Chapter Two: Memories Written in Blood
Finding the horses had been a much needed blessing. In the chaos of the fall of Castle Highever, the horses had stampeded and broken out of the stables. Howe's men had managed to corral the majority, but several had escaped into the darkness of the night. It was the hound who came across the three horses as he loped beside the tireless Warden. Gratefully, Duncan eased his burden over the black mare that had approached him first, lashing the girl onto its back with rope from his pack before attaching a lead to the second and mounting the third, a gelding.
The escapees continued their journey long into the morning, putting as much distance as possible between them and the bounds of Highever. It was mid morning, sun rising high into the sky, when Duncan finally allowed the chestnut gelding to ease into a walk, dismounting to lead the small group out of the open fields of the bannorn and into a small glade. He had avoided the roads, knowing the Arl's men would be combing all of the easiest routes for the last Cousland and the Warden, sole credible witnesses to his treachery.
Laying the girl on the grass with her satchel as a pillow, the Warden set to putting together a rough camp. The mabari sat stoically next to his mistress, intelligent eyes watching as the dark man saw to the horses and began preparing a rough breakfast of dry rations and a flask of summer wine he'd managed to procure during the escape from the castle. Every few minutes a whimper would escape the hound's throat, and he'd nudge his unconscious mistress's hand with his nose.
A few minutes later, the Cousland girl began to stir, eyelids flickering and a small moan escaping her lips as her hands clenched and relaxed. Finally, her eyes opened and flicked about the glade, taking in the horses, her hound, and the man sitting across from her, watching her with a steady dark gaze. "It wasn't a dream, was it." Her voice emerged raspy and toneless.
"I'm afraid not, Teyrna." Duncan replied gravely, noting her flinch at the title. "We traveled throughout the night. I cannot be certain, but we should be three day's ride away from Lothering."
"I see." Torran sat up with a groan, muscles sore from the fighting, not to mention being manhandled in her armor, flexible as it was. More than that, she was just tired. And hungry. Her stomach rumbled at the thought, and she accepted the proffered meal from the warden with a nod. They sat in silence as the girl picked at her food halfheartedly. Bear ended up with the majority of it, by the end, and Torran's gaze turned inward. She stared blankly into space, twitching every now and then from the pain of memories of the past night.
"Will you accept your position in the Wardens?" Duncan asked finally. Though he would respect the space she needed to grieve, he had seen far too many survivors of such nights waste away into nothing. He wouldn't let that happen to this one.
"Where else would I go?" She replied listlessly, playing idly with her braid as flecks of dried blood fell around her shoulders. Her hair was matted in places and had escaped the tight control of its braid to fall into a curtain hiding her eyes. Had her ears been sharper she could have passed for one of the feral dalish folk.
Duncan nodded and accepted her inferred acquiescence. They sat in silence for nearly an hour as Torran rocked back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Duncan spent the time planning their travel and whether it would be risking too much to stop in Lothering for long. Undoubtedly, Howe knew the only place the Warden could take the last Cousland and be safe would be the King's side, and would be maneuvering to get there first. They had a bit of a head start, and Howe himself would have to remain in Highever to solidify is control of the local Banns, but Duncan didn't doubt for a moment that the Arl would have sent some of his men straight to Ostagar to spread lies about the events that had occurred the night before.
"Come, we must keep going." Duncan stood and approached the gelding he was using as a pack horse, retrieving a wrapped bundle from its back and handing it to the girl. "I believe these would be better served in your hands than packed away." She nodded wordlessly and took the bundle into her arms before standing away from him to open it. He watched as her shoulders shook for a moment as she sheathed her family sword across her back and slung her brother's shield over it. Still silent, she walked to the black mare and stroked her nose, the first sign of gentleness he'd seen in the girl since their harrowing escape. At her side was her faithful mabari, staring up at his mistress with sad, understanding eyes.
The two humans mounted up, bareback with rope bits their only method of controlling the recovered horses. Setting a quick pace, Duncan led them out of the glade and back into the open meadows of the bannorn, keeping to the edge of the forest and out of sight of the freehold houses and settlements. Torran let Never decide their pace, reins lying limp in her fingers as she slouched in her seat. Bear loped along beside her, every now and then chuffing up at his mistress in support.
Mother…Father…Oren…Fergus…Orriana…Rory…Nan… The list of names went on, repeating itself over and over as she recited the names of all the people who had perished when the castle was taken. She was the last that was left. Everyone she had ever known, ever cared for… She shut her eyes and squeezed out those thoughts, nails digging into her palms until they bled. She couldn't think about it anymore. If she did, she would drown in the sorrow that threatened to consume her.
Instead, she thought of Howe. She thought of Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine. She thought of his shifty eyes, his callow humour and the cunning smirk that perpetually twisted his lips. She thought of how he would laugh at her father's jokes, even as he plotted the death and destruction everything the Teyrn had been working towards his entire life. As she thought of the bastard that had ruined her life so much that she may as well have died, Torran fed her anger, feeling it rise within her until it neared the inferno that had carried her throughout the days following Howe's treachery.
"Torran." Duncan's voice interrupted her reverie, and she shot him a glare so scathing that the warden sat back in surprise and his hand drifted to his dagger in reflex. He coughed and started again, internally reminding himself to keep a sharper eye on the girl. "When we reach Lothering," he squinted up at the sun. "In about three hours, let me do most of the talking. Avoid any liveried soldiers, or armed men for that matter. We don't know who Howe has set on our tail."
"Not a problem." The leather gloves on Torran's hands creaked as she clenched them around Never's reins. Howe… Her anger flared and then settled back into a hot simmer. "Are there any tattooists in Lothering?"
"I believe so. There is usually a village tattooist at every settlement, amongst the humans at least. The elves have their own, naturally, but I've never heard of one tattooing a human customer." Duncan replied. "Why?"
"No reason." Torran replied shortly, dismissing the man and turning back to her thoughts. All she knew about her mother's people and homeland came from stories she'd heard as a girl, and it was the mourning ritual that the warrior caste performed for their dead, relayed by her mother following the death of one of her cousins, that occupied her mind. The women would mark themselves with ink for their lost ones, and sacrifice locks of hair to the Old Gods for safe delivery of the souls of the fallen.
I will do this for you, Mother. For you, for Oren, for Father… She cut herself off before the litany could begin again, filling her mind with images of Howe and just how thoroughly she would kill him when she finally got her hands around his scrawny, arrogant…
Duncan watched while the girl seethed, frowning as her expression flitted between intense grief, sudden stillness, and a snarl of rage that frightened even him. Perhaps his newest recruit would prove too unstable to survive the Taint. No. He shook himself. I know what I felt when I first laid eyes on her. This girl was meant to be a Warden. Her expression shifted once more and he sighed. Though only the Maker knows what kind of Warden she shall be… Clicking his tongue he kneed his gelding into a gallop. The sooner they reached Ostagar the better. He could feel the taint churning within him, and knew the hour was quickly growing late for Fereldan's peace.
Lothering had seen its fair share of soldiers traveling through the town as the various Banns journeyed south to join the grand army of Fereldan and their King at the ruins of Ostagar. None of these troops caused as much stir as the entry of the Fereldan Warden Commander, Duncan, and the waif of a girl and her mabari that trailed behind him.
Sister Leliana was leading a prayer for a group of departing soldiers when her eyes caught movement through the town. Her words slowed, almost halting as her gaze was met for a brief moment by a pair of empty green eyes shadowed by dirty black hair. Maker…
Gathering herself she continued the sermon, her distraction unnoticed by the supplicants kneeling before her. Perhaps she would have time to observe the strange pair later, she decided, returning her eyes to her duties, though her thoughts remained fixated on that broken gaze.
Torran felt a measure of relief as they finally rode into Fereldan's largest frontier town, Lothering, though she couldn't quite muster any interest in her surroundings. The journey across the bannorn had been torturous, filled with thoughts she couldn't control and emotions that fluctuated from a desire to die to a desire to see everything around her burn, suffer beneath her rage. Only Bear's constant presence at her side and the familiarity of Never moving between her legs and kept her from falling by the wayside.
Not that Duncan would let that happen. She thought, bitterly cognizant of the Warden's gaze on her throughout their travels. She lifted her head as she heard the familiar strains of the Chant, turning to the sound and feeling a shock that seemed to jolt her cold body like a bolt of lightning. Her gaze locked onto a pair of innocent sky blue eyes framed by red hair that immediately brought to mind Ore- she tore her eyes away, gritting her teeth as she forcefully dispelled the thought.
"Here we are." Torran's head shot up as Duncan dismounted in front of the town's smallest inn, closest to the southern exit, and Ostagar. "Tie your horse here, the grooms will take care of her. Dinner will no doubt be served in an hour or so, though," he paused and gave her a quick once over. Clothes torn and bloody, and the dust of travel smeared across a weary face. "You might wish to bathe first and rest for a bit. Here," he reached into his tunic and pulled out a small purse. "Ask the innkeeper for two rooms and a bath for yourself, as well as a meal for two. I mean three." He amended at Bear's indignant bark. The girl nodded and took the purse as she dismounted, tying Never to the post next to the other horses and patting her gently on the nose. "In the meantime, I will go restock our travel supplies and procure some new clothing for you. Tack for the horses as well."
"Very well." The girl replied as she moved to enter the homely looking two story building.
"Oh, before I forget." His hand had barely settled on Torran's shoulder before her whole body stiffened as she flinched away from the touch.
"Don't." Was all she said, though the true warning was the flicker in her eyes emanating violence.
"What are your measurements?" Duncan continued calmly, though his gaze sharpened. "It should be easy enough to find some female clothing…"
"A shirt, tunic, and trousers will be fine." The girl replied, gesturing to her once fine clothing. "A simple travel cloak would be welcome as well. Though," she paused as a swirl of emotion crossed her face. "No green." The warden nodded to the request as he turned to go about his errands. Cousland colours.
Entering the inn with Bear close behind, Torran was overwhelmed by the raucous sounds that assaulted her ears. Men laughed over steins of ale. The minstrel in the corner plucked at a lute and sang, voice cutting in and out of the din. Waitresses bearing trays of refills and empty glasses swooped between the common room tables like the pelicans of Lake Calenhad, rising and disappearing in a flash of white aprons and wide grins. It was too much, too soon. Torran felt her breath catching in her chest, panic rising as the people, the voices, assaulted her fragile psyche. Moving stiffly, eyes averted to the gazes of the patrons, the Cousland girl walked towards the bar, hoping to locate the innkeeper, or at least someone who could point her out to him.
"No dogs allowed inside." She started as a greasy looking man stumbled towards her, a cruel light gleaming in his ale-addled eyes. She moved to avoid him and his hand flashed out, gripping her bicep before she could move. "Oi said, no dogs inside! What are you, simple?" The words had barely left his mouth before Bear's jaws clamped around his arm with crushing force, and the crack of bone cut through the din like thunder.
"Down, Bear." Torran's arm came down in a sharp cutting motion, and the mabari immediately backed off, licking his chops with a satisfied grin.
"That's a mabari!" She heard the whispers circling the room as the crying drunkard was carried out in search of a healer. "I hear the girl came in with the Warden! Do you think she's one of them as well?"
That's better. Torran squared her shoulders and straightened up, feeling more confident now that the common room had quieted down. Hearing the voices raised so loud reminded her too much of the screams, the cries, the blood... Bear's short bark brought her back, and she found herself standing in front of a portly, frowning man.
"What can I do for you?" his voice was irritated, as though he was repeating the question. He wiped down a stein with his dirty apron as he took in the blood and dirt encrusting her clothing and face, heavy brow creasing as his frown deepened. She relayed Duncan's instructions, and nearly sighed in relief as the man signaled one of his serving girls to show her to her room.
"A bath will be made ready for you right quick, ma'am." his nostrils flared slightly as her admittedly rank scent hit his nose. "Just...there will be a robe awaiting you in your chamber. If you pile your clothes outside the door, one of my girls will take care of them."
Mumbling her thanks, Torran and Bear followed the indicated girl back through the common room and up a flight of stairs. "This will be yours, ma'am." she opened the third door on the right and curtseyed, allowing Torran and her hound to enter first. "In a few moments someone will be bringing up a tub for you to have a good long soak. Go on in and change into the robe, I'll make sure your garments are taken care of when the others bring them out."
"Thank you." Torran managed a small smile for the helpful woman, though it came out as more of a grimace. She hesitated. "With the clothes..."
"Yes?"
"Burn them. Use them as rags, I don't care."
"Um, yes, ma'am." The serving girl backed away with alacrity, helpful smile disappearing as the strange girl's eyes hardened into steely chips. "Shall I bring dinner up to your room following your bath?"
"Yes." Torran replied simply, ignoring the shocked gasp of the serving girl as she carefully placed her sword and shield by the bed, and then began stripping off the dirty armor and clothing before the door to the simple room had even closed. The click of the latch alerted her to the girl's departure, and she quickly removed the rest of her clothing, tearing buttons and ties in her haste to remove the garments. The armor she piled carefully at the foot of the bed. She would clean it later.
Slipping into the robe was a welcome relief. Even more welcome was the arrival of the steaming tub of water that was hauled into her room moments later by a team of elf servants. They bowed and departed quickly, one man taking her clothes with him while another deposited a pitcher of water and a basin on the stand next to the tub. Nodding gratefully, Torran slipped out of the robe and sank into the hot water, hissing in satisfaction as the heat seeped into her weary limbs. Bear settled down nearby, engaged in his own cleaning rituals.
The two sat in silence, Torran staring blankly at the ceiling as the once clear water turned murky with dirt and blood. Slowly, the steady drip of tears filled the room, though the girl's breathing never changed and her gaze never shifted. Dinner was delivered without notice, and she would have remained in the tepid water had it not been for Bear's inquisitive bark as he nosed at the two covered dishes.
"Oh." Torran forcefully pulled her wandering thoughts together, returning to the present. "Sorry, Bear. I suppose we really should eat. Duncan will be back any moment now..." The girl doused her hair with clean water from the pitcher and scrubbed it roughly with the bar of soap, ignoring the flashes of pain as she forced her fingers through the gnarls and knots that had formed in hair during the course of the past two days. Stepping out of the bath after another quick rinse, Torran slipped back into the discarded robe and stiffened as she heard steps slowing as they neared her room. A gentle knock at the door….
Auntie! Auntie! Come out and play!
"Torran? Torran, may I enter?" Duncan called through the door, listening for movement. He heard the dog whine and then bark twice, followed by the sound of glass shattering. "I'm coming in, Torran!" Pushing open the door, the warden took in the scene calmly, noting the mabari's tense stance and the whine emanating from his throat as he gazed at his mistress. Clenched in her fist was a shard of glass, the rest littering the floor at her feet. Blood dripped slowly onto the debris of what appeared to be a pitcher.
"Torran," Duncan entered slowly, hands outstretched and tone non-threatening. "Put down the glass, Torran. What is bothering you?" Inwardly he winced at the stupid question. He knew what was bothering her, but he was in desperate need of a breakthrough. The trauma she'd experienced had been destabilizing, yes, but if she continued exhibiting this imbalanced behavior, especially these manifesting destructive tendencies, she would be more of a liability than an asset, no matter her skills with the sword.
Perhaps this is the breakthrough I needed. He thought as Torran raised her broken gaze to his. "I just…" the shard fell to the floor as she stared at the red liquid welling from the gash on her palm. "I had to stop them… The memories..."
"Causing yourself more pain isn't the way, Torran." Duncan replied gently as he picked up the cloth sack he'd left by the door and reentered the room, shutting the door behind him. "Your parents didn't sacrifice themselves so that-"
"Don't tell me what my parents would have wanted!" Her mood shifted abruptly, fierce anger dissipating into sullen resentment. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"
"If I leave you alone, what will you do?" Duncan demanded, struggling to keep his tone civil in the face of the girl's mercurial disposition. "How far will your anger take you?"
"As far as it must."
"And if it leads to your death?"
She smirked, green eyes burning with an eerie intensity. "You don't have to worry about me killing myself anytime soon, Ser. The last breath I breathe will be that which I steal from Howe's lungs when I kill him."
"If you are to become a Grey Warden, you must understand this, Teyrna Torran Cousland." Duncan deliberately used her full name and title, meeting her glare stoically. "Our mission, our duty, is far greater than revenge." He held up a hand to cut off the angry retort. "It is greater than justice, and it is greater than right or wrong. Wardens are revered as heroes not because we keep the roads clear of bandits, or liberate commoners from their oppressive overlords, but because it is the Grey Wardens who are the first and last lines of defense standing between the complete destruction of Thedas by the darkspawn."
"I thought Wardens were supposed to be the champions of the Maker?" Duncan smiled internally as Torran's anger turned into the first positive emotion he'd seen in the girl: curiosity.
"Many are." He agreed, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket. "May I?" Torran nodded, and he took her gashed palm, tying the cloth gently. He could feel the tension in the girl's body from the brief contact and dismissed it for another time, content that she'd calmed herself enough for him to see to her wound.
"Just as many, however," he continued as he stepped back and took a seat on the bed, aging bones and armor creaking. He couldn't wait to get out of the dirty chainmail and enjoy his own bath. "are not. Wardens are not recruited for mere skills in battle, no matter how strong. They are chosen for a variety of reasons, and none the same as the last. I have recruited honorable knights, champions of good and defenders of justice. I have also recruited criminals, murderers, the foulest of beings who lust for nothing more than battle and death."
"Mmm…" Torran took a seat on the edge of the tub, thoughts turned outward for the first time since… Don't look, Torran, please don't look… she shook her head sharply, ignoring Duncan's concerned gaze as the memory retreated. "So there are evil Wardens then?"
"There are Wardens who are uninterested in going out of their way to better the lives of those non-wardens they encounter, certainly." Duncan replied finally, musing on the question himself. "But truly evil? In the face of the evils we face every day that we are alive to do our duty, we are the lesser every time."
"I see…" Torran's eyes held even more questions, and for a moment Duncan could see flashes of the young woman she'd been before the nightmarish takeover of Highever. Bear, quiet until now as he listened to his mistress and the dark man talk, let out a plaintive bark as he touched his nose to the covered plates.
"Ah, it appears we forgot about the food!" Duncan ended the conversation as he rose and picked up the cold meals. "The clothes you requested are here in the sack, along with a sleep shirt." He glanced out the window and noted the position of the moon. "We spoke longer than I thought. I'll return in a moment with more, and we can discuss the second half of our journey before retiring for the night." Torran just nodded, receding into her silent shell.
As the door shut behind the warden, Torran swiftly dressed in the plain commoner's clothing, tied her hair back into a messy ponytail, and gathered up her sword, shield, and satchel. The small bag clinked with silver as she attached it to her belt. Quietly, she crept to the window and looked down, judging the distance between the second story and the ground, as well as the space between the side of the inn and the nearest building; not much. Behind her, Bear whimpered, pulling at her shirt as she opened the squeaky window with a grimace.
"Stay, Bear." She whispered as she straddled the sill. The mabari whined, flopping down at the foot of the bed as he obeyed his mistress.
Steadying herself, Torran swung her other leg over and dropped to the ground, air rushing out of her lungs as she tucked herself into a roll to absorb the force of the fall. She took a gasping breath as she came to a stop just shy of the opposite wall and scrambled to her feet, brushing the dirt from her new clothes. Creeping to the edge of the dark alleyway, Torran waited until she was sure of her anonymity and emerged from the shadows, tucking her hands into her pockets and striding quickly away from the inn. Duncan had promised to return soon, and for what she wanted to do she needed to get away from him for a few hours.
Avoiding the busy porches and taverns of Lothering after dark, Torran directed her steps to the modest Chantry in the quieter neighborhood of the frontier town. Even though she'd never been to the town, its layout was much the same as those all over Fereldan, and the Chantry was easy to find: no other buildings overshadowed the spiritual halls of Andraste's faithful. As she neared the building, Torran caught sight of her goal.
"Excuse me, Ser?" Templar Bryant paused in his rounds as the voice's owner stepped forward, frowning as he took in the girl wearing men's clothing.
"Yes? What can I do for you?" His heavy plate armor creaked as he crossed his arms over his chest and stood at his full height. "It is rather late for young women to be out alone." his frown deepened as he took in the weapons strapped to her back. "Armed or not."
"I seek a tattooist." Torran met his gaze with an empty stare, the attempt at intimidation washing over her with the ferocity of mist on a dry summer day. "I must see them tonight."
The templar acknowledged her request with a grunt, eyes narrowing as he reached out with his lyrium induced powers, searching for a trace of otherworldly taint in her aura. The girl's demeanor was confusing, a trait often borne by abominations and apostates, twisted with their evil power. Finding nothing, he grunted again and replied, "On the western outskirts of town, over by the ruined stone walkway, lives one of the Chasind folk. Bennet is his name, I believe, and he will be able to see to your questions. Is there anything else?"
"No. Thank you." The girl nodded and walked away, ending one of the stranger encounters he'd had since being assigned to the more or less sedate outpost.
"Who was that, Ser Bryant?" He started at the familiar accent and then settled, nodding in respect as he was joined by a robed woman.
"A strange girl, Sister Leliana." He replied, hand twitching towards his sword as he thought about the way the girl had stared blankly at him with eyes emptier than those of the Tranquil.
"Oh, really?" the petite woman's voice softened the harshness of the Fereldan language, inflection reflecting her Orlesian roots. "Strange how?"
"Just strange." The templar shook himself and straightened. "I'm afraid I must continue my patrol, Sister." He crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. "You should return to the Chantry. It is late for a Sister to be out unescorted."
S'il a connais… Leliana thought wryly as she returned the bow. In Orlais, I would- she cut that train of thought and instead filled her mind with the Chant, letting her feet take her back in the direction of the women's dormitories and her bed. That life was over.
"Torran!" Duncan called from the hallway. "My hands are rather full; could you open the door for me?" Silence. Shifting the full tray carefully, the warden knocked, listening for movement. After a series of scratches, the door finally swung open, and he found himself before a worried looking mabari. "She's not in here, is she?" Duncan set the tray down with a sigh, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be getting a warm meal after three days of rabbit jerky and water.
Bear followed the warden out of the inn and immediately trundled off, following the unmistakable scent of his mistress. The trail wasn't hard to follow: the hound led Duncan straight to the Chantry gates, and then around the outskirts of town towards the ruins of the old stone highway. Their brief stroll ended in front of a modest one room home, decorated in what Duncan recognized as Chasind tribal markings.
After waiting at the door for several minutes as his knocks went unanswered, the warden followed the smell of wood smoke around the back of the house and paused at the sight that greeted his eyes. Seated before a chanting elderly man was Torran, the sleeve of her shirt jagged, as though hacked off at the shoulder by a knife. Her eyes stared fixedly into the flames of a small fire as the man tapped at her skin with a long bone needle and a hammer. A solid band of black ink wrapped around her right forearm just below the elbow, and below that five sharp red points extended towards her wrist at intervals as they circled around her arm. Above the band were rows upon rows of vertical blue lines, spanning the length of her bicep up over the curve of her shoulder.
"That's the last one." Torran's voice was quiet and certain, lacking the hollow emptiness that had characterized her words for days. Pausing in his chant, the Chasind tattooist replaced his tools with a much smaller set.
"You are sure?" the man asked in heavily accented Fereldan. "Much more pain, this time."
"I'm sure." Torran lay down as the man scooted forward, turning her gaze to the stars above as he began carving into the skin of her face, continuing the guttural chant. As his needle moved, a hazy memory from her childhood came to the forefront of her mind.
Tiny fingers traced the strange markings on her mother's face. "Why do you have colours on your face, mama? Did your paints stick to your face when you were little like me?"
"No, darling," a much younger Eleanor laughed softly at the ridiculousness of the innocent question. "Where I am from,"
"Nevarra?"
"Yes, Nevarra. Are you going to let me tell you?"
"Sorry, mama…"
"It's alright, Torran. In Nevarra, a young woman receives her first tattoo when she begins her training."
"What kind of training?" Torran was sitting still, a rarity for the young girl, enraptured by her mother's story.
"Well, some train to become priestesses. Others devote their lives to the histories of our peoples as scholars and academics. It is a small elite few," the teyrna paused, eyes shining proudly as she remembered her own choice, "who choose to be battle maidens."
"What are those?"
"They are the only women who take part in battles alongside the men. Though we often serve as scouts and ambushers, those who can fight in heavier armor fight on the frontlines with the other men in the many skirmishes between tribes that take place throughout the Free Marches." She shifted the girl in her lap, marveling at how quickly her daughter was growing. At eight years old, Torran was an inquisitive youngling, and all arms and legs. Soon she would be "too old" to sit in her mother's lap listening to stories…
Following her daughter's fingers, Eleanor related the meaning of the intricate half mask covering the right side of her face, explaining the meaning of the symbols and structure. Though honest about the meanings, she guided her daughter away from questions prying too deeply into memories she'd rather forget: the red teardrops welling from her eye when her best friend fell in battle, the black and white swirls from her first kill, the jagged lines above her brow that signified her devotion to the Old Gods…
"Does everyone's tattoo look the same?" Torran asked finally, shifting in her seat as she grew bored of the conversation. No doubt she had planned some manner of mischief or other with her friend amongst the castle fosterlings, young Rory.
"No, child. Every maiden has a different story to tell with their tattoo, reflecting triumphs and sorrows throughout the course of their lives. My story is my own, and those with the ability to read the markings will know it. I even have one each for the children I have born." She guided Torran's fingers to the small emblem on her cheek. "See? This is yours! Now come, it is..."
"…done." Torran's gaze refocused as the memory dissipated, and she found herself staring at an unfamiliar face in the mirror held before her. Green eyes stared back at her from pits as black as death, as though the crystalline orbs had been dropped in a pool of ink. Below each eye, just touching the sides of her nose, four sharp curves bisected each other in a macabre, broken butterfly's wing of symmetry. The lines arching above formed a set of unseeing eyes staring back at her, or perhaps through her. One of Death's many masks. A special one, meant for Howe...and any others who stepped between them. She was...content, with it, she decided.
"You know," Her eyes flicked away from the image as Duncan finally spoke. She had heard him and Bear enter the small, fire-lit yard, but chosen not to acknowledge their presence. "One of the many qualities I look for in Warden's is initiative, not impulsiveness. Could this not have waited at least until we'd eaten a good meal and slept in comfort for a few hours?"
"It couldn't wait." Torran replied shortly, sitting up and turning her attention back to the Chasind. "How much do I owe you, Master Bennet?" She reached into her satchel for the purse of silvers Duncan had given her earlier and pulled out a handful of pieces.
"You do me too much honor, lady." The tattooed old man rumbled through his thick white beard, carefully repacking his tools in a worn leather case. "For this, I will charge you nothing. You have paid a heavy enough price already. I only hope to ease your burden, not add to it."
Torran bowed low in her seat, arms crossed over her chest as she uttered a sincere thank you. Ignoring Duncan's proffered hand, she rose to her feet stiffly and dusted off her trousers, bowing once more before turning to leave.
"Shall we?" she strode past Duncan, the hound at her side sniffing curiously at the mix of ink and drying blood on her bared arm.
Duncan nodded in respect to the old man and followed the girl back around the house and into the dark street. Hours had passed as he and the hound watched the tattooing process, and he could feel every ache in his bones from the long journey. Bear's stomach had been rumbling throughout the night, and he could tell by the way the mabari's head hung low that even he was more than ready for what little sleep they would get before dawn. The moon hung low in the sky, and the early birds had already begun their chirping.
Bear charged ahead as soon as the inn's lit porch came into view, eager for the meaty bone he knew was on one of the plates in his mistress's room. Duncan made to follow, then stopped with a sigh as he realized that Torran had no intention of following them in.
"Now what?" he rubbed his face tiredly. "The hour is late, and we have another three days of travel before we reach Ostagar. This day has gone on long enough, don't you think?"
"There is one more thing I have to do," Torran replied quietly, voice firm. "Go to your rest, Warden. Bear?" The mabari slunk back to her, face hanging. His stomach had been growling all day and he'd really hoped it would finally be time to eat.
"Where are you going?"
"Just outside town," Torran replied. "I need to make a fire. Don't worry," an unkind smirk twisted her lips before vanishing. "I won't run off."
"See that you don't." Duncan replied coldly, patience all but exhausted after dealing with the unstable girl's attitude for days. "We leave after breakfast, the third bell after dawn breaks." Without another word the warden turned and entered the inn.
Torran dismissed his presence as she and her hound walked the short distance to the town's southern exit. She nodded once at the sleepy guardsman keeping watch and followed the dirt road, senses alert for danger, as she searched for a suitable clearing for the next part of the ritual.
The pain in her arm had all but dissipated, blood and ink drying on her skin. She didn't know if it was the natural aftermath of the painful process, or if she was merely sinking back into that cold, empty place that seemed to dull her sense of touch. Her thoughts, for the first time in days, seemed to settle, no longer flinging themselves wildly about her skull in a mad dervish. She could still feel the rage boiling within her, threatening explosion, but all other emotions —the sadness, despair, self-loathing, intense grief— had simply vanished with each painful memory etched into her skin.
A rustle in the bushes jolted her out of her thoughts, and she whirled, sword appearing in her hand like magic. Before she could move, Bear lunged forward, huge maw clamping down on a squirming hare, squeezing until it kicked weakly and fell limp in his jaws.
"Well then." Torran smiled slightly. "You've certainly earned a meal tonight, my friend. I'm sorry for neglecting you so." Bear met her gaze and then chuffed around his mouthful. All was forgiven.
Having returned to the world outside her thoughts, finding a suitable clearing for her fire was simple. About a half mile's walk from Lothering, Torran and Bear came across a good spot bounded on one side by the ancient stone and the rest dying trees, starved for sunlight by the ruined highway dwarfing them with its shade. The girl quickly gathered enough wood and tinder for a small fire, thankful that the storms that had buffeted them their entire ride down had seen fit to stay in the north. Pulling her dagger from its sheath at her hip, Torran gutted and cleaned Bear's hare, cutting him a generous portion and leaving him to happily munch. She quickly cut her own portion into chunks and stuck them on some green sticks pulled from a nearby healthy tree before setting them aside, away from the flames. She didn't want to ruin her meal with what came next.
I know you loved my hair, Mother...Torran's eyes welled with tears as she brought her thick braid over her shoulder, remembering the gentle tug her father would give as he passed her in the corridors, or the harder one she received from Fergus until she got big enough to stop him. Her hair had always been her mother's pride and joy, frequently marveling that any of her children had received her bone straight ebon locks and resisted the strong Fereldan genes. Sighing, Torran cleaned her dagger with a cloth and then grasped her braid tightly an inch from the base. Strands of hair fell into her face as the sharp dagger effortlessly sliced through the ponytail, leaving her with a thick rope of hair lying in her hand like a dead eel at market.
Though she couldn't remember the words, it was easy enough to hum the Nevarran dirge taught to her by Brother Aldous. Mother, Father, Fergus, Oren, Orianna... she recited the name of every soldier and servant of Highever who had fallen that terrible day as the fire devoured her offering, feeding it every few minutes with the sticks and branches that littered the clearing floor. Rory, Harman, Patar, Martin, Ilse, Lalasa, Nan...
Finally, it was done. The smell of burnt hair dissipated from the air of the small clearing, and Torran hurriedly placed her rabbit-kabobs over the dying flames. Beside her, Bear slept peacefully, every now and then burping up bubbles of rabbit breath as his stomach digested the poor woodland creature. The sun was peeking over the horizon by the time the meat had cook properly, and Torran hungrily devoured it, juggling the hot food in her fingers to keep them from burning. Far from the best thing she'd ever tasted, it was filling, giving her weary body a boost of well needed energy.
It wasn't just the food, though. She ran her hand over her newly tattooed arm, fingering the black band that signified the Dark Fade, where the spirits of people killed before their time waited patiently to give murderers nightmares in their sleep. The long arrows jutting towards her wrist, one each for the family she had lost, crimson for the blood she would spill to avenge them with sword in hand. The blue tear drops that marked her lost people, each connected to the memory of a face, or a name. She felt...cleansed, purified by the ritual, comforted by the heritage of her mother's people far more than the prayers to the Maker that she'd muttered under her breath the entire ride through the bannorn.
Placing a hand on Bear's huge head, Torran gently woke him and stood. The sun shone through the clearing, and she breathed in the morning air. It had been a trying week, and she held no illusions about the fragile state of her mind, heart, and soul. Somehow, though, in this place resting in the fulcrum of the harsh Korcari Wilds and Fereldan's Maker-blessed civilization, she had found a semblance of balance, of control.
A precarious balance. She stamped down on the fire, crushing the dying embers beneath her boots.
Next time: Loghain is mean, King Cailan a fool, and Duncan invokes the Right of Conscription.
A/N: The description of the tattoo was the best I could do, but if you remember the character creation options for the female human noble, it's the one that looks like a masquerade mask over the eyes and brow. -Perching Kite
