Lost and Found
By Pyreite
Sequel to: The Vagrant
Chapter 1 - Return
She hadn't set foot in this part of the world in a thousand years. It was strange to return and not recognise a single landmark. The valley that'd once been her sanctuary outside New Arlathan wasn't as she remembered it to be. Where her hut had stood on the edge of the forest, there was a village filled with houses. The surrounding woodland had been cleared, the underbrush turned into arable land.
There were farms, gardens and orchards.
A casual pass over a fenced pasture sent a flock of sheep running for the hills. A herd of cattle followed their mad flight, lowing in fright. A mabari barked at her from below, alarming the folk ploughing a field. The horse went one way, the plough another. Ellana circled when she heard screaming.
A flare of her nostrils and she smelt blood on the air.
She turned in an arc, spiralling downward with the grace of a falcon on-wing. She saw the farmhands scatter beneath her shadow, though the dog remained. It barked when she flapped her wings, sending a shower of dust in all directions. It was a loyal beast, more terrified of its owner dying than of the dragon coming into land. She shifted shape the moment her claws touched the ground, confusing the poor thing.
It whined when what was a dragon became an elf.
Membranous wings turned silver-grey, followed by a long serpentine body. A thick tail that dragged in the dirt turned hazy. Tree trunk-like legs with huge clawed hands dissipated like smoke. A muscular neck and its giant horned head were shed like leaves. A woman emerged, garbed in leather, gilded steel, and black feathers.
Large goat-like horns curled up and over the crown of her head.
"Easy, my lad", she called, offering a gauntleted five-fingered hand to the dog. "I didn't mean to cause your master trouble. Will you let me tend him? That plough has cut a nasty gash in his leg. He'll not live long if the bleeding isn't staunched".
She heard the injured man groan, a steady red trickle staining the earth beneath him.
The dog sniffed at her fingers still uncertain. It gazed back at its master, lying supine in the sun. The leg of his trousers muddied and mangled. The thigh beneath a tattered mess of broken bone and torn flesh.
"He'll die if we do nothing. I can help him if you'll let me".
The dog gave her a last lingering look, before it turned away. She smiled when it returned to the fallen ploughman. It sat on its haunches next to him, giving her an expectant look. The decision was made. She bowed her head in acknowledgement, then made her way over in short sweeping strides.
She came to the wounded man's side, looking down into his pained face. He was ruddy-skinned, blue-eyed, and red-haired. An attractive combination, though she had little time to admire him. He was bloody, bedraggled, and in agony. She pressed a gauntleted finger to his mouth when he pursed his lips. A shake of her head silenced him.
"Save your strength", she told him. "This will hurt".
She dug the claws of her left-hand into his torn thigh. His scream frightened the birds from the trees in a flurry of black wings. He thrashed beneath the gauntleted hand pressing down on his chest. He beat at her forearm and shoulder, fingers slipping on her gilded pauldrons. He collapsed, losing consciousness when the plough was yanked free.
"Ir abelas", she murmured when his eyes rolled back into his head. "It was the only way. I couldn't heal you while it was embedded in your leg. Forgive me. Your injury is my fault".
The dog whined, scenting blood when she cast the wet plough into the dirt. It fell with a dull thunk, shedding a cascade of crimson droplets. She smiled at the ploughman's loyal companion, glad that he had such a dutiful friend. The dog was tense, the length of its body coiled like a spring. She didn't doubt it would bite her if she didn't keep her promise.
"I will tend him now, though I'd appreciate it if you kept his folk from lynching me".
She nodded to the crowd forming on the edge of the field. Some carried pitchforks, others axes, and several had arrows nocked to the bowstring. Most were men, though there were women too. She even saw a young boy armed with a scythe. It would be a bloodbath, though she had no desire to kill them.
She would respond with force if necessary.
The dog turned its tawny head towards the crowd. It barked once, twice, and leapt to its paws. It barrelled across the churned earth, heading straight for the mob. It took charge, barking like a mad thing. All attention was drawn to it, the crowd backing up when the dog advanced with its teeth bared.
"Mabari still understand the common-tongue", she mused while tending the ploughman's leg.
Jagged points of broken bone poked through his lacerated flesh. He'd never walk again if she didn't act fast. It was fortunate for him that she had experience aplenty in using healing spells. A thousand years abroad had done wonders for her confidence. Control came easier now than it had in the first decade of her ascension into the elven pantheon.
She didn't need words nowadays. Focus was enough, though intent still mattered. She laid the bloody palm of her left-hand across the wound. Careful not to let her talons catch on the ragged edges. Magic pooled there like water, washing through and over the injured ploughman.
Light spilled into the field, blinding those gathered. The crowd cowered, many a face turning away. The dog barked, frantic when something launched itself into the sky. A sudden downward draught of air blasted the ploughman's folk. Some stumbled whilst others lost their footing, tumbling into the dirt.
The dog ran back to his master, barking when he roused.
"Fen'Harel's teeth", he croaked. "She sliced me open, healed me, and then flew away".
He was gobsmacked till the dog flopped into his lap. He yelped when pain shot up his once torn leg. He shoved the beast away when it tried to lick his face. The dog returned, poking its wet snout into his cheek and chin. He yelled when it nosed the ragged leg of his trousers too.
"Stop poking it! Might be healed, but it's still sore!"
The ploughman slapped a calloused hand to his head when that wind returned. It ruffled his hair, sending a shiver of foreboding down his spine. He looked into the sky, noticing the serpent circling overhead. It was large, long, and silver. A gigantic snake with the wings of a bat.
"I'm fine!" he yelled. "Go on with you! I'll keep the Wolf-Lord occupied when he comes down here! Ma serannas! He'll be right confused that you've returned after all this time!"
He laughed, giving her an eager wave when she flapped her wings. One stroke, two, and she was sailing over the farm. She disappeared into the distance, sunlight flashing off her scales. He exhaled a slow breath, awed by the sight of a real High Dragon. He didn't have long to contemplate his luck when his frantic folk descended on him.
The dog came too.
Four days later, the dragon returned. The ploughman, now on crutches met her on the porch of his home. His wife and children were still in bed, fast asleep despite the early hour. So was most of the village, except for the animals. A cockerel crowed, but not one of his folk roused themselves to start the day's work.
The dragoness had used a little magical interference.
"A sleeping spell", said the ploughman when she appeared in a haze of smoke. "Clever. I wondered if you'd cause another stir". He stuck his leg out, the hem of his trousers rolled up over his knee. The skin beneath was pink and flushed though the jagged line of his scar was fading.
She smiled when she saw what was left of his injury. "It healed well".
"Thanks to you. I would've been crippled for life if you hadn't helped me".
The mabari ever faithful trotted out to meet her. She offered her scaled left-hand, clawed fingers bare. He sniffed then licked her wrist. His acceptance made her laugh. She petted him with that same hand, careful not to let her claws catch in his fur.
"He likes you".
"Most dogs don't", she replied. "Cats too. There's too much dragon in me".
"So I've seen". The ploughman didn't give her his name, though he made a statement. "Those horns on your head go with your eyes. I'd think you were Qunari if I didn't know better. Most of our folk have forgotten you exist".
She inclined her horned head, her golden eyes glinting. "That's understandable. I've not been in this part of Thedas for a thousand years. Those that knew me before I became what I am now are long dead. Many of the elves of today were born in the centuries after the tearing of the Veil".
"I wasn't".
"You're a rare exception".
The ploughman studied her for several long moments. She was tall, slender as a reed, and pretty as a flower. Thick wavy hair cascaded over and down her armoured shoulders. She wore a mantle of black feathers over gilded pauldrons. Her cuirass was more akin to a corset.
Tight, formfitting, and fashioned from studded leather. It covered her from clavicle to hip, before disappearing into the folds of a matching skirt. The tails of which whispered when she walked. He swallowed, self-conscious when she caught him staring. She arched an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curving upward.
"See something you like?"
He shook his head, not daring to admit that he'd glimpsed a flash of bare skin. The sides of her breeches were split, a leather lattice holding the two halves together. Her legs from toe to thigh were covered in gilded plate. Her arms were too, though her left-hand was bare to the elbow. He doubted she needed a gauntlet when her skin was covered in silver scales.
"Pity", she teased. "It's been centuries since I've talked to someone outside my own people".
The ploughman stared. "Your people?" He flinched when she grinned at him with a flash of white fangs. Her ears might've been pointed, she even looked elven. But there was something about her that was strange and unsettling.
Something that made the hairs rise on the nape of his neck.
"Mine. Yes", she affirmed. "Or did you think that I had something in common with your Wolf-Lord?"
He frowned. "Don't you? I feel funny on the inside around you like I do around him. It's a kind of wrongness that leaves my guts churning. You look like an elf, but you're not like us at all".
"I was once".
"You changed".
"Obviously".
The ploughman opened his mouth to ask a question. He paused, frowning when she clucked her tongue in disappointment. A shake of her head made him nervous. He glanced at the corner of his house, sweating when a shadow crept around the porch. He bit his lip in chagrin when she caught him out.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice that you had company?"
The ploughman shrugged. "I'm a farmer, my lady. I sow the fields and reap the grain. I know my place. It's not for me to meddle in the affairs of the gods".
His answer irked her. "Gods", she repeated. "What nonsense".
A snap of her clawed fingers and he slumped, weariness overcoming him. He snored into his chest, his eyes closed once her sleeping spell took hold. The dog whined, curling up at his feet. It watched her with a pair of dark brown eyes. She turned then to address the figure that'd spied on them.
"So it was you that sent the raven", she declared. "I thought the farmer's writing looked a little too familiar. It's been a thousand years and you haven't changed a bit. You're still organising clandestine meetings in strange places. Although a farmhouse is a first even for you".
She was pleased when she heard a ragged gasp. The sharp sucking inhale of shock a pleasure after so long apart. It gave her a sense of visceral satisfaction when he pulled the cowl from his head. Cloaked in black he contrasted with the farmhouse's whitewashed walls. She took a step backward, smirking when he cursed.
"Fenedhis!"
She took another step, waggling her brows. "Is that all you have to say to me?" She laughed when he barked a command. The word was elvish, old and reminiscent of another man that'd once shared her bed. He'd often tried to tell her what to do too.
It'd never worked.
"Arrogant as ever. No", she challenged. "I don't think I will".
She winked at him as she turned away. She took one step, then two, and almost managed a third until his arms locked around her waist. She felt the prickle of an icespell as he pressed himself tight into the curve of her back. The fade-step had carried him to her side in the blink of an eye. The dusting of frost on her skin, scales, and armour a frigid reminder that he was a formidable opponent.
"Someone has missed me".
She didn't pull away when he buried his face in the crook of her neck. Black hair spilled over her shoulder, long and intricately braided. She fingered a plait, her nose wrinkling when she smelt the salt of his tears. A shudder rolled through him, then another as he sobbed like a child. She endured the grasping of his hands, the plaintive whine when he refused to let her go.
"Solas", she coaxed. "You need to let me breathe".