I decided to post chapters as they are completed until what's going on in the world has passed. After it has, I will return to the first weekend of the month for this story. The updates however will continue in a pattern of: Dragon Age first, then Star Wars, then one or two Trinity Blood stories before going back to Dragon Age.
Wings ripped through Dirthamen's back, sending a few pieces of his tattered clothing flying out behind him. Feathers grew to cover his mouth, his nails hardened elongating, and his hair grew out, tumbling down his back.
The world warmed as his skin stopped feeling the chill to come and what he had previously felt. Flavor left his mouth, the world stilled into the present. There was only the now, nothing of the past which plagued and future which hounded him, only the moment.
Dirthamen flipped the cane so he held it more like a sword. The Fade runes hung loose before straightening as energy raced through them, hardening them to make a makeshift sword. He drew his dagger.
There was no holding back.
Dirthamen's wings scattered snow as he took the air.
He shot towards the first sylvan.
Wood cracked.
Snow tumbled to the ground.
The sylvan straightened. It charged.
Dirthamen rolled in the air. Frigid air stung his exposed skin.
He breathed. The breath eased through him, light, untainted by the strain cold air should have brought.
Free.
"At least unleash your full power," Fear complained, voice echoing through Dirthamen's mind. "It will make this fight over in heartbeats rather than dragging it out."
Dirthamen straightened. Each wing beat strained against the frozen, still air.
"This is exactly what you wanted, the wonderful feeling of pain not the weight of your full power," Deceit's voice joined Fear's. "No, there's no need to unleash it," she taunted. "None at all, let those around you, parish and die."
"Prove to them you're nothing more than a weakling who is only good as a protected figurehead."
They were just taunts. There was no point to the words Fear uttered from the depths of Dirthamen's own heart. He could and would prove he was capable, not a figurehead and certainly not one to be protected.
Wood creaked.
Dirthamen gritted his teeth.
"Behind you!" Deshanna raced forward, Hawen on her heels.
They didn't believe in his abilities. They didn't trust Dirthamen could handle this.
Snow scattered as Dirthamen leapt into the air.
Wind grazed his back.
Thud!
A branch struck the ground.
Snow fell from the nearby trees as a wave crashing onto a sandy beach.
He was utterly blind.
If he was injured…
But it was what the demons wanted. For him to give in to fear, to fall to their whispered lies. It was always like this. Always the taunting, the pain.
The snow crumbled around the branch like arm as it was ripped from the ground.
Dirthamen flew higher.
"They will hold you down, keep you safe forever, no freedom, no light, only the god will remain," Fear taunted.
Ignore him.
Dirthamen leveled out.
He could do this without the use of his abilities.
Ignore the fear.
"They no longer trust you. You're not their friend, you're barely Shartan anymore," Deceit joined her voice to Fear's.
Ignore them.
Focus.
"Forget Mahvir."
"Silence," Dirthamen shot back to them through thought.
Energy surged through him. The demons cawed in pleasure. Their voices were drowned in the sheer roar of sound collapsing down upon Dirthamen through time itself.
Time slowed, creeping to a halt.
Dirthamen flew forward. His wings slapped against stilled air. Each strained stroke akin to moving through slush rather than air. His blade sliced through the first sylvan.
Nothing happened.
Nothing fell or twitched.
Nothing could in still time.
Nothing but Dirthamen and—
"Whoa! No, no, no, this is bad!" Inan shouted. "Little Secret!"
The air moved. It lashed against his skin as he moved through the air and time with speeds no eye could track. The magical blade of his cane sliced through another of the sylvan and another and another.
Dirthamen slowed himself, easing his body back into a normal time flow.
Bark cracked and splintered. The heads of the sylvan tumbled down, crashing into the snow below.
The two keepers stumbled and skidded to a stop.
Dirthamen landed before them. His wings melted as Fear fell from him, followed by the white feathers from around his mouth as Deceit followed. Both demons caught themselves and flew over to the hart. They settled there.
Frozen air sank deep into Dirthamen's lungs. He staggered a step only just catching himself with the cane. "There was no need for the two of you to worry," he said with a small smile. The words strained.
Deshanna stared while Hawen blinked, mouth agape.
"The legends of them," Deshanna started. The words seemed to catch in her throat. Her gaze locked on Dirthamen, unblinking, as she mouthed the rest of what she was trying to say.
"Yes, they literally carry me." Dirthamen kept smiling, though soft, it hurt far more than if he had broken down weeping before the keepers. His heart weighed with the sight of her gaze, the owe.
Yet, this had been the only way.
Hadn't it?
There was no other he had seen. Any other path and he would have been nothing more than a figurehead, someone to protect. It wasn't their duty to protect him. It was his to protect his children. All of his people, his friends, as they were his family.
"Inan," – Dirthamen turned to his grandfather – "if you're willing, I would like your aid in creating more ironbark."
Inan frowned, the corner of his lip almost sliding into a scowl before twitching back. "What is ironbark?"
"I'll show you." Dirthamen didn't move, instead he looked to the two keepers, Nitsa, and Dirthamen's two children. "Keeper Hawen, Keeper Deshanna, there are several trees here rich in ironbark. We should split up," – he held up his hand to stop Deshanna's protest – "but keep within sight of one another, especially of Nitsa, Alaula, and Hamin."
Deshanna's jaw clenched. She took a deep shuddering breath. "Very well, but at least take Hamin with you. No matter how capable you are, I would rather be certain you're safe, Dirthamen." She bowed to him.
"Very well," Dirthamen conceded. He gestured for both his grandfather and son to follow him. Dirthamen started out across the small clearing. "Ironbark is formed where the Veil is thin," Dirthamen informed them. "View it as normal bark we built with during Elvhenan."
Hamin closed his eyes. "It makes sense, but the bark we used was infused with magic, it seeped into the very essence of the tree itself. The trees here don't seem as strong."
"They aren't," Dirthamen confessed. "Because while they grow where the Veil is thin, there is still a difference between being within the Fade or a realm infused with it and being here in the physical realm."
"So, when compared to my own weapons and armor, no matter how much we gather it will still be inferior." Hamin shook his head.
"It would make you and your siblings outside of Alaula the only ones who can fully match the fully awake sentinels of Mythal." Dirthamen's lip twitched. "And my own armor and weapons all which can stand against what Solas has."
"Then," Hamin started.
"Unless," Dirthamen continued, "there was away without tearing down the Veil to infuse as much of the ironbark as we can, to strengthen it further."
"Oh!" Inan clapped. "That's why you wanted me to come." His smile faltered. "Little Secret, I won't kill—"
"I realize what I ask is a lot, Grandfather." Dirthamen stopped before one of the ironbark trees. "But, we would loss far more people."
Inan's eyes softened. "You fear the worst outcome," the cheery note melted from Inan's voice, turning it warm and a little sad. For a few heartbeats a serious, forlorn man replaced the image of the cheery goof Inan came off as. "All right!" Inan clapped. "For your children, then, Little Secret. And for opening Solas's eyes to the truth."
Inan lifted his hand. His eyes started to give off a golden glow as a golden light wrapped around the tree. A small click downed, followed by a flash of silver. One of his gauntlets fell, not making a sound as it hit the snow.
Dirthamen retrieved it.
The snow around Inan started to steam.
Light spread from one tree to the next until the grove was surrounded by the warmth of it. It seeped into the trees and spread even to the bark the keepers were collecting.
A shout echoed through the clearing.
Hawen had dropped the little he'd gathered. The two keepers stood, back to back.
Dirthamen lifted his hand.
The golden light was joined by a dark purple. The two intertwined, mingling together as his own cursed power seeped into the bark and spread from one tree to the next.
Air strained.
"Careful, don't age them too far," Inan warned.
Bark crackled and slid from the trees.
Dirthamen pulled back, shuddering as he released the trees. His hands shook even as he held out Inan's gauntlet to him. "Ma serannas, Inan."
Inan turned to him. His body was emitting a soft golden glow. So soft it barely lit the ground Inan stood on. Yet the snow still melted at his slightest touch.
Dirthamen gritted his teeth as his hand shook, trying to retain a grip on the gauntlet.
Inan's hand wrapped around the gauntlet, his touch soft as his other hand went to Dirthamen's chest.
"I don't need sleep," Dirthamen released the gauntlet even as he stepped back from Inan before his grandfather's magic could wrap around him. "There is yet much to do."
Inan's brow furled and his eyes were pained. He replaced his gauntlet. "That should do it!" he cheered. The pain vanished, replaced by a radiant smile. "Now, all that's left—" He clapped his hands together. All the bark flew out of the snow at once.
"What the?"
Dirthamen opened his infinity bag.
Inan flicked his wrist.
The bark flew into the bag.
"Let's head back," Dirthamen started as he turned, "those from Highever will be arriving any—" he staggered. His leg crumbled under him.
"Father!" Hamin caught him.
Dirthamen shook his head. The fog lifted a little. He glanced at Inan who hadn't moved. It was just his body, then.
Just.
It was laughable. He had pushed himself past his current limit to prove he could fight, and this happened only after he had aged the trees to make them shed more bark. At least the fatigue had been kind enough to wait.
Dirthamen moved from Hamin's grip. His legs shook and he placed all his weight on the cane. "—any moment," he continued. He could rest later. There was the bark to return to the camp and so much more which needed to be seen to today.
Hamin closed his eyes. His head tilted as if the motion of Dirthamen standing had been a physical blow to his oldest.
"Hamin," Dirthamen whispered the name with a strained breath.
"I'm fine." Hamin straightened and escorted Dirthamen back across the clearing to the hart. He mounted the beast and pulled Dirthamen up before sliding down. His hand rested against Dirthamen's leg.
Dirthamen couldn't look at him. His heart ripped. The sign of his hand not moving too far from Dirthamen was a clear one.
The hart tilted as it started to move, its weight swaying from one side to the next in time to the gait.
"Keepers," Dirthamen broke the silence, "when we return to camp, there is a book among those brought from the temple which has methods of forging ironbark in sturdier weapons and armor than those currently made."
Hawen turned. "Truly? But," he trailed off.
"But I'm not June?" Dirthamen finished for him. "I would never claim the ability to crave outside of toys and instruments, forget crafting weapons and armor. No, June is far better at such things than I. This does mean I never researched it or studied his methods even if I couldn't replicate what my younger brother was doing."
"I'll speak with Hahren Evania and Theon over them looking through them for the book," Deshanna stated.
"Or just have them reach into the bag and think about pulling out the book," Dirthamen reminded her of the trick to the bags.
Deshanna nodded. "Very well."
A more peaceful silence fell over the group. It was broken only by the crunching of snow as they followed their own footprints back towards camp.
Dirthamen looked up, gaze lingering on the branches blanketed with snow. The peace of such a blanket covered the still forest. The sharp, painful tinge of the crisp scent on the air. Yet, such peace was ephemeral, a breath, a heartbeat before the chaos which was to come.
This peace would only last until they returned to camp.
"Papa," the silence shattered with a giggled word.
Dirthamen turned his gaze to Alaula.
"Your hair," she stated as she touched one of the long strands.
Dirthamen smiled. "I'll cut it when we return to camp."
"With what?" Deshannaa asked as her eyes narrowed.
"A dagger," Dirthamen replied. His lips twitched, but he couldn't smile.
"Oh, no you don't. If you want your haircut, we'll do it the right way."
Hawen nodded his agreement.
Inan laughed.
"A dagger works just fine," Dirthamen defended. "I cut my hair that way for almost two thousand years." His heart sank even before the words were out of his mouth.
Deshanna flinched and Hawen gaped.
"I doubt father had access to other means while on the road," Hamin pointed out.
"Well, he's not on the road anymore." Deshanna shook her head as they emerged from the forest. "And I won't have a creator in the care of my clan cutting his heart with a worn dagger."
The dagger had been given to him by her. Dirthamen bit back pointing this out. It would only add salt to the wound. The ironbark dagger was beautiful, and Cleon had spent days on it. He had been so proud it was going to Dirthamen who had only known as Mahvir, the Toymaker back then. Yet, it had been one of his best works at the time. It had been an honor for Dirthamen to be the one to receive such a dagger. To call it "worn" was an insult to Cleon's skill and the gift Dirthamen had loved receiving back then.
A group could be seen gathered by the bonfire. Given the hunters hadn't returned, even without his sight, he knew it was the group from Highever and Shianni.
"This will have to wait." Dirthamen slid from the hart. He leaned against as he landed, careful to land on his good leg. Hamin kept Dirthamen steady even if he had been careful about how he'd dismounted. "Those from Highever have arrived."
The group made their way to where Shianni was waiting by the fire with the group from Highever.
"My apologies," Dirthamen started with a bow of his head, "for not being here when you arrived."
A man in the group grunted. "It's fine. I heard you were gathering materials for the coming war." He stepped forward and held out his hand. "I'm Hahren Oldor. I guess you're Shartan."
"I am." Dirthamen bowed his head. "Come, there is much to discuss."
Dirthamen explained what their plan was, introduced Oldor to the two keepers, and also revealed one of his oldest names was Dirthamen to keep the man on the same page as the rest of the group's leaders.
"Hmm." Oldor rubbed his head. "I can't say I'm too excited about following another claiming to be a god."
"Claiming," Hawen started.
Dirthamen held up his hand to stop the keeper.
"Yet, you are still Shartan and given the parts of the Chant coming out, it is clear you followed Andraste." Oldor bowed his head before he turned his gaze on a few of his fellows. "It isn't just my choice. What do you say?"
"He was the champion of the Maker's Prophet, it is still better than following the other man," a woman pointed out.
"And better than being beaten," another added.
A few more murmured their agreement.
Dirhamen's gaze locked on a young man who hadn't. He stood towards the front of the group, leaning against an aravel just in earshot of the conversation. His gaze snapped to Dirthamen as if sensing Dirthamen's look.
The man's eyes narrowed.
Dirthamen smiled and bowed his head to him.
"Keeper Deshanna, Keeper Hawen," – a hunter moved towards them, leathers soaked from the hunt – "most of the hunting parties have returned. We're only waiting on one hunter now who went to complete his solo hunt."
"Very well." Deshanna stood. "Hahren Oldor, it would be an honor if you and your people joined us for this feast. "You as well, Hahren Shianni."
"I think we will." Oldor stood. "Is there a place my people can settle."
"We have few aravels, but I spoke with a few of the clan on our way here and they're willing to have others in their aravels. This way." Hawen gestured for Oldor and his people to follow.
"Start preparing the catch for tonight," Deshanna instructed the hunter. "I would like the food prepared before I make an announcement tonight." Her features softened as she looked at the catch of the day. There were three rams. "Well done, Andruil most have smiled upon the hunt this day."
"It will be done, Keeper Deshanna." The hunter raced over to his fellows who were skinning the rams.
Deshanna turned to Dirthamen. "We should get you into your own aravel."
"If there is one free, give it those who need it," Dirthamen instructed. "We're short on space as it is without trying to hand an aravel to me once more. Besides, I have a feeling Teren wouldn't be too happy if I left his care in winter."
A small laugh escaped her. "You make a fair point and I admit you being close to a healer does make sense." Deshanna bowed. "Very well, Dirthamen, I'll see to letting others take the aravel we set aside."
The People hurried around the camp, preparing for the feast tonight. Dirthamen watched from the seat he'd taken by the bonfire, his back leg stretched out before him. A buzz of excited chatter filled the air. A few words leapt out at Dirthamen.
"Perhaps it's to celebrate getting more people on our side?"
"Hmm, but then why didn't we do this with the first group who joined, especially given both Lavellan and those from the city joined around the same time?" another asked.
"I don't know."
"Maybe it's to honor a creator?" the one who asked this was the hunter who had passed when Dirthamen had been speaking with the two craft masters earlier.
The others gaped. "What?" one laughed. "All the creators were sealed away by Fen'Harel. If one wasn't, surely they would have revealed themselves by now."
The hunter shifted as he continued the work on the ram before him. "I heard Craft Master Cleon speaking with Shartan before the hunt," he confessed. "Master Cleon called him Dirthamen."
"Ha," the other hunter snorted. "Shartan's old, but he's not that old. And, besides, the man can barely walk. I doubt Dirthamen would have such difficulties."
"We'll find out tonight what it's over," a female hunter stated. "You two should focus or we'll never get everything done and learn what's going on."
The rest of the time passed with Dirthamen listening to the buzz of conversation. There was very little he could do to help. If he offered, even those who just knew him now as Shartan wouldn't have let him aid them. Yet, he didn't want to retreat into a warm aravel. The people were working, and he wanted to be among them even if he was sitting by the fire only good for watching as they bustled about preparing for the night.
Warm scents of cooking food filled the air and surrounded the camp. Hearth cakes were set out to bake by the fires while meat was smoked over it. Several traditional Dalish dishes were being prepared from what was left of the wild vegetables they had found before the first freeze.
Alaula had left some time ago when the young man had returned from his solo hunt with another ram. His face had been flushed from cold and a wide grin as he presented the ram to Deshanna.
All too soon the People were gathering around the main bonfire. Deshanna, Hawen, Shianni, Oldor, and Atisha had all arrived there as the leaders of the group. Dirthamen hadn't moved from his spot since returning.
Deshanna and Hawen both stood and moved into the light so all the People could see them.
"Many of you have no doubt been wondering why Keeper Deshanna and I ordered every hunter out today," Hawen started. "Early this morning, we learned one of the creators never abandoned our People. Rather, he chose to walk among us, hidden as one of us."
"Clan Lavellan has known him since our founding as the Toymaker and many of you learned only a short time ago, he is Shartan," Deshanna continued. "This morning, we learned his first name. The first name he was known as by our People."
"We had been made aware three creators were still around," Hawen continued, "when Dirthamen's sentinels joined us. We learned from them it was unlikely the Keeper of Secrets had been imprisoned with the other six. He hadn't been."
"Shartan is Dirthamen," Deshanna announced, grinning. "A creator has not only never left us but has worked tirelessly for centuries to aid his People as Shartan and more." Deshanna gestured for Dirthamen to stand.
Dirthamen pulled himself to his feet by using the cane. He moved to stand beside Deshanna and Hawen.
"Tonight, we feast in his honor!" Deshanna spread her arms wide. "And tomorrow, we will spread the word among all clans Dirthamen is free and aiding in keeping our world safe from the Dread Wolf. All our People can unite under one of the eight noble creators!"
"A creator is free," a collective breath moved through the two clans.
"This will change everything."
Movement caught Dirthamen's eye.
The man from Highever had moved into the shadows of the surrounding aravels.
"Enjoy the feast," Hawen finished.
Dirthamen returned to his seat. He would speak with the man later, for now he would be unable to leave unless…
"Deceit, create and illusion of me."
"Fine."
Dirthamen vanished from where he had been. He had only a few moments to do this before it was clear an illusion had taken his place.
The man was seated, hidden behind an aravel where none could spot him from the crowd near the bonfire.
"Good evening," Dirthamen greeted.
The man jumped. "What?" he stammered.
"If you would be so kind, I have a message for Solas," Dirthamen continued, smiling at the young man.
"I don't know what you're—"
Dirthamen held up his hand. "Child, I am well aware Solas would send spies among those we gathered from Highever and I know you're writing to him." Dirthamen nodded to parchment the man held.
"What are you going to do?" growled the man. "Stop me from informing him of you."
"On the contrary, I would like you to inform him of me. I would also like for you to stay." Dirthamen smiled. "And while you're among us, think on a matter of what kind of world you seek to build for yourself, for your People, and for the generations to come. Think on this and then think on what happened with the Inquisition and the last time a breach formed in the Veil.
"I'm not asking you to switch sides. Only to think about this." Dirthamen bowed his head. "And to tell Solas, this world is worth saving." Dirthamen turned. "When you return to the firelight, enjoy the feast, da'len."
*~ Solas ~*
"My lord."
Solas opened his eyes to see the camp spread out below the cliff he stood on. He took a deep breath of crisp morning air and turned. "Yes, da'len?"
"A message just arrived from one of the informants you sent to Highever." The former first of Hawen's clan held out a letter to Solas.
"Ma serannas, Avel." Solas took the letter.
Solas returned his gaze to the camp even as he opened the letter. He froze as he read.
It couldn't be. Yet, had he not pondered this before?
Dirthamen was awake.
He was free.
(Author's Notes: I am trying to dedicate more time to writing given everything going on in the world right now. It took me about two days (worth of the time I set aside) to write this chapter. Hopefully I can keep a good pace, but I am working from home still for about eight hours a day.
Also, I have no idea if what Dirthamen is saying about the ironbark is true or not. There is very little lore over it outside of the fact it is formed where the Veil is thin and only fallen bark can be gathered.
And, yes, I finally named Hawen's newish first and I guess Solas's second in command given he's always the one to give Solas information.)
