Proxy

.o0o.

"Go away!"

Akela hissed impatiently and promptly made short work of the smithy door's lock to let himself and the others in. Owen glared with red-rimmed eyes from across the forge but seemed disinclined to move.

"Maker's Breath!" Leliana exclaimed. "It smells like a brewery in here!" She twisted her face into an exaggerated look of revulsion.

"Sommme-body's been driiiinnn-king!" Alistair added in a childish singsong.

Akela's lips tightened. And yet these idiots were continually aggrieved with his own disregard for diplomatic niceties. He ignored the pair behind him and kept his attention on the bulky shem propped against the far wall.

"You're needed to do your job."

"Right to the point, is it?" Owen raised a bottle. "I'll tell you what I told that bastard Murdoch. No."

"Why? Your people have even less chance to survive the night's attack with the current crap state of their armor."

"Why should I care? Eh? Why?"

"Wow, he sounds like Akela." The not so sotto voce comment from Alistair was rewarded by a giggle from the bard until Zevran pointedly cleared his throat.

Owen drained his wine. "They don't care about—what about my—" His voice thickened and he broke off, swiping a shaky hand across a face raddled as much by grief as liquor. "My little girl, my Valena. Lady's maid to the Arlessa and trapped up in the castle with all them demons and Maker knows what else. I tried—they turned me off. Said she was good as dead and there's no hope."

"If he was as sick as you then he doesn't have a chance."

"But I don't believe it! Not my Valena!"

"No! You can't just abandon him! He's alive, I know it!"

"So, no. You want me to help those bastards?" Owen tossed the bottle on the table and folded his arms. "You go find my Valena and bring her out safe. Promise me that. I know she's alive. She has to be. She's all I have. Without her—I don't give a damn what Murdoch wants—"

The shadows writhed in the ruddy light of the forge while Akela studied the smith without expression, the others shifting uneasily in anticipation of the certain outburst.

The shadows from the juddering torch writhed in the carven walls. Merrill eyed the fragmented mirror in dismay while the shem Duncan addressed the Dalish warriors, repeating himself with the sort of indulgent forbearance commonly reserved for dealing with simpletons and overtired children.

"I assure you, we are the only ones here."

"You can't possibly know that." Akela protested. He would have continued, but stopped perforce to hold back a wave of dizziness and rising bile. Perhaps it was the blight disease they claimed he'd contracted; more likely it was the overwhelming, sickening dread at the thought of his Tamlen lost and slowly dying. Regardless, it was all one unceasing nightmare.

"I told you I already searched thoroughly and found no one."

"Did you." Fenarel's voice was sharp with suspicion. "You searched every nook and cranny with the kind of expertise needed to locate a hidden Dalish hunter who may be injured, unconscious and certainly doesn't have any reason to trust you." He shifted his stance, lending unobtrusive support to Akela. "That's interesting, considering you told everyone that you found Akela alone out in the forest and came rushing back here before he regained consciousness and told what happened."

"Perhaps it appears that way to you. Be that as it may, if your friend was here, he is not now."

"No." Akela said, voice tight. "We'll find him. He's here, or he got out and we can track him, or he was taken by those creatures."

"If that last is the case," Duncan replied grimly, "better to believe him dead."

"What?"

"What do you mean?"

Duncan shook his head. "Never mind. It's Warden business; you'll have to trust me when I say some things are best left unsaid."

"Some things," Akela snarled, "are best spoken in order to share critical information. Or is it just that you can't be bothered?"

"I assure you, there is no point—"

"Go fuck yourself, shem! We're not leaving without searching. You don't give a shit about Tamlen, I don't give a shit about you, and if you keep trying to block us I'll gut you with the rest of the monsters!"

"Do as you wish, then." The bearded shem uttered a long-suffering sigh. "I will return to wait at your encampment." He exited the room.

"You can wait in a bear's rectum," muttered Fenarel. The uncharacteristic comment, more something Tamlen would have said, elicited a sound part laugh, part gasp of pain from Akela. Fenarel glanced at him in concern.

"I'm fine. Lethallin, I . . ." Akela hesitated, groping through the fog of desperation for words. "Thank you."

"He's my friend, too, lethallin." Fenarel stroked Akela's cheek once, gently, and then called Merrill to join them.

"So? Will you find her?"

The banked embers of the forge reflected in the Dalish Warden's pale eyes.

"I will."

"Oh, come on, Ak—wait, what?"

"You what?"

Ignoring the incredulous outburst behind him, Akela continued. "You have my promise. If she's there to be found, I'll bring her out. Or at worst, I'll bring you proof of her death. Either way, you'll know."

The old human's lips trembled, then he firmed them and straightened.

"Right. Then I'll get busy."

"Give me a good description of her. After all," Akela added dryly, "you shemlen all look the same."

Some few minutes later the group departed the smithy, blinking in the sunlight, and headed for the village square.

"Wow, Akela, I—I'm impressed," Alistair enthused. "That was really nice of you"

Akela's lack of response resounded.

"Even if it might be hard to do. But wow. I didn't think you had it in you."

The silence from the elf was deafening.

"I guess it just took a little time for you to start softening up."

Akela stopped walking.

"Ah, right. Shutting up now."

"Good idea."

.