Title: Snow and Ice
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Sexual content, minor language, violence, blood, use of alcohol
Summary: Once upon a time, a maleficar had stopped the blight. Afterwards, she'd left for the colder North, leaving love for a life of loneliness and wandering. No one was to look for her. So why was Alistair calling her back? Zev/Surana
Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Review please.
Chapter 25
For some reason, she knew she was dreaming. The pain in her stomach was real, the faint pulsing of twisting nerves and a fire burning there, but it seemed so distant. Obviously, her mind was trying to block it out, focusing on the scene before her. The sky was painted red like blood, a cacophony of drums filling the sweet spring air as the fire before her crackled loudly, snapping and popping as it burned the iron bark effortlessly. She was staring at her hands which were covered in paint as white as snow. Someone was standing next to her, whispering sweet words in her ear that sounded like Dalish. A finger touched her cheek, drawing with paint that smelled of earth on her face, following the pattern of the lacing tattoo just beneath her eye.
The person was a woman, soft and sleek and glowing with life. With the pad of her thumb, she caressed Elda's eyelids with the paint, drawing it downwards. Her lips were painted white, a single red line passing through the middle of her bottom lip. Moist limbs danced around her, plump breasts spilling out of silk robes and a soprano voice whispering in her ear.
"Dance with me," she seemed to sing over and over. Elda glanced up and realized in that instant that she was not dreaming, but remembering. Warm, calloused hands took her own and lead her to the circle surrounding the fire. She knew the smell of this young woman holding her close and forcing her to sway to the gentle beat of the drum. Ferias's slim figure stood on the sidelines with a lovely, pale thing in his arms. All the while his eyes were trained on her and her swollen belly. He smiled encouragingly, and Elda remembered at once who was teasing her so. Vrinda, Ferias's sister, was in love with her and had been since she'd shown up.
She was twirled around, a bloodied cry escaping from the hunters' lips all at once. Vrinda was a hunter, a powerful predator with gray eyes and a sharp smile. The Dalish's hands cradled her bulging belly, dancing so carefully one would think it was her baby inside of there. Elda immediately lost herself in the music, listening to high pitched keening of the clan as they sung the old song. The moon hung heavy in the clouds above the trees, blessing their hunt for tomorrow. Paint was smeared and tattoos were given, markings to show who was a hunter and who was not, dividing experienced from amateur, young from old. Ferias disappeared with his young thing into the trees as many others did. The halla stamped their feet and threw back their heads; some clashed against one another like beasts enthralled by the music, adding to the chaos of the night like thunder does to a storm.
When the music finally stopped, Vrinda captured her lips in a painted kiss and stepped back. Tilanai held up a hand, and all became quiet instantly. Even the halla stopped their noise. In her hands was a bowl filled with blue liquid Elda immediately recognized as crushed Andraste's Grace, the smell pungent and delightful. Tilanai's accented voice cut the air.
"Creators bless the hunters tomorrow that go North to seek the wolves," she chanted, approaching Elda. The others echoed her. "Creators bless the hunt and guide the arrows of those who do not yet know what it means to take precious life for their own." She reached into the bowl and pulled out her hand. It dripped with the blue paste. Her smile became soft, the crinkles around her eyes more visible. "Creators welcome into our clan our long lost sister, stolen from us by the shemlen so long ago, but home at last, and with a daughter on the way. Though she runs from something we do not understand, a world we do not know, we envelope her into our arms as though she were never plucked from her mother's grasp. We welcome you home, Elda Surana." Her palm was pressed against Elda's stomach, and the baby gave a soft kick. Tilanai embraced her.
"Thank you, sister."
Arguing outside the tent. The smell of sap and trees and a fire. Animal fur on top of her and tentative fingers pressing against her hair. These things were too real to be a dream, and yet she was leery of them. She opened her eyes one at a time, blinking back the burning sensation as pure sunlight stabbed at her corneas. Grey eyes stared down at her, and she shot forward, knocking her skull against the other person's.
"Easy, Elda!" a familiar, warm voice said, gently easing her down by the shoulders. A sharp pain shot through her middle, the burning of nerve-endings back with full force as though angry at being forgotten. Immediately memories from the battle rushed back, leaving her slightly light headed. Greagoir's sword had pierced the fleshy part of her lower belly at least two inches. Either the pain or the blood or the fatigue or all three had forced her to her knees, and then she'd passed out. Lifting up the furs thrown across her body, she saw the hardened sap and healing poultice firmly taped across her wound and around her back with silk bandages.
She glanced up. "Vrinda?" she chirped in surprise, blinking a few times. It wasn't a dream this time. There Vrinda sat in the aravel, her dark hair tied back, shining black tattoos stark against the palor of her skin. Holding her hand, a smile on her face, her old friend was there looking expectant. The arguing outside increased in volume suddenly, and both voices she recognized at last.
"Zevran and Ferias? What are they arguing about?" she demanded, sitting up again, and this time swiping at the hands that wanted to force her down. Vrinda gave up and frowned.
"Men! The dark elf brought you here to us in an awful state. Severely wounded. Ferias is furious. He accuses the man of harming you," Vrinda shrugged. "It's just jealousy, though. That man knows you as a lover, and so Ferias doesn't like him."
"Idiots," Elda muttered, but she couldn't help smiling. Just to hear Ferias's voice was a blessing in and of itself, regardless of how cruel or foolish he was being. To hear someone speak about him was nice. Elda pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling the pulsing pain in her skull acutely, and stepping down off the bed.
Vrinda was there in an instant. "No! You can't get up yet. It's only been a day since you were wounded."
"I'm fine," Elda muttered, arm going about her waist as if to prevent her guts from spilling forth. It certainly felt as though they could. The pain was torturous, but there was no time to linger. Greagoir was dead, a Knight-Commander despite how horrible a person he had been. There would be a price to pay for such an act, and the miscreants of the chantry were not above sacking a Dalish settlement to find maleficarum. She needed to perform the ritual quickly, gather supplies, and be on her way with Zevran in tow if at all possible. They'd wasted enough time.
Lifting the animal skin veil that separated the dark aravel from the brightness of the world, she was careful in descending the stairs. Each step tugged on her wound and brought a dizziness with it. Shielding her eyes, she was suddenly aware that the arguing had stopped abruptly. Ferias was there, his black hair cropped short much like Zevran's, a few crinkles around his eyes, the fierceness of his eyes darkened slightly with worry for her. Years had not lessened the intensity of his gaze, though, and she still felt chills run down her spine when he looked at her with something other than casual concern for a sister of the clan. Tribal and elegant were his new markings, circling his eyes and curling underneath his armor. They were bold and black and impressive. The shape of his mouth, lips full for a man, sensual and strong. His chin was chiseled hard, nose slightly crooked as though it had been broken a few more times. He also bore the scars of a warrior rather than a mage. He looked so like his sister.
While Zevran was immediately overcome with worry, Ferias only grinned at her and hugged her gently. "Ferias, how I missed you."
"Just as I missed you, Elda. How could you leave us for so long?" he stepped back, hands still on her shoulders, giving her an appraising look. "Much has changed, but you are still the same."
She patted his arm. "The years have been kind to you. Handsome as ever, my friend. It seems to me as though very little has changed." Zevran met her eyes, and he nodded once, standing with his arms folded. The shadow of a bruise beneath his jaw was almost gone. "If we could, Zevran and I need to speak to Tilanai."
"Tilanai is dead," Ferias answered, drawing her attention back to him. "I am keeper now."
Vrinda came out of the aravel, brushing a bit of hair from her eyes with an unhappy expression on her face. She handed Elda her staff. "Your robes were stained with blood. When we had to heal you, your robes were damaged nearly beyond repair. They can't be fixed. I'm sorry."
A sharp pain ripped through her. Those robes had been hers since the Blight. When she had so few material possessions in the first place, it hurt to lose even the most insignificant thing. Ferias put a hand on her arm. "We do, however, still have the chest you left with us before departing in the middle of the night. No warning." It was a question and an accusation. Both of which she decided she would answer to later.
"I have some things I need to discuss with you, Ferias. Important things. And I'd like to see this chest, if I may. Unfortunately, this isn't just a social visit," she said, stepping back so that his hands fell from her arms.
Ferias nodded, a hardness coming into his eyes. "Yes, this Antivan has explained it to us. You are being hunted by the tower."
Zevran stepped up. "Greagoir is dead. He died shortly after he stabbed you. I carried you here to this Dalish Camp after taking care of the rest. You were bleeding badly, and the clan was not welcoming of me until they saw you in my arms."
"I recognized that array of tattoos anywhere," Vrinda said. "It took a couple hours to close up the wound with what little healing magic Ferias possesses. A poultice and some healing sap, we were certain you would live. You've suffered internal damage, though, so don't strain yourself. You shouldn't be walking, actually."
Elda swallowed; talking about the wound was just reminding her of the constant pain throbbing up and down the length of her stomach. "We don't have any time to waste. My daughter has been kidnapped by a bloodmage, and I need someplace safe to call up a demon so that I can learn her location. With both the royal family after me and the tower, I didn't have any other options but to come here."
"Not to mention that if you hadn't come here, you'd most likely be dead anyway," Ferias added thoughtfully. He put a hand on her shoulder. "You are welcome among us, of course, and we will help you in any way we can."
She sighed with relief. "Thank you, brother," she said softly. "If it is at all possible, I would like to see this chest as soon as possible. My old robes are in there no doubt."
"You're in no condition to be walking around and lugging that thing back and forth. I will get it for you," Vrinda said. She marched off at once in the direction of the halla pens.
Ferias glanced at Zevran and then back to Elda. "Well, it has been a trying journey for sure. I will leave you two a moment to yourselves while I explain to the rest of the clan what has taken place. They were very worried for you." He eyed her in particular. "It would be kind of you to go around and embrace your old clan. We've all missed you." With a kiss on her cheek, he departed.
Elda let out a tense breath she hadn't been aware he was holding and put a hand on her wound. It was still pulsing with tenderness, the area no doubt red and angrily swollen. She glanced up at Zevran, and in a flash, he had gathered her into his arms.
The camp was swarming with busy clan members. Halla were bleating absently in the background, even the crackle of the fire a lullaby to her. It was nothing like the tower, nothing like the enclosing space of the castle. This wasn't Denerim or the tower or Redcliffe or the frozen wastes of the North. It was home; it was exquisite. She had missed it too much.
"Welcome home, lethallan," Zevran whispered in her ear.
So if you read "So Happy I Could Cry" then you know that someone has stolen my flash drive. Luckily, I was able to find a previously saved file backed up on my laptop so I didn't have to start on this chapter all over again. I've also purchased a new flash drive so I'll be able to continue writing when I'm not at home as before. Nothing should change. Thanks for your patience, but I'm having a lot of family problems right now. Just as before, the next one could be tomorrow or it could be next month. Sorry in advance if that does happen. Thank you for reading. Review please.