Mahogany brown eyes. Hair the color of mud. Skin that burned in the sunlight instead of bronzed. A scar cutting through her right eyebrow, leaving a line where the hair would never grow back. Incisors just a touch too prominent. No matter how many times Solona looked at her reflection, it was always the same boring features. She didn't have the long dramatic eyelashes that Celina in the circle had. Nor the silvery blue irises that Teri used to hypnotize all her admirers. Nor an hourglass figure like Quinn, or the slender grace of the elves. The circle had been a sea of walking fascinations, while she'd been as non-descript as they'd come. She spent all those days hoping Anders might notice her, but then she'd catch a glimpse of her reflection somewhere and remember why that wasn't going to happen. Mirrors had never been Solona's friend.
Alistair had seen something in her that he liked, but she had a whole lifetime of other people who hadn't, people who reaffirmed the plainness she saw in herself day after day.
Beautiful. Bah!
Perhaps Nathaniel had hit his head during the attack.
And she'd meant every word she'd said afterward, anyway. Beauty was inconsequential; something doled out at random by luck or the Maker or whatever the fuck else was in control of those things. Even those with unattractive parents managed to have attractive babies. Nathaniel was proof of that, though if the painting hung in the main hall was accurate, his mother had been pretty. It was she who'd passed him those piercing blue eyes and nearly black hair. Nathaniel was fortunate to have a less oversized version of his father's aquiline nose, and a stronger jaw. Appearance-wise, he'd gotten the best of Rendon, a fact which must have benefited him greatly throughout his life.
But none of that indicated what kind of person he was.
It was clear since the night she'd held Alistair in her arms and watched his life slip away that bodies — including all their beautiful features — were nothing more than puppets. Alistair's worst injury had been to his stomach, but most of him was intact. So much that she loved about him had been gathered up and left right there in her lap, and it would have stayed there until it rotted away if she'd let it. The lips she kissed at every opportunity. The strong, square hands she held anytime she wasn't holding onto to something else. Those cheeks that blushed bright pink for nearly the entire first three months they were getting to know each other. His tongue that had learned her body and brought her more pleasure than she knew was possible. His strong neck, corded with muscle and the container of that distinctive, expressive voice. All of it was still there, left behind to crush her thighs and strain her arms with its weight, even long after whatever it was that made him him was long gone.
She still looked at her own hands with the knowledge that one day hers too would fall limp and never move again, just like Alistair's had. Left to its own natural decomposition, the fluid inside every cell would evaporate, the flesh would shrivel, the bones would turn to dust. Nothing in the pure physicality of her hands would cross the veil and continue into the beyond with her spirit. The image of them might. The appearance of her face, her body could be replicated in the Fade, but probably only because her consciousness projected it out of habit. After enough time floating around the other side, she'd eventually release that too, and become something else entirely. Her form would take whatever served her needs, or what naturally occurred when all influence of this realm faded.
Had Alistair gotten to that point already? Would she even recognize him when she met him again? Would she ever hear that voice or kiss anything that burned with the passion of his lips again? Those lips were ash now, some of which sat in a vial she could hardly bring herself to look at, buried in the bottom of a pouch under her bed. The rest had been sent up to Weisshaupt to join the remains and relics of the other blight-ending Wardens.
She inspected her own lips in the mirror. Like every other feature of hers, they didn't appear to be anything special. Pink in comparison to her bonemeal skin, but it wasn't difficult to look brightly colored against something so drained. Neither lush and plump nor thin and drawn, the lips Alistair had loved kissing were actually just… average. But in light of the fact that they would soon be either ash or dust too, it didn't really matter, did it? It was freeing in a way, not to feel any particular sentiment about her body. Not to have to bother with vanity. An average body made letting go so, so much easier. Welcome, even.
Buried or burned, like the men at the Wending Wood camp, dispersing with smoke into the sky or rotting under piles of rocks. Or crippled, awaiting release from their mortal chains like Olaf, that man outside the ruins who'd been infected with the taint and left to die. His skin had broken open in boils and begun to go grey with ghoulishness. "Dead soft meat, melting into the ground," he'd said, describing himself inadvertently as he recalled how the darkspawn slaughtered his comrades. Even if it wasn't already a topic she'd spent considerable time ruminating, the broken bodies she and the Wardens came face to face with every day, made the impermanence of their physical selves an unignorable reality.
Even when healthy, bodies could be so blighted burdensome. The hunger that twisted her stomach so regularly was unquestionably a burden. The Wardens had to plan their day around their meals, knowing that if they tried to travel through their hunger they'd be distracted and miserable. And the other hungers, other needs that called attention to themselves until they were sated, made slaves of their owners. Like the rather inconvenient need for sleep. How much more could be accomplished in the world if people didn't have to camp every night and spend so much time lost to unconsciousness? A third of the day, a third of a person's life wasted by laying motionless in one spot. Surely spirits didn't have to do that. But there were consequences for fighting their bodies' needs. Without sleep, focus was lost and tiredness made them slow.
And then of course there was also the worst hunger of all: the desire to join with another. Sex.
Solona fell back against the padding of her chair and felt the rush under her skin at even the thought, at the memories invading her every waking moment. Alistair pressing her hard against a tree, his fingers pulling frantically at her robe. Buttons popping loose, seams creaking as they ripped. Tree bark breaking off against her bare back as she writhed against it. His tongue in her mouth and teeth on her neck. That fire between her legs, such a sweet, desperate ache. So many times they couldn't seem to join fast enough, or hard enough, so that as one session finished they barely had time to catch their breath before starting again. Waking in the night to their bodies moving together in their unconsciousness, as though fucking was their natural, default state. Sending lusty, saturated looks across the group to each other that clearly communicated one thing. I need you as soon as possible.
Like Alistair, that desire had been dead for seven months. There'd been no sign of even a spark of it.
Until her dream about being held during that strange night. A week later, a full trip through the Wending Wood and back — or nearly back - and its effect was still present. The memory, flashes of it surfacing as she fought, as they walked, as she rubbed the soreness out of her arms after a long battle, and dragged rags over her skin to clear away the blood spatter. As she tuned out the new girl's constant condescension and complaining, and attempted to wrestle with the implications of a talking darkspawn Emissary! No, despite all that they saw down in those ruins and passageways, what continued to distract was the simple fantasy of bodies tangling. Flesh and breath and warmth. Arms closing strong around her. The dream reawakened her body's need for Alistair's hungry, searching mouth. His always-ready cock.
Now, it seemed, would be the perfect time for Anders to really turn his attention her way, for more than just a pointless flirtation or confusing show of heroics. If all he ever wanted was a fuck, then that was certainly something she could provide. Her heart might reside elsewhere, but Anders didn't want that anyway. Alcohol had deadened the pain for a while, but she was finding herself aching for a new kind of abuse.
She could only hope Alistair would forgive her. But he would have to, whether he liked it or not. He had left her behind to suffer without him, and now he owed her.
Solona stood, relieved to be dried and dressed after her bath, ready to join the downstairs crowd. They'd come out of the Wending Wood to the north and stumbled upon a road running toward Black Marsh. A plume of smoke rising high over the treetops had alerted them to the rickety little inn, situated right where the road met with the waterline of the bay. They were shocked already at its mere existence out in the middle of nowhere, and shocked again when they entered and discovered almost a dozen raucous patrons, mostly fisherman and farmers from the look of it. They were already deep in the drink based upon the exuberant volume of their voices, though the two busty barmaids sauntering around the tables might have been part of the draw.
The elf girl had put up some considerable opposition to spending the night in a shemlen building, surrounded by shemlen strangers, but both Anders and Oghren had insisted on staying anyhow. Anders had sneered that he'd had enough of nature, and Oghren was eager to refill his supply of "travel booze." And though she hadn't felt the need to say so, Solona had been grateful. Their time down in the ruins resulted in an overwhelming amount of information to process, such as Olaf's claim his crew had been watched and even stalked by darkspawn before their actual attack. This story was alarming in how it once again proved these recent darkspawn's ability to plan and strategize, something that was mostly unheard of as far as Solona knew. How many others possessed the same intellect as that Emissary talker? Darkspawn who weren't just mindless killers were an entirely different ballgame from what she and Alistair had battled throughout the rest of Ferelden. It had put shivers down her spine.
At least at the tavern there'd be walls closing out the cold, as well as any potential spying eyes, and would allow them to mount a better defense if they were surrounded. Though the downside would be the potential for collateral damage and innocents caught in the crossfire. If this Emissary truly did not want to be her enemy as he had claimed, then he'd be sure the darkspawn kept their distance.
She exited her room and glanced behind her at the hall's furthest end where a double glass door led out to a public balcony and a view of the choppy bay waters. A residual bleed of pinkish purple tinted the horizon, but the stars blazed brilliantly overhead, calling her toward them with their quiet beauty. An aura of cold emanated off the glass panes of the door, while the length of hall on her other side promised warmth. Warmth and food and company, and maybe even a companion for the night. A stranger might be just the thing; someone who would use her and be used in return, then let go the next day with no expectations. Or maybe… maybe she might find out once and for all if it actually had been Anders in her bed that night almost a week ago. He'd been flashing her curious looks more and more, making excuses for conversation. Standing close even when he didn't have to.
Nathaniel alsoseemed different. Quieter somehow, save for the moments he was bickering with Anders. A strange viciousness had grown between those two over the past few days, though she suspected it might have been at least partly due to exhaustion. When Nathaniel did speak, Solona found herself lingering on his words, playing his voice over in her head, remembering the way his breath sounded when she was trying to put his armor on him. There was an intensity in him, and in the way he'd begun looking at her, that she felt unequipped to process. She'd started making a point to look at him as little as possible, wanting to avoid the hair-raising spotlight of his gaze.
Anders was easy to spot. Sitting on the far end of the bar, he had both barmaids gazing giddily at him while he tossed back what appeared to be the final gulp of a drink. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling with laughter. He leaned toward one of the barmaids with a smirk, and Solona didn't need to hear his words to know he was saying something baudy. The laughter of the two women rose over the din of the other patrons, confirming that his charm was hitting its mark. Of all the grizzled and weathered men there, he was effortlessly distinct, practically beaming with a shimmering lifeforce that rendered every other man invisible. One of the women rested her forearms against the bartop, and leaned upon them in a manner clearly designed to give him an eyeful of cleavage. Solona's stomach sank.
Each step down into the barroom fell heavier than the last. Of course she couldn't compete with those women on looks alone. It would be easier without competition, but despite the easy fantasies she nursed while alone in her room, she wasn't practiced at flirtation herself. Alistair had been as new to it all as she was, and they'd fumbled through courtship together. Anders, however, was as practised as they come.
She sighed and zeroed in on an empty barstool in the middle of the bar as she stepped around occupied tables. In the furthest corner of the room, someone strummed a guitar, then picked at strings as they adjusted their tuning. She cast her eyes around, her gaze stopping on flushed cheeks and wrinkled foreheads, disappointed to see that every male stranger in the room was nearly twice her age, with the hardship of their lives etched deeply into their faces. She hailed the bartender - a fat man with a handlebar mustache - deciding to forego the hard stuff and treat herself with some Nevarran wine. After the man filled her glass, Solona slid a few extra coins across the bar and then motioned for him to leave the bottle.
"Sol!" Anders called.
Solona ignored him, taking a long, unhurried drink and letting her nose linger over the lip of the glass. The wine smelled of blackberries and jasmine, almost syrupy sweet but with a bite of something peppery. She took another slow sip, swishing the complex nectar over her tongue, letting it sit before swallowing it down. The calling of her name got louder, but she didn't respond. Someone behind her had a piercing laugh, clearly delighting in his over-embellished stories. She felt Anders' energy move, coming closer. Distantly, she felt the others too. Oghren down at another part of the bar. Nathaniel upstairs, motionless in whatever location up there he had chosen. In the back of the room the guitar tuning became the quiet opening chords of a song. She never would have expected such a place to have a bard. Closing her eyes, she took another long drink and tried to block out the dizzying array of sounds and sensations around her. She wouldn't have had to deal with such busyness out in the forest. But she also wouldn't have had a warm bath and a clean robe. Her wine was good too.
"Sol?" Anders said, closer now. His body bumped its way between hers and her neighbor, squeezing up to the bar. A deliberate arm landed on her shoulders, a shock to Solona that almost made her jump. She looked over and was almost blinded by the exuberant smile that was shining down on her.
"Anders," she responded.
'Sol! You look lovely!"
Solona coughed down her mouthful of wine. "And you're already drunk."
"Irrelevant!" he declared with a laugh. "You suck at taking compliments."
Solona's cheeks flushed warm, the heavy feeling in her gut replaced by something unexpectedly lighter. He was right of course. Alistair had always said the same thing. "How would you know, you've never paid me any."
Beyond him, the two women were peering through the crowd and whispering to each other, clearly unhappy at having been abandoned.
"Besides," she continued, "it would be more accurately described as 'unpractised.'"
"Psshhh…" Anders laughed, his glassy eyes rolling. Solona felt the irresistible urge to beam back at him. Instead she held her tongue and stared. Anders' arm was still draped around her, his weight leaning against her shoulder. The unexpected closeness and contact, combined with the heady effect of the wine and the flood of memories she had of him made the moment feel surreal. Parading through her mind were those oft-visited images of Anders, looking right through her as she passed him in the library. Whispering as he stole away from an assembly with some pretty girl. Making a whole table of people laugh with some impossibly clever joke while she looked on, a perpetual outsider. She took another deep drink of her wine, emptying her glass. As she poured the next, she realized that her hands were shaking.
"So, what do you think of all that business with the new girl? She killed all those people based on an assumption which she never bothered to verify," he said. "But you just said suuuurrreee… join us. We don't mind."
Solona frowned into her wine, and then shrugged. "She thought they took her sister. Besides, we've all killed people. You were killing people when I found you."
"Yeah, templars. That hardly counts," he snorted.
"Templars aren't people?"
"Nope!" He laughed drunkenly. She raised an eyebrow.
"Oh come on, Sol. You were in the circle too, right?" he asked, giving her a nudge. Behind him, the two barmaids were moving closer. One had a decidedly predatory look in her eye as she sized up Solona.
"I was, though I didn't antagonize the Templars like you did. You made yourself a target," she informed him. On both sides of her were people, and no clear place for the women to insert themselves. Good.
"Hm, I didn't take you for a Templar sympathizer," he said.
"I'm not. But I was smart enough to lay low until I was out of the circle. I've killed my fair share since, trust me."
"Yes," he nodded as he scrutinized her. Solona recognized the sharp, squinting look as an attempt to place her, somewhere in his memory. Where, surely, he found nothing. "You laid very low, didn't you?"
She emptied her glass again, and set it down to find Anders holding the bottle, ready to refill. He took the glass, helping himself to another drink before he topped her glass off once more. The bottle was already nearly gone.
"I did. Not always by choice, but it worked for me in the end."
"Ah, I see. So, forgive me for asking, but… did we know each other in the circle?" Anders asked. He raised his hand and attempted to hail the bartender. Solona felt him tapping distractedly at her shoulder. The bartender ignored Anders as he tended to a man at the end of the bar. Solona took a deep breath.
All at once she remembered that there was really no reason to hold back. The way she looked — whether he actually found her lovely or if he was just brown-nosing; how he responded to her now, how he might respond to the truth of her teenaged infatuation… even if he laughed in her face, what could possibly hurt her now after what she'd already endured? Her heart was gone, ripped from her chest and now residing on the other side, where she would soon join it. And even if it wasn't, none of it fucking mattered. Not in the light of how fleeting every second was. How insignificant every dumb little move and word and desire was in comparison to the shadowy permanence of death, particularly her impending death. Holding back only meant making her last days emptier, more boring than they needed to be. She took another drink.
"No. We didn't." The warmth of the liquid spread through her stomach, rising up to lighten the lead weight of her head. She exhaled deeply."You were too busy fucking every other mage there to notice little old me," she said. "Not that I can blame you, I guess. I might have done the same in your shoes. Who knows?"
Anders laughed and eyed her for a long moment. Finally he shrugged in admission.
"Anyway, antagonizing the Templars was fun," he continued, breezing past her remark.
She snorted. "Sure, if you like beatings."
"I always got a few good jabs in myself," he smirked, then leaned in close. "But now that you mention it, I don't mind a bit of roughhousing… under the right conditions."
Solona studied him closely, his lips curled in that half-smile, his eyes glinting suggestively. Beyond him the barmaids had been intercepted by a thin man whose skin looked like tanned leather. His jangly stance, and the women's forced smiles made it clear the man had a bit too much to drink and was being a nuisance. One of the women was tall, with wavy red hair and freckles sprinkling her chest. She met Solona's eyes as she skirted the man and continued toward them. Solona barely tasted the next large gulp of wine as she threw it back, hoping for a quick surge of boldness. She opened her mouth and said exactly what she was thinking.
"You didn't know me, Anders. But I knew you. And I alway desperately wanted to be one of those mages following you into closets and dark corners."
Anders' smile spread. His hand on her shoulder slipped lightly down her back, raising goosebumps over her skin. He eyed her as though gauging her reaction to his touch. She made a point of not pulling away, her stomach going pleasantly queasy.
"Well," he said after another long moment. He took a drink from her glass and then cleared his throat. "That was a long time ago though, wasn't it?"
She nodded. The barmaid behind him was no longer visible. Solona breathed a sigh of relief.
"Well don't I feel like a fool now?" he laughed. "Apparently I had the chance to be with the future Hero of Ferelden. If only I'd known. And here I'd worried that maybe—"
The crash came from behind, the sound following with adeluge of wet that soaked down her back. Instinctively Solona jumped, her heart immediately in her throat, but there was nowhere to go. Anders pulled away, voices all around her sounded off. She surged forward onto her feet, falling against the bar as her stool clattered to the tavern floor. Pulling at her tether to the Fade, she had lightning tingling her palms before she even finished turning around. Behind her the redhead stood, the beginnings of an apology dying on her lips as her eyes went wide and fell down to the skeins of bright, flashing purple climbing between Solona's fingers. Tremors of magic reverberated up her arms, ready to meet the incoming assault.
Solona saw no weapons on the woman and looked past her, scanning the crowd for the incoming attackers. Fuck, she'd left her staff up in her room. She should never have been so stupid. There were no other tainted beings nearby; only Anders beside her, Oghren several feet away, and Nathaniel upstairs, who seemed to have moved to a further location. But why would some stranger in a tavern want to attack her? There had been rumors of some sort of conspirator. Tamra had said she'd intercepted letters. Had someone followed them?
Anders placed a calming hand on Solona's arm. The red head's cleavage shimmered with wetness, the front of her bodice equally soaked. She held an empty flagon.
"Sol," Anders warned, his voice low.
Solona's heart raced furiously, her body flushed with anticipation of a fight.
Anders squeezed her arm. She felt Oghren approaching.
The redhead turned toward someone on the far end of the room. The word she mouthed was unmistakable. Apostate.
"Solona," Anders whispered.
A man with a bulky chest the size of a barrel rushed through the crowd. The redhead stepped aside to let him through.
He eyed Solona angrily and motioned toward the door.. "Out!"
Solona barely heard him over the white noise buzzing in her ears. Nothing made any sense.
The redhead pushed away someone's offering of a rag and turned instead to whisper something to the man.
"Your friend can stay," he added, nodding toward Anders.
There was no further movement behind him. Solona studied each face in the crowd as she struggled to take a deep breath. The faces all turned toward her held that typical look of disdain, but no one seemed to be charging. Slowly, the reality of the situation began to penetrate through the fog of wine and adrenaline. The woman had feigned a stumble, surely designed to separate her and Anders. There had been no attack. There was no one here to fight. Solona squeezed off the mana feeding the lightning at her palms, letting the magic sizzle back into nothingness.
The man barked another demand but it seemed lost inside the wall of noise in her head.
Anders stepped before her as the large man took a threatening step forward.
"You don't want to do that," he warned the man gently.
"What we don't want are apostates threatening the patrons or the help," the man growled.
"She's not an apostate, she's —"
A burst of panic energized Solona back into the moment. Didn't he remember what happened those few times in Amaranthine? The people there were used to her now, but her first visit had been a fucking nightmare.
She grabbed Anders' arm and squeezed. "Anders no—"
He continued despite her.
"—the Commander of the Grey Wardens."
Solona released him and sank back toward the bar, a heavy dread infiltrating her stomach. It was too late.
The coldness of the ale soaking down the back of her robe made itself known. A low rumble of whispers traveled through the small crowd. Solona's knees quivered with remnants of unspent adrenaline, her bones wobbling like jelly. She turned around to face the bar and hunched over her glass, emptying the last of the bottle and drinking it down so quickly she tasted nothing.
The rest went exactly as it always did.
The barrel-chested man apologized, his once gruff voice now soft with awe and deference. The words Hero of Ferelden were spoken somewhere in the distance. She heard them once, then again and then repeatedly. She felt the eyes on her back as she squeezed the bridge of her nose. A quick motion to the bartender brought him scurrying over. He stopped along the way and selected a dark bottle from under the counter, presenting it to her along with a barrage of effusive praise. He spoke about his daughter, about how they fled the Blight even though they had nowhere to go, how he'd been so sure it was the end until the news of the Warden's victory finally came. It spilled out of him too quickly for her to respond. She dug in her pocket for coins, but the rosy-cheeked man pushed them back at her. Nodding a thank you, he refilled her glass to the brim.
It took only moments before she heard his name. Alistair.
Someone squeezed up beside her, questions ready on his lips even as others impatiently called theirs from beyond. Something or someone touched her back. Stools scraped across the floor and all the bodies behind her moved. Words directed at her alternated with those mumbled amongst themselves.
I heard them Wardens took over that Vigil's Keep. Why'd they do that if the blight's over?
Forget Vigil's Keep, why's she here?
I thought she'd look different than…that
Did you keep any trophies from the archdemon? I'd love to have a dragon head on my wall
Is it true that Alistair was the King's Bastard?
The blight's not over if there's still darkspawn around
Blimey just don't spill anything on her, I thought Tina was cooked for sure
D'ya think the King had any other bastards?
He probably protected her, or he'd be the one here…
Yep, how's some little lass like that gonna win a fight with a dragon?
The room seemed to be shrinking. Solona took a deep breath and mumbled one word answers to a drunk man on her right. She accepted flowery praise from a fisherman who reeked of tobacco and rotten fish. She shook the rough, calloused hand of a local farmer and listened to him describe his search for new land after his was razed by darkspawn. She rejected a request to marry someone's son. She tried to breathe as the faces blurred together, none of them talking to her but to some idea they seemed to project onto her. They spoke sweetly even as they eyed her with suspicion. She didn't know why there were still darkspawn around. She didn't know if that had every happened after a blight. She gritted her teeth as they asked about Alistair and pressed for details. Her throat closed up too tight to answer, but the images of the battle, of the blood, of Alistair's lifeless eyes were already there, emblazoned vividly in her mind. The room got smaller still, the space slowly draining of breathable air. In her ears her heartbeat blared, hammering with unreasonable speed. A vise tightened around her temples. Beside her, Anders stood quietly, occasionally pushing back a few who tried to get too close. His hand at her elbow was warm and soothing, but it wasn't enough. Solona glanced up to see his brown eyes full of concern.
More bodies bumping into her. Rancid breath on her neck as questions rattled off. How could a dozen people feel like a hundred? Her shoulders began to ache with tension. The questions, the praise all felt like demands. Intrusions. A scream was building at the base of her throat. She clenched her fists and swallowed it down. The room was too fucking small. She needed to get out.
"Don't let anyone follow me," she said to Anders as she grabbed at the full bottle of wine.
The bodies blurred around her as she pushed through them, her focus on the stairway and the dim light above that led to solitude. Part of her wanted to turn for the front door and escape out into the night, into the stars and the space and the cool, open air. Instead, she held steady; her small frame easily dodging those too slowed by their liquor to turn aside in time.
Upward she climbed, leaving the rumble of activity below. Anders' voice rose to match the others, first pleading, and then using his charm to placate. Slowly the noise faded into incoherence, replaced by the quiet stillness of the upstairs hall. Each step that carried her further from the chaos had her breathing easier. She passed the door to her room-yet another small space with closed-in walls- and headed straight for the glass double doors at the end of the hall. There was a Warden already out there. Ahead and to the left, the black spot in her consciousness could only have been Nathaniel. But while she would have preferred an empty balcony, retreat to her room was not an option.
She needed space and air and silence.