Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf
Betrothal
Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!
Loghain Mac Tir stopped before the gates of Fort Drakon and motioned for his Redcliffe knights escort to halt while he examined the battlefield. Not a battlefield anymore, he corrected himself. More like a graveyard.
The grounds before the gate were littered with corpses, most of them darkspawn. Scattered here and there were the bodies of elven archers, in surprisingly small numbers considering the scale of the battle which must have unfolded minutes earlier. He saw the big Qunari shake his head; the giant apparently shared his analysis of the situation.
As he walked up the short flight of steps to the fortress' scorched gate, Loghain realized what else bothered him. He turned once again to examine the scores of dead bodies. The massacre, it seemed, had been an astonishingly clean one; there was not one drop of blood to be seen.
Zevran almost bumped into his mark when he made the corner of Gold Street; the Orlesian's blade may well have taken his head his head off, too, but for Runt's happy bark.
As it were, the serrated edge merely grazed his blond hair, and he found himself staring at a very pleasant set of leather-covered, furiously heaving breasts.
"Zev?" Leliana's voice was husky, hardly audible, like someone who has spent the night singing -or screaming- her lungs off. She looked terrible, too, bloodied and haggard and scared out of her wits.
"I see you have been partying hard. So cruel of you, not sending me an invitation."
The bard's lips trembled a little, as though she hesitated between tears and laughter; in the end she let out a hushed laugh as she hugged him.
"Maker, Zev, but it's good to see you!"
"Believe me, I taste even better…" Zevran blurted automatically; he had to stay true to his unfeeling sex machine image, after all. Privately, he was quite the happy assassin.
From somewhere down the deserted street there came a crashing sound, and Leliana jumped, fear coming back to her blue eyes.
"Hurry", she whispered as she grabbed his shoulder, shoved him forward, and started running in Fort Drakon's direction.
"Well, so much for the hero's reward", he sighed, and hurried by her side.
The Dalish captain had forgotten his fear, his doubts, even his own name. All around him in the thickening red mist, his men snarled and howled as they cut a bloody trail through the dark corridors of the overrun fortress. His heart swelled with pride as he massacred in the name of the last of the Elven Gods.
The flash of a darkspawn blade and he fell on his face, the pain in his gut throbbing and white-hot, his hands clawing at the cold stone pavement, his strength draining fast.
The last thing he saw was the red mist, swirling and extending hungry tendrils.
What awakened, rose and joined the battle was… different.
Flesh, bone and metal slowly sprouted from Sin's charred stump as he dashed along Gold Street. He had to be swift; the Dread Lord was waiting for His priest to celebrate the Betrothal.
So this is Hell, Loghain thought as he stepped into the pandemonium. Fair enough; he knew that he deserved no less.
Fort Drakon's flat roof was overrun by a reddish haze which swirled oddly in the still evening air. Within the mist, indistinct figures fought and died in a maelstrom of grunts, howls and screams, none of which sounded human. Deeper yet he could glimpse the flicker of flames and the shimmering of mystical energies.
The great dragon's roar thundered above the infernal din, deafening, filling his heart with cold terror. He felt the elite knights of Redcliffe flinch behind him, and he turned to address them a look that said unequivocally: if you fail me, the Archdemon will be the last of your concerns. The dwarf and the qunari returned his dark look and nodded.
With a battle cry that almost rivaled the Archdemon's roar, Loghain charged into the mist.
Huddled in a corner of her own mind while her body wielded divine power, Nyx was starting to feel scared.
She was not scared of losing control any more. With the loss of Leliana she had relinquished all hope of cheating her destiny, and now she just let the Dread God massacre as he saw fit. Right now, the god's bloodlust was directed at the Archdemon, and that was good enough for her. Whatever strength was left in her she reserved for the final moment, when she would try to regain control long enough to strike at the dragon.
She was not scared of the dead, rallying around her as more elves and darkspawn fell and were animated by Fen'Harel. The magic in itself was not particularly complex, and the only difference between the god's spell and the trick she had learned to perform on dead rats was in the magnitude of the power pool He drew from.
And she was not really scared of the Archdemon, not any more, because the roaring dragon looked more and more like a cornered, desperate animal. It was losing the battle, slowly, and the splendor of its Fade aura was starting to wane. She almost pitied the Old God imprisoned in its corrupted flesh; awakened only to be twisted, brought here in this foreign land and time, and sacrificed. The story felt disturbingly familiar.
But as the battle raged on and the tainted dragon weakened under a constant rain of spells and arrows, Nyx started to doubt that the Archdemon's soul would give her the oblivion she sought.
They heard the clang as he broke through the lower door, then the sound of footsteps, heavy and impossibly fast behind them in the spiraling staircase, echoing like the frenzied beat of a great drum. Leliana missed a step, fell with a short cry of pain and struggled to get up, her sprained wrist refusing to bear her weight. Zevran helped her up; he was starting to feel seriously worried about their pursuer.
"Cazzo, Leliana, what is that thing? It just blasted through an iron door!"
"No time. Please, we must warn Nyx. He's coming for her!"
Of the bard's serene composure there was nothing left; yet filth, exhaustion and terror could not extinguish the flame Zevran saw in the blue eyes. Hope was a tenacious beast indeed.
He shook his head.
"I think not. You go and warn her; I'll stay here and see what our new friend is made of."
Leliana opened her mouth to stay something, then simply nodded and scrambled up the stone steps as fast as her trembling legs allowed her. Runt hopped valiantly after the redhead.
Maker be blessed for steep staircases and Orlesian butt crease, Zevran thought as he laid his bow on the floor, drew his daggers and checked the poison on the serrated blades. Not a perfect coating, but that would have to do.
Holding both daggers in his right hand, he made a quick mental inventory of the vials of volatile, poisonous or otherwise hazardous substances in his belt pouch and reached for the third one on the left. The hammering footsteps were almost on him now.
Concentrated vitriol… Let's see how you like this.
A glimpse of tattered brown robes and a pale, bloated face with impossibly bright eyes, and the small glass vial shattered on its target, the charging abomination bellowing as its head was engulfed in thick, white vapor, not stopping. Before Zevran could ready his daggers, a chubby hand as heavy as a bucket of stones slammed him headfirst into the stone wall.
The Archdemon's scaly hide was so riddled with arrows and broken spear shafts that it seemed to have grown a shaggy coat of fur. Most wounds were shallow; some however ran deep, and dark rivulets trickled along the beast's spiny flanks. In Nyx's mind-eyes, the tainted dragon's aura had dwindled from a glorious light storm filling the skies, to a dull, flickering whirlpool that grew weaker by the second.
Deliverance, or damnation, would come soon.
As though it shared in her grim thoughts, the tainted dragon stumbled on trembling legs and fell prone on the stone floor, its roar now sounding more like a cry for help. Hissing undead rushed the fallen beast, and the great jaws snapped shut several times, reducing the attackers to a gory pulp that would never be animated again. But every snap of the jagged fangs seemed to further weaken the dragon, and soon it could only brush its assailants aside with vague, weak movements of its head and torn wings.
Then even those stopped and the great, spiny head slowly came to rest on the ground. A strange calm fell on the battlefield, as the dead and the living waited for the final act of the Blight to unfurl.
The clang of armored boots on the ground and Loghain entered Nyx's field of vision, pausing ever so briefly to take in the scene; the shambling undead, the immobile sorceress, the dying dragon. Nyx saw unbending resolve build in him as he raised his sword and prepared to end it all. Cold resolve built in her as she recognized her old foe, and she briefly wrestled for control with Fen'Harel, calling forth mental images of those few, cherished days with the bard. The Dread God yielded, just a little too easily, His dark flames still coiled around her, waiting for an opening to smother her last defenses.
"Stop!"
Loghain was swept off his feet by her burst of power and landed hard on his back, his head hitting the pavement with a pleasant crack, his heavy sword escaping his grip and coming to float in the air between him and the sorceress. A short distance behind Loghain, the Sten crossed his arms on his massive chest and nodded his approval.
The floating sword glowed red, then an intense white as Nyx poured magic into the blade, preparing to hurl all her grief and anger in a final, cleansing blow. She wondered if there would be dreams, later.
Then the impossible happened.
A gentle touch on her shoulder and her scent enveloped the sorceress, bringing back memories so intense that it hurt to contemplate them. She knew that it was but a dream but she turned to greet the vision, drowning in the scent, the sight, the absolute perfection of the moment. The incandescent sword clanged on the floor as she reached for the apparition's face, the skin warm, soft and so real…
"Lel?" Nyx blurted, the little wheels in her head spinning furiously to reconcile the bard's reality with everything. Shit. Oh shit… Was Loghain still alive? Maker makin' muffins please please let the bastard be alive…
Leliana spoke, fast; she looked very worried for someone just back from the dead.
"Nyx, you must listen, pay attention baby please, there is a…"
Thud.
Nyx's eyes closed reflexively as something sprayed on her face; when she opened them she found herself staring stupidly at the arrowhead protruding from Leliana's neck.
"Lord Fen'Harel, please receive your betrothed."
The high-pitched wail came impossibly loud and clear through Sin's lipless mouth and acid-eaten teeth. Slowly, he lowered the blond elf's bow. Sin's role in the god's play was over; maybe, he thought confusedly, the Dread God would grant him oblivion. Something moved behind him and he turned to look at the newcomer.
With a faint hiss of steel sliding between vertebrae, Zevran's blades cut clean through the abomination's neck. The elf was already running towards the bard's crumpling figure when Sin's head hit the ground, silver tears splashing on the stone pavement.
Excerpts from Boreas' journal, circa 450 TE. *
"…The idea was elegant in its simplicity, yet the execution proved delicate, and I ruined a number of good slaves while perfecting it. But truly, what are gold and riches worth without the time to enjoy those gifts of the Dragons? Nothing, that is what, and so are my detractors silenced."
"…Creating the bond is trivial; any young gentleman fresh from the Gymnasium knows how to restore his spent forces with the good life of his slaves, and in the essence my Blood Ruby is no different. Making the bond permanent, however, that is truly the work of a Master."
"…The subtlety lies in the mastery of Time. Act too early and the bond will simply dissolve. Act too late… Well, Death is Death. To be reborn, one must stand on the very brink of Death, and come back swiftly. Three heartbeats from the Plunge is appropriate."
"… And here I stand, an Immortal among men. I have to see to it that Andronius comes to no harm; my beloved son, my very life."
"I sometimes wonder if the reverse operation could be attempted: the caster himself pouring his Essence into a host, and the host being thus supported. Idle fancies, I suppose: only a fool would cripple himself so."
Nyx tastes Leliana's blood on her lips and time slows to a trickle; she reaches for the bard's limp body just as it starts its fall into death, and she sees the light recede from the blue eyes. The wound is lethal and beyond any healer's skill.
This is what the Dread God has wanted all along, the final act of a ritual she doesn't comprehend. The thought should make her mad, stoke the fires of her rage to engulf everything, but it doesn't. And in this, perhaps, Fen'Harel has miscalculated. Nyx's grief is intolerably still and crystal clear, and the god's dark flames drown like a torch thrown into deep water.
She looks into the bard's dying eyes and she thinks of that perfect moment, on the edge of the Brecilian Forest, when she let her magic flow through Leliana's body and when, for a split second, they were one.
And she knows that she can do it again.
Through the red mist of blood magic she can hear the waning drumbeat of the bard's heart, and she waits, Leliana's body limp in her arms, until she feels that there are only three beats left in the failing organ.
Three.
Nyx rips the arrow out of Leliana's neck, the wooden shaft grating against vertebrae.
Blood gushes from the severed arteries, and she encourages it, forcing the bard's essence out of her body, cradling it in her mind's hands like a living, shimmering red gem.
Two.
The bard's heart struggles to squeeze what little is left of her blood through her cooling veins. Nyx feels a massive power ripple as Fen'Harel sunders the Veil to receive the sacrificed soul; for a split second she imagines a titanic maw opening into the Beyond, and she almost cowers in fear. But she will not let him claim Leliana.
Nyx stabs her own hip with the arrow and extracts as much of her own essence as she dares. This stage is tricky; Boreas would bleed his donor heavily, but she can only lose so much blood before she blacks out.
Her essence mingles with Leliana's and the gem glows incredibly bright as she pours power into their combined blood, willing it to become one. The ritual will bind them for life; she would have it no other way.
One.
She feels Leliana's heart give out and there is no time left; Nyx forces the radiant, liquid ruby through the jagged wound in the bard's neck, into the severed veins, her consciousness racing through the blood vessels like a demented nug in a tunnel, racing to beat the soul's bid to escape its earthly prison.
One.
Two.
Three, four, five, six, seven…
Nyx feels the sudden drag on her life force as Leliana's wounds close and her heart starts beating strong and steady; the bard's body feels terribly heavy and she stumbles to lay her on the ground as gently as possible. She kneels there for a few seconds, gasping for air, trying to overcome the nauseating weakness. The pull is so much stronger than she imagined.
The sound of light feet on the stone paving and Zevran kneels before her, his attention entirely focused on the fallen bard. She feels a pang of bitter jealousy as he reaches for Leliana's neck and checks her pulse, and for a second she regrets sparing his life. Then she reminds herself that Leliana will need all the help she can get, and she turns her mind to the more pressing matter at hand.
The Archdemon.
The beast is not moving yet, but Nyx can feel it draw power from the Beyond as it races to heal its wounds. Fen'Harel's undead elves lie inanimate on the pavement; Redcliffe's knights surround Loghain, apparently trying to revive him.
This, of course, can only mean that the old bastard still lives, she reflects with a little wry grin. At least she has taken one good decision in her life, when she agreed to spare him.
It would be refreshing to believe that what she is about to do is justice for Loghain's treason, retribution for the fallen Wardens, but she knows better. This is mere expediency.
Whatever it takes.
Her magic feels weak and oddly stunted as she draws blood from the wound in her hip, but the target's unconsciousness makes things much easier. Loghain rises to his feet, his gaze distant and dreamy like an opium eater's; he snatches a bewildered knight's sword and runs towards the Archdemon's immobile body.
The beast's eyes snap open and the huge, horned head turns with horrible speed to catch and maul its enemy.
Oh no you don't!
On this thought Nyx sends the living puppet's arm hurling through the air, the heavy sword shearing through scales, bone and brains.
There is a flash of incredibly bright light, and just before she falls into an abyss of darkness, she wonders if the trick did work after all.
* Cf. chap. 13 for a quick reminder of who the heck this Boreas guy is.