Story note:

Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so.

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter V

Memories in Ice

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Last night had been the worst since it all began.

By now, everyone walked with slumped shoulders and a flat and desperate glaze clouding their eyes. Once precise movements now seemed dull and ineffective. Unusual for families of fishermen and farmers.

Yet, who could blame them. Teagan surely wouldn't.

Every human being would bend and break, sooner rather than later, what with the pressure the whole village had been under for numerous days and nights now.

And last night, Maker fend, they'd lost so many to the rising dead.

With only wavering courage and little to no hope left, many villagers hadn't fought for survival. They'd fought to find peace in death. Throwing themselves into the droves of foul creatures in a last desperate attempt at valour, they'd embraced their fate. And rejoined their loved ones again, at the Maker's side, if He willed it so. Snapping and clawing and yapping creatures that so much resembled friends and loved ones, it was horrifyingly obnoxious. Which made fighting and killing them all the harder.

Every night was beyond dark, whilst days weren't better. Bulging with savage terror as they were. The utmost certainty of knowing that it'd begin anew after dusk viciously mangled what brittle shreds remained of the people's paling hope. And many stayed down, content to resign to their cruel fates, for they saw no other path in front of them. Because of mortal fear, their sight, obscured as it was, couldn't, or wouldn't, pierce the peradventure which lay in front of them.

Truly, a nightmarish gloom trapping them all without mercy.

Afternoon had already arrived, the sun slowly dimming its intense midsummer stare. Shades of burgundy and violet would soon usurp the sky. Thus granting them barely nine full bells' time. For preparation and the drawing up and rebuilding of what sparse and poor defences they could muster. Then, only reverent and faithful prayer to the Maker and His beloved bride for guidance remained as their last resort.

Teagan, too, found himself faltering in his resolve. Every day always a bit more.

He heaved a long, heavy sigh.

'We must get Owen to work again,' the Bann of Rainesfere spoke, 'without proper armaments we'll not survive the night. Metal and leather are our only advantages over those things.'

The knight who had arrived with him in Redcliffe, merely a few days prior, bowed and left to fulfil his futile task. Entirely too few armed men, worth their salt, Teagan had taken with him. But he couldn't leave his own lands unprotected during such times of strife. And who'd been able to anticipate that such abhorrent horrors would await him in Redcliffe village. He sure did not.

With civil war's erratic wrath nearly upon them, this crisis couldn't have befallen them at a more inconvenient time.

The Chantry building's heavy double doors squeaked open, metal hinges and wood protesting beseechingly. Resting on an unadorned wooden armchair at the back of the building, throbbing brow cradled in his worn hand, Teagan looked up at two newcomers, strangers.

A peculiar pair they were.

One looked vaguely familiar, carrying his bearing as a knight fairly obvious. He moved with proficient ease, albeit squeaking steps inside his scratched plate armour. Once Teagan spotted the dented iron shield carrying Redcliffe's coat of arms, he remembered the man's face, from past visits in his brother's castle, though still not his name. A knight of Eamon's personal guard.

The other one, well, there was something about him that prompted recognition to flare up in Teagan's mind like a crumpled piece of paper tossed into the fire. But Teagan was sure he'd remember a young man of such conspicuous height. Of course, there's also the prominent mane of bright hair. Yet, something there was, something he couldn't put his finger on . . . something else.

Plaintively, Teagan rose out of his chair.

'Bann Teagan,' the Redcliff knight bowed at the hip, hands crossed over his chest, 'I greet you. I am Ser Stanley.'

Right, that's the name.

Teagan nodded in greeting. 'It is good to see a familiar face, Ser Stanley. Especially during such dire times.'

A serious look covered the knights aged features. 'What exactly has happened here, Bann Teagan? We weren't told much.'

Teagan pinched his nose. 'I shall tell you then, but first – who is your companion, Ser Stanley?'

The knight's posture stiffen a bit, eyes widening ever so slightly. 'Ah, how rude of me.' Ser Stanley scratched the growing bristle on his chiselled chin. 'Bann Teagan, this is Ser Araris of Highever. I met him on the road, thankfully he was kind enough to share his food and fire with me.'

The bann looked up at the young man, for he indeed had to. At least half a head taller towered he, if not more. 'I would welcome you with joy, Ser Araris of Highever, if I could.' Teagan squinted at the younger man. 'Tell me, have we met, there is something about you that seems awfully familiar.'

'I don't believe we have, my lord. This is my first time in Redcliffe, I travelled here seeking audience with Arl Eamon, but Ser Stanley here already informed me of his tragic condition.'

To try and gauge the young knight's current thoughts and emotions was like trying to guess what a statue mulled about. Forever carved in stone, gazing upon the same vista every day.

'Alas, sadly that's the truth.' Hands behind his back, the bann began to pace. 'Though even I know nothing about the circumstances surrounding it. In actuality, I journeyed here in response to my brother's sudden illness.' Teagan shook his head, an aching tightness in his chest. 'Once I arrived I found the village in very much the same state as you see it now. Every night anew, foul and evil things come forth from the castle and attack without mercy.'

Stopping his frantic pacing, Teagan closed his eyes and breathed out through flaring nostrils. Gathering himself, Teagan looked at Ser Araris of Highever, scrutinising his face closely.

'A question if you allow, ser?' At the young knight's nod, Teagan continued, 'If you knew of my brother, the arl, and his illness and, further, his current . . . unavailability, why did you still come here?'

Ser Araris of Highever lowered his eyes shortly and a flicker of something crossed his features. Teagan knew not what exactly, though it seemed to haunt the younger man. A clenched jaw here and a slight wince there.

'I feared,' as he spoke, he did so with uncertainty, 'that you hadn't heard the news.'

In response Teagan had to frown, unsure of what exactly the knight talked about. 'I do not understand. You speak of the Blight? Or the civil war?'

What else of matter is there to know these days?

'Alas, it is neither. True, to the south the Blight's dreadful pestilence and shadow spreads quickly. And, yes, the east is ravaged by turmoil and civil war. Yet, what I speak about happened in the north.'

Ser Araris of Highever's voice broke at the end. As quick as it happened – which brought a surprised look to Ser Stanley's face – it ended again, and the young knight continued on.

'The north is ruled by vile treachery. Highever has fallen, Bann Teagan, at Arl Howe's hands.'

Teagan slumped back into his armchair, suddenly feeling utterly deflated. This is bad, indeed. Worse than bad, much worse. The one family that could have openly opposed Loghain. Desperate to grab something, he ruffled through his hair.

He grasped for straws, however thin. 'What of the Couslands?'

Ser Araris of Highever answered, eyes dull and far away, 'Dead.'

No. It cannot, mustn't be. One of Ferelden's eldest bloodlines, simply . . . gone.

'Andraste guide us.'

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As soon as the bann had finished filling them in on Redcliffe Village's desperate situation, Araris had to leave the Chantry building with panicked haste. Even those few words about Highever and his family brought him to the brink of hyperventilation. Araris had heard the flicker of vengeful fire and wrenching screams, carried over the calm sea again. He felt as if he would suffocate inside the Chantry's thick cobblestone walls, all the huddling people surrounding him with their lost gaze, closing him in. Pressuring until there was nothing left of his being other than tiny crumbles.

And he had to maintain control. Always. Otherwise he was unsure what would happen.

Focus. Focus on that dark pit deep inside of your soul. Focus on its stillness. Focus on its chilly touch, calming your nerves. Know it. Reach it. Grab it. Remember it. Memorise it. Be it!

She'd told him this once. It seemed a lifetime ago, yet wasn't.

And as he hastily passed the mass of villagers, doing whatever villagers were doing in times of war, or something akin to it – which this probably classified as such for them – Araris' raging mind registered none of their activities.

Harsh and dismissively he flung open the door of a solitary and abandoned building, near the lake. Limbs weighting heavy and feeling numb, Araris propped down on the wooden flooring, back pressed against a low counter.

Knees drawn up, arms crossed above them with his head resting inside, he slowly found it. That chilly crevasse, so deep down that only gloom existed, pure dark. It beckoned him, welcomed him with its soothing temperature, stilling his thoughts and emotions, freezing them solid. He crawled into the crevasse and stayed there for a while, content and utterly motionless.

He remembered the bann's earlier words. Vivisecting every word that had been said and analysing it in detail, like some mad hermit hunched over a poor animal studying the inner workings of its body, simply out of scientific curiosity. Or boredom.

'The people are losing hope.' The bann had spoken. A truth, and a painful one at that. Soldiers, no matter how well – in this case not at all – trained, without a spark of hope they'd lose their spirit. To fight and to live.

To Araris' ears, the bann had sounded as if the same could be said about him. Wary and slowly filled with dread, like a wooden barrel continuously filled with red wine from a larger one. The dark bags thick under his eyes like a heavy coat of kohl and shoulders slumped by a miniscule amount more than seemed normal for the man.

Araris felt beaten, too.

Though not because of the reappearance of Highever's haunting spectres. Momentarily, those memories were frozen shut, far beyond reach and hidden deep.

No, rather because of his current situation. Not particularly because of the village being under attack by a dark, evil force nor because of the suffering of all the people around him, with their red-rimmed eyes and snuffy noses.

Araris had expected to arrive in Redcliffe, under the guise of a simple messenger, and exchange pleasantries and words with Arl Eamon. Before revealing his true identity and dancing the dance of politics and intrigue and half-truths with the elderly man, which Eamon was rumoured to love so much. And was no doubt apt at navigating through these murky waters, even in such strife-torn times. Though Araris himself couldn't be described as a novice either.

Yet none of that was to be granted by fate. Oh, cruel fate. It seemed to taunt and mock him. Hunched in patience until he snapped to deliver the final blow, the blow that would end it all, leaving him with nothing but a yawning abyss ready to swallow him. Then he, too, would only be a memory in ice.

Hidden in gloomy depths, were no creature of Thedas could hope to see.

Slowly melting into oblivion, fading from memory.

Instead fate had granted him another place of misery and death. Not an armed force strong enough to stand up against Howe and Loghain and fight to clear his family's befuddled name. Not a single knight would follow him out of Redcliffe village. Of course, that would imply his leaving alive.

Instead of hope and a prospect for the future, fate had granted him the exact opposite. A place devoid of hope and future, maybe even bereft of watching the sun rise one more time.

Nothing would come of him staying and defending the village. Only the cost of his life as a near certainty. He should just saddle up and ride far away, maybe travel back to Antiva, things had looked brighter there. In Antiva and the past.

Yet, why then had he told Bann Teagan, 'My sword is yours, my lord.'

Severe mental illness or a peculiar feverish decease came first to mind, shortly followed by a fit of masochistic madness. Or maybe – and the though hit him harder than he would've ever expected – he simply had lost hope. Like all the other peasant people, with only a wish for salvation left. Salvation in death.

He felt the ice crack. Fissures broke open like a giant spider's web.

The decrepit building's door banged open hard, against the brick wall. Admitting a dishevelled lass, eyes rimmed with redness and flowing tears, nose snottily and her cupid's bow glistening with nasal fluids.

Araris tried to keep his memories from bursting free in violence with all his strength. He stopped his attempts in satisfaction, only after a towering glacier embraced them in a crushing hug.

'Bevin!' cried the lass, eyes shut, leaning into the room whilst her arms clutched the doorframe.

Newfound and irritating stimulation tugged at the back of Araris' skull. He could feel her emotions and the whispers of her thoughts, she oozed them so palpably he could feel them caressing his skin with a lover's gentle touch, taste them like a spiced meal hot on his tongue, breathe them in like a long, languorous taste from his pipe on a midsummer eve.

Despair.

Loss.

Failure.

Fear.

A voice whispered to him. The same inner voice that urged him to feed on the emotions of this untouched and innocent lass and nourish his strength on her despair and fear. Oh, how sweet it would taste, even a single bite, a lone touch, a curious sniff.

Araris shook his head, before he stood and faced the girl.

'Who is it you are searching for, lass?'

'Bevin, my brother,' she sniffled.

Araris Cousland bid her in with a gesture of his hand. As she closed the door behind her with a thump, Araris took the building's room in for the first time. It seemed to have been a general store. Once upon a time, at least. Certainly not now, with dust and webs covering everything, while rust crawled up all made out of metal.

After spotting a few closed barrels, Araris threw a look at the meek girl. She hadn't even taken more than a few paces into the room.

'What's your name?' The lass looked ready to balk at a moment's notice back out the door.

Head low, her eyes darted up only for a heartbeat, gazing at him, before they travelled down to the rotting wood flooring again.

'Kaitlyn,' she peeped.

Turning his back to her, Araris unsheathed his curved dagger and broke open a barrel's lid with the blade's tip, checking its contents with curiosity.

My, my. What have we here? Might this be a spark, bright enough to ignite the fires of hope? Or merely a procrastination of the inevitable?

Satisfied he turned back towards Kaitlyn, who'd cowered back a bit at the sight of his pale dagger, thus he sheathed the weapon at the back of his belt again.

As he slowly - and as non-threatening as possible - walked towards her and laid a reassuring hand on her slim, heaving shoulder, she only flinched slightly. It brought a rare smile to his face, even though he felt his reassurance empty and hollow.

'Then let's find your brother, shall we?'

She nodded, eyes wide, pupils dilated.

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Light was scarce. The sun had nearly withdrawn its own gentle caress. Redcliffe Village was already devoid of direct natural light, shielded from it by the towering, reddish cliffs on one side and the lone, eerily silent castle on the other.

Soon the sun would've set and night would be upon them. Then nothing could prevent the foul evil the creep forth from its hiding place by day. The night would not protect Redcliffe Village from the rising corpses. It would be like an open invitation to a grand feast.

At least, the simple fishers and farmers and Teagan himself had thought so, not a few bells ago. But, thankfully, things had changed considerably. Their prayers had been heard and the Maker's answer had arrived in the form of a single, young knight. A man of charisma and absolute faith, in himself and a force of good existing in this world. A knight from Highever, who managed to instil a small spark of hope back into the people's hearts.

Even now, after talking to several bystanders during the time, Teagan was none the wiser how, by the Abyss, Ser Araris of Highever had persuaded the local blacksmith, Owen, to return to his handicraft. Repairing worn and broken chainmail, bended and split plate armour and patch up holes in leather harnesses so they'd be of use once more.

Teagan had no clue what Ser Araris' words had been to the drunken and grief-stricken blacksmith – whose daughter had worked at the castle when the dead first arose – to remind the man of his duties to those who still walked among the living.

Trekking up the steep slope and crossing the small bridge spanning the roaring waterfall which split Redcliffe's renowned reddish cliffs, the bann gazed down on the village.

He stopped, as so unexpected and foreign did the hustle and bustle of feverishly working people strike him. So at odds with all previous days. There was vigour and precision back in their movements, as they still set up more barricades and blocked muddy streets with furniture and wooden planks and rough blocks of stone, before setting them aflame.

Oh, how Teagan had wanted to kiss the Highever knight a thousand fold, when he came to him with news about half a dozen barrels filled to brim with lamp oil.

They'd found their weapon. Fire to conquer the dark of night.

Bann Teagan arrived at the top of the slope, to the right the mill perched idly on the cliff's edge, overlooking the village and Lake Calenhad below. No creaking and protesting of rotating and chafing wood could be perceived, for the mill stood still, not spinning softly with the evening's gentle breeze.

On a platform, built around the mill, protruding over the cliff's abrupt edge, stood Ser Araris of Highever, still huddled in his dark woollen cloak. Its mangled and dirtied hem, brushed over the wooden panelling of the platform, moving softly with the occasional breeze. His prominent bright mane caught the last rays of sunshine in a magnificent golden radiance. It reminded Teagan a bit of his late nephew, thought his hair had had a bit more of a brownish tint to it. Slung diagonally across his long back was his scabbarded longsword, its pommel flashing in brightness.

Teagan joined the young knight on the platform, and, for a time, stood silently beside him, embracing the sun's last warmth for today. Yet, somehow, at the prospect of the sun's setting, Teagan did feel tentative hopefulness instead of dread and almost paralysing fear.

All because of the man next to him.

'Thank you.' Teagan tried to put his emotions into words, yet felt that he failed miserably at it. Feverishly he search for something more to say, though the words eluded him.

Serene, Ser Araris' bright gaze wandered, fixating him. 'My lord?'

'You gave the people back their hope. And I cannot thank you enough for that.' Teagan had to swallow, trying to banish an itching tightness from his throat. 'Even restored mine.'

Ser Araris steered his gaze back down to the village. The young Highever knight shook his head, whilst a blank and far-away look clouded his eyes.

'No, bann, in that you are wrong.'

Teagan frowned at the man, lines forming between his eyebrows. 'How so?'

'The people reclaimed hope on their own volition. I simply gave the means to, uh, relight it.'

Ser Araris paused in his speech, seemingly registering for the first time that he had actually spoken. He glanced towards the dark violet sky and exhaled a long breath.

'Everyone has to find hope and prospect for themselves, Bann Teagan.'

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Author's note:

If there were parts you liked or didn't, I'd tremendously appreciate it if you took a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to. Furthermore it'll keep me going, content and happy.