Author's note:

Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes.

Here, have another one. Less brutal, this time. More talking—more insight into Ringil.

I, furthermore, wish you all a premature Happy New Year!

Enjoy.

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The Sword's Edge Every Hero Treads Upon

Chapter XII

A Warring Against Futility

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Winter approached with fast strides.

At the sight of the full moon, lingering high on the canopy, showering the forested landscape of the Bannorn in a silvery sheen, wolves howled their prayers in the distance.

Alistair attempted to snuggle deeper into his travelling cloak and the ramskin pelt he'd thrown over his shoulders. The heat he'd gathered back at the fire waned quickly in the cold night air. Because of the sudden passage from blissful heat to biting cold, the tips of his fingers already prickled with approaching numbness.

Languidly, snowflakes drifted down in complete silence, covering the ground in a thin blanket. The crunch of his boots the only companion keeping pace with Alistair's every step, out of the clearing of their camp, and deeper into the light forest towards a small pond. By the sounds drifting up to Alistair it seemed as if a family of frogs had made their own, permanent camp there.

They quieted as he approached.

Dull chainmail, washed out leather armour, and worn clothes rested, neatly folded, on a large boulder at the edge of the pond.

Ringil stood with his scar-littered back to Alistair, waist-deep submerged under the calm surface of the pond. Tendrils of steam rose from his pale body, skin seemingly glowing under the moonlight which broke the absence of leaves in the canopy above. Alistair questioned how his Warden brother could even endure remaining inside at such freezing temperatures for more than a few heartbeats. Much less, without moving a single one of his lean muscles.

'You have disturbed the frogs' peace. They are afeared of your presence, brother,' said Ringil, without turning.

'I'm sorry,' Alistair blabbed out. 'I just thought we should . . . talk. You know . . .' Alistair rubbed his throat, tried clearing the lump which suddenly stuck there. 'Did you really . . . did they . . . I mean—'

'What you're meaning to ask is if I really was gang-raped by a bunch of Warden elders every night as a child, I presume?'

Something constricted inside Alistair, brought everything to a full-tilt stop, the additional layer of his cloak now a source of uncomfortable heat which seemed to radiate from his chest.

Alistair managed a grunt which Ringil took as confirmation.

'Duncan told me you were trained to become a templar. What did the instructors teach you of dealings with entities of the Fade?'

It came automatically. 'Some are benign. Others are malign. None think like humans or elves or dwarves. They are alien to us. We cannot comprehend their ways and they cannot comprehend ours. Though not for a lack of trying.'

'All true. What else?'

Alistair shivered, cold again. 'None, neither demon nor spirit, can, under any given circumstance, be fully trusted. Not ever.'

'Precisely. It might've sounded convincing. It might've even projected memories it has stolen from all the wandering and lost souls it has absorbed into your mind. Made you feel, smell, and hear. Made you believe. But that belief is not to be trusted, Alistair.'

'I see.' Alistair watched Ringil's statuesque figure. Not even ripples travelled across the pond. 'So, it was all a lie, then?'

'You could say that.'

Alistair sneered. 'And to think I felt sorry for you for a moment there.'

'There's nothing to be sorry for, brother.'

Alistair found he'd involuntarily formed a fist, grabbed the rim of his cloak instead. 'That's clear now. You murdered innocent children in cold blood. Children, Ringil. Their only offense was being born with magical talent. Just like you. But, then again, you seem to prefer the use of blood to feed your power. No wonder you're as twisted as everyone seems to think you are.'

Alistair started to walk away, snow crunching underneath. 'You're no brother of mine.'

In the distance the pack of wolves howled again. When Alistair was nearly out of earshot, Ringil's voice drifted over. 'You cannot choose your brothers, Alistair.'

Alistair returned to their small campfire with a bitter taste left in his mouth, souring everything.

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Ringil groaned a heavy sigh, breaking the calm surface of the pond's water. 'You can stop hiding in the bushes now, Leliana. He did not spot you.'

And just how did you?

Ringil waded out of the water, uncaring of his nakedness in the moonlight. The scar tissue criss-crossing his body had turned to a raw pink in contrast to his pallid skin colour. He turned in her direction and stared right at her without the need to search for a heartbeat. His eyes were like shards cut out of the moon's surface, reflecting its silvery light right back at her.

'Why did you lie to him?'

Ringil proceeded to dry himself off. 'I did not lie, Leliana. I merely said only what he expected to hear.'

'His hatred will only fester and grow.'

'Hatred is well-known to me. I am used to it, able to work with it. It is better this way, than if he mulls over what-ifs in his head. Better for him to have a clear picture of me in his mind. It's less distracting.'

'Even if that picture is a lie?'

'Even so.' Leliana closed her eyes. The metallic cadence of his voice tore open the silence like a wound. But beneath the cold iron, beneath the stoicism, and the clinically detached calculation hid something so raw, so . . . vulnerable, it grabbed Leliana's throat. A sob rose up, wrenching her heart, but Leliana managed to abort it before she gave birth to it.

Ringil noticed nonetheless, somehow. 'There is no need to pity me, Leliana. In that regard Alistair was right. I deserve nothing of the kind. You should close this matter, as well. Resolve it however you like.'

Leliana moved from her hiding spot, closer to Ringil, wanting to see if there resided any hint of emotion on his face. 'How can you say this?'

'Why not. Hatred doesn't not make you a bad person. It doesn't tarnish your soul. It makes you no less good or worse than the next person. To feel is to live, do not fight it.'

Leliana shook her head. 'I will fight it. With every ounce of strength I have. Because it is the right thing to do. What was done to you, no one should have to endure.'

Ringil remained silent. Leliana pressed. 'The demon didn't only tell lies, did it?'

'Yes.' Again, the carefully manufactured tonality of his speech, all emotion excised. But all the emotionlessness accomplished was making it swing with such a staggering sense of vulnerability, laid bare for everyone to pick at, to mock, to deride. To hate.

'But destiny is a harsh mistress and brokers no denial,' he added. 'One cannot blame destiny for the actions and consequences of one's life. To feel emotion about your destiny is an effort wasted in futility. To hate destiny, even more so.'

'They took you as a child.'

'It's been a long time since then.'

'And raised you to become a Grey Warden.'

He shrugged. 'I know nothing else.'

'Then I pity you, Ringil of the Grey Wardens.' Leliana wanted to say more, wanted to embrace him, and make him see that he should not have to carry his pain alone. It was a burning need inside her, but as soon as it tried to leave and take shape in reality, something dragged it back down and doused it in utter darkness as found in between stars. The burning need dimmed and froze, until the moment passed.

With a yank, Ringil tightened the last straps of his leathern vambraces. 'Another effort wasted in futility.'

He left her alone at the pond, snowflakes settling to rest all around her, in complete silence, mocking Leliana's own.

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Tell me what you think, guys and girls. Your silence is making me bite my nails in uncertainty.

Thanks for reading!