Tracks in a Winter Landscape

Long ago, when the tribes were still united, and the Great Serpent was still a myth, there lived a young man whose only duty was to keep watch over the winter herds. He learned all the skills he would need from the watcher before him, who had learned from the watcher before him, and so on through the mists of time.

"Listen for the whispers that sound like the wind. Listen for the skittering noise of the creatures that travel only in the dark. But most importantly, look for the tracks made fresh in newly fallen snow. What may sound like a wolf will oft times walk on two feet for winter brings out the worst in man. It is the time when he can be counted upon to use all manner of trickery to get what he wants. Even our hunters become dangerous."

"Our hunters?" the young man asked, confused. "Why would our hunters try to kill our herd?"

"Who can ever know a man's heart turned to ice by the winter winds?"

The young man kept watch each night, fighting off wolves and coyotes and other wild creatures that would kill without remorse, using all that he had learned from the ones that came before him.

One night, when the moon was hidden behind the mountains, a man, dressed in naught but rough leather, approached the herdsman. He was ragged and dirty, his manner humble and kind.

"Good lad, I come from far afield and wish only to rest by your fire."

The herdsman looked at the man warily. "How do I know you haven't come to steal from our herd?"

"I am too cold and hungry to steal; I seek only warmth and companionship."

The herdsman pondered the situation and finally spoke. "You may rest by the fire, and I will share my meal."

And so the stranger sat near his fire and was grateful. He spoke in a low, soft voice, telling of his adventures and the young man listened, grateful for the company. Hours passed and the young man was lulled into a light sleep.

Suddenly a great howling commenced, as if a pack of wolves was attacking. Panicked, the young man took up his weapons and ran into the night, his only thought to protect his herd. He was set upon immediately, not by wolves, but by several men, including the weary traveler.

It was then, as he lay dying, that he realized he had forgotten the most important rule…he had not checked the tracks in the snow as he had been taught. For if he had he would have known it was not wolves, but men, who possess the most wicked of hearts. ***From a book found in Kinloch Hold, entitled: Tales from the Alamarri by High Shaman Myrwell

~~~oOo~~~

Aerin stood in front of the revered mother's desk, waiting for the woman to speak. He noticed, for the first time, the deepening lines in her face; age advanced without regard and he saw that truth in the streaks of silver in her hair and the furrows that edged her mouth and forehead. She motioned for him to sit down in one of the two chairs that stood in front of her desk and he chose the nearer of the two, carefully seating himself so that his armor wouldn't cut into him.

"I've heard from the Grand Cleric. She has approved your request to marry Laria Hawke and has forwarded it to the Divine."

"Thank you, Mother Glynis."

"Will you tell Laria about your work?"

"Yes, I think she needs to know and I believe she'll want to help in any way she can. She has more cause than most to want to see this plan come to fruition."

"Good. When you have told her about us, have her come speak with me." The revered mother looked across the expanse of her desk, a small frown etching new lines into her skin before she continued speaking. "I've had recent correspondence from Mother Dorothea, in West Effingham. She has been recalled to Orlais and she's pledged to seek support within the halls of the Grand Cathedral. She's such an idealist, that one. Still, if anyone has the persuasive skills to rally others to the cause, it is Revered Mother Dorothea."

Aerin frowned but didn't speak. If Mother Glynis trusted in Mother Dorothea to enlist the aid of the Divine, he wouldn't question her, but he felt a stir of unease in the pit of his stomach. Their work in redefining the role of mages within the Chantry's dogma was a dangerous undertaking and they all risked execution for what many would consider heresy. Still, those involved in the movement understood that without reformation they were headed for open rebellion from the mages themselves at some point; it was inevitable. He only hoped that Mother Dorothea was as discerning as Mother Glynis believed her to be.

"Don't worry, Aerin, I trust the mother has our best interests in her heart. She believes we need to listen to the words of the chant without the prejudices behind them," the revered mother said, as if she'd read his thoughts.

"Of course, your Eminence," Aerin replied quietly.

He was in charge of the roster, the list of contacts within Ferelden, and beyond, who were quietly working to establish places where mages, templars and clerics worked together to serve the greater needs of the community. He was also a part of a much smaller group of Reformationists that were tasked with creating the new tenets of the Chantry, precepts that would change the way mages were viewed and treated as well as the role of templars. He found it difficult to believe that the mages were on the verge of open rebellion and he doubted he would see the changes in his lifetime, but he believed in the principles extolled by the Reformationists and he believed Laria would, as well.

"And Sister Leliana?" he asked, rising.

Revered Mother Glynis's frown deepened. "I believe she is Mother Dorothea's protégé and I know she means well, but I can't quite trust her, Maker forgive me. Continue to keep an eye on her. Perhaps Ser Fletcher would be the appropriate one for that."

Aerin smiled briefly. "I'll inform him. I suspect he'll be sorely put out with his visits to the Hawkes' farm curtailed."

"Has he formed an attachment to young Bethany?"

Aerin's earlier smile gave way to a chuckle. "I believe it is Lady Leandra's cooking he's formed an attachment to."

A moment's silence fell and Aerin was about to take his leave when the revered mother spoke again, her voice reflecting her concern. "Now, tell me about the darkspawn sightings. Have there been any in the last week?"

"No credible reports, but I've sent Mercer and Adair to check out the Barlin place. Barlin claims to have seen several odd tracks in his field."

"I wonder if we would be wise to bring the Hawke family into town. I don't like the thought of them out there on their own, especially a mage of Bethany's skills. By the Maker's grace we won't have need of her skills, but if these darkspawn attacks are on the rise, I feel sure we will. I'm also sure you would be a bit less preoccupied were Laria nearer," the revered mother added, her frown easing into a kind smile.

Aerin shook his head. "I'll broach the subject with Laria but I suspect she'll refuse the offer. And unless I tell her entire family about the Reformationists, they'll support her in that refusal."

"Perhaps you should have married Laria without seeking permission from the Chantry, Aerin. These requests can take years to work their way through the proper channels."

Surprised, Aerin quickly glanced at the older woman. She was smiling again, but he knew that her comment was not a jest, rather, it was a thoughtful remark that required his honesty. "Don't think I'm not tempted to do so now, your Eminence, but you know the kind of scrutiny that would invite. We've worked too hard at keeping this quiet to jeopardize it with a selfish act."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. Regardless, try to find time to ride out there soon. Not today, however. By the sound of the wind, we'll have another snowstorm by nightfall."

Knowing the woman was right did not diminish his desire to ride out and check on Laria. They'd seen each other only a handful of times over the past month, and their last visit had been over a fortnight ago, thanks to the capriciousness of the winter weather. With a formal bow, he left the revered mother and went in search of Fletcher. He would have preferred Ser Maron for the task of watching Sister Leliana, but Fletcher really was more suited to the task with his youthful exuberance and air of innocence.

After a brief conversation with Fletcher about his new assignment, he found himself in his office, staring at the wintry landscape. The thick violet clouds were gathering just east of town, the wind pushing them into a towering wall that threatened several inches of fresh snow. With a muttered curse, he turned back to his work.

~~~oOo~~~

Icy pellets stung her cheeks, temporarily blinding her as she pushed onward, her tracks covered in seconds by the wind-driven snow. The lantern's flame flickered and danced as she hurried toward the house, caught by gusts of wind that seemed intent on blowing her off her feet. Her breath was coming in gasps, not because of the frigid sweep of wind that plucked at her, but because of the fear that rattled through her, robbing her of thought as well as breath.

She threw a glance over her shoulder, feeling foolish for doing so. Nothing but driving snow and the grotesque dark shapes of trees bent by the wind could be seen. Whatever had left the tracks - whoever, she amended, shivering under the onslaught of winter's bitter rage – was gone and had left no hint in what direction they had departed.

The barn loomed before her, and beyond was the welcoming glow of windows lit from within, of hearth and family and safety, barely visible in the blowing snow. She hurried her steps, slipping and sliding as she passed the well-housing, which was sagging under the weight of the snow. She refused to stop and sweep it clean, too intent on getting out of the storm. If the well-house collapsed under the weight, so be it.

Leaning her shoulder against the door, she shoved with all her might and the door flew open, slamming into the wall. She stumbled over the threshold, reaching for the handle, shaking with the cold. A pair of hands helped her push the door closed and she slumped against it, panting. The room seemed unearthly quiet after the roar of the storm, with only the fire crackling a warm greeting.

"Will Mett survive, do you think?" Bethany asked, pulling Laria to the hearth, bustling to take her cloak as Carver looked on.

"Of course she will! She wouldn't dare defy Laria Hawke!" he exclaimed, grinning at her as she warmed her hands. But she saw the question in his bright blue eyes, heard the hidden note of concern in his teasing voice.

She returned his grin, continuing to keep the conversation light. "Why would one ox listen to me when this one doesn't?" she joked, pointing at her brother.

Bethany laughed, reaching up and ruffling Carver's hair. "Very nicely said, Sister."

"Stop that!" Carver barked, the effect lost by the flashing grin that followed his words and was gone again. "You are disturbing a soldier of the Lothering Militia!" he added, puffing his chest out in exaggerated pride.

Bethany rolled her eyes and gave his hair another tousle before moving back to the kitchen, where dinner was being prepared. As soon as she was out of earshot, he leaned close to whisper, "Did you see the tracks I told you about?"

Laria's smile fell away and she nodded grimly. "You were right; there were at least four separate sets. Why the snow doesn't cover them can only mean that they aren't natural."

"That's what I thought. I've got to report this to my captain."

"Not tonight, Carver. The storm should blow itself out by tomorrow morning. Whatever left the tracks is gone now. But where they went without leaving more tracks is a mystery."

"Shhh, we'll talk later," Carver whispered as Bethany called them to dinner.

They gathered around the smaller table in the kitchen. Laria, still shivering, took the seat nearest the kitchen hearth, grateful for the warmth. Steam rose from the bowl of lamb stew in front of her, fragrant with rosemary and thick with meat. She didn't voice her concern about how much lamb and mutton might be left in the cellar, determining to do an inventory of its contents after dinner.

An hour later she stood in the cold cellar, her woolen shawl pulled tight. The inventory had confirmed her fear that they were running dangerously low on meat and she found herself angry with her mother for being so careless with their supplies. There was nothing to do about it except to go hunting in the hope of catching winter hare and, if she was lucky, some wild fowl. At least there were enough vegetables to see them through, and the flour she had managed to purchase with the money from the jam should last the winter as well. Still, she would need to have a talk with her mother, who often forgot that food didn't miraculously appear in the larder or the cellar.

Climbing up the steep ladder, she stepped into the kitchen and kicked the trapdoor shut. Carver was waiting for her, arms folded. Laria pulled the rug into place and straightened, her muscles tensing at Carver's grim look. Bad enough she would have to scold her mother; Maker, she didn't want to fight with Carver again as well.

They were both trying to learn how to get on with the other and there were times when she was sure they had left the past behind them only to stumble over it again. She sighed as exhaustion and tension conspired to make her brain unresponsive.

"It's bad, isn't it?" he asked quietly.

"No, it'll be fine," she said, lying without conscious thought. It was what she had always done - hidden the bad news from the family - just as her father had, just as he had taught her to do.

"Thanks for that. For a minute I thought you might actually trust me."

"Oh? That must have been the same moment I thought you'd actually managed to grow up," she snapped, pushing past him, her anger surprising her with its intensity. She paused in the doorway and turned to see Carver's entire posture shift from concerned brother to angry young man. "I – I'm sorry."

He brushed aside her apology with a shrug. "I'll go hunting on my way home from town tomorrow," he said and she watched as he widened his stance in a stubborn, defensive manner. He was obviously preparing for a long, drawn out fight.

It was on the tip of her tongue to argue that it was her place to do the hunting, but her words died in her throat. It was so easy for each of them to resume the easy familiarity of their old relationship, even though they both recognized how damaging it had been. He was as capable a hunter as she was, yet she still found it difficult to let go of her old habit of protecting him.

She sat down at the kitchen table and ran her fingers through her brown curls before nodding her head. "We have enough for another week or two, but if you happen to see any tracks in the snow then by all means, hunt," she said, adding a strained smile.

"I can deliver a note to Aerin, if you like," he added in a low voice and her strained smile gave way to a grin. "I thought that would do the trick," he sniggered, looking pleased with himself.

"Be careful, Carver, people will think we actually care about each other."

"Bloody fools," he smirked.

Moments passed, each of them content to listen to the wind as it moaned to be let in. "I'll take first watch," she finally said, breaking the silent accord between them.

"You really think that's necessary?"

"I do, yes. Best to be cautious than caught out," she replied, staring at the glowing coals of the fire.

They sat in silence again until Carver yawned. "Wake me in four hours," he instructed and she nodded without glancing up.

"I mean it, Laria," he added and she could almost hear the glare in his voice.

"You really are becoming entirely too bossy," she replied but she glanced over her shoulder at him, offering a smile to soften her words.

The wind died down an hour later, and the house creaked and settled under the mantle of snow it wore. Conlaoch was curled up beside her feet, resting as close to the warmth of the coal as he dared, and she was tempted to sit down on the hearth beside him and absorb his warmth, her body becoming colder and stiffer as the night wore on.

She was just about to wake Carver for his shift when she heard an odd series of noises from outside. Conlaoch growled low in his throat, raising the hair on her arms with the sound. She leaned forward and patted him, aware that his hair was also standing on end, and she whispered, "Hush, Con. Hush boy." She rose slowly, her ears straining almost painfully as she listened for any sound.

Con followed her into the large front room, nearly tripping her in his clumsy need to protect her. She snapped her fingers at him and he stilled beside her, standing alertly, his head tilted. She removed her sword from the weapon stand and then reached for the lantern. Adjusting the flame and the wind-guard, she blinked at the sudden brightness before she picked it up in her free hand.

"Stay, boy. Stay," she whispered and then eased out of the house.

The moon was playing tag with the fast moving clouds, coming out just long enough to illuminate the snow before disappearing again, leaving inky shadows in its wake. Forcing herself to move, she slowly raised the lantern and the expanse of snow became an unbroken expanse of gold under its light.

Mab nickered and then began to whinny. Before Laria could move, she heard a loud neigh and then silence again. Fear momentarily pinned her in place and her grip tightened reflexively on her hilt. She forced her feet to move through the crisp snow that crunched underfoot as she broke through its frozen crust. She was shivering, a combination of nerves and cold, as she put out a hand to unlatch the barn door. Slowly, tentatively, she pushed open the door, jumping nervously as a hinge squealed in protest. Halting, her breath held, she waited, listening.

A part of her, the sensible young woman she claimed to be, chastised herself for entering the barn without first rousting Carver. She eased back a step and then another, aware only of her pounding heart and the stillness of the night now that the wind had died away. And then Mett grunted and began to low. To her shame, a startled scream was wrenched from her.

She eased the door shut and then pulled the latch in place. The cold air helped steady her nerves and she breathed deeply, feeling as if her lungs would never get their fill. The wind stirred again, a long moan of displeasure at it pushed against her. She raised her lantern high and looked at the tracks in the snow. All she saw were her own set of boot prints that ran from the house to the barn.

With an embarrassed huff, she pushed herself away from the barn and began a brisk walk back to the house, her steps made quicker by the cold. As she neared the house, she heard the sound of a horse whinnying and she spun around, barely able to discern the outline of horse and rider as the moon was once again behind thin clouds.

She swung the lantern in a high arc and the horse reared before being brought under control.

"Laria!"

"Master Barlin?"

The horse came to a halt and the elder Barlin, bundled in cloak and cap, stared down at her, his face as white as dough. "I need young Bethy to come quick."

Heart once again racing, Laria nodded, motioning for him to come with her. She felt a constriction in her chest, a terrible thought taking hold, nearly paralyzing her, and her voice was rough and unsteady when she gave voice to it.

"Quince?"

"Took real bad. He - I don't – I don't know what it is," Barlin whispered, his usual bluff and bluster gone, his face reflecting his fears. Her heart twisted in her chest. If Barlin had ridden for help on such a frigid night then Quince was deathly ill…her mind jerked away from the thought as she ushered him into the house.

Carver came stumbling into the room, still lacing his heavy woolen shirt. He stopped when he saw them and Laria, voice gaining strength, instructed, "Fetch Bethany. Tell her to bring her kit. Quince is sick."

Without arguing, Carver wheeled around and went to rouse Bethany. "Sit by the fire, Master Barlin, it will be just a moment."

She went to the barn, her earlier fear gone as she began to saddle Mab. Quince. Her mind felt numbed by the news. She guided Mab from the barn and led her to the house, where Bethany, wrapped in a heavy cloak and knit cap, stood waiting. Seeing that they were ready, Laria swung into the saddle, holding Mab in place.

Her mother, comforting Barlin, nodded to her. "Keep Bethany safe," she instructed. Laria knew the flare of indignation was childish and refused to give voice to it.

"I'll wait until you're back before I leave for town," Carver reassured, coming to stand beside Leandra in a protective stance.

She smiled briefly, nodding her head in thanks and acknowledgement. Bending down, arm extended, she helped Bethany mount behind her. Conlaoch bounded out of the house, coming to heel beside Mab. She took a measure of comfort from his presence and, as soon as Barlin was mounted, they were off across the snowy fields.

Her mind was splintered, fractured by fear and guilt. She knew Bethany was talking to her but she didn't understand the words, wasn't able to decipher them around her own thoughts of Quince and all he meant to her, the things she'd done and not done.

The windows were ablaze with bright golden light as they entered the Barlin farmstead. Dawn was not far off, the sky already shifting from indigo to pale grey. The wind had died down until it was just a cold whisper.

She dismounted and helped Bethany down, clutching at her sister's arm as they entered the house. Quince's brother and sister were huddled in front of the fire, murmuring prayers to the Maker. Old Barlin hurried them through the room and up a narrow flight of stairs. Laria heard Quince before she saw him, his voice fretful and full of pain. She found herself praying, pleas sent to a Maker she wasn't even sure existed.

His skin was as grey as the dawn sky, slickened with sweat and peppered with dark patches of blisters. He was tossing fretfully, muttering and twisting away from his mother's soothing touch. A foul stench arose from him and Laria closed her eyes against the scene, dread and sorrow pushing away the fear and regret. He was beyond help; one glance at Bethany told her as much.

"Do what you can to ease his pain," Laria whispered against the burning in her throat where her tears waited.

She sat down on the bed, taking the wet cloth from his mother's hands and gently stroking Quince's forehead. Bethany began casting, the soft blue glow enveloping Quince. "I'm here, Quince. Tell me what I can do to help," Laria whispered as Old Barlin took his wife in his arms and wept.

"Lark?" Quince whispered, struggling to open his eyes.

"Shhh, just close your eyes and let Bethy heal you."

"No help," he uttered, "D – dark –" he mumbled, his voice trailing off.

"I'll light another lamp," she replied but before she could move, she felt his hand plucking at her sleeve.

"Darkspawn," he finally managed and the tears, impatiently stinging her throat, began to trickle down her cheeks. They had been warned about the darkspawn sickness. It was always fatal, usually killing a person within hours but sometimes taking days and even weeks or months to run its course. There was no cure.

He began shivering, his teeth chattering together and even with half a dozen blankets on him and Bethany's spells, he continued to shiver. Laria, with a questioning glance at Old Barlin, who nodded, stretched out beside her oldest, dearest friend, and held him in her arms.

"It's all right, Quince," she murmured against his fevered skin, over and over again until he finally quieted down.

"I kn – knew I'd win you back soo – sooner or l – l – later," he stuttered quietly and with a sigh, rested his head on her shoulder, his breathing slow and laborious.

"I wish – I wish I'd – "she began, unsure what she would say, but the tears robbed her of her voice, and she felt the sobs gathering, her control slipping away with each painful breath Quince took.

"It is the hubris of man," his mother whispered in a broken voice, "that causes the Maker to punish His children. Find rest in the Beyond, dear boy."

What, Laria wondered darkly, could someone as good and decent as Quince, have ever done that he deserved so early and so painful a death? She bit back her angry, bitter words and instead, continued to whisper softly for Quince to find respite from his pain.

He didn't gasp or convulse, just quietly stopped breathing while Laria held on to him, her tears falling unheeded.

A/N: Thank you, Lisa, for the quick beta and the helpful suggestions. You are awesome!
I made the lore up, but its roots can be found in a number of folktales.
Thank you, mille libri, for the encouragement! I think I'll follow your advice!