IX: Pale Graves
First to Keeper Marethari, Merrill Sabrae, sat alone amongst the tree graves of her ancestors. No. Not First any longer. She gasped lightly as she felt the tell-tale pressure of tears behind her eyes. She blinked several to the ground as she tried to remember her purpose.
Not my true purpose. Well, it is part of that, but it isn't the true of it. It is a Keeper's job to remember, and to preserve the People. Those that lie here should rest quietly, not… they should be…
She silenced her thoughts as she placed her hand to the earth, willed her eyes to see further even as she closed them.
The warmth of the Beyond flowed from under her eyelids, to her fingertips and through the mound to the memories of the soul beneath.
That was not exactly what they were of course – they were echoes, memories that Spirits clung to as they clustered to this sacred place in the Beyond. If only they were true memories, if only the soul remained. For We have lost so much… if only we could bring them back.
This particular ancient soul – no, memory – that lay beneath her strummed with tension and pain. Anger built, a rage against its tormentor, and Merrill did her best to sooth the spirit within. She carefully warded its resting ground, doing her best to seal any attacks from beyond.
As she prodded the defenses she had willed about the now quieting memory a voice spoke behind her.
"Well, that's something you don't see everyday," a harsh tone, a male lilt that was not one of the People. She dove forward immediately towards her staff in a panic, clutched the knotted wood as she spun on her back to face the speaker who so casually defiled Sundermount's Pale Graves.
Four humans (two male and two female) and a durgen'len of all things stood before her. Her grip tightened in alarm on her staff as she desperately tried to channel the power to defend the Graves. To the death.
Only for her concentration to be shattered at the strangeness of the people before her. Though all bore arms and armor, only the tallest human had one tentative hand on the enormous blade on his back.
The woman beside him with short hair and kind eyes slapped the big man's hand from his weapon.
"Carver," she spoke. "You daft tit. You scared the poor thing." She held her hands forward, fingers splayed. "Don't be frightened of the big tit that is my brother. He may be an ugly git but he's a softie at heart."
"Oh, bugger off sister," the brother barked back angrily.
The kind sister ignored her definitely meaner brother and held a hand to the dumbstruck Merrill. Against her better judgment the elf grasped it and felt the powerful woman pull her to her feet. The sheer force of the pull almost sent the unexpecting Dalish face over heel but the human caught her, shoulders first.
"You're a right waif thing, aren't you?" The woman asked, not unkindly. Even though she was unsure what 'waif' meant Merrill nodded. She stepped back and retrieved the staff she had dropped. As she straightened with it, her confidence (though not her pride) seeped back. Merrill finally took the opportunity to size up the interlopers before her.
At the far end of the group stood a woman in heavy metal armor with flaming hair. Her face was as hard and angled as the metal she wore, though the look she gave Merrill wasn't such. Her bare arms and strong jaw demonstrated her obvious experience in the use of the sword at her side and the shield at her back. Those muscled limbs crossed her chest at Merrill's scrutiny, prompting the nervous elf to move on.
To her left and far below her stood the durgen'len, who smiled pleasantly and winked at her. She glanced briefly at the strange weapon on his back, wondering as to what it was, but found herself quickly distracted. His lack of beard surprised Merrill until she noticed the exposed fur poking out his open jacket. Perhaps it fell?
Next to him and somewhat behind was the strangest man of the bunch, his eyes intent on her. He bore bits of armor scattered about his person, though his chest piece certainly was not scattered (even though by its marking something had tried to scatter it in the past). The scars on his face matched those on his armor. He regarded her without expression.
The kind woman stood beside him and in front. To Merrill she was the most beautiful human she'd ever seen. Her dark hair was cropped close to her head, and she wore leather armor strapped underneath a thick leather jacket. All of the rest of her paled in comparison to her pretty blue eyes. Yes, of the eleven humans Merrill had ever seen, the short haired kind woman was the prettiest by far.
Finally, to her side and a step behind her stood her large brother. He had gargantuan arms that dwarfed any of the People's and a bigger sword to match. He had a bitter look in his eyes that he thankfully directed towards his sister.
Now that she had calmed Merrill had the time to think. These could not be attackers. There had been no sign, magical or otherwise, of distress from the camp. The Keeper would have warned me. Then it hit her.
"Are you the ones the Keeper told me about?" She blurted, immediately blushing and losing her confidence. "Oh wait, I'm sorry. I've been alone here so long, I didn't mean to be rude! My name's Merrill, what's yours?" A sudden fear took hold of her as the group looked at her strangely. "Unless it's rude to ask a human's name. Is it? Rude to ask?" Shut up Merrill. "I'm sorry. When I get nervous I ramble… I'm sorry for rambling. And being rude."
Silenced pervaded for a moment. Merrill's palms itched. Then the sister and durgen'len laughed.
Merrill gripped her staff tighter, dropping her head in shame as her face burnt with unimaginable heat.
The sister noticed and stifled her laughter. "Chin up, girl. We aren't laughing at you."
"It's just… we're surprised. You're the only one here who hasn't acted like we're nug shit on the boot. So to speak," the durgen'len added.
The sister nodded. "Bit of a shock to find such a daisy just a hike away from people who want you dead. No offense."
Merrill felt another shame then, a deep thing that bit into her stomach. "I understand and I'm sorry. You aren't seeing the Dalish at our best here. We're good people, and look out for each other."
"Just not outsiders," the scarred man spoke, surprising her. She nodded nervously before turning back to the beautiful sister.
The durgen'len and sister sobered at that. The sister then spoke, no longer amused but still holding her kind smile. "To answer your questions Merrill, yes, I'm the ema'elan, whatever that is. There isn't any need to apologize, you haven't been rude. In fact, I think I speak for my companions when I say you have been absolutely wonderful thus far into our brief acquaintance." She glanced back and forth to her companions as if seeking approval, then nodded to Merrill happily.
"Hawke, you idiot," the durgen'len cut in. "You missed a question. Names! Introductions! Good thing you've got me to class up the crew." He bowed smartly at the waist as Hawke grumbled toothlessly. "My name is Varric Tethras, story teller and professional younger brother." He gestured to the strange contraption strapped to his back. "And this is my best girl, Bianca. Say hello, Bianca." The brother snorted.
"Hello, Bianca." Merrill replied, confused.
The tall brother groaned at that and Varric grinned. "I like you already. The battle-axe to my left is Sergeant Aveline of the Kirkwall City Guard. She may look mean, but she's agreeable enough long as you don't steal something or kill somebody." Aveline bristled but said nothing.
"I'll try not to," Merrill said earnestly.
Varric next gestured to the scarred man beside him. "This here's Mallet, crusher of rats and smeller of garbage. Seriously, he should rent out that nose of his. Would solve our money problems." Mallet cast a weary look Varric's way but otherwise said nothing.
"And the beautiful temptress leading our fine crew -"
"Oh, Varric," the sister breathed throatily, fluttering her lashes heavily at Varric.
Varric snorted but continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "- is our fearless center, Hawke of Formerly Ferelden and now Hawke of Lowtown. Don't try to out drink her. She wipes the floor with the best of us. Namely me."
"I'm sure there's enough water for all of us. There's a stream just up the path," Merrill said helpfully. The whole group now smiled and Hawke guffawed. Merrill's cheeks burned for what felt like the thousandth time. I missed something, didn't I?
"And last and probably least is her brother - "
"Carver," The big man interrupted. "Carver Hawke. It's," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and looked away. Merrill thought for a moment he was blushing. "good to meet you," he muttered to the air above her.
"Yes," the elf nodded, praying silently that she didn't make a further fool of herself. "I suppose it is. Good to meet you, I mean." Remembering their purpose, she turned to Hawke. "May I see what you carry, ema'elan?"
Hawke bowed her head and pulled out a small token of wormwood, a token Merrill couldn't prevent her eyes from widening at the sight of. "The Keeper spoke true," she whispered, both awed and a little bit frightened. "We must set about your task. Asha'bellanar is not one to be kept waiting."
She steeled herself and turned, gesturing awkwardly up the path. "We must climb the mountain to her altar. There, I will perform the Rite."
"Anything we should be aware of?" Hawke asked. "Local wildlife or whatnot."
It took Merrill a moment to realize what Hawke was asking. "Few creatures come here, though a few more dangerous spiders nest in the caves farther up the mountain. Creators willing we won't have to go through the caves."
Merrill turned to lead them forward.
"Wait, wait, wait." Varric interrupted, nearly causing Merrill to jump. "These spiders. I guess they're of the giant type and not the little 'oh just step on them' type, right?"
"Before we lost them, one of the halla journeyed up the mountain." Merrill answered, shivering at the memory. "Junar, Silael and me went to bring it home." White pelt, stained with blood and gore. The creatures feasted, even as Silael put an arrow into one. They turned to attack but fled when Merrill shook the stones beneath their many, many legs. There wasn't much left of the halla to save. "They're very big," she said in lieu of vocalizing her memory.
Varric seemed to understand what she didn't say. "Shit," he said. "Yeah, let's stay the hell away from caves and giant spiders."
"Now you say that," grumbled Hawke.
No one said anything after that. They just stood in silence for a moment until Merrill just had to break it. Had to bring them back to their purpose. "Come," she said. "I will show you the way."
She turned and headed up her usual route up the mountain, stopping once to look over her shoulder and ensure that the group was following her. They were – it felt odd to have others following her again. Not ignoring me, or cursing me…
She led them through the Pale Graves, felt the awe she always felt as she walked under the trees that marked the memory of the Dales. My people honored the dead here, honored who they were – the last more than seven hundred years ago. This was a place where those that had passed could find peace. She thought back to the spirits she had been calming since her exile here, the one she had calmed just before meeting the strange humans and durgen'len. And yet something attacks these memories. Could It be attacking them? Could it be my fault, for talking to It? She shook her head, dismissing the idea. It is still trapped, in bonds as old as Arlathan. I have been careful. Perhaps it disturbs the resting spirits, but it is not free.
She purged her mind of It, resolved to allow herself to bask in the awe she usually felt when climbing the mountain. Ancient stones set upon far more ancient stone made up the stair they now climbed, tight on the side of the mountain. A work of Arlathan, with crafts of the Dales supporting it. Though it was just a simple stair case of polished stone it always managed to lift her spirits. Especially when she recalled what wonders lay ahead.
When they had ascended the stairs they came upon the Creator's Wall – what had undoubtedly been a fully enclosed hallway in days of old was now just a singular wall built into the side of the mountain. As she walked by it Merrill ran her fingers through the finest artworks of the Dales, all depicting the Creators in their places of rule. The winged Mythal, the sun of Elgar'nan, Andruil carving her oak. It was beautiful stone craft, though weathered with age. If only she could properly clean the stained and battered stone.
As the curved stone rounded a bend a kneeling figure came into view. Hahren Paivel, the Clan's wizened story teller knelt at the hooded relief of Falon'Din. Merrill suddenly remembered him climbing the mountain that morning. She had tried to forget, to ignore him as he ignored her – and now he was in their path.
He turned, standing quickly as he saw her. Far quicker than was comfortable, Merrill knew, having in the past tended to his aching joints herself.
"Why do you disturb me? Have you not done enough?" Paivel demanded, eyes flashing in anger. He stood askew, obviously in pain.
"I… I…" Merrill tried to reply, but she had no words. She knew that she was shunned, even hated, but hated by Paivel? He had always been kind to her. The closest person she had ever had to a father.
She could feel her unusual procession come to a stop behind her.
"Why are we – oh…" Varric's voiced drifted from behind her.
"And what are these shemlen, your thralls?" Paivel spat. "Not enough that you desecrate this place, but you must tramp the boots of humans through as well?"
"Now you hang on a minute," Carver spoke, stepping up behind her. Merrill shrunk away from the big man instinctively.
"Do not presume to threaten me, shem. There is nothing you can do to me that hasn't already been visited upon my people a thousand times."
"Please…" Merrill tried to interrupt, tried to explain.
"Who the bloody hell do you think you are?" Carver demanded – Merrill wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to Paivel. "You should show more respect to your…"
"She is not mine! She is not one of us, no more. She is as much an outsider as you!"
Varric sidled up to her, tried to pull Carver back. "Let's just all calm down now…"
"Calm, my arse," Carver said dismissively, not turning from Paivel. Merrill looked back to her hands, tried to formulate a thought outside of sheer despair. "Listen, elf, you're about three seconds from a fist to –
This time it was Hawke who pushed past Merrill to successfully yank her brother back. "Look, we don't want any trouble man. Your Keeper sent us to finish some ritual or other. We'll be out of your hair before you know it."
Paivel looked to her with a smaller degree of disgust than he had directed towards Merrill. "Ah, so the Keeper's unending task shall finally be complete? Good, then we can finally leave this land to the dead who inhabit it."
Seemingly convinced that they were at the Keeper's behest he marched forward, pushing past Merrill roughly to head down the stairs. He called back, almost as an afterthought. "May you take that witch – far, far away. Let her curse you shemlens."
She tried, Creators, she tried so very hard – but she couldn't completely stop the tears. Her soul dripped from her eyes as she wept, what little light that remained in the world faded to black. Even Paivel. They all hate me.
"You alright?" she dimly heard Carver say, as if from another world.
"Of course she isn't, are you daft?" his sister chastised. "Move off – looks like a good spot over there. Let's break."
She felt the beautiful hand of the beautiful human slip around her shoulder, gently guide her through and out of the ruined hall and into a small clearing of stones and grass. Felt it push her down, felt it seat her on a rock. At that moment Merrill wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and weep on that rock. Collapse within herself.
"What could she have possibly done to deserve such treatment," she heard a woman say – Aveline. "He behaved as if she had the plague."
"Bahh, who knows," Varric answered. "Probably shit in the piss hole, or said the wrong "I'm sorry" to the wrong idol. You never can tell with these forest people."
She tuned them out, looked at her hands. Perhaps if she made the whole world only her hands, she would be alright.
"Didn't take you for a knight in shining armor, Carver," she heard Hawke say. Couldn't help but hear – something about her, her voice, made it impossible to ignore her.
"Bloody elf shouldn't have been such a bloody tosser," Carver bit back. "Someone had to knock him down."
"The same could be said of you, most days." came the other man, the quiet one – Mallet. "Today included."
"You want to have at it? I'll lay you out, Mallet. Don't care that you've seen shite, seen Blight – so've we. I'll beat you blue."
"Hush, Carver," Hawke soothed, effortlessly. "You too, Martin. Don't ruin a good moment. I just wanted to say… knight in shining armor is a good look on you, brother."
"Was nothing," dismissed Carver. "There was no call for him to talk like that to her."
Martin spoke. "I have never heard of the Dalish ever shunning their own, though I suppose it must happen. It seems odd to treat one thus for 'choosing a different path.'"
Merrill surprised herself by interjecting, still staring at her hands. "'We're good people. We look out for each other.'" She looked up locking eyes with Mallet. His gaze seemed to burn right through her, no longer indifferent, and she dropped her head again. "Just not today, it seems."
"Are you ready to move?" Aveline asked, looking pointedly at her. Creators, she is scary.
Merrill composed herself, wiped her face. Taking up her discarded staff she pushed herself up to her feet. "I am ready. It's not much further now."
She led them back to the exposed corridor, past the remaining visages. As they passed Falon'Din she whispered a quick prayer under her breath. Let it all be worth it. Let me restore just this small piece of our People… she instinctively touched the pouch at her belt. The shard within.
The hallway opened up completely again as another set of stairs, dual crafted as before, winded up the mountainside. Below, past the occasional ruined column that edged the stairs, lay the valley beneath Sundermount. The emaciated forest, the faded Imperial Highway… if she peeked over the edge, looked down, she was sure she could see her clan encamped below.
She did not look.
Finally, they came to the entrance – the flanking columns at the top of the stairs the only remaining sign that what they were about to enter was once a grand temple. The air shimmered here, as it always did, with the ancient magic of Arlathan.
She felt its warmth, weak with age but ever present as she passed into what remained of the vestibule. Behind her she could hear the discontented mutterings of her companions.
Then, Hawke's voice. "Ow! Cock!"
Merrill stopped, already looking. "What's the matter?"
She turned to see the group spread out on the staircase below her – Hawke emphatically rubbing her forehead.
"You know there's a bloody barrier here, right? Magical? I can't move through it," Hawke complained.
Merrill stepped back between the columns experimentally. The warmth shot through her again, but she passed unimpeded.
Mallet moved through the group, knelt at the barrier. He reached a hand forward towards the shimmering air – until it stopped. Apparently at something solid.
"Shit, that's weird," Varric chimed. "This always been here?"
As he spoke Carver kicked at the barrier lightly, stopped at precisely the same distance as Mallet's hand.
"Magic," grunted Aveline. Merrill couldn't tell if that grunt was bad or not.
"It's not ever stopped me… or the Keeper before…" Merrill said, confused. "Maybe it won't let you through because you are not of the People?"
"You mean we're not elves," Carver grimaced sourly.
Merrill nodded, uncomfortable with his tone. Nevertheless she continued. "Yes. This was a temple, from the days of Arlathan. When Arlathan fell so did it – though not at the same time. Newer things were built on the old – we, the Keeper I mean…" she trailed off momentarily. Steeled herself. "The Keeper and I are pretty sure that it was rebuilt at least in part during the time of the Dales. When humans destroyed the Dales, so too did they assault Sundermount again."
She glanced at the barrier she stood within. "Evidently more survived that attack than we thought."
Hawke pushed a foot forward, stopped at the barrier. "Looks like we can't make it through. Can you just take the thing – " she reached into her shirt, withdrew Asha'bellanar's token.
Fear blew up within Merrill. "NO!" she shouted, holding her hands out. "It was given to you, you must be a part of the ritual. We cannot stray from Asha'bellanar's instructions."
"We could try breaking through," Carver responded. "Give that old pillar up there a kick, maybe this magic dies."
"Or it surges and throws us all from this precipice," Mallet countered. "We must move carefully with such ancient magic."
"Couldn't we get Daisy to tie a rope, and we swing around," Varric supplied. Carver and Hawke both stared him down. "What? Just an idea."
"A bad one," ruminated Aveline in her heavy armor.
Merrill blanched at the thought of damaging anything that remained of time now lost, but she could not see any alternative. The ema'elan must reach the altar and perform the ritual. The only way that may happen is if this barrier falls.
She closed her eyes, tuned out the arguing humans and durgen'len below her, pushed outwards with her magic. She carefully avoided the presence at the mountain's summit, instead limiting herself to this small barrier. Prodding at the magics within, she felt through their interwoven nature and felt the strings in it. In her mind it looked almost as a tapestry woven in light. Finally, she found the cord that she was sure would unravel it, gathered her will, and tugged at it with all her might.
Nothing happened. She tried again, and again, collapsing with the effort. Not even a budge, as if the tapestry's thread was of solid granite. Distantly she heard a worried voice, another asking her if she was alright. Another yelling, "What is she doing?!"
She ignored them all as she realized she alone could not weaken the thread enough to unravel – but she could break it if she were stronger.
Without opening her eyes she pulled off her glove, tossed it to the ground. Her hand found the small paring knife at her belt, and brought it up to her exposed palm. With the familiar pain, the iron tingle of power suddenly flowed in the air. Tickled her nose. Flowed into her. Her blood soaked the thread, made it brittle, and she cracked it with all her remaining might.
She felt it collapse, the air abruptly chilling as the ancient magic faded, even as her flowing blood rapidly replaced the warmth. She reveled for a moment in its glow until the pain became too much. She used the power of the flowing blood to seal her wound, forcing the throbbing pain into a mild ache.
Merrill opened her eyes, still kneeling between the columns. The party below her stared in absolute, slackjawed horror.