain told him. "On that last saucepan. Did you know?"
"Look, will you just…!"
"And your hound's rummaging through your pack," Loghain added, angling his head to narrow his eyes at a scene behind the young Grey Warden.
Alistair frowned. My hound…? Wait. He didn't own a dog…Why would a…? He turned to look over his shoulder, past the chattering couple on the log to his meagre pile of belongings. What looked like a raggedy mound of scarred flesh and mustard brown fur with four legs was snorting through the pile. Despite the dirt and collection of old wounds, it had once been painted with orange kaddis; faded over time from the rigours of battle and exposure to the elements.
It took several seconds for the scene to fully register before his brain yelled my cheese! at him, and then the creature removed something wrapped from his pack. A sound emerged from Alistair's throat; a kind of gurgling, strangled noise that would have seemed an overreaction to anyone who did not know what exactly was in that package…And the beast was tossing it up into the air like a ball, causing the wrappings to start to unravel…
"Storing that horrible foreign cheese in your pack again, Theirin?" Loghain growled disapprovingly. "If the entire Ferelden dairy industry collapses, I shall know who to blame…Disgusting stuff…Even the rats in the castle wouldn't eat it…"
"Gnargle hurgh!" Alistair said again, as the wrappings snagged on a twig and came apart completely, revealing – for all to see – what the object was. And then the beast began dragging it towards Daveth and Ella…
"Hold onto that thought!" Alistair yelled, his feet moving fast. Sprinting by the time he reached the other two Wardens, he used his momentum to vault over Daveth's head, landing with a jingling thud on the other side and dove at the mabari. The battle hound curled its muzzle at him, deftly stepped to the side and continued in its trajectory towards the seated Mage. Scrambling to his feet, Alistair stumbled after the dog, the two of them making a zig-zagging circuit around the seated Wardens as the hound avoided its pursuer.
Desperate, Alistair leapt again; arms outstretched. He landed this time not in the dirt or on the hound, but on an object that was soft and squishy and…squealy. Lifting his head, he saw with burning embarrassment what – or whom – he had landed on…
Her eyes, Alistair's brain noted as an interested aside, were the exact colour of a hazelnut; a kind of impossibly deep red-brown that made him feel as though he hadn't quite hit the ground yet…and nor would he, but would keep falling endlessly…
Ella managed to untangle her arms, pushing at his shoulders. "Alistair…" she squinted up at him. "You're kind of heavy…"
"Wha…?"
She had freckles across her nose.
"Heavy…" Ella repeated, with another shove. "Can't breathe."
Just a few freckles. Twenty-six of them, slightly darker across the tip of her nose. But only slightly.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. "If you tell me I've missed my calling as bedclothes, I'm going to fireball you."
Maker, she was…
"Why's that mabari got a rose of all things?" It was Daveth's voice that finally penetrated Alistair's foggy, whirling thoughts.
Rose…? His eyes widened. Oh. That rose…bloody Fade…! Scrambling to his feet awkwardly once more elicited another pained squeak from Majella. Apologising profusely, Alistair pulled Ella upright before she realised what he was about to do, leaving her bewildered and wobbling in his wake as he took off after the mabari again. The war hound gave a muffled, excited yip. Paws scrabbling across the dead grass, it dashed between Loghain and Daveth and then cannoned into Majella, launching her up into the air. Alistair caught her almost absentmindedly, handing her to Loghain as he continued his pursuit of the marauding mabari.
Rose clamped firmly between its foaming jaws, the mabari gave him one more, mocking glance over its scarred shoulder and then headed off into the forest, Alistair hot on its heels. As the forest consumed him, Alistair was sure he could hear Ella's voice chirp:
"Warden Loghain…Have I ever told you how handsome you are…?"
-oo-
Orzammar…She could feel it tugging at her bones, as insistent as the call of Darkspawn blood in her veins. Unlike the Taint however, beckoning her ever forwards, the stone pulled her downwards, dragging at her limbs with every step and every breath; a persistent, stubborn and unnervingly annoying irritant.
She didn't want to go.
As far as the dwarves of Orzammar were concerned, she didn't exist. Exiled, banned, stripped of clan, past; everything and all she had ever been she had been told never to return. Well…never actually told precisely, but the implication – the sackcloth, the guards pitching her head first through the Deep Roads portal…the obvious slam of the doors - had been pretty clear to anyone with more than half a dozen brain cells to rub together. And that wasn't even counting the spitting, the bets on how long she would last (and from one certain guard, a particularly nasty stink-eye) even before she had been stripped of her Commander's armour and the ceremonial cocktail spork.
I liked that spork…best thing ever to nab tricky pickled onions with…
This proximity was one of the reasons why she disliked Redcliffe. This closeness to Orzammar – both physical and economical – made the Arling of Redcliffe quite frankly, not on her list of 'Places to take the Grandkids on Summer Holidays'. And this was without taking into account the fact that it was possibly one of the most depressing places on surface Ferelden. There were more long faces in this Arling per square metre than there were in the Assembly…and that included all the women with beards.
On the other hand, if there were actually people out there with a penchant for rotting corpses, the constant smell of decomposing fish and…oh yeah…the hysterical wailings of the resident Banshee…they would be right at home.
Much as she could understand the grief of the bereft Arlessa, Calea could only take so much accusatory bouts of copious tears, hand waggling, beating of breast and ear-piercing, screeching, hysterical howls.
The old Arl, Eamon Guerrin had passed away just two days after Calea's Ashes party had left Redcliffe Castle.
It was…possibly something Calea could have pulled out of her 'I told you so' basket. In fact, it had taken quite a bit of self-restraint on Calea's part not to do that very thing…along with picking up Arlessa Lachrymosa and hurling her off the topmost tower of the castle, that is.
On the whole, that would have been perhaps a bit tasteless, with hints of possible antipathy and overtones of colourful disdain. But after learning that the Arlessa had laid the blame of her husband's death fully at the feet of her fellow Warden and then – adding insult to injury – refused entry to Calew and their newest recruit, Calea had very rapidly exhausted any reserves of sympathy she had for the woman.
Dammit…The whole kafuffle with the poisonous blood mage...the walking undead…the stupid, childish deal with the demon…the deaths of thousands of innocent…From what information Calea had discovered the entire schmazoogle had been made possible because Isolde Guerrin wanted to conceal her son's magic from his father. And…also dammit…the woman insisted on the demon being removed…Of course the demise of the one thing keeping the Arl from snuffing it would mean…well, the Arl snuffing it after all.
With or without the dessicated remains of a mythical prophet long-dead for decades.
The sound of clanging metal made Calea look up from the depressed musings of her scabby knees. Alistair had returned from the lake scrubbed clean and pink of ear. He'd clearly simply thrown his linen undershirt directly over himself after emerging from the water and Calea spent a few long moments admiring the rather nice way the fabric clung to his damp skin, almost transparent in places…
She sighed, shook her head. The lad had thick skin. She had to give him that. After all this time and the kind of treatment her fellow Warden had been given by these…nobles…he was still loyal to them.
The nug droppings for brains…
Why did he have to be so nice? After all this time? After all the good examples she had tried to show him and he still tried to be the good guy. The hero.
"I just poops me off…bloody, stupid…"
A soft whine preceded a heavy, damp paw falling onto her knee. Hard nails blunted by constant travel over rocky ground dug into the flesh around her right knee cap. Calew huffed damp spray over her leathers. Calea scratched the top of his muzzle, causing the Warden mabari to go slightly cross-eyed. "What do you think, boyo?" she asked him with a jerk of her head towards their fellow Warden. "Think he's a lost cause?"
Calew cocked her head at her. Dipping his head, he picked up something in his mouth then dropped it into her lap, sitting back expectantly with his rear half vibrating from high speed, nervous tail-waggle. Calea looked down at the object. It was some kind of…plant? Lifting it from her lap caused some bits to fall off; slightly crunchy tear-drop-shaped pieces of deep, dark red with curling edges. The partially-chewed stem had hooked barbs. It was scented…
"Where did you get this?" Calea asked the hound softly. "What is it?"
The mabari responded by resting his muzzle on her knees, looking up at her with impossibly soulful eyes. He blinked lazily twice then nudged the flower in her hand with a wet huff through his nose.
"Oh," Calea nodded understandingly. "It's one of those…"
"A rose…"
"Eh?" Calea lifted her head, staring past the wilting petals of the object in her hand to the damp Warden who'd just hunkered down next to the mabari. He tossed an interested look towards Warden Calew.
"Where did you find something like this?" he asked the hound.
Calew burped at him.
Alistair chuckled. "I guess you have an admirer," he told Calea. Humans give other humans they like flowers. It's a tradition."
"So what does it mean if a mabari gives a dwarf flowers then?" Calea asked him, an eyebrow lifting enquiringly.
Alistair shrugged. "Don't dwarves give each other things when they're…you know, trying to show affection; courting and stuff?"
"Well sure," Calea told him easily. "Anvils, forge hammers…venereal diseases…We're a romantic lot, we dwarves. Never forget that."
"I had to ask, didn't I?" he sighed. "Anyway…" Impulsively he lifted a hand and placed it on the top of her head. "Maybe he thinks you're like the rose."
Calea gave him an unappreciative, sideways look. "What? Dead, rotting and slightly mildewy?"
"No, nut," Alistair told her. "Roses are beautiful things. They survive through bitter winters, freezing cold and still come up in the spring blooming with colour and scent. Tough, hardy, they might look delicate, but they're quite capable of defending themselves with these very wicked thorns. Just like you…well that's…" he snatched his hand belatedly and awkwardly back from the top of her head, running it instead through his hair. "Well," he said, looking at the mabari, not at her. "That's how I see you anyway…so…um. I should probably go. Now. Think I'm on dinner duty."
"Ooh…Traditional Ferelden lamb and pea stew again?" Calea asked, wide-eyed and choosing to ignore the deep blush that suffused the skin visible through the wet strands of his hair, down below the collar of his shirt. She tried very hard not to ask him whether his bellybutton was pink as well...That way lay madness.
"Why?" he blinked at her. "Is that bad?"
"I love your traditional Ferelden lamb and pea stew!" Calea twinkled at him. "Tastes just like lichen bread partially digested through the gut of several Deepstalkers! Just like Mama used to make!"
"Ah."
Calea continued to smile. He had a nice jaw, she thought. The type of jaw she could crack nuts on…all day…
"And after that…I guess…" He lifted his nut-jaw, looking out over the tree tops to the snow-dusted mountains not too far away. "Orzammar huh?"
Her mouth turned down and her gut twisted. Calew whined again and she rubbed at his ear. "Yeah…" she repeated softly. "That place…"
-oo-