Hey, all! This chapter is kinda short, but I thought I'd post it anyway since I haven't posted in a while. I'm not exactly happy with it; I may still change it.
Fair warning: this is where it really starts. Where my plot begins.
I probably won't have another chapter up until after New Years, but I'll try if you guys leave me reviews.
Swiftrunner
The she-elf returns sooner than they anticipated. Instead of taking a couple hours, it takes only minutes for her to return with Zathrian.
Seeing him makes Swiftrunner's blood boil in his veins, and he bares his teeth as he approaches. Zathrian walks with a confident, somewhat arrogant stride ahead of the female and her group, as if he thinks himself invincible.
"And he you are, spirit," he says to the Lady when he comes to a stop before them.
In moments Swiftrunner is towering over the puny Keeper. "Hrrr! She is the Lady of the Forest! You will address her properly!"
Zathrian only frowns as Swiftrunner returns to his place beside the Lady.
"You've taken a name, spirit? And you've given names to your pets? These... beasts who follow you?" Zathrian says.
"It was they who gave me a name, Zathrian. And the names they take are their own. They follow me because I help them to find who they are."
Zathrian's face hardens. "Who they are has not changed from whom their ancestors were. Wild savages! Worthless dogs! Their twisted shapes only mirror their monstrous hearts!"
The she-elf looks angry at this. Perhaps she agrees.
"He will not help us, Lady!" Swiftrunner interrupts before he can attack her. "It is as I warned you! He is not here to talk!"
"No," Zathrian disagrees. "I am here to talk, though I see little point in it. We all know where this will lead. Your nature compels it, as does mine."
"It does not have to be that way," the Lady breaths, taking a step towards Zathrian. Swiftrunner tenses. "There is room in your heart for compassion, Zathrian. Surely your retribution is spent."
"My retribution is eternal, spirit," he spits, and the Lady turns away from him to return to her place beside Swiftrunner. "As is my pain. This is justice, no more."
"Are you certain your pain is the only reason you will not end the curse? Have you told the mortal how it was created?"
"He merely said he summoned you and bound you to a wolf," the she-elf says.
"And so he did. Witherfang and I are bound as one being. But such powerful magic could not be accomplished without Zathrian's own blood. Your people believe you have rediscovered the immortality of their ancestors, Zathrian, but that is not true. So long as the curse exists, so do you."
"No!" He denies. "That is not how it is!"
"How far will you go for revenge, Zathrian?" the she-elf demands.
"I did it for my people," he snaps back. "I did it for my son, and my daughter! For them, for justice, I would do anything!"
"The curse would not end with Zathrian's death," the Lady explains. "His life, however, relies on it's existence. And I believe his death plays a part in it's ending."
Swiftrunner leans forward in anticipation. "Then we kill him! We tear him apart now!"
Zathrian's eyes narrow in disgust. "For all your powers of speech, you are beasts still! What would you gain from killing me? Only I know how the ritual ends, and I will never do it!"
Swiftrunner crouches angrily. "You see? We must kill them all!" Tear them apart, Zathrian, the she-elf, and the rest of the Dalish!
Zathrian turns to the she-elf. "You see? They turn on you as quickly. Do what you have come here to do, Grey Warden, or get out of my way!"
But instead of attacking them, she turns her back to Swiftrunner to face Zathrian, putting herself between the Lady and the Keeper as she draws her staff. "You will end the curse if I must force you!"
Her human companion moves to stand beside her. "We're standing for what's right, here. No matter what."
They are... protecting them?
"Then you die with them!" Zathrian spits, backing away. "All of you will suffer as you deserve!"
Beside him, the Lady changes into Witherfang, giving a mournful howl as Zathrian prepares his spell. The other werewolves ready themselves, but it is too late.
He releases his spell before they can react, and it is as if Swiftrunner is in a horrible nightmare. His body will not obey him; he is frozen to the spot. Around him, he sees his brothers and sisters are, too.
The only ones who are capable of movement are the she-elf, her companions, and Zathrian.
Swiftrunner prays it is enough.
Alistair
Once Zathrian attacks, it's as if the wrath of the Fade breaks loose.
Trees that once stood motionless on either side of the room snap into monstrous sylvans that attempt to skewer them with their roots. Demonic shades appear behind them, and Alistair barely has enough time to warn them before they attack with claws as sharp and cold as death. And Zathrian's own skills with magic are fueled by not only centuries of knowledge, but also his blood.
Alistair cannot help but feel they are outmatched.
The sylvans light up with flames, Avina's magic angering them and turning their attention towards her. Sten shouts something in Qunlat as he swings his greatsword into the back of an attacking shade. Zevran is a flurry of movement and daggers, almost invisible with speed. And Alistair can feel the magic that Avina has cast over them, protecting them.
It is still not enough.
The sylvans, now flaming, knock Avina backward with a backhand and she lands painfully on her back. Before Alistair can help her, the other catches him within it's roots, stabbing into his armor and bared flesh. The werewolves stand frozen behind them; they are no help. And if Sten leaves his place, the Lady of the Forest will be vulnerable. And no offence to Zevran, but he wasn't that skilled.
Avina scrambles to her feet, her lip bleeding and her robes torn in places. Alistair can see in her eyes the terror of losing this battle; they cannot die here. They cannot. Their only hope would have been their allies who are locked in place behind them. It would take intense magic to undo it.
Alistair knows what it coming when Zathrian starts to sweep his arms in preparation, his staff glowing icy blue. Once he releases the spell, they will all freeze.
He does not expect what happens next.
Avina carries a small blade on the back of her belt. It's something she's always done, in case of emergencies. Now, she pulls that blade free, and at that moment Alistair cannot believe she hopes to fight them at close combat like that. It's only a small dagger, after all.
Then she slides it across her palm.
Red explodes around her, pulsing with energy, and with a wave of her arms and a scream of rage the light that's been trapping the werewolves dissolves.
And they charge into battle.
The sylvans are no match for the pack. The wolves rip them to splinters while Avina turns her attention back to Zathrian.
Now free, Alistair can only watch, dumbfounded, as Avina uses Zathrian's surprise as an advantage, using the power of her blood to drain him. The Keeper stumbles, stunned; the fist of stone knocking him down to his knees just as the werewolves close in on him.
"No," he cries weakly. "No more. I cannot... cannot defeat you..."
"Finish it," Swiftrunner urges. "Kill him now."
"No, Swiftrunner. We will not kill him. If there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how may we expect there to be room in his?"
"I cannot do as you ask, spirit. I am too old... to know mercy." He slowly regains his feet. "All I see are the faces of my children, my people. I... cannot do it."
"Hahren," Avina says quietly. "You have caused much suffering. Melana en athim las enaste. Your people are dying for this."
Slowly, he meets her gaze with saddened eyes, eyes that have known centuries of pain, of loss... And Alistair wonders what it is Avina has said to him. "Perhaps I have... lived too long. This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root... it has consumed my soul." He turns to the Lady. "What of you, spirit? You are bound to the curse just as I am. Do you not fear your end?"
"You are my maker, Zathrian. You gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life. Yet of all things I desire nothing more than an end. I beg you, maker... put an end to me. We beg you... show mercy."
"You shame me, spirit. I am an old man, alive long past his time."
"Then you will do it? You will end the curse?"
"Yes," he says finally. "I think it is time. Let us... let us put an end to it all."
The werewolves surrounding the Lady look at her sadly, not wanting to lose her, but also longing for freedom.
Her endless dark eyes look into Swiftrunner's, placing a rooted hand on his shoulder, before at last turning back to Zathrian and nodding. She is ready.
Zathrian's staff lifts off the ground, then comes back down with finality and an ancient magic that flows outward from his body and through the room.
His knees give out, and he falls into Avina's arms.
"Serannas, Hahren," she whispers. "You've saved them. You've saved them all."
The tiniest smile graces his face, and his old brown eyes close forever.
Morrigan
She only starts to notice that something is wrong when she does not bleed.
They've been down in the Deep Roads for a few days now, endlessly fighting darkspawn and deep stalkers, searching for any sign of Branka.
And she realizes that it has been five weeks since she last bled.
Strange...
It causes an unknown, unpleasant feeling deep within her, a knot of unease. Like dread.
Perhaps it's just the deep mushrooms.
Avina
None of her companions speak on the way back to the Dalish camp. They say nothing when they move through the camp to meet Lanaya, the new Keeper.
They say nothing, and Avina fears it is because after all this time, she has proven to be the monster they feared mages could be.
She had a choice. And she made it. She'd rather have them alive and hating her, then respecting her and dead.
They have yet to say anything at all when they stop and set up their own camp. She suspects that Alistair won't allow her to be anywhere near him, so she sets up her own tent once more.
"Planning for a guest?"
With a yelp of surprise, Avina whirls around. Alistair is smiling down at her, one eyebrow raised at her actions.
"No," she whispers. "I thought..."
He crosses his arms. "I'm very hurt. You think so little of me?"
Her brow furrows. "But... I'm a... a blood mage."
"Yes," he agrees. "And I'm an ex-Templar. Does that bother you?"
"No, but-"
"And one of three surviving Grey Wardens. And a prince." He looks her in the eye. "We can't die. If we do, Ferelden will fall. That's why you did it, right?"
Avina stares at him blankly.
"As long as you don't go around consorting with demons, you are very important, both to Ferelden, and to me." He presses a kiss to her forehead. "Put it away," he says, gesturing to the tent. "Please."
For once, she doesn't think to argue.
Morrigan
Morrigan has seen many horrors.
After all, she's the daughter of Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds. She has seen men die in the most gruesome ways, killed men herself in gruesome ways. She has fought darkspawn. She has been covered in their burning, wretched blood.
And yet, nothing she has ever seen can compare to this...
The Broodmother.
The knowledge that this was once a dwarven woman, a normal girl, is possibly one of the most frightening things about this creature. Massive, like a fattened spider with tentacles and short, flabby arms. She has no hair, her grey skin all deadened and sickly, and her lower half is so large Morrigan can't even see her legs. They're likely crushed beneath her.
But Morrigan is not squeamish. After the things she has seen, she can't afford to be.
So when the monster finally slumps, dead at last, and Morrigan suddenly becomes sick on the bloody stone floor, she knows something is wrong. She lurches over, her hands grip the cold stone, sweat dripping down her temples. This can't be happening.
Her stomach lurches, but there's nothing left in her to throw up. Instead she cries out as her insides twist. Daylen is beside her in an instant, supporting her in his strong arms, asking her what's wrong. His soothing hands brush the hair out of her face, and he kisses her forehead as she recovers, gasping for breath.
Something is wrong. This isn't Blight sickness; she's seen Blight sickness before, in some of those who died in the Wilds. It wasn't like this.
She's had food poisoning before. She's been sick. This isn't that bad, but it's different, and that means it's something she's never experienced.
Wynne rushes over to her, her hands glowing blue. Morrigan only pushes her away, sitting up with a huff. "'Tis nothing," she insists. "Just the deep mushrooms I ate."
They don't seem to believe her, but they give her a lyrium potion and leave her alone.
As they set up camp, Morrigan stands guard on one end of the tunnel, looking down at her traitorous body in disbelief, one hand resting on her abdomen.
It can't be.
The vial of lyrium in her hand smashes against the stone wall of the thaig, dripping glowing blue liquid down the wall.
Her hands clench into fists. Everything she'd been trained for, everything her mother had planned, everything she had planned... ruined.
It should have been impossible. Yet it's there, real and alive and undeniable.
She is pregnant.
Tel'abelas.
Next chapter: A New King