Denerim's not far now.
By the map's indication, we were only a half-day's travel away from the city, though looking across the expanse of empty plains ahead of us, it seemed like forever. The afternoon sun blazed overhead and bared down upon us with unforgivable heat. Not a cloud in sight.
The others were all lounging about just off the main road, with a makeshift blanket and satchels scattered about whilst everyone ate lunch. I was not hungry. I was crawling with anticipation. My skin trembled as if electric currents ran across it. I had grown wearily aware of just how open the road had become since we left the protective bosom of the Brecilian Forest. Now that we were back on a marked path, I grew sharply aware of how unprotected we were to potential threats such as bandits. Or assassins.
I was not stupid. Zevran was one of many attempts on our lives, and if I knew the arrogance and cruelty of our opposition, he would not stop until someone returned with a box full of our body parts.
Loghain, you seething coward.
Aggravated, I rolled back up the map and stuffed it into my satchel slung over my shoulder, then decided to take another lap around our company to scout the area. I ignored the imploring calls from Wynne and Bodahn, only briefly picking up my pace to walk out of earshot before they could stop me. Once over another hill, I climbed a second and held a hand over my brow to scour the landscape once more. Nothing, not for miles. Just off the northeast road on a fork sat a sparse thicket of forest and river. The river no doubt wound about Denerim and further north into mountain territory. As far as I could see, no movement sufficed from the edge of the woods.
"What are you doing out here?" a cheery, male voice called behind.
"Does it not bother you how open we are out here?" I bit back at him, aggravated that he could be so calm when we were so clearly threatened.
Careful, pet, lest you bite off his head! my mad spirit friend cackled. She had taken to elaborately insulting my oafish companion since last night, when she detected a mild change of heart regarding my attitude towards him. After all, I was not granted the comfort of private thought.
"Well, of course," Alistair turned, now more aware of our surrounding area as well. "But it's the fastest way to Denerim, plus I think we make a fairly intimidating band if anyone does try and fight us!" he tried to assure me with a comical pose meant to impress by flexing his arms, but it only worried me more.
"Sten and Leliana have yet to return from scouting the forest to the northeast," I countered with concern edging my voice. Alistair, still unperturbed by my genuine concern, shrugged and moved beside me. Maker, his armor was gratingly loud and annoying. I hadn't enforced my companions to fully dress in the past months, but ever since the attack in the forest I wouldn't take that chance again. Every party member was to fully dress every morning, regardless of the weather. Alistair, shockingly, had yet to make a single complaint about the new rule. Perhaps he thought he could impress me with his poorly-crafted scaled armor and chipped old sword. I would have to buy him a new one once we arrived in the city.
"They will return," he assured me, "after all, it's only been a half-hour. Perhaps they found some useful herbs in the forest. You know how Leliana likes to collect flowers." He was so frustratingly lax about it, but after another scan of the empty road, I concluded that perhaps I was being too overcautious. Ever since leaving the forest the edge had not left my skin, and perhaps it was my own paranoia that I considered every twist of a leaf a threat.
Oh stop being such a child, elf brat.
You have grown soft and weak with kindness.
My seething companion continued spitting insults in my mind, but I did my best to drown her out. Eyes still wandering across the unmoving plane of forest, I sighed and slumped my shoulders.
"I suppose," I concluded. "Though we should make the best of this rendezvous for the time being," I furrowed my brow and looked at him with vindication. He frowned.
"What do you mean?" he sounded mildly concerned, though judging by the look in his eyes knew it involved something he would not want to do. I bared a half-cocked smile in his direction and sauntered past, my hand already grasping the staff at my back.
"You are growing lazy and I need a bit of practice," I responded cooly, now making my way over a far hill closer to the forest on the opposite side of the road.
"Istha- wait!" Alistair sounded torn as he looked back at the happy, relaxing camp some thirty paces back down the road, then reluctantly trotted after me. "What are we doing?" he asked once he caught up over another hill. He was slightly out of breath, the coddled fool. I should have made him wear his armor a lot sooner.
"As I said," I addressed him though kept my eyes trained on my new staff - a gift from a rambling tree spirit that had watched over the forest - and spun it once around in my hand to get a feeling for the weight. My hands flexed over the wood. I could almost sense the life within the staff. Mithra had spoken of a special type of tree that grew in the forest, and how only a Dalish smith could craft the living wood into a weapon. My weapon, it seems, had come straight from the source - or tree hands, rather - of the bark creature himself. Or itself.
"I need the practice lest we get ambushed again-" I picked up without pause, still turning my staff. "And you need to quit being so lazy," I finished. Alistair looked positively indignant at my insult, yet regardless still drew his sword as he spoke.
"I am not lazy!" he barked. I smiled, now confident in the shape of my staff, and looked up at him.
"Then prove it!" were my only words before I spun around in a tight, fast circle and arched the tip of my staff at his shield. A spark of white light bounced off the surface, nearly knocking him to the ground. He grunted and fell down to one knee before peering over the lip of his protective steel-and-wood barrier.
"W-What was that?!" he yelped in a shrill voice. "You didn't warn me!" I shot again, this time narrowly missing his head and instead met the flat of his blade. The spark bounced off and singed the ground instead. "Y-YOU! You could have killed me!" he shouted once he gathered himself again, now on his feet.
"Relax," I smiled, "it's only a mild new force magic I wanted to try." I shot again, and he successfully blocked this time, now circling about me in preparation.
"Mild?! You call that mild?" he shook his head and directed his sword at the blackened grass. I grinned.
"Yes, I do," I stepped forward, and he tried to take another step away. "Alistair, quit letting me control the battle. You're a soldier, not a coward," I chastised him for moving on the defensive. He had a nasty habit of allowing his opposition to always take control of the field, and corner him against a tree or rock. If he was going to survive, I had to break him of that habit.
"Says you!" he threw back at me, now attempting to spar. I met him with my force magic, which built an invisible barrier around my body and staff similar to a magical force field, but instead bit back with every blow. He grunted and growled with every swing, and each time was nearly knocked back. "You're hardly one… to-" he grunted and shouted again, swinging his sword harder, still not coming close to penetrating my attack. I nearly threw him to the ground without even trying. "TALK!" he yelled, then stepped back to circle again. His footing was not receding anymore. "You hardly fight like a mage!" he countered my argument, now sweating profusely, face red, and shoulders hunched. Good, he was finally in a fighting stance.
"And what is that supposed to mean?" I laughed, goading him on, easily throwing back his swings with a twist of my hand. I grew bored and put more power into my swing, effectively knocking him back. I was a bit perplexed myself, for the magic I was putting into practice was fairly new. Though extensive on my knowledge of both entropy and spirit magic, this new form of force magic was brilliantly simple yet effective at controlling my enemy, which was the precise reason I sought to employ it. Tempted by my power, I raised my hand and brought it down, lifting Alistair up before he could stand, and dropped him face first again on the grass. He grunted.
"It means-" he grunted, pushing himself back to his feet without a single complaint and shrugging off the soreness in his body. "That how-" swing, miss, "am I-" swing, contact, miss, "supposed to fight-" swing, narrowly escape, nearly nicked, "like a soldier-" swing again, dodged, "when you rarely behave like a mage should!" I stopped then, lowering my weapon. He was out of breath, and I myself had gotten a bit winded ducking and dodging and fighting. It was thrilling to be this close-quarters in combat. I was so adjusted to moving from a distance, though weaving in and out of a battlefield was hardly new to me, I had to admit fighting so close I could feet the heat from his breath hissing in my face was exhilarating. Adrenaline pumped through my body like fire, my blood coursed in my veins.
"Is this not how a mage fights?" I laughed. He was not amused, but rather hysterical.
"No!" his voice broke from exhaustion. "Mages are not supposed to duck and run and weave like a wild cat in the woods. You are absolutely exhausting to fight, Isthalla! Maker preserve me if I ever have to combat a mage that fights like you."
Though he didn't intend it as a compliment, and more so was just expressing his wild complaints over how unfair it was, I couldn't help but find myself brightened by his words. Truly, he could turn your spirits without ever intending to. How curious.
"Well then," I picked back up before he could catch onto my attitude. "I suppose you'll just have to find a way to be more clever than me in a fight, if I am your most formidable opponent," I boasted while returning my staff to the ready position.
"Maker's blood, I'll be dead before then!" he groaned. Haplessly, he lifted his weapon and tried his best to shake off the stiffness overcoming his body. I knew the armor was heavy, and I knew how difficult it was to swing a sword and hold up a shield in this hot weather. But I needed him to be strong, and I needed to know he could protect not only himself but his charges should a time come that I could not fight. Regardless of what I thought, if it came down to a moment again where we were cornered as we once were in the tower, I refused to yield so willingly ever again. I had to know he could fight in my stead.
The more he swung against my impenetrable magic shield, the angrier he became. Even more so when I took the opportunity to shoot a bit of aggressive counter-spells his way to try and clip his shield whenever he stumbled back. He came at me again and again until I could hardly fend him off. I was growing terribly weak, and my magic was draining. I could not keep drawing on my endless well, for it would run dry and I would be defenseless, yet I thrived in the chaos of it. The breathless, violent fighting that set my teeth on edge and released the tension in my body like a well-coiled spring. It was a good way to get out my needless frustrations and sharp-edged anxiety that had throttled me earlier.
It was too late I realized I had no magic left to protect myself, and with a particularly furious shout Alistair's sword bared down upon me and I realized I had no shield left to deflect him. I narrowly managed to turn out of fatal distance, though the edge of the blade still struck my shoulder. With a shout and hiss I stumbled onto one knee and gripped a bleeding arm.
Alistair immediately dropped his weapons and kneeled at my side, horrified.
"Oh Maker, Isthalla I'm so sorry!" he trembled. I rebuked him with a vicious shout, using my last bits of energy to shove him away with my magic. He seemed stunned for a moment, but scrambled right back to my side, though he did not touch me a second time.
I was not angry with him, but more so with myself. I knew my limits yet I had not heeded them, as always. I was furious that I had not paid more attention, had not worked harder to avoid the blade. My clumsiness would get me killed one day.
"Damn it," I hissed, quickly grabbing fistfuls of dirt to keep from bleeding too much. It was not a deep wound, but enough to drape my arm in ribbons of hot, red blood. It stung and the smell burned my nose with familiar clarity.
Oh what a sweet, dreadful smell… she purred. I tried to ignore the truth of her statement, and turned my attention to Alistair, who had taken over the duty of rubbing dirt over my bare arm.
"We'll have to get Wynne to take a look at this," he concluded once the blood began to clot. I hissed again when he tried to touch it, and jerked away.
"No," I responded immediately, my voice flat. "I refuse to let that windbag spout another sermon on my reckless behavior and incessant need to hurt myself. I do not need her help."
"Morrig-"
"No." I ground out, angrier than before. Though he was unaware of our current dispute, I refused to let Morrigan know for a second that Alistair had bested me in a fight. I had no desire to talk to her, much less bring my incapability to her attention a second time. She would laugh in my face if I showed it to her.
Sensing our rivalry, he fell silent for a moment before catching my eyes, rather sheepish.
"I-I'm no healer, and certainly not a mage - but perhaps I could help? I know a thing or two about tending a cut," he tried. Oh, how pitiful he sounded in comparison to the throaty, hateful warrior I'd witnessed swinging at my backside moments ago. Strange how he could shift so easily between them. Not seeing much of a choice that didn't involve revealing my folly to anyone else in the party, I huffed an irritated sigh and slumped my shoulders.
"Fine, but Maker help you if you should muck it up," I snapped at him. He tried helping me to my feet, an insulting gesture I quickly shoved away despite how much my arm burned whenever I stood. It still hurt a terrible amount - perhaps he had cut deeper than I thought. After gathering our equipment, we set off across the plains to the river that cut through the outskirts of the forest. We arrived after a few minutes of silence on the fringe of the woods, and in my sudden clarity I realized I had still not seen Sten or Leliana return, and even now so close to the entrance I could not see nor hear either of our companions.
I sat down on a large, smooth rock at the edge of the river while Alistair fumbled through his pack for useful devices that could aid him in the valiant process of patching up my arm. He moved like a panicked child, as if my life were held by the thread of his competence. If that were truly the case, I would have surely been dead long before we reached the river. This, however, was nothing more than a scratch. A bleeding, annoying scratch.
While I preoccupied myself with scanning the forest, he had set up a miniature infirmary around my feet and began by rinsing the wound with clean, fresh water. I hissed and jumped when I felt his cold hands touch my arm.
"Sorry," he muttered, but I fell still when I realized what he was doing. Pausing, he looked up at me then back down. "Might want to roll up your sleeve," he nodded. I sighed, aggravated, and pulled up the already-wet cloth to expose my shoulder. Huh - more than a scratch. It cut perhaps an inch-deep, though it shouldn't affect my arm's function in the least. It was not my writing hand, anyway, and I certainly shouldn't need it for any strenuous activity any time soon.
"Wow, I cut deeper than I thought," Alistair voiced my thoughts with a slightly arrogant grin. I glowered at him, which quickly cut the smile in half as he returned to tending my wound.
Silence passed for a few minutes as he finished picking out the poorly-thought mud and rubble I had rubbed into the wound. It hurt a lot more than I expected, but I did not let him see me wince. Mages are not so accustomed to hard labor and flesh wounds, for the entire purpose of their method of fighting requires distance and evasion. To have a mage in hand-to-hand combat seemed as pointless as it was reckless. That didn't stop me from enjoying every minute of it, even if the cost was a cosmetic scar I did not care. I liked to feel the movement of the fight, and to sense the shortened, angry breath of my opponent.
It came to my attention that not only was Alistair so meticulously removing the potential threat of infection from my wound, but surprisingly skilled - painstakingly so. I had always assumed he was entirely incapable of himself, yet he moved with practiced hands to tend to a cut on my arm as a castle surgeon would. I watched him pull out a few small, wrapped squares of cloth, in which he revealed various herbs. He pulled the stem of one off with his teeth, and ground up another in his hand before rubbing it over my arm. It burned terribly, but I was too preoccupied by his sudden deftness to care.
"Where did you learn what type of herb to use?" I asked, completely perplexed. My voice must have come across in a condescending manner, for he shot me a slightly aggravated look before returning to his meticulous crafting of herbal medicine.
"As a child I was expected to mostly look after myself," he explained. "I spent a lot of time in the courtyard, and sometimes when the soldiers left for the day I would take up a sword and practice against the wooden targets." I clearly envisioned a child-Alistair in my mind, batting an oversized sword against the likes of a wooden enemy and could hardly retain a laugh. It was an amusing image.
"I didn't have a clue as to how I should handle a sword, much less swing one back then," he continued in a mildly amused and soft tone. I could hear the fondness in his voice for a memory he couldn't quite grasp, but longed for so desperately. I could certainly understand that feeling, I realized with a pang of resentment and surprise. I didn't like the idea of finding my feelings so similarly aligned to his own, but yet it didn't bother me as much as I thought it would. I let him continue nonetheless, with that childlike wonder in his eyes and silly smile on his face.
"It honestly surprises me that I never took a finger off, but I nicked myself enough on the blade. Always without meaning to," he shook his head. "Obviously if Eamon had even found out, he would have been furious. I took small pleasures where I could find them, and to a child that was my special moment, my secret I had all for myself."
"I see," I nodded, wanting to ensure him that I was listening despite my mute response thus far. He continued, unabashed, with eyes still carefully following his handiwork as he began bandaging up my wound.
"So I learned how to keep it a secret, and how to fix it," he shrugged. "Plus, you only want to let a cut get infected once. Nasty little sores can turn a bright day ugly," he added with a mild laugh. "All done," he announced before sitting back.
He was still exhausted, and still sweating profusely from his armor. I almost felt bad for pushing him so hard. Unable to push past my own pride to apologize, I pulled my legs up in that all-familiar fashion and crossed my arms over them, building walls between us. My eyes strayed over the glittering river, blindingly bright from the sun's reflection.
"It's been a long time," I said with no significance after a long, dragging silence passed. He could take my words however he wished. I was weary of the thought, and of how long our journey had already been, and continued to be. We still had such a painfully long way to go, and no end in sight. I feared the Blight would swallow Ferelden whole before we ever had the chance to stop it.
As if queued by my thoughts, Alistair chimed in with a dreadfully heavy question full of more thought than it implied.
"Do you suppose.. Duncan would be proud of us? Of where we are now?" he asked me uncertainly. With the sound of our leader's name came an old pain that struck me in the chest. Duncan was the only person who thought my life was worth saving, and found reason and hope in someone who refuted him every step of the way. I would never understand what he thought I could accomplish, or how he felt that leaving this entire mess in my hands was the right thing to do… but I wished more than ever now that I had taken his place. He would have stopped this already. Duncan would have known what to do.
I could have said all of this to Alistair and more, and revealed to him - truly - what I thought of Duncan, and why I was crying that day in the Wilds when he found me between the roots of the tree. But instead my attention was drawn to the sudden, sharp sound of hoof beats across the plains. They approached too rapidly to be just some traveler on the roads. My head whipped south towards the road, and I squinted hard against the glare of the river.
Just faintly across the river I made out the shape of our oncoming charge. On a galloping black steed rode a giant man in silver armor. My ears twitched as he rapidly closed in on us from the southern hills, riding in a haphazard pattern. As he drew closer, I realized he was not charging, but fleeing. Something about the pattern of his armor looked familiar, and it wasn't until he was within shouting distance that I realized who was riding towards us.
"That's Sten-" I muttered breathlessly, my heart now thrashing in my chest in anticipation for what could possibly cause a Qunari to retreat. I stood up and moved towards the river without answering Alistair, who now took this as insult - still completely unaware of the rider thundering towards us - and turned on me.
"Hey- wait a minute come back here! You can't just avoid answering like that," he proposed indignantly. I was jogging now, uncaring of whether I hurt the blasted man's feelings or not. I could nearly make out Sten's face now - he looked panicked. Not something I was accustomed to seeing in his features. Alistair's incessant shouting was drowned out as I broke into a sprint towards the approaching Qunari, and met him at the bank of the river. His horse was undoubtedly skittish about entering the rapidly-moving water, but drove forward anyway at the behest of Sten's impatient kicks.
"What's happened?" I demanded the instant he came to a stop. His eyes were wild, and his postured tense. His sword was drawn. I saw blood.
"Where's Leliana?" I immediately asked. He looked over his shoulder, and it was only then I became aware of the growing formation just fifty yards behind him, all on horseback.
"Bandits," he growled. "An organized ambush awaiting us on the north road."
"That bastard won't give up.." I growled under my breath, mind now seething with thoughts of how I could twist off Loghain's arrogant head.
Sten quickly became aware of our dispersed party and crumpled his brow. "Where are the others?"
I didn't have time to answer. An arrow narrowly whistled past Sten's ear - a galloping rider shortly behind. Sten gritted his teeth and hauled his own horse around, sword raised. "Go to the others - they have yet to see them."
I did not care that he had given me an order. He knew what to do regardless, and I understood that staying together as a group was more important than defending the ground we stood on. We were out in the open, defenseless, and I had no way of reaching them in time.
Looks like you made a mistake again, little Isthalla…
You poor, foolish thing.
Now they will all be slaughtered, because of you.
Her laughter rang in the back of my ear like poison. Snarling, I turned in time to see Alistair now skirting over the hill. He barely said a word before his eyes connected to the oncoming assailants Sten had now turned to try and deter away. He followed me back over the rise towards camp.
"What's going on?!" he asked.
"No time, we-" I paused as we stepped beside the fringe of the forest. A low, drawling moan echoed from the trees and drew a breeze underneath our feet. I could sense a mage buried within the depths of the dense trees. Old, powerful magic whispered around my feet. A snarl drew on my breath.
"Go, if you run now you might arrive in time to help," I pointed towards the road where Alistair should retreat. Instead, he planted both feet firmly beside me and drew his weapon in sheer defiance.
"No, you cannot fight them on your own. You're injured," he countered. Of all the times he had to grow a pair of stones and go against my judgment, it was now. Furious, and with no time to argue or force him to, the trees seemingly surrounded us and out from the depths sprang the likes of a wilder people I had never seen. Tattered, leather-like fur barely strapped around their sun-scorched bodies. They were decorated by mud that obscured their features and had eyes like bottomless pits and sharpened teeth like wolves.
"Who are they?" Alistair stuttered out, slightly alarmed by the barbarians now circling around us. They looked nothing like the bandits I'd seen on horseback. Were we so unlucky to encounter two ambushes in one day? My skin prickled, my nerves set on edge, and hair rose on the back of my neck. I could sense a presence beyond my field of vision, taunting me from the darkness. Magic wound around my body like a snake, restricting me from counteracting.
"A-Alistair, move. N-Now!" I tried to warn him, but the words barely left my lips before a great rush of solid wind slammed into our chests and knocked us clean onto our backs. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My staff was within a fingertip's reach, but whatever magic this mage employed left me defenseless. I could see their blackened mouths and eyes closing in, and for some strange reason connected a word in my mind that I never quite remembered learning, but I somehow knew belonged to their creature-esque kin that resembled my kind.
Chasind.