Well guys, I am officially back from holiday hiatus! Hope you all had happy holidays.
Thank you all ever so much for your patience with this. A lot of my writing focus got bumped to ToTL during 2015, but it looks like I'll be having a lot more open time to write in 2016, so I should be able to get the ball rolling faster with this one. Here's hoping!
Wherever You Are
Palla was two seconds away from picking up a rock and pegging it at either Morrigan or Alistair. Likely Morrigan; Alistair was too sweet to stay angry with.
Still, the two of them had been squabbling nonstop on the road northward to Lothering, and she almost thought she'd prefer the sounds of darkspawn bearing down on them to the constant din of their pissing matches. Well, no, obviously not; but a lot of sounds had to be better than this.
"I just can't believe Loghain would do it," Alistair said, his armor clinking as he stepped over a gnarled tree root in the middle of the path. "Why? What does he hope to gain from sending so many to die and blaming it on the Wardens?"
"Perhaps the Wardens griped and whined enough for him to resolve to kill them instead of the darkspawn," Morrigan said pointedly.
Alistair's presence seemed to bring out the absolute worst in Morrigan. Palla had thought the witch had a touch of a softer side, when she'd helped her cook stew in Flemeth's cabin…but Morrigan had been nothing but touchy and irritated ever since. Her voice was always like silk dipped in toxins—smooth, lovely feel to it, barbed and meant to hurt.
Palla had spent much of her life watching her parents deal with snippy nobles—and eventually dealing with them herself—and so she'd developed some skill in reading people. She couldn't manipulate people as easily as breathing the way some could, but she could at least guess motivations. And to her trained eye, Morrigan thought Alistair was weak and had no respect for him because of it.
Was it weak to grieve? To feel pain? Maker knew Palla had ragged on herself enough, for feeling the loss of her family.
"Does the concept of caring for someone else make no sense to you?" Alistair snapped. Palla was in the front and couldn't see his expression, but he sounded like smoke was pouring out of his ears. "What would you have done if your mother had died there?"
"Before or after I stopped laughing?" Morrigan said.
"Right. Creepy," Alistair said. "Forget I asked."
"We all deal with loss differently, Morrigan," Palla said coolly. Her own sense of loss was fighting to resurface ever since she'd let Shesi, Ellie, and Corvis die at Ostagar.
She'd failed them all. Shesi had never met a human before being forced into the Wardens, and she'd died amongst strangers, yanked into a stranger's war. Corvis and Ellie, as mages, would've had no way to defend themselves from a direct attack. Palla should have been in the battle with them, not wading through a darkspawn-infested tower just to light a meaningless signal fire.
"Some of us contemplate our own navel for hours on end," Morrigan said.
"It's called hanging your head and thinking." Alistair sounded about ready to choke something, now. "You should try it sometime."
Palla bent as she walked and picked up a smoothed rock midstride, tossing it up and down in her palm as she went. It felt cool to the touch in her hand; the ground hadn't quite thawed from the chill of last night.
"One must wonder what you intend to do with that stone," Morrigan said from behind Palla, her voice unwavering.
Very likely she thought Palla would actually throw it, and Palla frowned.
"I'm just squeezing it to get some stress out, I suppose," she said, doing exactly that.
"Interesting method," Morrigan said.
"Maybe you should name the rock 'Morrigan'," Alistair said. "And then chuck it off a cliff as hard as you can. That sounds absolutely cathartic."
"Oh? We've regressed to naming inanimate objects?" Morrigan snorted. "Shall we give this rock an official rank amongst the Wardens, too? Look, what a marvel—we induct a rock into our esteemed ranks, and Alistair is still the dumbest one among us."
"Mages," Alistair grumbled. "Most of you are right prigs. Why couldn't Ellairia have survived Ostagar? Maybe then we wouldn't have needed you to come with us."
Palla kicked a loose pebble as she walked. "Much as I would've loved to save her, Alistair…I don't think it would've changed Morrigan's involvement. Different mages know different spells." She breathed out a light laugh through her nose. "And I noticed you didn't mention Corvis."
Alistair hummed a bit. "You know he was just waiting for the right moment to turn me into a newt. Or set me on fire. Bit crazy, that one."
Possibly, although Palla wished she could've saved his life, too. She absently tossed the rock into a low marsh bush at the side of the path, the prickly leaves rustling as the stone disrupted them.
"Maybe," she said. "I already miss him, though."
Alistair fell silent after that, although Palla could still hear his rather uneven breathing. Not from exertion, she knew; the warrior was in great shape. Not that she'd seen under his armor to know for sure—unfortunate, that—but one could just tell. She frowned sympathetically—and empathetically—feeling her own throat tighten and sting.
Morrigan didn't prompt conversation, either. She walked so much more softly than Alistair that Palla kept trying to sneak looks over her shoulder to make sure she was still there. No doubt Morrigan caught every single one of them.
"Look, there it is," Alistair said after what felt like two more years of walking, as the path evened out from squishy marsh mud to a more hard-packed clay. "Lothering. Pretty as a painting."
Right he was—about Lothering being right in front of them, rather. Pretty as a fancy painting it was not, but at least it was there. The small town of Lothering lay in the grassy basin before them, full of people and animals and life.
"And right in the path of the darkspawn," Palla said, her jaw tightening. "Assuming they don't fan out and go east and west, that is. Morrigan, how far ahead of the horde do you think we are?"
"Your injuries delayed us," Morrigan said, twisting to look behind them, staring at the marshy path they'd just traversed. "T'would be my estimate to say the darkspawn are but a day behind us. I would not tarry here. Let us find supplies and move quickly on."
Palla shaded her eyes from the sun, squinting in an effort to see better into the village. This wasn't the first time she'd envied elves for their catlike eyesight; with the mist rolling out of the marshes and the sun's white-bright glare, she could barely see anything specific in the village ahead.
"I think we should head to the village Chantry first, if it has one," Alistair said. "The Chantry will be the ones organizing relief efforts."
"And they should be able to point us towards quick supplies before we head out." Palla nodded. "What about Morrigan?"
Alistair's expression soured. "If the Maker sees fit to smite her for stepping into a Chantry, I won't be doing any grieving."
"Not the Maker," Palla said. "Templars. There's bound to be a few in there, and she is technically an apostate. I don't want her dragged off to a Circle."
"If I take another form, will it end this discussion?" Palpable tendrils of magic warped and snapped where Morrigan had been standing, the air crackling with purplish haze; Palla watched as the haze cleared and a raven took flight, perching in the lowhanging branch of a nearby tree.
Palla nearly jumped out of her skin.
It made sense that Morrigan could shift shapes. All Witches of the Wilds were rumored to have the ability. Yet Palla had never witnessed this in person before, and to say it startled her would be a vast understatement.
She took a deep breath to compose herself and, not wanting to waste any time, strode forward towards the village.
Corvis accepted the mug of hot chamomile tea Bethany offered him, cupping his hands around the mug and letting the tea's radiating heat warm up his palms.
"Can I get you anything else?" Bethany asked, watching him with intelligent brown eyes.
"I'm fine, grazie," he said, taking a seat on a wooden trunk at the side of the room and watching the others. He would've accepted an entire bottle of hard liquor—and taken all of two seconds to knock it all back—but he sincerely doubted the family would happily sit by and watch him decimate their alcohol reserves.
Simple house, he noted, but not simple folks. Leandra Amell carried herself like a woman of noble stature, head held high, shoulders set proudly no matter what she was doing. She'd birthed quite the mixed bag of children—Bethany seemed to be of the nervous, kind sort, River was vivacious and a tad quirky, and Carver was…grumpy.
Not that Corvis had any right to judge on that front, at times.
Carver wasn't all grump, at least. Just the variety who muttered under his breath and compared everything he did to his older sister. An only child himself, Corvis hadn't been exposed to typical sibling dynamics until he'd been thrust into Kinloch Hold, and that had been more like a swirling vat of adolescent dramatics than anything else.
"I'll get the stew going in a moment, mum," River said to Leandra, plopping down on the same trunk as Corvis, despite the fact that there was almost no room for her. As such, he shifted to the side as much as possible—never mind that there was barely any side to shift to—but her thigh still pressed against his. "Let's talk about Ostagar."
"Did you suddenly develop a selective blindness for chairs?" Corvis asked, amused.
"Nah." River bumped her shoulder amicably against his. "I'm warming you up, luv. I've been told you Antivans are delicate desert flowers when it comes to the cold." She winked. "And I'm good at warming people up."
Corvis lifted an eyebrow, smirked knowingly in return, then turned his attention to the others.
"What's there to talk about regarding Ostagar?" Shesi asked, helping Carver wipe down the table in the middle of the house with a clean rag. "We survived. We were framed. We have a horde of darkspawn coming up from the south."
The Dalish elf looked like a pint-sized figurine next to Carver's muscular bulk. The top of her mussed brunette head only reached about to his chest. She didn't seem intimidated by that, though; if anything, Shesi put on the same deceptively dull face for any situation and barely showed even her outermost thoughts.
"It isn't so easily distilled down," Corvis said. "No doubt one of Loghain's men has spotted us here and sent a runner to inform him by now. And if he put so much effort into framing us the first time, I'd wager he won't let us run willy-nilly about Ferelden without interference."
"He can't just abandon us to the darkspawn," Carver said. "It's wrong."
"He's done it once already," Shesi said.
What were Loghain's motives? Everyone had a reason for their actions, and Corvis didn't suspect sadism as the cause. He regretted he didn't know more about Fereldan politics; it might've made the guessing game easier.
The front door swung open, and in bustled Leliana and Ellairia, each with armfuls of freshly cut elfroot. "This should be enough to last us a while," Leliana said as Bethany laid a cloth flat out on the floor for them to bundle the elfroot in.
"Do you know how to extract elfroot juice?" Shesi asked.
Leliana looked over at her, short red hair swinging. "Don't you?"
Shesi shook her head. "I was never that great at herbalism."
"But you're Dalish," Leliana protested. "You live off the land. Isn't herbalism an essential skill?"
"We aren't all jacks-of-all-trades," Shesi said. "I can't shoot a bow for shit, for example. We have halla-keepers who've barely lifted a weapon in their lives. We have craftsmen who forge ironbark. We have Keepers and Firsts and herbalists. We have hunters and rangers, like myself. It's better for the clan as a whole if everyone specializes."
"I don't think I've ever met a Dalish elf who couldn't shoot a bow," River mused aloud.
"You ever met a Dalish elf?" Shesi asked.
"Touché," River said.
"We don't get any Dalish through here," Carver said, briefly looking down at Shesi before clearing his throat. His face had a sudden ruddy tinge. "You're not like any other elf."
Was he…? Good grief. Corvis almost snickered.
"I might as well be like every other elf, now." Shesi shrugged. "Keeper banished me for good, to the Wardens, and most clans reject those who leave them. Not that I have any intention of begging my way back in."
"So I take it you won't be returning to your people," River said. "Good for us Fereldans, I should think—we'll need as many skilled Wardens as possible with the horde coming up from the south. Although I doubt you have the time or the numbers to stay and defend the village."
"Shouldn't we stay and help everyone evacuate?" Ellie asked from where she knelt on the wood floor, rolling the canvas cloth around the elfroot stems.
"Suicide mission," Shesi said casually.
I believe we're Wardens, not witless martyrs," Corvis said. "All of Cailin's forces and most of Duncan's Wardens, excluding us, lost their lives at Ostagar. The horde's barely reduced in number. And I'd always imagined myself dying on a velveteen chaise-lounge from brandy poisoning."
"That is bizarrely specific," River said.
Corvis chuckled. "I like planning ahead."
"I doubt the horde's far off." Bethany rubbed her arms with her palms. "Whole thing makes me nervous. I hope my magic will be enough to defend us, should they come."
Carver shot his twin a tempestuous look. "And what's my sword, chopped goose liver?"
"I think it's steel, brother," River said. "Could you imagine a sword made out of goose liver? Like a floppy, flaccid—"
"—piss off."
"After you."
"Language," Leandra Amell called sharply from another room of the small house.
"We need a plan of attack," Shesi said. "Figuratively." She turned eyes of deep jade green to Corvis. "Thoughts?"
"We'll need bolstered numbers and some amount of political support, since I'm certain none of us daydream about rotting in unmarked graves at the side of the road. And right now, we have to be concerned about darkspawn and soldiers from Denerim." Corvis rubbed the back of his neck in thought. "I wish I'd taken a look at those treaties before handing them off to Duncan. That might've solved the numbers conundrum. Mannaggia."
"If I had to guess," Shesi said, "the Dalish are on that treaty. We've—they've always been at the very least tolerant of Grey Wardens. At the best? Sympathetic and willing to help."
"East, then?" Leliana asked. "There are Dalish in the Brecilian Forest, wouldn't you think?"
Shesi nodded. "For now. Until they catch wind of the horde coming and bail."
"Then we catch them," Corvis said firmly. "Getting on the road tomorrow at dawn is our best bet."
Ellairia gave him and Shesi plaintive looks in turn. "What about Lothering? I know it'd be risky, getting everyone out safely, but…aren't they all doomed to die?"
River's eyes softened sympathetically. "This is the world outside the Circle, sweetheart. We don't have walls protecting us. We have our weapons and our wits, and that's it. Every man for himself out here. You want to live? You get yourself a nice sword and grow a pair of balls. That's what I've always told myself, anyway."
"I don't think I needed to know that last detail about you," Corvis teased.
River snickered, bit her bottom lip, and smacked him lightly on the shoulder.
Falling silent, Ellairia returned to her task of rolling the stems.
"I shan't sleep tonight if we keep discussing these darkspawn," Bethany said, playing with her fingers. "Let's get a bite to eat, alright? What comes will come, and maybe we shouldn't test our luck by talking about it overmuch."
"Happier things, then," River promised with a grin. "Food it is."
"Alistair," Palla said firmly. "Are you sure you're alright?"
The man had been silent ever since they'd stepped into Lothering's bounds. It had been Palla who'd done all of the conversing since then, whether it was with her silent companions or town residents. The sky was darkening with the promise of dusk, and then nightfall, as she'd bought rations of dried meat and dried fruit from a merchant outside the village Chantry. The merchant's prices had been low, oddly so for the obvious neediness of the villagers around him—and he'd not done much but mutter blasphemes about "arsehole Antivans" and whatnot. Palla had no idea what the random racism was for, but she'd decided not to ask.
As of right now, she'd decided to stop and ask Alistair how he was faring, spurred on by his quietude.
"I just can't believe it," he said, not for the first time. "But I suppose I shouldn't be burdening you with it. Especially not while crow-Morrigan," he cast a venomous look at a tree above them, "looks on and judges me from her perch."
"Crow-Morrigan has better things to do than laugh at you for your grief," Palla said gently, resting a hand on Alistair's forearm. "I think."
"Oh, that's reassuring."
Palla teasingly whapped him on the shoulder. "We'll get a chance to avenge Duncan, you know? And stop the Blight. We can do it. Can you imagine how proud he'll be of you when Ferelden is safe again? How proud he is now?"
Alistair, naturally, tried to protest that. "I sincerely doubt he's proud of us wandering with Morrigan and snatching supplies before we flee further up the road, wouldn't you agree?"
"Hey," she said, "we're getting there. We're building up strength and numbers and then we're going to whoop so much darkspawn arse that every Warden who lost a life at Ostagar will be damned proud of you."
The warrior smiled softly, almost tentatively—he looked adorable with that expression, she thought, especially with that dusting of freckles across his nose.
"You know," he said, "of all the Wardens who survived…I'm glad it was you."
Palla opened her mouth to respond, only to be drowned out when the crow above them cawed raucously and flapped its wings.
"…and I think I just made Morrigan vomit," Alistair said, looking up. "Can birds vomit? I always wondered."
"Not the way you're thinking, but birds can do a lot of things I'd rather not provoke." All of them involving claws and beaks, really. Palla regarded the dusken sky, deepening in autumnal orangey hues as night just began to settle over Lothering. "We'll need to find a place to sleep soon. And be up early. I can't predict exactly when the darkspawn will reach Lothering."
"Agreed," Alistair said, gesturing for her to lead the way.
Her first thought was to ask the local innkeep if he had any rooms available—or if he'd be willing to let them sleep in a corner on the floor until dawn—so she spotted a wooden sign proclaiming Dane's Refuge swinging from a building across the small stone bridge and set off towards it.
There weren't a large number of people out and about, right now. Palla saw a few men gathering up their children and corralling them into houses for the night; a woman with graying hair hobbling into the local inn; a Chantry sister walking with a light-skinned elf with short wheat-blonde hair.
Palla's heart jumped into her throat.
"Is that—" Alistair said breathily.
"Ellie?" Palla cried, her pulse pounding in her ears. Could it be? What if she was hallucinating, what if… "Ellie!"
The elf stopped. Turned her head. Widened her eyes.
Palla was barreling forward before she knew what her own legs were doing; Ellie let out a happy squeal and bolted forward, straight into her arms. Palla lifted her clear off her feet and swung her around in a circle, squeezing so tight she thought she might accidentally break the healer's ribs.
"You're alive!" Ellie exclaimed when Palla set her on her feet. "I can't believe you're alive! But you and Alistair were in the tower when Ostagar was—how did you make it? I—Maker, I'm so happy to see you! Was it—"
"Miracles," Palla said, watching Alistair grin widely and sweep Ellie into a hug of his own. "Bloody fucking miracles."
She glanced up at the trees above her, spotting the crow's slim black silhouette. Morrigan was, true to form, avoiding the celebratory hugs; she hadn't even materialized in human form to take credit for saving Palla and Alistair. No doubt she wanted as little to do with their group interactions as possible.
Despite the thrill of seeing Ellie alive and safe…something had to be asked. "Ellie…did the others…?"
"Oh, you will be pleasantly surprised," said the Chantry sister with short red hair behind Ellie. "You are the two missing Wardens, yes? Everyone is waiting for you."
"Everyone?" Palla said.
The Chantry sister nodded. "I—"
"Palla!" yelled a voice, slightly raspy with emotion.
Palla barely noticed the small, dark form charging at her before Shesi leapt straight into her arms. Sucking in a breath, Palla scooped the Dalish hunter into what was surely a painfully tight hug, her throat squeezing and her eyes threatening to water.
"Shesi," Alistair said, releasing the slightest ghost of a laugh. "Maker's breath. I can't believe this."
The elf was shaking in Palla's arms, so she didn't bother setting her on her feet yet—just held her, burying her face in her neck, nearly choking on her own relief.
"We're missing one, aren't we?" Alistair noted. "Corvis. Is he—"
"He went somewhere with River a moment ago," Ellie said, her eyes big and brown as she glanced back and forth between Palla and Alistair. "River Hawke—you remember her, right? She and her brother survived Ostagar, too."
Alive. Alive. So many had lost their lives to darkspawn blades at Ostagar, and yet their little group had made it out. Palla thought her heart might explode from the relief and joy of it all. Finally after a moment she slowly set Shesi back on her feet, although truthfully she might've continued the hug for the next five years of circumstances had permitted.
"Are you…crying?" Alistair asked gently, touching Palla's shoulder.
She nodded, sniffling. "It's just…"
He smiled. "I know."
"Come inside," the Chantry sister offered. "You must be exhausted, poor dears. We're staying with the Hawkes tonight, and I believe the stew will still be warm."
Palla nodded wordlessly, then looked up at the crow in the tree.
You're welcome too, you know, she thought, as if Morrigan could hear her. You can be a part of this strange little family if you want.
Obviously, her thoughts remained unanswered. But Palla wouldn't push the witch to join them—she smiled at the others and followed them instead, relaxing for the first time in what felt like years.