A/N: I had this finished yesterday, but FFN broke for me and I couldn't log in. Another chapter will be posted later on tonight.
This story is about to wrap up, but I will continue on almost immediately afterwards in the sequel. I won't start a new fic, but add onto this one to make it easier to read.
Shadowfox13: One of your plot bunnies stuck a few days ago so the beginning part is due to you. ^_^
"Where are they going?" Fenris leaned against a wall in the courtyard and watched Aedan with three other wardens. All of them were suited in full armor and laden with heavy packs. The sun was setting above him and he and Anders had just recently exited their room. They had spent the better part of the day in bed together. They had separated in front of the dining hall so Anders could eat and find Varric, and Fenris could seek out Aedan.
They had decided that the sooner they spoke to Aedan the better. The Warden-Commander had heard the same things that Fenris had from Danarius. He would figure things out if he hadn't already. But when Fenris went to Aedan's office, he had found it empty.
"I was under the impression that Aedan no longer ventured into the Deep Roads," he said to Zevran, who had taken up a similar stance against the wall.
Zevran frowned, his eyes tracking Aedan as he and the other wardens entered the keep. "He does but rarely. He goes on occasion to meet the Architect and to escort certain wardens a small way into the Deep Roads."
"And you do not go with him?" Fenris was surprised. Zevran was so protective of Aedan, that it was astonishing that the other elf was letting him venture into danger alone. He stifled the fissure of fear that raced up his spine. If Aedan was going to see the Architect, then he might already be too late.
Sighing, Zevran shrugged. "He does not wish it in this case, he never does. He escorts those that hear the Calling tonight. He sees it as his duty to send his men off one last time—alone. A little macabre, no? When he returns he will be morose and wish to drink alone in his office. I will wait approximately one hour for him to brood, before I pry the bottle from his hands and lead him into the bedroom. I allow him his way for a time, before the fun of my way. The next morning it will be as if he had not sent off some of his own to certain death." He looked at Fenris out of the corner of his eyes and elegantly arched an eyebrow. "Until it happens again."
"How often?" Fenris found himself asking. He hated the thought of the Calling. He had done the math—he may not read or write with any real proficiency, but he could add and subtract- and knew it meant that one day in as little as ten years or as many as twenty, Anders was going to have to venture into the Deep Roads, drawn there by the blood he had ingested during the Joining. He would go and leave Fenris behind to wait his turn to join his lover in death.
"Often enough. Most are older wardens who have been assigned here from elsewhere. Sometimes months go by with nothing. Sometimes it happens a few times a week. There are signs—Aedan asks that any warden whose dreams start to change come to him immediately. But sometimes they are in denial and do not come until it is almost too late to prepare." Zevran pushed away from the wall and stretched his lithe body, with his arms over his head and his back arching.
It occurred to Fenris that Zevran would one day have to face the same thing. For reasons unknown to him, the assassin had never been made a warden. Aedan had only been a warden for about a year longer than Anders. He too would only have at most twenty years left before he would have to make the trip into the Deep Roads. Only, who would accompany him to send him off on his last journey?
"I have heard that the Architect may have a way to stop the Calling," Fenris said carefully.
Zevran slowly lowered his arms and gave Fenris a considering look. "Did you? Velanna has been telling tales." He held up his hand to forestall any objections. "I know it was her. She should not have said anything."
"But if it could help," Fenris began.
"Ah, but if it cannot... Rumors like that could become dangerous to those that are desperate. It gives false hope." Zevran spread his hands helplessly. "I do not pretend to understand all that the Architect does, magic is not my specialty." He gave Fenris a small, lewd grin, telling him without words just what his specialty was. "But I do know that for some wardens, such false hope of surviving to an old age will only lead to disappointment. Especially for those that do not wish to see loved ones die alone." He gave Fenris a significant glance and he looked away, unable to meet Zevran's knowing gaze.
"I would have thought you would be joyous knowing there was a chance that Aedan would not have to leave you one day," Fenris said quietly. He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers along his bicep.
"One would think that. But my warden will not be leaving me." Zevran looked off into the distance, his gaze turning inward. "When the day comes that his dreams become too much, I will go with him to his final battle. We will drown the Deep Roads in darkspawn blood before the hordes take us down. It is a good way to die." He turned back towards Fenris, a humorous glint in his eyes. "And I would know all about bad ways to die. Some of them are quite degrading. Would you like to hear about them?"
Fenris ignored the question, because he knew the other elf had asked only to change the subject. Despite Zevran's nonchalant attitude, Fenris could detect the hint of sorrow underlining his words. The Calling was a subject that he and Anders had never broached. Neither one of them wanted to have that final period added to the sentence that was their relationship. But it had never occurred to Fenris that he could just go with Anders, just as Zevran would travel with Aedan.
But the moment the idea had taken root in his mind, it withered and died. Anders would not allow it. The mage would not want to see Fenris die before his time, no matter that Anders' passing would leave Fenris alone.
He was broken out of his thoughts when Zevran clapped a hand on his shoulder and gestured with a flourish towards the keep. "Shall we go in? I hear your dwarf friend is starting a card game tonight. I for one am looking forward to seeing him fleece the others."
Fenris nodded and brushed his bangs out of his eyes. His hair was becoming too long; he would need to cut it soon. Anders had begged him not to touch it. Once the image of Fenris with longer hair had taken hold, the mage hadn't been able to let it go, no matter that Fenris told him it was a hindrance in battle.
He followed Zevran and the other elf called over his shoulder. "You are a warden now. The only certainty is that you will die killing darkspawn in one way or another. Do not forget that."
Fenris wouldn't—couldn't—forget it. But that didn't mean he had to accept it.
"Four whores in the brothel," Varric said, spreading his cards on the table. The others groaned and Varric swept his winnings towards the growing pile of gold in front of him. Howe gathered the cards and shuffled them, grumbling under his breath. Varric smirked into his tankard of Devlin's best, his eyes skipping around the table to land on the one person he had been avoiding looking at all evening.
The things that the Desire demon had whispered into his mind still clung with barbed tendrils sunk deep. She had murmured to him about Bianca and all that he could have if he just let her in. He had never been more tempted by a demon before, and he had encountered his fair share with Hawke.
Dwarves did not have the connection to the Fade that the other inhabitants of Thedas had, but that did not mean that they were immune to what a demon could do to them. It did not mean that a Desire demon couldn't find a dwarf in a moment of weak remembrance, and latch onto it like a lyrium addict finding an open door in a Chantry storehouse.
His eyes flickered over to Sigrun and moved away before she could notice. He set his tankard down and picked up the cards Howe dealt, rearranging them with his mind only on half of what was in his hands. Isabela had once asked him who Bianca was, and he had been able to deftly change the subject. He never talked about her to anyone. The only one left alive who knew was Bartrand, and no one believed the ramblings that came out of his mouth these days. But the moment he had seen Sigrun he knew that there was someone who knew what had happened to her.
"That's funny. I knew someone named Bianca once. She was in the Legion of the Dead. Great warrior. She went down fighting. I still miss her sometimes."
She had been so earnest talking about Bianca and the way she had died, that she had missed the way Varric's face had paled. It had taken all of his willpower to smile and nod, while inside he lost what little hope he had been carrying all these years.
In truth he had mourned and buried Bianca long ago. He had named his crossbow in honor of her to rankle his father, the man who had set her up for disgrace, and forcing her to join the legion in order to clear her family's name. He had never forgiven his father for that; their relationship had been irrevocably broken that day.
The small hope that she still lived-that tiny flame he had nurtured—died when Sigrun had opened her mouth, her words snuffing it out and leaving nothing behind.
"Varric?" His eyes jerked up to see that Sigrun was talking to him. "Your turn." She really was beautiful, Varric thought. Even with the inked lines of a skull superimposed on her face, he could see she was pretty. He had never seen Bianca with her own tattoo that marked her as one of the legion. He had last seen her in Kirkwall, hurling accusations at his father.
She gave him a questioning look and he realized he was staring. "Are you all right?"
"Course he aint," Oghren groused. "You ever see a beardless dwarf that was all right in the head? Bet he's drank too much. Surfacers can't hold their liquor."
Glad for the chance to regain his mental equilibrium, Varric smiled and glanced down at the cards in his hands. "You, good ser, are a testament to all that is Orzammar." He threw down a templar card and Anders tossed his own cards down on the table, throwing up his hands.
"I'm out." He glanced back at the doors leading to the dining hall. He'd been doing it so much that Varric wondered if his head was going to snap off his neck.
"But I wonder," Varric continued and scooped up the lady that Velanna had discarded. "How long have you been a warden now? A few years? There are some—not me by the way—who think the moment a dwarf steps on the surface he's lost. That he's become," There was a pregnant pause, and he could just feel everyone at the table holding their breath. In telling a tale one had to know how to hold one's audience. He let the tension grow as he nonchalantly rearranged his cards once more. When he had felt enough time had passed, when everyone was leaning towards him in anticipation, he continued on.
"A surfacer."
Oghren sputterd into his ale, spraying foam into his beard as the rest of the table laughed. He looked up and caught Sigrun's laughing eyes as he spread his cards on the table. "Good queen and three templars in the castle. Wicked Grace."
This time, while everyone else groaned as Varric took their money, Sigrun only gave him a mysterious smile.
Where was Fenris? Anders had left the game, deciding that it was best to walk away before Varric made himself any richer off what little the mage had. He took the steps leading down to the dungeon two at a time, betting that the elf went to have his talk with Varania without Anders.
Of course, seeing as how all the bets he made tonight were bound to lose, Fenris was nowhere to be seen.
"I know you." Varania stood from the pile of fresh straw she had been given as her only means of comfort. "You prevented Leto from killing me."
Not for the first time, Anders was a bit startled by her appearance. Her hair was such a vivid red, that Anders had a hard time picturing Fenris with such a color. It was her eyes that drew him in the most, the same shade of mossy green that Anders woke up to every morning. It was those eyes that made it hard for Anders to want her death. Knowing those eyes—so like his lover's—would glaze over as the templars took her head or made her Tranquil, propelled Anders to want to seek a better way.
"His name is Fenris." Anders knew he shouldn't be talking to her, not like this. But like most things in his life, what was best and what he did was not always the same thing.
"That is the name Danarius gave him, that's not my Leto." She walked over to the bars and wrapped her fingers around them.
"Your Leto? Do you mean the one who you let sacrifice himself so that you could gain your freedom? That Leto?" Okay, so he didn't want her dead, that didn't mean he had to like her. "The one who you betrayed so you could become a blood mage?"
Varania's face went ashen. "You don't know what it's like. You're a mage, you've had training. I had no one to teach me the things I needed to know."
The bridge of her nose wrinkled as she scowled. Anders had seen enough of that look to know that it was a family trait. "So to get training all you had to do was betray your brother and slaughter a group of people? Which by the way, was really disgusting. Your interior design skills are horrible." He tapped his finger to his lip. "Did I say horrible? I meant sickening-literally. I vomited when I saw it."
"And what would you have had me do?" she asked him. "He would have killed me."
"You should have died then!" Anders shouted. "You should have fought, ran, done… something. Those people…"
A tear rolled down Varania's dirt stained cheek, cleansing a small path. "I did not help him. I could not. But I could not stop him either. I… I only wanted something better. I-" Her eyes grew wide and she took a step back from the bars. She flung out a hand and smacked it against the rugged stone wall next to her.
"What are…" Anders drew in a sharp breath as he watched her scrape her palm across the stone and wince. She thrust out her blood stained hand towards him.
"Behind you!" she cried.
Anders turned just in time to see the club coming towards his face. He jerked back, but not quick enough as it slammed into his head. Everything went white around the edges of his vision and he fell to the ground. He could smell blood in the air and hear Varania shouting, screaming for him to get up and run.
Darkness encroached on the white and he could feel blood trickling down his face. He rolled his eyes upwards and three darkspawn stared back at him, their eyes shining with an intelligence he knew all too well. It was something he had never wanted to see again.
His arms were jerked and he weakly fought back, the blow to the head making him dizzy and disoriented. He felt the pull from the Fade and heard Varania casting as the bars to her cell squealed in protest.
"Get away from me," he heard her scream. His eyes felt heavy and he knew he was losing his grip on consciousness.
"Leave her alone," he croaked. Or he thought he did as the darkness won out and he knew nothing more.
