Author's note: Thanks to clafount, as always, for her diligence in beta-reading this story!
She was getting used to the darkness by now, hardly able to remember the last time she'd seen the Sun. Silence was not a problem, though; the two men with her made sure she got little sleep, even when she wasn't on watch, either by their nightmare-born screams or the more pleasurable noises they made to get back to sleep. One of them kicked from where he lay behind her, his foot skittering over the loose gravel of their impromptu campsite. The girl wondered, not for the first time, why they'd come to trust her to watch them sleep; it'd be easy for her to slit their throats. It'd be nothing.
Then the girl remembered that they hadn't always been so trusting, not until they'd dragged her so far beneath the ground that a kilometre of rock and an uncountable, unknown army of darkspawn separated her from any hope of getting home. "Stupid," she hissed, returning her eyes to the mouth of their little cave, not knowing if the comment was meant for her or for her gaolers.
She'd been stupid. She'd been desperate. She'd been brave. She was lucky to be alive.
She was cursed.
A scuffling sound tickled at her ears from beyond the mouth of the cave, somewhere out in the Deep Roads. The echoes distorted the noise's origin beyond recognition, but it set her on edge nonetheless. Another spasm took one of the men, but he did not stir after he gave a low moan. It could have been a simple coincidence, she thought, until the two things occurred again-the scuffle, then the jerk and moan.
Swallowing her nerves, the girl tightened her grip on her hatchets, the finest things she'd ever possessed. "Stroud," she breathed, her voice uneven. When he failed to rouse, she repeated his name more loudly.
The man jerked, and was fully awake within seconds, picking up his enormous flatblade as he rose. The slimmer man, who called himself la Mainerouge, was not long in following, stringing his bow and knocking an arrow before the girl could fully stand. The two shared a brief, blistering exchange in Orlesian before Stroud looked to her with a grimace and a nod. "It is time to go," he said, which was four more words than he'd spoken to her since the last time they'd moved camp.
The darkspawn were too thick in the passage to confront, and there were no convenient chokepoints to set up an ambush where Monroi could pick the fiends off while she and Stroud cut them down, so the three Grey Wardens retreated. More Orlesian muttering as they melted from shadow to shadow, even the big Stroud fleet of foot in the near-total darkness. They managed to outrun the horde, to skirt through another side-passage that looked to connect to another Deep Road, perhaps a level below them.
Stroud stopped short, tilting his head as though listening intently. The girl closed her eyes, but she could hear nothing other than the distant chorus of darkspawn they'd fled. "What are we stopping for?" She didn't dare put up her hatchets.
The large Warden considered her for a moment, his moustache bending with the depth of his frown. "There are more 'spawn ahead of us," he allowed, evidently judging her worthy. "But perhaps not so many as behind." He continued talking with his companion in the tongue she didn't know, and the girl wondered how either of them had come from Ferelden-if, indeed, they'd told her the truth. "We must make haste," Stroud announced, and signaled for her to take point with him.
The girl ignored the fluttering of her pulse as she strode up the narrow passageway, a half-step in front of the enormous Orlesian. Soon her ears twinged again, picking up more distant echoes, and she had to force herself to keep up the half-jogging pace that her gaolers demanded. Certain death behind her, and not just in the form of the darkspawn, was all that kept the girl moving toward the probable death which lay in front. As the passage's exit drew nearer, however, the echoes resolved quite suddenly into the sound of combat-with grunts and curses that the girl understood. "There's fighting," she called over her shoulder. "People fighting!"
Stroud prodded her into a run. "You're certain?" But it wasn't long until he must've heard it, too, for the man brushed past her just before she came to the end of the passageway.
The girl sucked in a breath to steady her terror, diving into the Deep Road after the man who'd ruined her life. She should've aimed her hatchets at his back, rather than at the half-rotten monsters that swarmed around him...but then the blighters would've overrun him, and her not long after. She knew she didn't deserve any better, but years of honing her will to live, along with her hatchets, had bred deep survival instincts into the girl . That's why she'd yielded to Stroud in the first place.
Such thoughts couldn't distract the girl for long as she ducked and rolled, chopped and sheared, cleaved and parried. The ranks of darkspawn thinned surprisingly quickly, and before she knew it, the girl was panting over the last twitching corpse, breathing in the foul air to get her bearings. After only a moment of exulting in her victory, in her survival, the girl's ears twitched at the sound of Stroud stepping away from her.
"Anders," he growled. A glance revealed a filthy squad-three shems, a dwarf, and a dog- though how Stroud knew they were from the Anderfels was a mystery to the girl. She moved closer, curious, and Stroud continued. "I had not thought to see you beneath the ground again." Again?
The tallest stranger didn't look any more pleased than Stroud had sounded. He and the other male shem supported a woman between them, and it only took a second to realise that the woman's end wouldn't be long in coming. The girl could practically feel her fever over the distance between them. "I wouldn't have come here," the tall shem said, "unless it was urgent. Unless...I had no other choice." He gave the woman in his grasp a pained, sorrow look.
La Mainerouge had caught up with Stroud and the girl by then, but she'd had yet to hear him speak in the King's Tongue, so she was unsurprised when Stroud kept talking. "Anders," he sighed. "You know more than anyone that we do not recruit out of pity." The girl understood, then, that 'Anders' must be the tall shem's name.
"This isn't a request for pity," the man, Anders, insisted. "The girl has some skill, at healing and other magic. She just needs a chance."
A glance told the girl that Stroud was unconvinced. "Do these others understand what you ask?" He gestured to the other shem and the dwarf. "What is this girl to you?"
The black-haired shem bristled. "I'm her bloody brother," he growled.
"Then you should know that the Grey Wardens are not a refuge from the taint," Stroud sighed. No, the girl thought, grimacing. They're a sodding prison.
The boy looked from Stroud to Anders, then to his sister, and back to Stroud once more. "All I know is that Bethany deserves to live," he stated, his voice shaking. "And if she doesn't...neither will any of you." The girl could have sworn that his eyes flashed red for an instant, but she put it down to a trick of the light.
La Mainerouge chuckled from her left. "Il a l'esprit," the smaller Warden commented. " Peut-etre la soeur aussi?"
"Possiblement," Stroud retorted. He seemed a shade more interested.
"She does," Anders insisted. A moan from the girl, Bethany, took his attention for a moment, but he seemed to come to a decision as he looked back at the Wardens. "She knew the Commander, as a child," the tall shem informed them. "The Commander would be...grateful, if she knew Bethany still breathed. If she could see her again."
A long breath turned into a low growl as Stroud considered, evidently torn between the emotional blackmail and the promise it-and the woman herself-seemed to offer. "Very well," he allowed, and Anders and Bethany's brother visibly sagged with relief. "But know that any debt remaining between us is paid in full," Stroud stipulated.
Anders nodded soberly. "I will keep that in mind." He looked like he wanted to say something else for the space of a breath, but instead, the shem just shook his head and took stronger hold of Bethany.
The brother stepped across the gap with her, as she was transferred from Anders' grasp to Stroud's. "I...love you, Beth," the boy breathed, touching her tainted face.
"...I...know," Bethany managed. "Car..."
"We must move quickly," Stroud broke in. "If we are to make the surface in time." He turned, hefting his burden in both arms. "Let us depart, before our combined presence draws the multitude."
The two groups went in different directions, as quickly as their legs could carry them. Stroud's pace was undampened by Bethany's weight, and he didn't breathe a word for more than an hour of marching. The dog followed them, leaving the other group behind, its eyes and ears never pointed away from the half-conscious woman for long . Hope sprang within the girl, that she might see the Sun and breathe fresh air, since Stroud had mentioned the surface...but of course, as he found another cave and made camp, the girl realised that he'd lied.
Stroud and la Mainerouge set to work building a small fire. Once it was lit, the smaller man produced a familiar silver cup from his pack, and Stroud set to mixing liquids from three different flasks within. One of them had been recently emptied when the girl herself had seen the cup for the first time, but Stroud had refilled it with darkspawn blood at the first opportunity, days ago. If days even meant anything down here.
The larger man threw a glance her way. "Do you still remember the words, Faenathiel?" It was the first time he'd ever used her name.
She swallowed, mindful of the chill in her gut. "I do," she answered, honestly. "I will never forget them." She wished she could. When Stroud lifted his eyebrows at her, though, Faenathiel understood his meaning implicitly. Warily, she put up her hatchets and moved closer, taking the cup from her gaoler. The contents glowed a deep crimson and smelt as foul as she remembered. Both of the other Wardens held Bethany in a kneeling position, one at each of her arms. The girl saw that la Mainerouge gripped her staff in his off-hand, and that it too was dyed red, just like the poison that the woman would have to drink. The dog whined, sitting nearby.
"Join us, sister," Faenathiel intoned, and a reverent silence fell over her gaolers. "Join us in the shadows, where we stand. Vigilant." Bethany mumbled, her eyes threatening to screw up into her head, but Faenathiel didn't increase the pace of her words-there was no sense in rushing the other woman to her fate. "Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish," she breathed, unable to meet Bethany's corrupted face any longer, "know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten." The girl brought the silver chalice to the other woman's lips. "And that one day," Faenathiel hissed, tipping the cup up, "we shall join you."
Stroud's hand on the woman's jaw kept it open, and Faenathiel showed no mercy in filling Bethany's mouth with the awful foulness. Bethany spluttered, but the big Warden clamped his hand over her mouth, forcing her to swallow every drop. A chill passed over Faenathie's spine as she witnessed the shem girl writhe and then go limp. Stroud lowered her down onto the cavern floor, holding a pair of fingers against her neck, unmindful of the distressed growls the girl's hound emitted. It must have understood their intent, however, for it still did not attack. "She will live," the Warden announced, his eyes lancing toward Faenathiel. "And you will watch her and her pet."
The girl nodded, numbly. Had she looked so tortured? Had she writhed so pitifully? A moment later, the Orlesians had moved to the cave's entrance, settling into a muted conversation. Faenathiel could hear every word, but she couldn't understand a single one, so she didn't know why they bothered to whisper.
It was a good six hours before the newly-minted Grey Warden stirred. Faenathiel had snatched a few minutes' rest, here and there, exhausted by her interrupted watch and the battle that had preceded the enlargement of their party. She was attentive when Bethany began to stir, wary of the dog, who rested its head on its forelegs. The woman's brown eyes fluttered open and fixed upon the girl's face, confusion seeping past the pall of terror that the new recruit's Joining nightmare had bred in her. "...Ath...adra?"
Faenathiel arched a brow. "What?" The others had spoken the King's Tongue well enough; were they really from the Anderfels, after all?
Bethany blinked several times, grasping at her throat. "Wa..." The slightly-elder Warden knew just what to do. After Bethany had taken a few pulls from Faenathiel's waterskin, she composed herself for a couple of moments. "I'm...sorry," the other woman said at last. "You just reminded me of someone I used to know."
"Someone called Athadra?" Now that Faenathiel thought about it, the name sounded suspiciously like someone she knew, but she didn't make mention of that fact.
Bethany nodded. Her face was still wan, but in the small fire's embers, the elf didn't notice those dark tendrils lurking beneath her skin. "They say she's the Warden-Commander," the woman went on, a bit weakly. "Is that...true?"
The elf closed her eyes for a breath. "I wouldn't know," she admitted, returning her gaze to the shem. "I'd never been outside of Lowtown until two or three weeks ago, when those Orlesian bastards dragged me down here."
"You're from Kirkwall?" The woman's ordeal kept most of the shock from her voice, but Faenathiel detected enough to amuse her.
"Born and bred in the Alienage," the elf admitted. "You?"
Bethany hesitated and then shook her head. "Not originally...but I lived in Lowtown for..." Her face crumpled as she thought. "Too long," she breathed, at last. "I was born in Highever," the woman ventured, after another long pause. "Me and my brother...but we had to move around a lot when we were small."
Faenathiel's eyes settled on the woman's staff. "I'd bet," she allowed. "What brought you to the City of sodding Chains?"
The woman took a breath. "The Blight," she barked, pulling her dog's head into her lap to pet it idly. "Funny how the darkspawn have taken me away from it, now." She considered the embers, lapsing into another silence, which Faenathiel was happy to oblige. Eventually, however, the woman's curiosity must have gotten the better of her. "You're new to the Wardens, then?"
The elf shrugged. "Not as new as you," she pointed out.
"I suppose," Bethany conceded. "Why did you decide to become one?"
Faenathiel's eyes grew cold. "Same reason as you, I suspect," she gruffed. "Had no choice." Except death, and that was no choice at all. "I floated a few coins out of the short shem's pocket," she explained, before the woman could beg her for details. "Then I didn't have the good sense to die when the big fucker caught me and tried to teach me a lesson."
If her new companion was surprised at the elf's admission of thievery, she didn't show it. Perhaps she had lived in Lowtown, after all. "That's...horrible."
"It was predictable," Faenathiel countered. "La Mainerouge was too easy a mark. I should've known he was setting me up."
Bethany's eyebrows rose. "La who?"
"La Mainerouge," Faenathiel repeated. "He's the little one. The big guy's called Stroud." She grunted. "They're...Orlesian."
The woman nodded. "I suppose that explains the nickname."
It was Faenathiel's turn to raise her eyebrows. "You know Orlesian?"
Bethany coughed; if her throat hadn't been so dry, it might have been a giggle. She found her own waterskin and slaked her thirst before answering. "Only a little...enough to know that 'la main rouge' means 'the red hand'."
The elf smirked, understanding the man's mismatched gloves at last. "Don't bother asking the bastards anything. Their names are all I've gotten from them so far."
That caused Bethany's lips to thin. "I'll remember," she vowed. "You said they set you up?"
"Must have," Faenathiel answered. " Red-hand's coinpurse was filled with pewter discs instead of silver, and Stroud was waiting close by, ready." She shook her head. "I figure they were looking for someone to bring with them. I'd bet Athenril was just chuffed if she ever heard about it."
The other woman had another surprise in store. "You knew Athenril?"
The elf's brow drew down. "Did you?"
Bethany shrugged. "I...met her, once, when me and my family were trying to get into Kirkwall. She offered to help us in return for a year's worth of work."
"You turned her down," the elf stated, grim satisfaction in her tone. "Good. She swindles her associates almost as much as her marks." More time passed, with little but the dog's snores to fill their ears, when a streak of curiosity crossed Faenathiel's mind. "So how did you get into Kirkwall, anyway?"
She wasn't prepared for the dark shadow which passed over the other woman's face. "Our uncle," Bethany said. "He had debts...to Athenril, and to someone named Meeran, who ran a group of mercenaries." She shook her head. "My brother and another refugee who was with us thought that killing people was better than stealing from them."
Faenathiel's head tilted. "You disagree?"
"I did," the woman admitted. "But...I got used to it, after awhile." Her voice was hollow again for a moment, like it had been when she'd just woken up.
Faenathiel grimaced. "Athenril promised me there'd be no killing, unless we had no choice. But she refused to share her takings with the Coterie, so they didn't often give us one."
Bethany offered a shrug. "I guess I didn't have one, either." The edges of her lips curled up, but she still looked sad. "It's funny...I've missed Athadra for half my life, and wanted to see her for years."
"Now I guess you will," the elf observed. "If we're lucky." Another wonder struck her, then. "Why in the Void were you down here, anyway?"
The woman's tentative smile faltered, and she covered her mouth with her hand. "We were trying to build a life," she whispered, through her fingers. "My brother and I. Find some treasure that the darkspawn hadn't spoilt, move into Hightown..." Her voice shook, and Faenathiel was glad when she hid her tears in her dog's thick neck. It whimpered in time with her silent sobs for a few minutes, and the elf had no words of comfort to offer either of them. "I'm...sorry," Bethany allowed, once she'd recovered a bit of dignity.
Faenathiel shrugged, looking away. "Don't be. It's not easy, trading a life in Hightown for...this," she hissed, sweeping her hand across their dank cavern.
"But," Bethany pressed on, "I'm sure it's not so easy for you, either. You must've..." Her words trailed off. "It's not my business."
"It's not," the elf concurred. "But...thanks." She spared her companion a brief smile, for her interest and her kindness in not pressing it. "I haven't talked this much since I took the cup." She did her best to ignore the other woman's insinuation; she hadn't had much to lose, really. Maybe her mother, but she would survive. Faenathiel hoped so, at least. "So...you're an apostate?"
The elf's eyes ached when a brief flicker of flame sprouted from the end of the other woman's index finger, confirming her magical status. The mage took up her staff, sighing, as though its presence in her grip revitalised her. "We settled in a village called Lothering," Bethany volunteered. "When my brother and I were six years old."
"Never heard of it," Faenathiel admitted.
"You wouldn't have," Bethany observed. "It's...it was...nothing like Kirkwall," she explained. "Now it's just nothing, I suppose." The elf had no answer to that, so she said nothing. The other woman gathered herself and looked to change the subject. "So...what do you know about the Grey Wardens?"
Faenathiel considered. "Stories, mostly," she admitted. "Never even saw one that I knew of until the big guy pulled that fucking cup out of his sack." The elf closed her eyes, trying to ignore the shiver that crawled over her shoulders. "I really thought that the darkspawn were a myth," she breathed. "Something the shems made up, like their other Chantry stories. Even after we heard tell of the Blight, it didn't seem real."
The mage took a deep breath. "Some people still don't think it was," she pointed out. "Keep your eyes shut." Suspicion rose within Faenathiel, her fingers itching to grip the handles of her hatchets, but after a heartbeat she learnt the reason for Bethany's request; the embers glowed more brightly, and their corner of the cave warmed a bit.
When the elf chanced to open her eyes again, she saw the other woman's features more clearly. She was a girl, really, no older than Faenathiel herself. "But now I know better."
Bethany just nodded, and the two new Wardens sat by their revivified fire, sipping from their waterskins in silence for a long stretch. A boot scraped stone beside them, making both of the women jump in surprise. Stroud's face was steeped in shadows cast by the glow of the embers, so even the elf had trouble reading his expression. "You are able to walk unaided?"
The mage pushed the sleeping dog from her lap and slowly pulled herself to a standing position, using her staff and the rock wall to help her. "I think so, serah," she answered, not quite meeting the large man's gaze. "I...guess I should thank you."
"You should not," he corrected her, but he held out a wooden bowl, just the same. "Eat. We move in five minutes."
When Bethany took the bowl, Faenathiel saw that it was crusted with the same surprisingly flavourful paste they'd fed her on for weeks. The other woman looked at it skeptically, but her stomach growled angrily, and so she dipped her fingers into the glue-like mixture. Stroud gave a clipped nod when Bethany made a sound of pleasant surprise. Just as he turned to go, though, the woman spoke up again. "Where are we going?"
Stroud's dark eyes glinted from his shadowed vantage as he regarded the both of them. "Home," he grudged, and stalked away before they could ask him anything more.