Author's notes:

Sorry! Just. So. Sorry. For the huge span of absence.

Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive (maybe even explicit) themes.

Enjoy.

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter XIV

In the Shadow of Looming Stone

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Groggily, Anethayín yanked her head back up.

The mare whinnied underneath her, shaking its elongated head. Where Araris had come up with the name Kelpie, she couldn't possibly imagine. But it echoed with a majestic romanticism and a profound enigma, surely befit of a tale or two. The lone traveller and his faithful horse, companions on the path of hardship, both brave in their own regard as they venture the edges of the known world and beyond.

Anethayín jerked around in the saddle, squirming to dull the pulsing ache in her legs. The ride on the mount had been smooth, thus far, which bespoke of skilful training and an inbred aptitude. But after spending many bells in a hard leathern saddle, nothing could keep the legs from tiring, especially Anethayín's short elven ones, not even reaching the stir-ups. Blood gathered in them, crawling up and down her calves with a tingle.

At first, when they'd set out from the inn, she felt rather uncomfortable by the closeness of grim Araris at her back, his tall frame towering over her quite easily. The memory of those abusing pigs still fresh, clinging to her skin like mud, she'd sat rigid and utterly motionless, like some mortally scared hare, moving only when absolutely necessary or in flight. But, after some time with him in the saddle, Anethayín had mentally berated herself for her frailty and managed to forcibly relax somewhat. Might be she even dozed off from time to time, her sleepy head lolling to one side and resting on Araris' lean arms, snuggled around her slim shoulders to grab the reigns. Only to snap out of the bliss and back into wakefulness. Not that she'd admit any of this, the pride of her people seethed fiercely inside her, after all.

Thankfully, Araris possessed the decency to never mention it.

Meanwhile, the two older soldiers, marching besides them without so much as a single complaint, and Araris were entertaining a lively conversation filled with all kinds of sombre subjects.

'You 'eard right, ser. First to fall after the Landsmeet were Bann Bronach's forces. Loghain met with 'em for a parle.'

The burly, broad-set soldier interjected, 'Parley, you thickhead.'

'Fine. Parley, then. Satisfied, Corks?'

'Sure am. Don't forget who you're talkin' to, Jan. Bit of respect wouldn't be misplaced.'

'Right, I ain't forgettin'. But I might if you keep interruptin' me, you bloated old toad.'

Barrel of a chest heaving, Corks just bellowed a rumble of a laugh that yanked Anethayín once more back from the blurry edges of sleep. The burly soldier fell back a few steps to tend to the oxen-strung cart behind them, carrying all the supplies Araris managed to haggle over and buy from the dear innkeeper at an adequate price.

'Anyways,' Jan continued, 'Lothering supposedly fell to the 'Spawn. Haven't had news from there in weeks-'

Behind her, Anethayín heard Araris mumble something inaudible to himself, like a man gone mad by demonic possession. Cryptic syllables murmured like a faint tug on the canopy of clouds and sky, a current riding the winds.

Probably, just her sleepy mind relaying outrageous things and assumptions through her hearing.

'-then the King's Blade's forces entered the Bannorn. An' wherever they go, villages either burn or lay down their arms. Last we 'eard there was a bloodbath somewhere near Oswin. An entire settlement.' Jan's bubbling speech turned abruptly solemn. 'Gone.'

'And now they're comin' for us.' Sunken eyes cast down, posture shrunken inwards, like a house of cards folding down upon itself. 'It's either them takin' us or winter 'll freeze us alive.'

'Neither shall be your fate. I promise you that, soldier.'

Jan looked up at Araris, wide-eyed but with a certain sense of vague mistrust sparkling in his dark irises like embers. 'How can you be so sure, ser?'

Araris looked up and away, gazing at something far off and answered, ominously, 'Change is coming.'

Now, she was sure, there had to be some kind of story hiding in plain sight behind that man's introverted composure. Only thing missing was for him to add that he'd smelt the fickle tides of the world in the air, which way they leaned and which not. No normal person went around spewing what awfully sounded like prophesies without good cause.

'If I might, ser?' Jan hesitated. 'Uh, know your name, that is? You never told us how to address you.'

Anethayín felt the rider behind her stiffen slightly, her ears spanned taunt she listened with interest and was rewarded.

'Tristan . . . and before you feel the need to question any further, soldier, I've been to Orlais as by our late teyrn's orders regarding important business with the Imperial Court when . . . all this . . . started. I made haste to return.'

'Aye, ser,' Jan replied sheepishly, catching up on the fibre of steel forged into Araris' voice. 'Didn't mean to pry, ser.'

'No need to apologise for curiosity, soldier.'

Poor Jan, Araris–Tristan had him already wrapped around his delicate fingers, ready to dance to his personal tunes.

Anethayín would have to be patient, for now. Mysteries to unravel, blankets of secrets to be lifted, the truth beneath exposed.

How delightful.

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'Left,' the sturdy veteran grumbled. 'We've got to turn left.'

'You been hit up the head, Corks?' Jan mocked, knocking against his own pointed helm, camail rustling.

Corks smacked his comrade lightly on the shoulder. 'And where's your sense of direction, you idiot? Flushed out with the last dump?'

Jan, stumbled, arms flailing, seeking to regain a measure of balance. 'Only 'cause the signpost isn't where it should be, doesn't mean I don't know my way about, oaf.'

'Sure, it does.' Corks laughed, his beard shaking.

Mythal fend. Burying her head in her crossed arms' crooks, Anethayín let their ceaseless bickering merge with the noise-palette of the rural vicinity. Insects buzzed and seldom birds sang their cheerful autumn goodbye.

They'd stopped for a short pause in the vicinity of some sheltering trees towering over a withering meadow, everything turning dour and brown. The sun up high, it had to be about midday. Araris' horse and their oxen rested at a tiny pond, nearby, regaining their strength for the journey to come, quietly sipping fresh water. Just like everyone else, sans emptying the pond of fluids, understandably. Araris stood next to the animals, carefully brushing down Kelpie's fur, silently muttering words of encouragement, no doubt.

The youngest of their company of five, barely a man, his face puffed und heavily marred by the marks of youth, lay on an outstretched woollen blanket on the ground. He snored audibly, probably because of his crooked nose, broken recently and set not quite right. Courtesy of Araris, if the elven minstrel were to guess, not that she had to. Rather blatant, what with all the sour looks the young soldier shot the tall, severe-looking man who'd sliced up his comrades barely a few days ago. Yet, he never more than let his gaze dart peripherally over her, like a shy suitor.

One night, around the fire, Anethayín caught him staring at her with a strange expression – not filled with violent intent, but . . . strange, nonetheless. Naturally, when she looked over, flashing her teeth like she'd seen the wolves do, he cast his eyes downward faster than a plunging eagle diving for prey. Maybe he felt regret pour through him, and if so, Anethayín prayed to Elgar'nan that he'd devour his consciousness whole. Bit by juicy bit. The shemlen should count himself lucky to be alive. If he'd been in the barn with the rest of those pigs, Araris would've probably cut him down as well. Would that not have been the case, Anethayín would've kicked him between the legs until blood flowed. Then she'd be rid of the snoring, too. She smiled into her arms at the notion.

She heard soft footfalls rustle grass and deadened leaves. Peeking with one eye, she spotted Araris on his haunches next to her, looking right back.

He nodded his head into the direction of the two veteran soldiers bickering like an old couple. 'They've been kind of lively since this morning.'

Anethayín sat up, blowing escaped bangs out of her face. 'They tried to apologise.'

'And?' Araris watched her expectantly.

'I threatened them, of course.'

'Threatened them how?'

She made a delicate stroking motion as if to play a sweet note on her fiddle. 'Hot knife to the balls.'

He half snorted, half bellowed a laugh.

She shrugged. 'Reacted pretty similar, those two, they did. Laughed and told me, "Thanks for the warning, fair lady." Then turned back and sauntered off like it never happened.'

Araris slumped back onto the meadow, a fully-fledged laugh escaping his lips, his fine-boned hands clutching his belly. Anethayín's devious smirk blossomed into a gentle smile at seeing him there, turning on the ground, laughing with the carefree attitude of childlike glee, unable to stop. She'd never even seen him admit a smile. It made him look younger by a few years. And now this, it was infectious. But it also had a tinge of wrongness woven into it, no, not wrongness per say, rather a certain kind of roughness. The one emerging hand in hand with sparse experience on the matter.

Sad, that.

What was a life without a good, shaking laugh now and then?

Recovered, he breathed, 'Hah, soldiers. What a special lot.'

'Special, indeed.' She snickered. 'Don't even know the way back to their own camp.'

'Never mind that.'

Anethayín looked at him, perplexed. 'I thought you wanted to get there?' Certainly were in a hurry to leave the inn.

'And I've a very good idea where they'll likely be camped. If Bryland has a half-decent sense for military tactics, that is, and judging by our general direction.' Proclaimed like he knew the man, some high-up noble, if Anethayín remembered correctly.

Knowing nothing more concrete about this Bryland fellow and even less so about warfare the elven minstrel opted to follow up on his first line. 'You do?'

Confidently, he nodded. 'The massive rock formations bit more than three leagues north-west of Iachus Valley, would be my choice. Easy to defend, nightmare to attack and great oversight over the plains beyond.' The human knight–or whatever he actually was or what his name might be–spoke like he knew his trade.

'So,' Anethayín hummed. 'Which way?'

Besides her in the grass, he blinked. 'Hm?'

'Left or right?'

'Left.' Araris smirked. 'But let's rest for some more, whilst our trusty guides settle for a decision.'

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Anethayín gasped awake.

As if her life depended on the mere solace of the touch, she tightly clutched the hilt of her slim knife. A barrier between her and despair. The only companion she admitted entrance into her small tent these last few days.

A source of security, of power, being able to reclaim the parts of her mind still rattled by past events. Shouldn't put lipstick on the pig. Not past events–rape. They tried to rape her.

Even the mental conjuration of the word sent her heart flapping like a frightened crow off into the sky and far away. Sweat clung to her skin, dampening her thin clothes. The feeling of sickness that accompanied the feverish warmth of her sweaty skin battled the gusts of cold trying to sneak inside her sleeping place. The sensation tickled nauseously inside her stomach and throat.

Rolling into a ball, hugging the layers of blankets tightly around her slim figure, she let go of the knife. Reluctantly.

She concentrated on simply breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In-

At a clinking sound, she startled upright. Without conscious thought her easy-to-hide knife appeared in her vice-like grip again, as if by magic.

Anethayín waited and strained her ears. Movement. Something was out there, skulking in the shadows, watching their camp.

What happened to the guard? Araris had taken the first shift upon him willingly. By now someone else had to be out there, ready to wake the entire camp if so much as a whiff of danger got carried to them by the nightly currents.

Messily splayed out all around her, Anethayín gathered all the parts of her courage she could muster and parted the flaps of her tent's entrance, sneaking a peak outside. The weight, however light, of her knife reassured her.

The fire still cackled in delight, burning away happily.

Other than that she could see nothing. Not a single decent soul. Most importantly, no one guarded the entire camp against dangers.

No Araris. A shock in itself, locking its fangs deep inside her anxious mind, it tore the wound of terror further open. He'd been around every moment she'd spent awake during the last few days. His absence alone sent her spinning into a hole she might never resurface from.

Her heart raced, like distant thunder.

Teeth crunching against each other, jaw locked in a resolute expression, Anethayín stepped outside. Staying on her haunches for a few seconds she cast her gaze around. But the dancing fire wouldn't allow even her elven vision to adjust and penetrate the farther patches of darkness.

Left of her, the elven minstrel spied a bow and a quiver full of arrows. Wagering her chances of survival against any foe higher with them in her hands, she took a measured step towards them, mindful of the ground underneath. Mildly proud of herself, she managed to reach the weapon soundlessly.

Or so she thought.

Behind her. Grass rustled. Something approached. Stretching its claws, ready to tear her into pieces.

Anethayín froze, mortal fear paralysing her limbs. Upset with herself, she urged the rational part of her mind that this was the worst course of action to take in a situation such as this.

Abandoning all efforts of subtlety, Anethayín let her knife fall to the ground with a muffled thud, drew an arrow out of the quiver and swung around.

The projectile already notched, she drew the string back to her cheek and opened her mouth in order to let the mightiest shout she possessed escape. Alert the others, her highest directive right now. Then she might've a chance of witnessing the paling dawn of another day.

Before being able to fully turn around, an iron grip latched onto her forearm. Her heart stuttered and she let the arrow fly. With a whoosh, it vanished somewhere in the forest surrounding the camp. The scream for help exploding from her lungs was subdued by calloused hands grabbing her mouth.

'What're you trying to do with that?'

Anethayín squirmed and clawed with her free hand until her eyes adjusted. Anger welled up inside her, tinged with a wave of relief like she'd never felt before.

Araris relinquished her forearm and gestured for her to be quiet before removing the hand covering her mouth, lest she'd wake the rest of the camp.

'You fucking bastard! Gave me a heart attack.'

It seemed she didn't align the pitch of her voice according to his expectations.

He hissed. 'Quiet!'

Anethayín dug out her most impressive glare. The imagination of stabbing holes into his face with just her eyes vividly played out in her mind and, as an immediate response, an ugly smirk taunted her features.

'Don't look at me like that.' Araris appeared unfazed. 'You came out here on your own volition.'

She snorted. 'Because I heard something move.'

'Well, forgive me, your highness,' he drawled, 'for the audacity to walk the camp's edges just to make sure nothing slipped through.'

Araris took her by the shoulders and turned her around, facing the fireplace. Gently, he steered her to a tree log they'd used as a bench.

'Sit,' he said.

Grudgingly, Anethayín did, still hot-blooded she frowned at him.

'What did you expect? A wild bear? Bandits? Maybe a horde of darkspawn?'

His dismissive tone riled her up. 'Well, how should I know you tend to stroll around camp whilst guarding it?'

Araris sighed and flopped down on a boulder, opposite her. He clutched his brow and started to massage his eyes. With his proximity to the licking fingers of fire between them, she caught a good look of his appearance.

'By the Elgar'nan, you look like shit.'

Looking at her, Araris smiled tiredly. 'The reason for why I stroll around the camp is simple; spending your watch near the fire tends to screw up your eyesight. Watching from the dark makes it easier.' It appeared he wanted to add more, but then closed his mouth. Instead, he gazed at his hands as if they contained answers to all things and mysteries unanswered, the very fabric of the world around them laid out like a map.

Regret and sadness poured through Anethayín in droplets. She went over and crouched in front of him. He showed no sign of acknowledgment to her intimate closeness.

Hesitantly, carefully, as if touching a valuable gem for the first time, unsure of what to do, nervous like a virgin, Anethayín embraced his hands with her own.

His clouded gaze went up to meet her, surprise whirled inside them.

'How long have you been out here,' Anethayín asked, softly.

He looked down again. 'I don't remember.'

'It's nearly dawn. Why haven't you woken any of the others?'

Araris stayed silent.

She pressed. 'You could've woken me. I can guard the camp as well, you know. My ears would pick up anything that moves far earlier than yours, anyway.'

'It's not that.'

'What is it, then?'

'There's no need for any of you to spend the night out here. I'm putting my insomnia to use.'

Her heart wrenched at his careless tone. 'You can't sleep?'

'Can't. Don't want to. What's the difference?'

Her vision slightly blurred, Anethayín's eyes felt ready to bleed tears for this scarred, poor soul. Araris' reaction seemed far more composed, at least on the outside. His features were a slack, unemotional mask, eyes far off in the distance.

'You want to tell me?'

Araris shrugged. The motion said not particularly. But he did, anyway.

'My family was butchered. The man who murdered them walks around unscathed, pronouncing his actions just. And I wasn't even there to protect them.'

He sneered. 'I should've been with them.'

Something lodged itself inside Anethayín's throat and stayed there. Nothing else than silence seemed plausible as a reaction to his revelation.

'I should've died with them.'

'No. Don't—' Anethayín swallowed a lump. 'It wasn't your fault, Araris. I'm sure you did everything you could.'

The expression which briefly flickered over his stoic features twisted them into something uncomfortable. A cold iron hid behind his piercing eyes. An eerie flicker zipped through them like the haunting image of something spectral hidden underneath.

'I'd have sliced that fucking traitor into pieces.'

Traitor.

Family.

Tristan.

Araris.

Silver brooch.

A sword splitting a laurel wreath.

Cousland.

He continued, unaware of the gears grinding inside her head, finally clicking, alight with questions and possible answers. 'It's all I have left. My light at the end of the tunnel.'

'Your family,' she said. His gaze rose back up. 'That's why you didn't tell them. They'd know your name. You're a noble.'

A small, genuine smile graced his gaunt features. Araris nodded. 'I figured you'd figure it out before long. I'm a Cousland. The Last Laurel, they say. Just-'

'I won't.' Anethayín gathered herself. 'I promise. I won't tell. Anyone. Ever.'

The look of relief and gratitude crossing Araris' face was all the payment she'd need and would ever accept. For just a moment he looked healthy, vulnerable, alive. Himself even, she dared to venture, though she knew him not that well.

'And that fucker who murdered your family,' Anethayín spat, 'I'll hand you the knife to gut him when the time comes.'

'Thank you, Anethayín,' he said, silently.

They spent the rest of the night together, until the sun climbed pale on the far horizon.

She, kneeling between his spread legs.

Ready to comfort with a simple touch when his eyes became clouded by the distance of the mind.

All in silence.

Tell me what you think.

Does it make up for my absence? Partially, at least? Thought not.

What do you want in the next chapter? Suggestions? Otherwise I'll continue with what I've mapped out.